open close

Jesus Rises and Crap Falls Onto My Chest (Week 5)

Jesus Rises and Crap Falls Onto My Chest (Week 5)


Last night went something like this:

Mommy: [Daddy], did you know babies have growth spurts at about this time?

Daddy: Oh yeah?

Mommy: Yeah. Babies cry a lot during them. But not ours, right? He barely cries. We’re so lucky. So so lucky.

Daddy made a sleep sound in agreement.

You, on the other hand, as if on cue, flashed your baby blues open and, get this, started wailing. You, wailing. Wailing. And wailing.

This will just last a couple minutes, I told myself. There’s an end in sight. In the meantime, I pulled out all the Happy Baby stops. Swaddled? Check. Side-lying? Got it. Shussshed? I was shussshing so loudly it was raining. Swinging? Bad white girl dance moves at no extra charge. Sucking? No to the pacifier. No to the tit.

Let me repeat that last one: NO TO THE TIT.

What was wrong? OMG OMG OMG what was wrong? Just as I never refuse a carton of ice cream, no matter whom it’s from, you never refuse a good boob, NEVER.

I texted my hilarious cousin who works part-time in LA as a night-shift baby nurse (Tori Spelling, stop covering your face: a whole two people are staring at you as you get carted down the hallway because you’re covering your face) and full-time as a stellar actress, comedian, cousin.

She asked for the 411 on your poo. No change, I told her; perfectly mustard. Did you have a fever? You were working up a sweat to go with the tears, but no fever. Any hairs wrapped around your little fingers, tugging at those nails I try to trim in your sleep? Precious baby fingers clean and fisted in Life outside the womb sucks! Gripe water not doing the trick? You’d have thought I’d given you a swig of battery acid, how you were going on.

Then Cousin posed one more possibility, and it made me stash my great moves and go deer-in-the-headlights:

“Has Daddy held him lately? Hand him off to Daddy. Sometimes the stimulation Mom provides and Mom’s smell can make Baby antsy.”

Hold up here.

Just a tic.

What was that?

One more time.

Not need Mommy?

Not need Mommy?

Not need Mommy?

I tried one more intense round of the s moves again, this time with my two additional: skin-to-skin and shoulder. You always appreciate cuddling, feeling safe and secure, though I know I come a far second to the slippery gooey uterus, I know that. But maybe you could feel my heart blurring beats together, and it was augmenting your stress. Yeah, that was it. You always appreciate being slung over the shoulder, the gentle pressure it puts on your hard-working digestive system and the  epic Big Man burps it produces; this would surely work surely.


Resigned, I tiptoed over to the bed and tapped Daddy on the foot.


I poked his butt.


Thwacked the side of his head.

“Oh! Who! Whaah? Whooaaa?” He sat up.

I outstretched you toward him as if presenting him with all my life’s possessions. Which was precisely what I was doing.

Which is also why, even though he’s Daddy and so freaking amazing it hurts to think about, it stung.

Because you were out like a light, breathing quietly and rhythmically in his arms while your tears fell to the mattress.

daddy and baby



Sure, it was on I Need Breast Milk Now scheduling, but it was sleep. A couple hours feels like ten anymore.

I decided I’m going to dye my hair slushie blue like in that one Pinterest pic because of course it’ll look that good on me (anybody have a slushie?), stared at Daddy and wondered if this is how nuns or Prozac teenage me used to feel, and watched this video on co-sleeping before we slept oh-so co-peacefully.

Hobble, our three-legged Chihuahua who came barking up to the house last October in demand of a home, sleeps on the king-size bed. I tell myself it’s all right, he’s petclean, unlike his four siblings who weigh a collective several hundred pounds and reek of carnage and lagoon. King Hobble hopped across the mattress and cuddled at my feet. I got a whiff of dead coyote leg (as opposed to the walking, talking leg regularly seen).

