Pride Before the Fall

Fiction Friday is delayed, because I am uninspired and a little bit lazy. Look for it this weekend. In the meantime, I will share my humiliation with you!

I am in line at the Ham Store (because apparently, people like ham for Easter? What is it about the risen Christ that says 'let's eat pig!'? Does no one see the irony in celebrating the resurrection of the world's most famous Jew with a meal of the number one unclean animal?) - and the line is 8 miles long. Julia and Henry are being exceptionally adorable and charming throughout our excessive wait, and the two women behind us are especially taken with them. They are going on and on about how wonderful they are, how great their names are (and here I throw a plug in for Katie, too), how well behaved. I am so proud, and as we inch closer to the front of the line it appears that we're going to get out of the store without any screaming, tantruming, puking, shitting or breaking of things. Truly, an Easter miracle.

Now, if you have never been to the Ham Store, it is kind of a weird deal. You stand in line forever, then are greeted by a gal who tries to upsell you ("Buy our $400 ham and we'll give you a turkey breast for only $100 more!"), then directs you to one of half a dozen or so ham-specialists who assess your ham-needs and pick the perfect piece of meat for you. You're then directed to the Pre-Pay Ham Person, who confirms that you have just the right ham, and then directs you to a register to check out.

Things were going great, up until the point that I get to the Pre-Pay Ham Person. She is a lovely woman who gives me a big smile and then confirms that I have, indeed, had a hamtastic experience. She says "Hello, pretty girl!" to Julia and "What a handsome little man!" to Henry, then looks down at my mid-section and says,

"Oh! And you're expecting another!"

Now, everyone who has ever had a baby KNOWS that, unless a woman is squatted down pushing out a kid, you never, ever, assume that she is pregnant. Never. Ever.

If I were a much quicker witted person, I would have told her that I was smuggling out a ham. Instead, I just laughed nervously and said "Uh, nooo." And this should have made the Ham Person sufficiently mortified, and she should have made some lameass comment about my fluffy shirt. Or something. But NO! She says:

"Oh, just a little leftover from this little guy!" What, WHAT? You are lucky I have a baby in one hand and a big ass ham in another, lady - because you are setting yourself up for a big, fat neck punch! And she keeps going, "But he's worth it! He's worth every bit of it!"

Yes, my child is worth every flap, fold and crease of the meat apron. It's something I console myself with in front of a mirror under the harsh fluorescents, in the privacy of my bathroom. Not something I need to be reminded of in the middle of the gee-dee HAM STORE, ASSHOLE!

I can only hope that she's out there somewhere tonight, in a blog, on a message board, or sitting at her dinner table with her family, saying "You are not going to believe what I did today!"

Advice for the New Father

I had coffee this week with a lovely new mom and her beautiful 7 week old son. It's always interesting to hang around a parent with a newborn and reminisce about my own experiences with a tiny infant. Also known as the fourth trimester - those first 3 months of your baby's life when you are completely batshit crazy. Hormones, lack of sleep, and the crushing weight of responsibility create the perfect breeding ground for huge, juicy resentments. Against your mother, your mother in law, well meaning friends, your own child, but more than anyone- against the Baby Daddy.

I feel bad for the Baby Daddies. Stumbling around the house in a fog, trying to juggle the responsibilities of a workplace that doesn't really care that you have a new dependent, trying to appease a partner who wants to stab you while you sleep. So I thought I'd come up with a few pointers to help the new dad (most especially, the first timer) navigate these choppy postpartum waters.

1. Shut Up. Chances are, your first-time partner doesn't know what she's doing, either. But she will always know more than you, so don't offer pointers on how to hold or change or feed the baby. If you think you have a better way, ask, don't tell. 'Is this a good way to hold the baby?' 'Do you think he likes it when I do this?'

2. Be Present. My husband calls these first few months "Lockdown". Unless you have to work, or are going to the store for your beloved, be available. Do not golf. Do not fish. If you are home, for the love of Pete, DO NOT NAP. Nothing will piss a mom off like the sight of your sorry ass snoring on the couch while she sits there, dog ass tired and covered in spit up.

