We are up early, you and I, as you didn't fall asleep after breakfast this morning, so we are now on the floor of the den, you in your baby pouf batting at crocheted dinosaurs, I drinking coffee and writing quickly at the coffee table. The light is thin, and the puppy is still asleep. Before too long we will take him around the block on streets emptied of people. Everyone is either home, or three avenues over readying to watch the parade.
The winds are high today, so they may not have giant balloons in the parade. I went once, in college, and I mainly remember crowds and very cold feet. But today I am happy, thinking about years to come, when we might go the night before to watch them blow the balloons up, and then you can ride on your dad's shoulders to get a better view as they pass by.
I don't know how to express, even to myself, how thankful I feel today.
Thankful for close friends, both those coming to my house to cook this afternoon and those far away, in other states, on other coasts. Thankful for my health, and for my parents being alive. Thankful for rewarding work and a happy marriage.
But thankful most of all for you.
I think if I try to express how thankful I feel for you, I will fail so abysmally that it will be worse than if I hadn't tried. Maybe I will try again later.
Right now, you are babbling in your pouf and I have just given you a wubbanub, and in a moment I will put you in a bouncy chair so you can watch me make cranberry sauce while I narrate what I'm doing. I never thought a baby would be watching me make cranberry sauce.
My own amazing baby.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
Seven Weeks
Happy seven weeks old, Succotash! You are at present napping in your baby pouf after a hearty morning's several breakfasts. In a little bit I will change you out of comfy pajamas and into comfy pajama-like clothing to go up the street for lunch with a friend you have never met, who just got a new job at Penguin Random House. And then while a team of professional woman cleans our apartment you and I will find a way to amuse ourselves, as it is sunny and sixty degrees today. Will I have the energy to walk you in your stroller all the way to Central Park zoo? Will we go back to Madison Square and watch the big kids play on the playground? Will we go to Bryant Park and watch the ice skaters and avoid buying Christmas-themed tchotchkes? Only time will tell.
You are getting chubby. You have round cheeks and almost three chins. You have started smiling at me, and the world in general. You no longer flip out when having your diaper changed, and when you are especially poopy, you find it intriguing when I rinse your personal bits under the kitchen faucet, which seems faster than going through a whole box of wipes.
On Thursday you will have your first Thanksgiving, with your two godless parents, who you will be meeting for the first time, and your friend K, who is expecting a baby friend for you. You will smell cranberries cooking on the stove, and taste them faintly when you nestle into me at the dinner table.
I miss you when I sleep.
And that is where things stand on this, your seventh week of life.
You are getting chubby. You have round cheeks and almost three chins. You have started smiling at me, and the world in general. You no longer flip out when having your diaper changed, and when you are especially poopy, you find it intriguing when I rinse your personal bits under the kitchen faucet, which seems faster than going through a whole box of wipes.
On Thursday you will have your first Thanksgiving, with your two godless parents, who you will be meeting for the first time, and your friend K, who is expecting a baby friend for you. You will smell cranberries cooking on the stove, and taste them faintly when you nestle into me at the dinner table.
I miss you when I sleep.
And that is where things stand on this, your seventh week of life.
Tuesday, November 19, 2019
Six Week Fairytale
Once upon a time, about six weeks ago, in the goblin underkingdom far away, a tiny prince was born. He was little and pink and perfect.
One day his nurse carried him to the riverbank in a basket made of woven vines. She laid the basket on the riverbank and then she lay down to take a nap under a knotty rooted tree.
The nurse slept for a very long time. Night was beginning to fall on the goblin underkingdom. The goblin prince awoke and opened his eyes and looked around, but no one was there. He was too little to climb out of his basket made of vines, so he waved his arms to get attention. The goblin prince was hungry.
Fortunately, his waving arms caught the attention of a passing dragonfly. She saw that the baby prince needed help. So she buzzed down and picked up the basket made of woven vines and carried the goblin prince up into the night sky, dodging among the twinkling stars.
She flew for a very long time.
Then finally, the dragonfly laid the basket to rest at the back door of an old apartment building in midtown Manhattan. In this old apartment building lived a man and a woman who had wanted a baby for a very long time.
The doorman found the basket of woven vines with what he thought was a human baby inside. "I know just who this delivery is for," said the doorman.
He took the goblin prince up in the elevator to the thirteenth floor and rang the bell.
And that's where our baby came from.
One day his nurse carried him to the riverbank in a basket made of woven vines. She laid the basket on the riverbank and then she lay down to take a nap under a knotty rooted tree.
The nurse slept for a very long time. Night was beginning to fall on the goblin underkingdom. The goblin prince awoke and opened his eyes and looked around, but no one was there. He was too little to climb out of his basket made of vines, so he waved his arms to get attention. The goblin prince was hungry.
