The two-month appointment at the pediatrician's was nine kinds of awful. The Bug laid there, flirting joyously with the nurse, and then she stuck him FOUR TIMES. The first stick, he froze, looked surprised, as if he couldn't believe this was happening to him. He shrieked bloody murder through and after the next three. I felt so bad. I hugged him until he hiccupped himself to sleep, then he slept most of the day, waking only for short feeding sessions and Tylenol doses.

Doc says he's short and chubby. He doesn't have much chance of remaining short, as his parents are both tall, so he should enjoy it while it lasts.

***

The Bug has many, many chins.



***

One would think The Bug owns no clothing. He really does have a cupboard full of it, but he's too cute without it.

Here he is, stealthily putting the zebra down his pants, like his namesake Gabe.



***

Glamor shot.



And... a not-so-glamor shot.



***

He now has keys. It's a big step in a person's life, the having of keys. I told him: "The blue one is the key to the sky; the green one is the key to the grass; the yellow one is the key to the sun; the red one is the key to the flowers; and the purple one is the key to your Gramma."

His voice is changing. He has a new repetoire of sounds and baby words. His cries are more distinctive. His facial expressions are all about the eyebrows now.

I do not get the impression that he is a blank slate filling up with stuff. He seems to be working things out, trying to remember, making connections. He behaves less like a new being and more like someone who was gone for a little while and is now back and trying to remember how things work.

Sick Days

This is not the face of one's first real illness, but what can I say? The Bug isn't a wholly normal kid.

A few hours before this picture was taken, I put him down after a feeding to find he wasn't breathing well. This is the kind of stuff of which first time moms' nightmares are made. He sounded congested and stuffy and didn't stay down long before crying in frustration. So, I picked him back up, elevated him a bit, and he rested. Then he seemed okay, no more congestion, so we had some laughs.

Later in the afternoon, the ragged breathing came back, so I took him to the doctor. The prognosis? Acid reflux. I think the doctor got stuck on the fact that elevating him a bit made him feel better. Doctors tend to be a little smarter than I am so I believed her, even though this felt like the equivalent of taking your car in with a dead engine and being told the tire's just flat.

Last night, it started in earnest again, and he was pissed off. He fussed mightily and would not be put down. Even diaper changes set off the ragged breathing and some pretty heartbreaking coughing. So, I experimented. The swing, the bouncer and the carseat worked only for a few minutes at a time. All required constant manual swinging/rocking/bouncing (the swing noise set him coughing again), so even when he got a few minutes' rest, I didn't. Finally, in the interest of getting sleep, I propped him up in the Boppy (the tag reading "DO NOT ALLOW BABY TO FALL ASLEEP ON THIS OR ANY OTHER PILLOW" resting against his head) on my lap in the rocking chair and rocked him to sleep. He still only slept for a few minutes at a time before I'd have to rock him back, but at least I was comfortable.

I marked the time on CSPAN, which showed the traffic leaving Houston. People escaping incoming Hurricane Rita. The freeway was a parking lot, probably still is. Cars on the side of the road, out of gas. Cars in line at the few gas stations that hadn't run out.

I also discovered that late at night, Cartoon Network is actually worth watching.

The last time I remember seeing on CSPAN was 4:15 a.m.

At around five, Mister Aran woke and came out, ready to help. The Bug was asleep on my lap. Should I wake him? Shouldn't he sleep? I handed him over and put myself to bed for the first time. I laid there two minutes before The Bug started to scream. All of Mister Aran's efforts were in vain. The Bug was hungry. I took him back. I felt like hell. Mister Aran, thwarted, retreated to his computer in the next room and did not return for Take Two.

I watched the time, again, on CSPAN while getting The Bug back to sleep. I dozed. The smell of me wafted up to my nose; I hadn't had a moment to shower yesterday, I hadn't brushed my teeth today, and I was getting rank. I wore the same clothes that I'd put on... how long ago? Thirty hours?

Finally, it was 8:50, the shower was running. My stomach was eating itself. I was sick with hunger. Mister Aran came out with the ironing board. My mood darkened. He emerged, looking ironed and shaved, smelling clean, wanting a goodbye kiss. Wasn't going to happen. I basically told him to go to hell.

***

I'm going to intercut another picture here, because it's gotten sad and I hope this will help things. This is what it looks like when The Bug yawns.