You did two amazing things besides existing: One? You laughed. That’s right, people: My not-even-a-month-old laughed. For the second time. See, you’d laughed once in your sleep within a matter of days after your bidding adieu to the uterus, and I’d been so taken aback I tried to come up with alternatives. He burped, he coughed, he got wind of the burrito Daddy ate five hours earlier (lord, an unhappy I got wind of the re-refried beans . . . ). There was no mistaking it this time, though, as I watched your sweet little face lift in sensory knowledge I hope you learn inside and out, so well you can laugh at what’s truly funny to the lame joke a classmate in need of friends made to the girl who says she wants a ring. I’d thought there was nothing cuter than baby sounds. Turns out I need to focus that more and say there is, without a doubt, nothing cuter than happy baby sounds, even if they are directed at my unibrow.

Secondly, your amazingness was further illustrated with something only described as cute when it’s you doing it: You farted so loud you scared yourself awake.

Good morning, world!

We awoke happy, smiling, farting. And we weren’t the only ones. Three Legs must have eaten some of Daddy’s burrito.

cute cute baby

I drank too much, nbd.


I highly advise new moms to operate on more sleep than this. A girl should sleep this little in two instances in her life: On her honeymoon and when she needs to catch up on Ian Somerhalder–I mean, the well-written, cinematically advanced The Vampire Diaries. Well, it’s out of our control, our baby’s slight, musical whimpers, we might say, but here’s the mistake I’ve made that maybe some others can relate to: I don’t always sleep when you’re napping, Little Man, and I need to. Desperately. I haven’t been this tired since, uh–

I haven’t been this tired in a long time, since maybe a couple days ago.

Tiredness correlates to blueness. And ratchets up my witch factor. And augments this girl’s lack of driving acumen. And messes with every girl’s skin radiance—especially not cool. I’d like to stave off Debby Downer, preserve my blissful marriage, avoid handing out my insurance info as I did my number in high school, and keep a glow to my skin, or at least avoid looking as if Zeke went GI Jane to my eye sockets. I did try napping once today when you were dreaming of boobs or whatever you dream about, but the second I hit the mattress you were ready to learn, or so I thought. We walked around the house, stared at colors for 26.4 seconds, listened to Lifehouse until my favorite chorus, felt Hobbs’ fluffy blanket until you spit (up) on me.

Sooooo, turns out you were ready to make me try out all my s’s again because you got cranky. I mean CRANKY. Of course I asked the signature question: Want a boob? because you were rooting, obviously wanting to suck, but a boob was to you what a plate full of onions and tarantulas is to me. And herein lies my conundrum that maybe another mom can help out with:

You get frustrated, Baby, when the milk flow gushes into your mouth* and all you want to do is suck, dang it. You desperately want to suck sometimes for the sake of sucking but eschew the pacifiers and even Tommee Tippee bottle nipples, which I hear are like boobs plastic-ified, so at least you are selective with your boob preferences, please stay that way all your life, especially when you’re a teenager, k, thanks.

funny baby

*I’ve read a little (read: an obsessive lot) on this phenomenon. Moms, if you can relate, be proud that your boobs are making so much milk–approving chest bump!–but, in order to help prevent milk from spraying onto the family member two rooms away, leaking through your new (button-up) ModCloth dress, and causing Baby to gulp too much air and therefore battle potential gassiness and foremilk-hindmilk imbalance,  it’s probably best each time prior to feeding to feel like a heifer (I do, anyway, albeit a proud heifer) and milk into BPA-free breast milk storage bags or small containers so you can freeze the milk for emergencies or leave it in the fridge so somebody accidentally pours it over their cereal. Expressing breast milk can help with fast letdown by regulating the flow before Baby feeds. There are myriad other things you can do to help with fast letdown–like position baby accordingly–as well.



