The equitemporality of being

Zephyr is a challenging little polliwog these days. He can't seem to settle down anymore - his legs are always kickkickkicking: the arms of the chair we nurse in, the floor, my stomach, none have escaped his restlessness. His arms flapflapflap, slapping palms on the floor, on the surface of his bathwater. He won't stop fidgeting long enough for me to change a diaper, he flips himself over the instant he's on his back (and I, distracted by the adorableness of his tiny, kissable butt, momentarily forget my fear that he'll deposit a dribble of urine onto every surface unless I get a diaper back on him immediately). He won't let me trim his nails, and has the resultant face-gouges to prove it. When I cradle him to shhh and soothe for naps, he squirms like a maggot on a hot rock; when I hold him upright against my shoulder, cheek to forehead, he rears back and punches me in the throat.

Today he won't nap for more than 30 minutes, but I know he's exhausted! He's been yawning and stealthing little eye rubs off and on all day (exacerbating the dark circles that have formed under his eyes), yet when I get him into his dark, white-noisy room for a snuggle and a nurse, he polishes off both breasts in under five minutes and starts arching and squirming again. When I put him down in his crib and walk away, he alternates between laughing with his Fuzzytown forest fauna, rocking back and forth on all fours, and crying from boredom. I know what he wants, but he can't have it all the time. He's gotten a taste of mobility, and now he's chomping at the bit to movemovemove forward; fervent.


I know boys are supposed to be more active than girls (starting in utero), but he's really wearing me down today. I'm starting to feel it everywhere, that I've been getting up to nurse him at 4:00 or 5:00am after trying my best to play hard enough, to engage and stimulate enough, to be sufficiently enriching (then spending the evening playing catch-up with paltry housework, meal preparation, and attempts at having a meaningful relationship with Scott whilst winding myself down). Then he's up at 6:00 or so again, and the rest of the day is spent trying to chase down the nap.

This is the nine month growth spurt.

I wonder if Zephyr has memories of his old life inside my body? I wonder if memories of the womb are like feelings one has for past lovers - they only completely disappear once sufficient time has passed, the amount of which is always equal to how long you were together? If so, maybe this is like some version of baby's first mid-life crisis. One week from today, he's been outside for as long as he was in. X equals Y.

He's been quiet for thirty minutes, and now he's crying again. Maybe it's because he misses me.

Mommy Dearest

He used to be such a good sleeper. Brag-worthy four- and five-hour blocks of time were spent catching up on restful sleep, allowing us all to recharge and face our days, all smiles and productivity. But for the past few nights - hell, maybe a week or two? - I haven't gotten more than three hours of sleep at a time. In fact, the three hour chunk happened only a handful of times over the past week. More often, these days, Zephyr wakes up every two hours or less, wants to nurse, and is difficult to lay back down (even though he falls asleep while nursing). During the day, it lately takes an hour to get him down to sleep for thirty minutes. Scott badly wants to help, but alas, he lacks the breasts that allow Zephyr to succumb to deep, lengthy sleep (when I take time for myself, it's always at the expense of Zeph's nap schedule).

I feel like I'm completely losing my shit, and I'm shocked at how quickly I go from a creamy Madonna to a hanger-wielding harpy when my precious sleep is compromised. Sometimes I get so frazzled that it takes an hour or more for me to get back to sleep (and by the time this happens, Zephyr often starts fussing again). Then I crumble into frustrated tears and wonder what I was ever thinking, deciding to have a kid.

I should put things into perspective, though. He is still the sweetest, goofiest, smiliest and happiest little baby I've ever met. He grins so big that it splits his face in two. He is not a difficult baby at all, not by any stretch of the imagination. The little guy is teething, and is covered in eczema that he scratches until it bleeds. He is merely guilty of being a baby: mutable, unpredictable, inconstant. He evolves at an hourly rate.