***

Here's what people, especially men, just do not understand: taking care of one baby is fairly simple work. It's taking care of everything else that would make me throw the changing table through the window, if I had the energy. I haven't slept more than three hours in a row in months. My body is shit compared to pre-pregnancy. But I'm supposed to take care of this infant, plus dust, vacuum, do laundry, make bed, scrub bathroom, sweep and mop floors, clean litter box, feed kitty, take out trash, wipe down counters, grocery shop, make dinner, do 99% of the driving, clean spots on carpet, pay bills, buy airline tickets, go through mail, maintain some kind of savings, keep the car serviced, drink all my water, track all my food, get to Weight Watchers meetings, work out, moisturize...

All of this on a few scattered hours of sleep, with maybe a quarter of the energy it really requires, and at the end of the day I'm supposed to feel vixenish enough to make my husband feel appreciated, or the next morning he's going to abandon me for the computer for a few hours.

What I'm trying to say is, it's my fault, I'm guilty, but I'm pleading insanity.

***

Finally, this morning, the kid goes down into his car seat. I get a glass of water and a piece of apple pie because it is fast, there isn't much else to eat in the house, and I'm hoping the fat stays in my stomach until lunch so that I won't feel so sick again. I down a glass of water and run to the bathroom. When I get out, I feel wretched. I drop to my knees next to the car seat and I tell him not to mind me because I think I've had enough and I'm going to cry for a little bit. And The Bug, who's having a really tough time breathing, whose face needs washing, who's had only a little more sleep than I have, has only this to say:

The baby experts get their panties in a bunch about the thumbsucking thing. In a good way. I guess it's a major leap for a kid to be able to soothe himself by finding his mouth with his hands. So here he is, getting his suck on.

In other news, he is getting chunky.

I wake up thirsty, and there's no water. One thing you may not know about breastfeeding is, it makes you dehydrated as hell. The minute he latches on, I'm freaking out thirsty.

There's no fresh water in the house, so as soon as The Bug has eaten we're off to the grocery store. I harbor all these fancy notions of grabbing a Subway while we're there, and a Starbucks (tall decaf nonfat iced latte, one sugar).

On the way there, he starts freaking out screaming. He's struggling, maybe to poo, maybe he's uncomfortable in his carseat, but through the windshield I watch all my cute notions fall away.

In the parking garage, I get in the back seat, probably showing more up my skirt than a drunk Janice Dickinson, and try to figure out why The Bug is losing his marbles. I change his diaper, no small feat in the backseat of a car while wearing a jean skirt. Nothing doing - he's still unhappy. So I go to Plan B, which is Stick Yon Boobie In, and always works.

I hate breastfeeding in public. People in Los Angeles are fucking rude in the best of circumstances. Hell, people in general are rude these days. My dad forwarded me a letter from this M.D. who volunteered in New Orleans in the wake of Katrina. He talks about being generally harassed and treated like shit even while he was giving people free food, water, clothing, bedding, whatever. It's too early to Snopes it, but I believe it anyhow. People make me sad. Everyone's so goddamn entitled. Anyhow, it makes me worry about feeding him in public, even in my car. I just know some freak of nature asshole will tell me his personal rights are being violated by it.

I'm too used to the Boppy; my arms were killing me by the time I put The Bug back in his seat. I didn't bring the stroller, so I carried him in the seat to the Subway. This is where I came to the conclusion that the kid is too heavy for this now. Holy crap. What's coming out of my nipples? Whipped cream?

So, panting and lurching around the seat, I arrive at Subway. I order the wrong sandwich on accident. The man standing behind me compliments The Bug and we have a small laugh. For a moment, I take back that part about people being generally mean these days, then I remember that this exchange is so outstanding because it never happens. Plus, you just know that if the conversation had continued another minute it would have turned into a pitch for Amway/Born Again Christianity/The Healing Power Of Mail Order Vitamins/Scientology.

I get my sandwich, which is wrong, and go to the store. Even more lurching occurs during this part because I am also carrying my wrong sandwich. Fuck Starbucks; I have no free hands.

At the grocery store, I am relieved; the carrier snaps nicely into the cart and away we go, my mind spinning on dinner and rewarding myself perhaps with an ice cream sammich. Oh yes, and I need shave gel.

I get dinner. I get the sammich. I get grapes on sale. The gel is vanilla scented, and I am on a vanilla kick right now. On the way out to the car I read my reciept and I have saved eight dollars by getting sale items. Way to go.