Fortunately, his waving arms caught the attention of a passing dragonfly. She saw that the baby prince needed help. So she buzzed down and picked up the basket made of woven vines and carried the goblin prince up into the night sky, dodging among the twinkling stars.
She flew for a very long time.
Then finally, the dragonfly laid the basket to rest at the back door of an old apartment building in midtown Manhattan. In this old apartment building lived a man and a woman who had wanted a baby for a very long time.
The doorman found the basket of woven vines with what he thought was a human baby inside. "I know just who this delivery is for," said the doorman.
He took the goblin prince up in the elevator to the thirteenth floor and rang the bell.
And that's where our baby came from.
Friday, November 15, 2019
Growth Spurt
Greetings from the couch, where I have finally tricked you into sleeping on my chest. You are burritoed up in a swaddle blanket patterned with tiny rocket ships. You are fed, you have a dry diaper, you have been shown yourself in the mirror, put on the floor, given a pacifier, picked up again, danced around the den, swung low and up, low and up, low and up, entertained with a rattle, entertained with black and white cards illustrating African animals, snuggled, held, your back patted and patted and patted and patted and now, at long last, you are asleep.
For the moment.
It's hard work, being a baby.
Later I might walk you over to the playground. You are too little to play, but you like being strolled out in the crisp air, and your eyes might be developed enough to see the other children playing on the jungle gym and begin imagining that soon enough, sooner than I think, you will be one of them.
For the moment.
It's hard work, being a baby.
Later I might walk you over to the playground. You are too little to play, but you like being strolled out in the crisp air, and your eyes might be developed enough to see the other children playing on the jungle gym and begin imagining that soon enough, sooner than I think, you will be one of them.
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
Snapshot
You are asleep in your baby pouf on the floor of the den, your Manamana is doing dishes in the kitchen, we are listening to John Coltrane on Spotify, and when you yawn and stir I rub the soles of your feet, and then you drop back to sleep.
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
Five weeks
Today's firsts:
Smiling and babbling at my old stuffed rabbit, who supervises you on your changing pad
Meeting another baby! For lunch. This one was Zuzu, daughter of Amanda. They and I and you and your dad all met at Park Avenue Tavern amidst a heap of strollers and diaper bags and carriers and also coats and scarves, as there is an unseasonable cold snap seizing the eastern seaboard today, and temperatures are getting down into the twenties tonight. You were bundled up in Zuzu's hand me down snowsuit, which makes you look like a stuffed animal, with paws and bear ears.
Seeing art. After lunch you and I went over to the Morgan library, to check out the exhibition of Sargent charcoal portraits. You were pronounced unusually cute by all the women in the ladies' room who came upon me changing you, and I had nursing solidarity foisted upon me by a father of twins who was about my parents' age. Sargent's charcoals are truly remarkable. I especially enjoyed his renderings of dour Bostonians, but also one of a handsome progressive Jewish leader whose first time was.... Charles.
We are now home. You are making semi-wakeful squeaking sounds from your boppy lounger, and I am having a glass of wine. Your father is at his office, the cold air is bearing down on us and leaking in around the uninsulated sides of the window unit air conditioner, and the dog is relaxing in his dog bed, wishing someone would take him on a walk, but knowing he has to wait.
And that is where we stand today, five weeks after your birth.
Smiling and babbling at my old stuffed rabbit, who supervises you on your changing pad
Meeting another baby! For lunch. This one was Zuzu, daughter of Amanda. They and I and you and your dad all met at Park Avenue Tavern amidst a heap of strollers and diaper bags and carriers and also coats and scarves, as there is an unseasonable cold snap seizing the eastern seaboard today, and temperatures are getting down into the twenties tonight. You were bundled up in Zuzu's hand me down snowsuit, which makes you look like a stuffed animal, with paws and bear ears.
Seeing art. After lunch you and I went over to the Morgan library, to check out the exhibition of Sargent charcoal portraits. You were pronounced unusually cute by all the women in the ladies' room who came upon me changing you, and I had nursing solidarity foisted upon me by a father of twins who was about my parents' age. Sargent's charcoals are truly remarkable. I especially enjoyed his renderings of dour Bostonians, but also one of a handsome progressive Jewish leader whose first time was.... Charles.
We are now home. You are making semi-wakeful squeaking sounds from your boppy lounger, and I am having a glass of wine. Your father is at his office, the cold air is bearing down on us and leaking in around the uninsulated sides of the window unit air conditioner, and the dog is relaxing in his dog bed, wishing someone would take him on a walk, but knowing he has to wait.
And that is where we stand today, five weeks after your birth.
Saturday, November 9, 2019
Morning routine
We have developed something like a morning routine. It goes like this:
Me: *gets up to feed baby on the couch while Mr. G sleeps, as he took night shift*
Dog: Guac I have to go out.
Me: We can't go out right now, I'm feeding the baby.