What kind of monster loses her cool at a tiny baby, just because he won't sleep? This one, evidently. During those wee hours of sleeplessness, I worry that I will never be good enough for my precious little changeling. I spend so much time in that dark place in my heart that tells me that I can never be the mother that my son deserves. I have spent the better part of my life obsessing about being the polar opposite of my intolerant, dictator father (the dominant parent in my family), but I am terrified that, if pushed, I might still have his capacity for violence. The worst thing that can happen to Zephyr is for him to be raised by someone who hates children.

In case you have already dialed six of the seven digits to call Adult and Family Services, I should let you know that I don't beat my infant with a hanger, or shake him, or anything like that (I have yelled at him, though, I'll admit it). It's just that my own anger frightens me. It's so early in this ride - how awful will I be when, in a couple years, he starts throwing tantrums in the grocery store? Or when actually looks me in the eye and talks back?

In the meanwhile, I will learn to take deep breaths. I will take Zephyr's nap-free days as opportunities to play more and count my blessings that he is such a joyful creature. And I will hope fervently to gain the grace that only restful sleep can bring.

(Note: as I finished typing this, Zephyr just woke up from a 3.5-hour nap. Just to prove me wrong and make me look a harpy fool. Little bastard.)

Tooth and Nail

Take a good look - still no toofies in this mouth. Any day, now. Yep. Aaaaannnnnyyy daaaayyyy. Sigh. This poor kid. He's at the end of his wee rope. He's trying so hard to be a good baby, but you can just see the wimper on his face as he crams his fingers and anything near them into his mouth. Sometimes this results in a scratched face. Nail-clipping is a daily endeavor these days.

Even bath time is another opportunity to work those little gums of his. Now that he's bigger, we have opted to start daily baths - 5 minutes or so in just-above-tepid warm water, followed by a good rubdown with Weleda Calendula Baby Cream on the rough, eczema spots and Burt's Bees Buttermilk Baby Lotion everywhere else. I love the way that stuff smells. Our bathroom is in the middle of a remodel right now and gaps at the base of the wall expose the basement crawlspace, so we have to warm it up in there with a space heater and keep a vigilant watch for house centipedes.

(and another shot just because he's so damn cute)

Not too much new this week - he did get into his first little baby altercation. He and his friend Oshea were enjoying some time on the play mat, laying head to foot, and Oshea grabbed Zeph's toes with a little too much aplomb. Zephyr started crying sharply, and this set Oshea to crying. Claudia and I picked up our respective babies, and they took turns looking at each other and melting down. It was really cute and funny. Lesson learned: fun-wanting moms just best not fuck around with naptimes.

Have you ever seen a more dimply butt? I mean, without cringing in the mirror. I want to chew on his tiny butt cheeks. They're as soft as mochi, and almost as sweet.

Consistently persistent

It's been a tough few days for Zephyr (and me). The rough patches on his legs, arms and abdomen (that I'd heretofore been blithely treating with Burt's Bees after baths) is eczema. This isn't much of a surprise and I know it's pretty common, but something - possibly allergies inherited from Scott, or the recent addition of OxyClean to the laundry regimen - has triggered the rash to become so itchy that Zeph has begun scratching himself raw. We had to make a late-night call to the pediatrician's triage desk the other night because, after nearly three hours of trying to get him to sleep, he began sobbing inconsolably and was starting to break the skin with his scratching. Now he's on hydrocortisone and is wearing sock mitts to prevent scratching, but coupled with teething and a lack of good sleep, he's been kind of a Fussy McCrabberson. I just really hope he doesn't end up with allergies and asthma (the other two legs of the Nerd Trifecta).

At some point, I guess I can stop talking and thinking and fretting about sleep. There has to be more to parenting an infant than worrying about sleep, right? He used to be so good, even a week ago, at the onset of transitioning him out of our bed. Now? I'm lucky to get four hours. I usually get two (particularly if I succeed in getting him to bed at 9:00, in which case his first "long" stretch is overlapped by me and Scott trying desperately to relate to each other as friends and partners). Last night he never slept more than two hours at a stretch. He slept better as a newborn than he does as a "settled" infant, when he's supposed to be finally sleeping through the night. The main difference between my energy levels now versus when he was brand new is that now he weighs 20 pounds and it physically exhausts me just doing day-to-day tasks like diaper changing and lugging him from room to room.