3. But Do Not Hover. It's a fine line.

4. Make Her a Sandwich. Anticipate her needs, because she will not communicate them. I clearly remember sitting on the couch boring holes into Sean's head thinking "Why isn't he making me a sandwich? OMG! Can't he see I'm hungry?"

5. Tell Her She Looks Great. Because she doesn't feel it. Tell her you're shocked at how fast she's losing the baby weight (even if she's not). Make sure she knows that you think motherhood has made her more beautiful than ever.

6. Do Not Even Think About Sex. Seriously. Let her know you are available whenever she is ready, whenever that may be. Then drop it.

7. Fall in Love With Your Child. Because there is no better way to let her know that you are in this together, forever, than loving your baby. Care about every coo and burp and poopy diaper (and change a lot of those, for good measure).

8. Know That Everything is a Phase. I remember walking a week old Julia in circles around the living room for what seemed like hours, repeating the mantra "Everything is temporary, everything is temporary." There is no phase that goes by quicker than the newborn one, and it's a blessing and a curse.

Congratulations, Daddies, yours is a special and awesome responsibility. Now go make Mama a sandwich.

Sleep

My children are, until the age of 2 or so, horrible sleepers. It's entirely my fault - I nurse them to sleep, bring them into our bed, indulge, rock and pacify. I do not believe in crying it out, it is not my way. Because I am unwilling to do any consistent program to help them sleep, I forfeit any right to bitch about them not sleeping. I'm lazy, and not ashamed to admit it.

But every now and again, I decide TONIGHT'S THE NIGHT! and I spend a few hours of frustration with a non-sleeping baby before caving and taking them to bed with me. Last night was Henry's turn.

It started out well enough - he took a bath and read a book and nursed (to sleep), curled up in his bed and that was that. Until the dog woke him up.

"DAT!" he yells. I go in and pat his butt and he falls back asleep! Until Julia yelling wakes him up. "DAT!"

The butt patting does not work this time. He is laughing and crying and DAT!-ing until I finally pick him up and rock him and he falls back to sleep. Quietly, I tiptoe back to the crib and gently maneuver my not-very-tall body over the crib rail and lay him gingerly in the crib. Now all I have to do is step away from the crib and I'm home free.

Except the upper part of my meat apron is kind of hooked on the crib rail. I'm already on my tiptoes, so I can't lift up and unlatch my gut. I'm cursing getting a new couch instead of a tummy tuck. I slide down...plop. Now the rail is stuck under one ribcage, my hands are still under the baby, and I still have to clear the boobs. I decide to go for a clean sweep method, like pulling a cloth out from under a table full of dishes. I yank my hands out from under the baby while jumping back and the crib rail practically sheers one of my nipples right off.

"DAT!"

Okay. You know, if only I could lay down next to him, I know I could get him to sleep. Except he's in a crib, and I can't exactly crawl in the crib. Right?

I push on the crib mattress with my hand. Sturdy. Maybe...I'll just try getting one leg in and see if it feels like it will hold me. So I'm standing there in my nightie, with one leg slung over the crib rail and Henry is looking at me like "Bitch, you are crazy." I can not believe I am actually considering getting in the baby's crib. This is ridiculous. I pull my leg out and, because I am wearing my old woman floor length nightgown, my foot gets caught and I fall flat on my ass.

"DAT!"

You know, maybe we could just lay on the floor. So I spread out a blanket, get Henry out of the crib and settle down on the floor. He latches on to my remaining nipple and sighs contentedly. This might just work.

And then my back seizes up. Oh my God, I laid my geriatric ass on the floor and now I can't move. I have to get out of this room, I have to get help. But my boob is stuck in a vice grip and he's asleep! I'm going to be like James Franco in 127 Hours, except I'm going to have to cut off my nipple to get out of here. I get my finger in his mouth and break the suction, then slowly...carefully...roll onto my stomach and get on my hands and knees. I'm crawling towards the door, all the while doing these weird pelvic tilts that, while helping my back, undoubtedly make me look like an air-humping camel. Oh Lord, there's the door. Almost there...almost...

"DAT!"