Friday, November 6, 2015

Musings During Naptime (Alternately: I'm Pretty Sure I'm Loosing My Marbles)

I've decided being a mother is akin to being a victim of Stockholm syndrome. I can honestly say it is the best time of my life so far. But then I begin to question my sanity. Currently, I'm spending the most quality time I've had with Travis is weeks. I'm freshly showered and watching him on the baby monitor...because Lyra does not nap alone. We often spend time like this when Travis is off work, usually he is watching us on the monitor (he doesn't lactate, that lucky duck) and we text back and forth. Often I'm begging for food and drink to nourish my poor body.

So someone once said babies this age should only be awake for 2 hours maximum at one time. Pffffft. Lately we get 2 hours of naptime during the day on a good day. And usually not all at once. I swear she has a 6th sense. No matter how gently I lay her down, instant open eyes. So we try and nurse to sleep with her already laying down so I can perform a sneaky ninja roll away. She's figured that out too. Now if I stay there, I can kind of move around, make some noises, set my hand on her, etc. She'll occasionally flail around and once shes patted me on the boob,  punched my eyeball with surprising force, stuck a few fingers up my nose or tugged on my lip...she's content again that my presence has been verified.  If I try to move away....she'll kick her legs and flail her arms and upon finding my spot empty...instant wake up call. Luckily we still get sleep at night at the moment. Granted,  it's hard to sleep when you have tiny fingers tickling your armpits and baby feet kicking your stomach. It was adorable when she was a fetus,  it's lost its novelty now. Sometimes as Travis snores and I feed a grunting, grumbling, 11 pound bedhog while fending off windmilling, taloned hands and bicycling feet, I consider smothering him in his sleep. Then I remember he feeds me and I let him live. It isn't his fault he isn't a dairy cow.

Here's another thing. I was going to say I'm pleasantly surprised by how non messy this vocation of motherhood is. Then I looked at my last post and I said the opposite. I am a bit frightened that I've been beaten down so quickly. Now that I've been thinking on it, it isn't messier than any of my other jobs. When I worked at Dairy Queen (ha, I just realized I'm still a Dairy Queen, how punny) I was regularly coated in a layer of ice cream and candy toppings. As a mud engineer I was nearly always coated in a layer of mud and general filth. My job as a babysitter was probably the least messy. Though I recall once being soaked on hose water and locked out of the house. Nowadays I am rarely clean. The first few weeks after birth,  I'd wake up and face the horrible question is this milk, sweat, or drool? And then the inevitable, is this my sweat and my drool? At least I can blame it on Lyra while she's defenseless. And postpartum hot flashes. We've had several projectile vomit episodes. And motherly instinct immediately kicks in, baby gets tossed over my shoulder or onto my chest to make sure she doesn't choke. If it were summer, I'd consider just having Travis hose us down after those. And of course the inevitable poo-splosion. Lucky for me, I have mom friends. It's a nice feeling of solidarity to send a picture of your poop covered baby captioned, "we were laying in my bed...." and receive one back "just finished washing up one of those." Lyra is starting to get drooly now. Luckily Dinger was here to prepare me. His drool strings are much much worse.

Lucky for tiny tyrant, she's pretty darn cute. And lucky for the dogs, she's saving their lives on a daily basis. She's in a "can't sleep with noise" stage and those dogs are loud. Shaking collars, barking, whining, etc. But when I'm trapped under a sleeping baby, I can't get to them. The rare occasion I have Lyra napping alone, I still can't yell at them out of fear she'll wake. Roxi has already dug her own grave though. I'm 100% serious. There's a hole she'd fit in right under the kitchen window. When I was about 478 weeks pregnant, I put copious amounts of hot pepper in it and took to standing vigil at the kitchen window to throw buckets of water on any dog dumb enough to get close. All while muttering angrily to myself and cackling when I aimed well enough. It got to the point they'd scatter the second they hear the window begin to open. We didn't get it filled in the chaos of baby having. So when the day comes, I'll be ready. They sure owe Lyra for saving their coats. I'd love me a nice Dinger skin rug for the nursery. Roxi would perhaps make a cute hat.

I'm finishing this post sitting in a camp chair under another person, in the same position I was in an hour ago, wondering if I've permanently damaged my left arm by restricting blood flow for an hour. But the hour long nap is probably worth loosing an arm. I have two. Biology is nuts, man. I will wipe butts and sit in the dark for hours for a few coos, a smile or two and the hope of a giggle while contemplating when I should have the next one and if I can talk Travis into four of them.

My life.

The funniest way she's passed out ever. 

We sit in the dark. A lot.

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