August 5
Dr. D. comes in with a tape measure to give to me, showing your length at birth (18.5 inches or 47 cm long); the circumference of your head was 13” or 33 cm), weight of course, 4 pounds 14 ounces or 2220 grams. You have O+ blood from your Dad and Grandma, I assume since Grampsey and I are A+. Great things come in small packages.
Today is the day Dr. D. decides to pontificate about the hazards and hell of post partum depression that he has observed with all his Moms a couple of days after they are thrown out to the mercies of manipulative (probably listening and observing in utero) babies, fathers and other family members who choose not to see or hear Mom dancing as fast as she can …until such time it reaches a crisis.
Well, you know me, I think I know it all already so kind of tune him out… but his words come back to haunt me when I am bleary eyed, sleep deprived and you, Wonder Baby are crying again. Although I am in your room, sleeping on the couch beside you (we mustn’t disturb Daddy, he had that operation just a year ago and has to go out to work each day). I hear you from like a million miles away, like you are buried in a tunnel.
I crawl around in the dark, trying to find you, or at least find the light switch. I persevere, flood the room with light, and there you are, face beet red from exerting so much effort in order to wake me up. I swear, sometimes I thought, if there was a chair under the window sill, maybe I would have just crawled up there, flung open the window and flew like a bird, out to the silence of the unknown.
But then I would pick you up and your cries would turn to dry heaves and shudders and I would feel so ashamed of myself. “Sorry, Wonder Boy”, I whisper, “I’ll wake up faster next time. Promise.”
Thanks Dr, D. You took the time to let me know I was not an aberration. I was just feeling and reacting like a hormone driven, overtired Mom… through out the universe.