Yeah, so, I was not prepared.
I was reading three or four baby books before the Spawn arrived so I would be prepared.
I was not prepared.
Of course, I read the facts, and I understood them. But I suspect no book can prepare you emotionally for having a tiny creature in your life that depends on you for everything.
I was not prepared for what it is like to operate on baby time. The books say that babies eat every two or three hours, but that did not prepare me for the fact that babies eat every two or three hours. That’s a lot of feeding time. The Spawn is a good baby and has been known to sleep for more than four hours, which is awesome. That’s an episode of Ken Burns’ “Prohibition,” a “South Park” and two episodes of “Parks & Recreation,” leaving us with a half hour to talk to each other if we so desire. We don’t. We usually are Facebooking or something.
Mighty, mighty good man David and I take turns feeding and changing the little guy, so we are able to get some sleep at night. The Spawn is not a fussy baby. He doesn’t scream his head off when he’s hungry … at least not yet. He makes some noise to let you know he’s hungry, though.
Of course, I was already getting up every two hours before the Spawn arrived because either: a) I had to pee; b) my hips hurt and I needed to roll over; or c) all of the above. So, if I get four or five hours of sleep, I’m stoked. [That’s right. I said “stoked.” I’m bringing it back because “stoked” is rad. Oh, and I’m bringing back “rad.”] David, on the other hand, is learning to live with less sleep. I feel bad for him. It sucks. Still, one night, David took the first feeding shift, and I got almost 7 hours of sleep. It was heaven.
We are living in a baby bubble here. We have no idea what day it is, and we only know what time it is because we write down what time the Spawn eats and how much.
On Thursday, David said to me, “Tomorrow is Friday.”
“Umm, every day is Friday here,” I replied.
It’s also always Happy Hour here, because Mommy can drink again. When Calvin grows up and goes wine tasting he will describe every glass of red wine as smelling like his mother. Poor guy.
I was not prepared for the hormone factor. I read in the books that my hormones would go crazy after the Spawn is born and that I would cry about everything. But I’m usually so even-keeled, emotionally, that I figured this would not happen to me. And here’s where the movie would cut to a scene of me crying while watching “Glee.”
I was not prepared for the amount of time it would take for my body to recover. You’d think that after three breast cancer surgeries I would get it that my body needs time to recover. Yeah, that’s not my style. I’m the dumb-dumb who seriously thought she would be back to work two weeks after a mastectomy. And I’m the dumb-dumb who had no idea that an episiotomy would still be sore after a week, and that things would be a disaster “down there” for like six weeks. It’s almost like I pushed a 9-pound baby out of my vagina or something. Geez.
Yep, even though I read it in the books, I really thought I’d walk out of the hospital feeling somewhat like my normal self, because I’m totally special, you guys.
I was not prepared for loving David even more than before. I didn’t think that was possible. I already worshipped and adored him. Now … well, there are no words. He’s my partner, my teammate. The other day I was feeding the kid and my nose was a little runny. My hands were full with a baby and a bottle, so I was just sniffling through it. But, without me even having to ask, David came over with a Kleenex wiped my nose. Don’t hate! Now that’s fuckin’ teamwork, people!
Seriously, hats off to the single parents out there. I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t do this without David.
I was not prepared for just how much I love the Spawn. I mean, I knew I would love him. Duh. I’m not a complete asshole. I’m a human being with feelings. But I really had no idea how much I would adore this little creature. Our first night in the hospital I couldn’t sleep. Every little noise he made put me on high alert.
“What’s that noise? Is he OK? That blanket is suspiciously close to his mouth. He’s going to suffocate! What’s that noise? Is he having trouble breathing? Is that normal? Is this normal? What about that? What’s that noise?”
That first night I was convinced that because I loved him so much that meant something bad was going to happen. It’s like when FOX canceled the live-action version of “The Tick” after four episodes. How fucked up is that? I truly believed that because I loved my son he would be taken away. But, to be fair, I was completely physically and emotionally exhausted. At one point I was worried that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt might come into the room and try to adopt my baby.
A few nights after the delivery, I was in the Spawn’s room feeding him. I was rocking in a chair and listening to lullaby versions of Pixies songs when David came in and sat down next to me. Homer was at our feet.
“Look at us. We are a family,” I said. Then I cried and thanked David for convincing me to have a baby.
I know, right? WTF? Stupid hormones. I don’t even know myself anymore. I need to get drunk and do something assy to write about immediately.