Highlights of the month:

  • You were born. Say whaaa?
  • I gave birth. (That’s how you were born. Or–wait? Are we still running with that stork thing, Daddy?)
  • Mommy held her third baby ever.
  • Mommy’s obsessed, infatuated, eternally bonded and in love with Third Little Baby She’s Ever Held. What was his name again? ; )
  • The Voice is back on Hulu.
  • I changed my first diaper. And then 3,543,781 more.
  • Contrary to what one of the hospital nurses told me about breastfed babies not needing burped (which might be the case for some), Daddy and Mommy learned what value burping in middle of a feeding is, even for breastfed babies. We then sunk into a deep sleep that prevented us from careening into a cow field the next morning and having a legit conversation with ourselves in the mirror. (No, I’ve never looked in the mirror at a furniture store and waved frantically and said, “There you are!” thinking it the sharer of my DNA. BUT ZEKE HAS.)
  • I saved money on my car insurance by switching to never driving anywhere.
  • You smile.
  • You laugh. In your sleep. Twice. But still. It happened. Twice, people, twice.
  • You already hold your head up, like, straight up, all on your own, when you’re situated like a toothpick, something most babies don’t do till four months*! (Babies have all sorts of milestones with lifting their little noggins, who knew. Besides me. But I won’t rub it in too much. BA-HA-HA-HA I knew I knew I knew.)
  • One of the expensive couch pillows remains free of a spit-up stain–
  • –the expensive couch pillows . . . the expensive couch pillows . . . the expensive couch pillows are just fabric and stuffing. I checked for hidden gold.
  • Mommy goes to the bathroom without checking if her intestines, liver, and kidneys ended up in the pot, too.
  • Mommy learned to express milk as to prevent boobs from feeling like punching bags obliterated by that one freaky boxer dude with the weird tattoo and awful legal charges and slight anger problem that Mommy thinks he has because his parents didn’t hug him enough or maybe he’s just been to Wal Mart too many times in his life.

*Readers (Mom, hey!), don’t take that babycenter milestone crap too seriously**. It’ll drive you nuts: Babies are individuals who progress at their own special rates. At least, this is what  Mom told Zeke when she learned she didn’t talk till, like, the time somebody tried to steal her frozen fruit cup in middle school.


baby photo


Okay, I’m sorry.

I am so so so sorry.

Like, so so so so SOSOSOSOSOSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO sorry. Times infinity, Little Man.

I made a HUGE mistake that many a parent/non-parent/baby/ostrich/bacterium/everythingunderthesun ought to rip me apart about, or at least rest assured knowing I’m mentally if not physically punching myself everywhere except the boobs because I want to preserve them to feed you and rebuild the brain cells that I just bullied by setting you on a pillow on the bed, way far in the corner that’s against the wall, true, but so you could roll yourself off the pillow, and when I finished up on the pot, there’s Little Man French kissing the mattress.



“At least it wasn’t the corner hovering over the floor” never crossed my mind until now when I’m imagining what the people who still love me might say to make me feel better. Well, I don’t feel any ounce better with any such imaginary reassurance; I couldn’t imagine being anything ever happening to you, especially you having to duke it out with a mattress because


I really freaking suck.

Omg, what if you decide to hate me when you’re reading this? What if you’d already hated me—I didn’t buy you a purple Porshe for your sixteenth or let you date the girl with the hand tattooed on her ass (true story. One went to my high school. Not a tattooed hand on an ass, but a girl with a hand inked on her ass)—oh geez, you should hate me more because I just cussed and am not going to edit it yet because it goes with my self-hate mood—and this makes it worse? Or what if I was a good mom—no a great mom—and now you epically hate me? And see that I cuss? Because I know that in some scores of years later when I absolutely maybe let you read this, I won’t have cussed once. Not once.

Because I won’t possibly let myself SUCK any more than this.

You, on the other hand, I implore, encourage, entice, owe a boob with some brain rebuilders. Please SUCK.

Oh, gosh, Little Man. If you just took the ACT and don’t like the score you got back—

I’m going to go cry in a corner now.

But not without you cuddled firmly against me.

I’m never taking a whiz without you in my train of vision. When I regain my vision from the fight I just had with myself, that is.