Dog: BUT I'VE GOTTA GO I'VE GOTTA GO I'VE GOTTA GO I'VE...
Me: *sigh* Okay, hang on.
Baby: *eventually finishes eating, passes out asleep on my boob*
Me: *sneaks baby back into bedroom in total silence, suits up, harnesses dog, takes joyous dog out into world*
Fifteen minutes pass.
Me: *arrives home to squalling frantic baby and awake husband*
Baby: WHERE DID YOU GO OH MY GOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD I'M STARVING GIVE ME BOOB
Mr. Guac: I'm going back to sleep.
Me: Okay.
Dog: *sulks*
Me: *gets up to feed baby on the couch while Mr. G sleeps, as he took night shift*
Dog: Guac I have to go out.
Me: We can't go out right now, I'm feeding the baby.
Dog: BUT I'VE GOTTA GO I'VE GOTTA GO I'VE GOTTA GO I'VE...
Me: *sigh* Okay, hang on.
Baby: *eventually finishes eating, passes out asleep on my boob*
Me: *sneaks baby back into bedroom in total silence, suits up, harnesses dog, takes joyous dog out into world*
Fifteen minutes pass.
Me: *arrives home to squalling frantic baby and awake husband*
Baby: WHERE DID YOU GO OH MY GOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD I'M STARVING GIVE ME BOOB
Mr. Guac: I'm going back to sleep.
Me: Okay.
Dog: *sulks*
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
One Month
Today you are one month old. At the moment you are asleep on your grandmother, and what's most remarkable about you is your voracious appetite. You would be like a barnacle on my boob 24 hours a day if I could handle it. Alas, I can only handle about 20, so the rest of the time you are being given bottles. You have become expert at transforming milk into rolls of chub under your chin. Today you are zipped into the soft onesie patterned in little fishing boats that I bought to take you home from the hospital in. One month ago it was loose on you. Today you fill it out with a round little belly and kicky little feet and legs that are at least an inch longer. Your grandfather, my dad, tried measuring you yesterday and theorizes that you are now about 21 inches long. We will take you back to the pediatrician on Thursday for confirmation of this theory.
I am starting to go stir-crazy in the apartment, but your father is very worried about recent measles outbreaks in New York City, and so gets panicky and obstinate if I suggest taking you to an event more contained or precise than a stroller ride to the park until after you have had your shots. Today I will take your grandmother - she has recently switched from wanting to be called "Oma" to wanting to be called "Manamana," which is much cuter, and inspire by what your friend Christopher calls one of his grandmothers, from a song by the Muppets - and you in your stroller bassinet thing over to the baby Gap, where we will spend the gift certificate that the co-op board of our apartment gave us when you were born. We will obtain larger baby clothes, as last week in what felt like the span of two or three days you abruptly outgrew nearly all of your newborn sized clothing. They have been given to Ultragotha, who is set to arrive in January, who is probably going to be named Peter, and with whom you - we hope - will spend your childhood sailing in the summers.
My parents brought some family photographs. You can see a picture of me going to preschool if you want, carrying a lunchbox nearly as big as me, and a half a head taller than the other girls in my carpool. You can see a picture of me at around six, with my parents, taken for church, my mother in a plaid skirt and slim and smiling. There is also a picture of me at the moment of moving from babyhood to toddler, about 1 year old, in a dress and bowl haircut with a toy mushroom with bells, smiling.
"See?" I wrote to your father as I forwarded an image of the old photo. "I told you he looks like me."
I am starting to go stir-crazy in the apartment, but your father is very worried about recent measles outbreaks in New York City, and so gets panicky and obstinate if I suggest taking you to an event more contained or precise than a stroller ride to the park until after you have had your shots. Today I will take your grandmother - she has recently switched from wanting to be called "Oma" to wanting to be called "Manamana," which is much cuter, and inspire by what your friend Christopher calls one of his grandmothers, from a song by the Muppets - and you in your stroller bassinet thing over to the baby Gap, where we will spend the gift certificate that the co-op board of our apartment gave us when you were born. We will obtain larger baby clothes, as last week in what felt like the span of two or three days you abruptly outgrew nearly all of your newborn sized clothing. They have been given to Ultragotha, who is set to arrive in January, who is probably going to be named Peter, and with whom you - we hope - will spend your childhood sailing in the summers.
My parents brought some family photographs. You can see a picture of me going to preschool if you want, carrying a lunchbox nearly as big as me, and a half a head taller than the other girls in my carpool. You can see a picture of me at around six, with my parents, taken for church, my mother in a plaid skirt and slim and smiling. There is also a picture of me at the moment of moving from babyhood to toddler, about 1 year old, in a dress and bowl haircut with a toy mushroom with bells, smiling.
"See?" I wrote to your father as I forwarded an image of the old photo. "I told you he looks like me."
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