Epilogue: Month One

I’m the kind of person who LOVES an epilogue.  I’m no When Harry Met Sally, reading it first in case I die, but when an author leaves me hanging, not knowing who married who and if they are happy, well, NO FIVE CAT FREAKS FOR YOU.

With that in mind I realized that I have done to you what I hate.  I end some of my blogs with I’ll-let-you-know-how-it-goes and then I DON’T!  HYPOCRITE!  Or NORMAL PERSON!

So here is the epilogue for the first month:

(And for those of you who don’t check my site often enough to care, what a chance to catch up.  Or be really confused.  Because who doesn’t need a little more confusion it their life?)

If This Isn’t Developmental, I’m Hiring a Nanny: After much begging and pleading and paying off my husband’s patients not to show up after noon, S picks up E the following day from Romp n’ Roll’s Winter Camp.  And E leaves over my hubby’s shoulder, crying and screaming I WANT MY CROCS.  At least it wasn’t personal and the camp is only two days long.  Because a good nanny is expensive.

Breastfeeding Blues: We are down to three times-a-day and doing water and milk.  And if I DARE forget the middle of the day feed, she lets me know with impressive head-butting and gnawing of my chin.  So I don’t think that we are going to go full-out wean, but I’ve been wrong (like once) before.  I am also finding breastfeeding much more peaceful except on the days which I HATE IT.

Night weaning:

  • Night 1 – takes my husband 25 minutes to convince N to lay down and go back to sleep.  He never gives her the sippy cup OR picks her up.  And N cries only once between minute five and minute seven.  NOT BAD MR. DAD.
  • Night 2 – N wakes up every few hours like a piece of bone is JABBING ITS WAY OUT OF HER SKIN.  And it is.  Stupid teething.  However, she mostly talks loudly to herself when awake.  No real crying through the hour that she is awake between the three other times that she is awake.  Just a lot of BLAH BLAH BLAH, YAH YAH YAH, and AAAAHHHHH at the top of her (impressive) lungs.  So we break out the earplugs.  Trust me; I would hear her crying through them.  But at least I can sleep a bit while she is communing with God who is clearly on the OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.  And she is willing to stay in her crib.  So I’m tired but satisfied.  Of course, I worry that I should have done the 10 p.m. feed.
  • Have blocked out Night 3.  Seriously, I had to look at a calendar to even believe there was a third night.  No CLUE what happened
  • Day 4 – Her naps are easier.  She lays in bed, and if she doesn’t fall asleep, I can go up there and lay her back down without screaming.  She even put herself to sleep in the afternoon.  “V” for victory, baby.  Or “V” for validating.  A reminder that this is an important step in her development.
  • Night 4 – N wakes up at 8 and 8:45 p.m. but I find her pacifier and pet her hair and in ONE minute she is relaxed and asleep.  Still, I brace for the worst that night.  You know, the JABBING BONE and all.  But she wakes up once at 5:30.  Pat.  Pat.  And awake to breastfeed at 6:30 a.m..  Not too shabby.

Mysterious Gatorade: It turns out I’m no Nancy Drew.  I have no clue who’s the night-drinker of tiny bottles of Gatorade.  But I’m pretty sure that he took my husband’s call schedule and possibly a sippy cup.  Oh and a My Little Pony.  (Yes, it is E’s pony.  Thank you for asking my feminist friends.)

My Favorite Toy: After I write this post, N plays with it.  TWICE.  I’m not even in the room to subtly encourage her.  But when my husband calls me over, I take a picture.  Because I’m at least THAT MOM.

Alex Iwashyna

Alex Iwashyna went from a B.A. in philosophy to an M.D. to a SAHM, poet and writer by 30. She spends most of her writing time on LateEnough.com, a humor blog (except when it's serious) about her husband fighting zombies, awkward attempts at friendship, and dancing like everyone is watching. She also has a soft spot for culture, politics, and rude Southern people who offend her Yankee sensibilities. She parents 2 elementary-aged children, 1 foster baby, 3 cats, and 1 puppy, who are all Southern but not rude. Yet.

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