This is where if anybody reads this besides the future version of my Little Man, I’ll send you mental hugs and an imaginary giant chocolate Panda—imaginary giant talking chocolate Panda—imaginary giant talking, dancing chocolate Panda, no beating that—if you’ll tell me you did something probably a lot less awful but still not perfect.


Unless you’re as afraid of CPS as I am.

baby and mom


Have you ever had your chest shat on?

I’ve had my chest shat on.


Because Little Man? Today, after I heeded Midwife’s advice and wrapped you merely in a towel to let your bum get some air (we’ve kept you wonderfully diaper-rash free and a towel or two a day allowing for air flow might be some of the reasoning, along with organic cloth BumGenius diapers and organic oils helping prevent diaper rash). Put you on your Boppy pillow against my chest. Did no putting you to the boob because you fly after it like a fish after a fly.

Five minutes of me on Facebook–no, I mean being productive, doing research . . . pass. I burp you.

Five more minutes of me on Pinterest–no no, I mean being productive, paying bills . . . pass. I set you back on your pillow.

Five more minutes of me twisting my face at Twitter, saying what the crap? pass. Boy, I think, the stupid March snow isn’t making the house too cold. I mean, my. My. Can’t you feel that warmth? That warmth spreading, percolating? So nice. So very very niiiiiice.


Which is precisely what it was.

Not pee.

No. I had a hybrid of what looked like ten-year-old honey mustard tangoing with orange juice and pudding running down the length of me.

Onto the crazy stupid expensive couch.

You were feeding away. Feed feed feed.

See? Life’s a-okay being a baby. You get to feed feed feed and defecate on people.

Who doesn’t want to do that every now and then?

baby picture


Today we trekked to Kansas City to see your aunt and uncle for Easter. Daddy drove the Prius and Mommy sat in the backseat with you for reasons such as–

travel with baby

How could I miss this?

Probably I’ll be saying the same thing when you’re two, in your car seat, and throwing Jello at the back of Daddy’s head. I’m going to point at you when he turns around. It was all you.

Grandma and Grandpa were at your aunt and uncle’s quaint (HA-HA) house that’s fit for the cover of an HGTV magazine, so we put you in the outfit they’d gotten your soon-to-be cousin but gave to you because you came out all boy, no girl.

baby boy clothes

Now, as you read this, please repeat the following at least ten times:


Okay, please leave out the effing part. Yes, do drag it out for no less than half a minute and do call yourself cute; I don’t care how old you are—you will always be my cutepreciousangelicpudyperfectlittleman.


I’ll compliment you on other things besides your appearance, too, so the moms that refrain from driving home their children’s cuteness at risk of their child becoming too focused on appearances can settle back in their thrones. You are—

–such a good pooper!

–such a good boob BOSS!

–so good at waking up every hour and a half!

(Truly, these are great baby features, Little Man; I’m not about to ask for a refund.)

The fam and your SO CUTE baby self went out to eat at a hip (hip? Wow; who am I?) restaurant, and we pushed some tables together on the rooftop so we could enjoy the kind of weather that doesn’t have people with seasonal affect disorder wanting to throw knives or turn two-inches tall. Mommy, who wore a dress even the high school version of herself would have crossed her arms over her cleavage, lifted her barely-there brows, and said something witchy about, was all, “There’s no smoking in this restaurant, right? Did you hear me—no smoking, right?” to all the waitstaff, and to everybody all, Are you looking at my precious baby? I’m turning around then; stop staring at my precious baby, and also, Are you not looking at my precious baby? How dare you not look at my precious baby! LOOK AT MY PRECIOUS BABY.

Because Daddy and Uncle have priorities, we hung around so they could do something with baseball, computers, and “picking teams.” Whatever. With the this is of great import and this is earth-shatteringly taxing notions furrowed between their brows, you’d think they were endowed with the responsibility to save Earth from a meteor shower by morphing into space-traveling baseball caps.

Happy Easter, peeps!



Suddenly BOOBS. Thank you, engorgement, thank you.

mom parenting

Share if you're awesome:

Speak Your Mind