At home, while balancing all my things plus Bug in my arms, I realize

I

FORGOT

WATER.

This sleeper thing he's wearing was a bad idea. He got overheated and we spent a very frustrating night together figuring that out, from about 2:30 to 7:00 a.m. I was a zombie. Damned if he isn't gorgeous as hell in it, though.

***

I made a serious to-do list for the first time since I gave birth. This morning, while The Bug ate, I leaned over him and jotted down everything that needed to be done, in no particular order, just brainstormed all kinds of cleaning and organizational projects. Then, miraculously, after some playing and fussing, The Bug went down for a phenomenally long nap and I got a good number of the things on my list done, or at least enough so that people would notice. It's orgasmic, the crossing off of things.

***

The Bug spent the morning peeing everywhere but in his diaper, once for Mister Aran, once while on my lap, so that it looked like I had peed, and once while on his Ocean Wonders playmat. It's Houdini-esque, in a way of which I am too sleep-deprived to make sense.

***

Nighttime feedings are like labor pains without the pain. You have to keep on top of it or you fall under. If I don't do it right, I fall asleep in the chair and the whole night is fucked because I don't know where I am in the order of things when I wake. There has to be a definite feeding-burping-feeding-burping-changing-swaddling-feeding thing that happens so that after that last feeding he falls gently to sleep and goes down in his crib without a production. It's one of those things that I'm certain to master just before he decides he wants to sleep through the night.

***

With all we know about the world, it's still amazing to watch a kid learn that when he hits a toy with his hand, it makes a noise, and that he made it happen. And not just because he's mine. I don't harbor any notions that the kid is a genius. But when you see a kid take these gigantic leaps in growth, changing in looks and personality nearly every day, it's pretty incredible.

It's not real, but I'll take it

The first big smile caught on film. Unfortunately, he's asleep, so it's not a real smile, but hey.

How Far We've Come

First trimester, from the inside, picking his nose.



At twenty weeks. It's kind of cool to see how that profile compares today.



At seven months, from the outside. I love that frog on the right.



In labor. If I look groggy, it's because they injected me with the super good shit. I highly, highly recommend the epidural. I slept through most of my labor. The part I had to feel was the ultimate suck.




The very first outside pictures of The Bug. His head was lopsided, and his nose smashed, and he was generally much poofier than he is now. And gooey.





At about a week old.



An artist's rendition of boy and father.

Slippery When Wet

Milestone: the first bath he took without crying once, from getting naked to getting dressed again.

The Ass End Of A Smile

So I'm holding the camera up, and through the viewfinder I see that he's smiling. So I panic, drop the camera, exclaim "He's smiling!" and only get the camera back up in time to catch the last part of the smile. Sorry about that.



This one just cracked me up.



Let's all observe a moment of silence for my husband's sexy arms, while we're at it.

...

He has cradle cap on his forehead. I went scraping at it, like they say you're supposed to, but though I tried to be gentle, the whole area turned Bad-Mom-Red. I had to stop. So half of it is gone. I'll try again later.

Also, he has tears now, sometimes. Heartbreaking rivers of tears.

When he first falls asleep, his eyes are closed but he looks attentive, somehow. Like he's listening for instructions from God.

In keeping with The Bug's personality in utero, he only smiles when the camera is:

A) Across the room
B) Saving the last picture I took

In utero, he only kicked when nobody was watching, and would stop the moment someone put their hand on my belly.

***

Today, I fed him and put him in the swing. He sat there, swinging, chattering to himself, while I ate breakfast. I got down next to him and he smiled at me, this enormous delighted smile. I set up the swing next to the bathroom and got undressed to shower.

And he started to cry.

The running shower water looked so nice that I almost ignored him.

I guess I could check his diaper, I thought.

The shower was not to be for a long time. There was poo everywhere. Eh-very-where. The kind of diaper where you get him up on the changing table and you don't know where to begin. You get a wipey and start randomly swiping at parts of his body. It looks self-perpetuating. The more you wipe up, the more appears. And once you've cleaned a leg, you find that one of his hands has found its way into a pile of poo, and there is poo between fingers and also in his hair where the hand flew a second ago.

This is not a job for wipeys.

You do your best and you start preparing a bath. The sink is full of dishes, so you stack these precariously somewhere else. In my case, you pray your father-in-law does not come home from golfing in time to see this.

Once in the bath, the kid is fine. His kicks make little splashes and he is fascinated by this. There is poo behind his ear.