Wednesday, June 27, 2012

A Night in the Life -- Pt. I

It's 3 a.m.  and he's stirring. 

He last ate a while ago so he should be hungry but, when I go to his room, his eyes are still closed. 

If he's not awake, why do the honors myself? I wouldn't want someone waking me up and, besides, maybe he'll make it another two hours    during which time I'll sleep    and then we'll both be closer to a reasonable time to start the day. 

For 28 minutes this plan works, I am comfortable and drifting back to sleep, until he's grumbling again; but this time there's a sense of urgency attached. 

Half asleep, I shuffle my heels toward his room. 

His face is red. His arms are flailing and his feet have begun swinging in the air, marching really. 

"Marching toward what? Or maybe it's more of a stomp. Does he think he's stomping on something? What could get a baby so angry that he'd want to stomp?" 

My half-awake brain has derailed far from the task at hand.

Pictured: The makings of a baffling process when undertaken
at 3:34 a.m.

Must refocus.

There is no time to spare. Shortly, he'll be wailing; Mrs. Blackwell will be awake and there will be two of us stuck in this.  No point in that, so I move quickly, which is to say quicker than I normally would move at 3:30 a.m.

I don't want to turn on a bunch of lights for fear of shortening his fuse. So it's dark but, smart guy that I am, I brought my phone to provide light. This little bit of cleverness doesn't prevent me from ramming my bare foot into a pair of sandals left haphazardly at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Ugh, find a new place for your sandals," I seethe to my dear, sleeping wife through the pain of stubbed toes. Upon further inspection, they are my sandals. Apologies are sent to my wife. 

My phone as my lantern, I make my way to the kitchen. 

There are bottles scattered throughout the fridge. Some can be used, others, my wife has instructed, need to be thrown out. Well which is which? And, "Why," I ask myself and my dear, sleeping wife, "do we have bottles in the fridge that need to be thrown out." 

Alright, the executive decision is made, we're going with a fresh bottle of formula. Now is it two ounces of water per scoop of formula or is it a 2.5 ounces of water per scoop? 

Thankfully the directions are spelled out on the container in the plainest language possible (illustrations actually) I'm guessing for half-awake parents stuck doing just as I am.
"Oh Hi! Come in! Come in! Is that a bottle you're holding? And yes, my
 diaper needs to be changed."

I make sure the water is warm, but not too warm.

In the distance I hear my son. His grumble has now shifted into a full roar. It's just a matter of time before my dear, sleeping wife is awakened by this    that's assuming she's not up already.   

Phone/flashlight in hand, I make my way quickly out of the kitchen toward the stairs. 

"Crunch!" My toes have again met my sandals, who now pay for their insolence with a swift kick across the room. (Say what you will but taking out one's frustrations on inanimate objects is a genuine stress reliever.) 

I make my way to the top of the stairs, open the door to his room and like a caged, hairless bear he awaits. Angry and bearing a presumably dirty diaper he is ready to fight. But, there is no need. He's already won. 

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