I think I'm most frustrated by his inconsistency, when I'm working so hard to be persistent with his routines. I don't really know how to bounce back when he, say, naps for only 30 minutes instead of a couple hours. Am I supposed to try to get him right back down? And how long do I keep trying if I don't succeed? I usually give up after about an hour or two, and then try again in two hours. Sometimes he cues that he's sleepy right away, and then wakes up right after going down again. Repeat ad nauseum. What I'm most sick of, though, is talking about his fucking sleep problems.


Hey, though, on the plus side, I found some new camera apps for my iPhone, and have been thoroughly enjoying photographing Zephyr (as any of my Facebook friends can attest). One more way to obsess over this kid. Just what I need.

Teething is a real pain

(Note: eyes definitely still hazel. My wish is coming true!)

Still no napping for this one. As I type this, he has just emptied both breasts, with attempts to lay him down after each one. I tried putting him down, completely out cold, into his pack-and-play. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, he's up. Walk around with him for a bit, then decide to try to nurse him in the darker upstairs, in his bedroom. Nurse again. His arms marionette floppy, I gently lay him down into his crib. Eyes pop open, and the little bastard starts grinning and laughing. Legs like little eggbeaters, kick kick kick kick. Mocking me. I've just snuck downstairs, leaving him alone up there, hoping he'll just, I don't know, forget about whatever's distracting him from sleep? Why does he want to be awake so badly? And what, exactly, does he find so fucking funny about it?

I can hear him whining a bit. "Enh. Enh. ENH."

I don't want to be one of those "cry it out" people, all ignoring their babies' needs, causing trust issues and brain damage. This is no slight at one good friend of mine (who tried this method for a spell), who had a VERY high-needs, colicky infant and actually had to regularly call those "please talk me out of strangling my baby" hotlines out of lack of sleep or peace. I don't have that baby, and neither do most people who think that you can spoil a baby by holding it too much, or that babies cry to manipulate people. Those people are completely insane, or at best misguided. And for what it's worth, I don't think it even worked for my friend, who found it gut-wrenching to hear her baby cry that much.

Fingers are fascinating

I mean, technically, he's not even crying or anything. I think he just knows that I always respond almost instantaneously to any slight fussing and is expecting my smiling face to pop up any second. And so it never really needs to escalate to full-blown crying (unless I say, clip off the tip of his thumb whilst attempting to trim his nails). Still, the annoyed (and annoying) whines are his cue that he's unhappy, and as his mother, I am supposed to be the Bringer Of Happy. But this time I'm ignoring them, just to see what happens. If he really starts crying, I'll go rescue him.

What's that I hear? Could it be...silence? He's either asleep, or he's staring at something quietly. I haven't figured out if I care which of those it might be. I know he needs sleep. "Sleep begets sleep!" chirp the helpful, childless doulas. And though I know this to be true from experience, I just can't force him to sleep. I can't wear him 24 hours a day, walking and nursing him into oblivion. But more importantly, I can't make my entire day focused on trying to get Zephyr to sleep. So what should I do?

Usually, I let him sleep on me after he falls asleep nursing. At least this way, he gets at least one good hour or two chunk. More often, though, I let him take several catnaps. I don't know if this is great for him, but I'm sure it's better than nothing. This time, I'm trying out the "leaving him alone in a dark, quiet place" technique to see if that yields results. At least this way I get a few minutes to myself.

...only a few minutes.


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Milestones this week: rolled over from tummy to back, turned his head toward my voice when I said his name, and will laugh with me instead of just at me. Oh, and he is beginning to interact with other babies now instead of just staring at them like objects. With adorable results. Here he is with his bestie (and possible future soulmate) Sigga:

"Invisible Steering Wheel"


"Pshpshpsh I'm telling you a sekkrit!"

"Hugs", or "Attempted Carrot Theft"