Dear Reese,
On average I have fed you 10 times a day for the past 98 days, and I have to ask: Aren’t you full yet?
You are already a week into your third month of life “on the outside”. You’re probably wondering why I’ve skipped writing a letter to you for Months 1 and 2. I’ll be blunt: Most of those two months I don’t remember as clearly due to the lack of meaningful sleep, and some of the moments of clarity I wish I could forget. Those moments are usually the ones relating to the fact that you’ve been SCAH-REEEEEMING for the third straight hour and your father and I have already tried everything we could think of to get you to stop making that horrible noise. Those cute pictures of sedate newborns contentedly sucking on pacifiers and looking like they sleep for days? THAT WAS NOT YOU.
You were the type of newborn that would cry at the slightest provocation: Your swaddle came undone in the middle of the night. It’s been 56 minutes since you last ate, and that’s one minute too many. You aren’t held enough. You’ve been held too much. The room temperature drops by a degree. You can actually feel the centrifugal force of the Earth’s rotation upon your delicate little frog body, and that causes you distress.
One big reason for your screaming at night during those early weeks was the fact that you didn’t like to be put to sleep on your back. I was terrified that you would never sleep on your back, and that you would only ever sleep in the cradle swing at night. I remember sheepishly explaining to our pediatrician that for whatever reason you would shift into “Code Red” mode whenever I attempted to leave you on your back for even just a few minutes (I believe my exact words were “she cries like a pack of wild dogs are gnawing at her limbs”), and I remember that the pediatrician said her own baby did the same thing, but she wouldn’t tell me how she got past it with her daughter. Apparently, it was a technique that was not endorsed by the American Pediatric Association, so I can only assume it was a high-level Masonic secret and it probably involved duct tape and Benadryl. Just sayin’.
Lucky for you (and for me), another wonderful parent had brought over the single most-used item in your current sleep routine: The baby straitjacket. Nothing has been as successful bringing about long nights of sleep than this item, and I’m already fearing the day I have to give it up.
“Code Red” is the term your father and I continue to use to lovingly describe that state you reach when you are sooooo mad at life that your little head flushes bright red, your mouth becomes a taut rectangle showcasing your nubby gums and your pointy tongue and your tonsils, and you get so worked up that you actually bleat like a billy goat. When you were brand newborn, the nurses at the hospital described your cry as lusty. I would have described your cry as horrifically loud and distressing, the kind of cry that turns hair gray, induces hives, and gives me the sweats if I can’t figure out how to stop it.
For this reason, your father and I refused to take you ANYWHERE in the first eight weeks of life. We were so incapable of adequately pacifying you at home, that we were terrified to inflict your special kind of pain on the humans in the Real World outside of our house. We seemed to have forgotten that there are other people out there, people who have kids too — people who would understand if our little one decided to have a meltdown. I remember how hard it was to go out to breakfast for the first time with you. Your father was so uncomfortable taking you out in public that he was actually shooting visible anxiety rays out from his body. He wasn’t concerned about your health or your safety, being such a young person in such a disease-ridden public place. He was concerned that the other customers in Bob Evans would start pelting us with their sausage patties because you would start your special rendition of the Chant of Woe.
Lucky for our mental health, we eventually got over that fear and did eventually take you out. But only sometimes, and under tightly regulated conditions that involved us making doubly sure that you are already fed and well rested. When your little body is rested, you are a glorious and precious and wonderful and magnificent baby. When you miss a nap or you decide to skip a nap, you are a HORRIFYING CRANKY BEAST CHILD who drives me to drink. Just kidding.
You’ve become a much better night sleeper, nowadays you only wake up once a night to feed. You also are pretty good about taking naps, although I have to employ a slightly different technique to get you to day sleep. Let’s just say that the next present I get any expectant parent will either be a baby straitjacket, a cradle swing, or a bottle of bourbon. All of these items have allowed me to keep my remaining wits about me.
Mornings with you are the absolute best. You wake up, calling to us: Uhhh. Uunggh. UUUHHHHH!!! UUUUUUUHHHHH!!!! This is a different sound than your regular “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not gonna take it anymore” cry. It’s like you simply want our attention, and you haven’t yet decided to get all pissy about it. When we come to you, we stand over your crib and look down upon your swaddled self. It takes you just a few seconds to look at us, then to process just who we are…because we seem so familiar. Your resulting smiles melt our icy parent hearts and remind us that having a kid is pretty awesome.
You LOVE the changing table. This has been a consistent behavior from you, since the very beginning. Generally speaking, you could be throwing the biggest, fussiest, loudest hissy fit but as soon as we place you on the changing pad… charming, sweet, cooing baby. The thrashing and yelling stop, and the smiles and gleeful frog-leg kicking begins. You love the changing pad more than your bouncy chair and your swing, possibly more than you love being carried around by your father or me.
I’m convinced that changing pad contains a special magic within its contoured shape.
You also seem to enjoy being naked, even in our old drafty house. I’d be alarmed by this nudity preference if you were older (like 16), but for now I’m not going to worry about it since your father has decided you will not be allowed to date until after you are married.
You seem to have a preference to fall asleep on Daddy. I’ll admit to being a little jealous of this, since you rarely ever fall asleep on me. However, I have to remember that I spend waaaaay more time holding and cuddling you during the day, and there are days that your father doesn’t even get to see your face due to his work schedule and your sleep schedule. I know it devastates him when he goes so long without holding or even seeing you. Plus, since I am your only source of food right now, I can imagine how distracting it would be to try to sleep anywhere near me. It would be like me trying to sleep in the kitchen of any one of Columbus’s many McDonald’s. I promise I won’t hold that against you, though.
You have a fierce will to keep your head up at all times. No matter what, you are determined to see the world in an upright position. No flopsy neck for you, no sir.
You HATE your carseat. You also dislike stroller walks, but you do seem to tolerate car rides most of the time. Did I mention we bought a new car for you this month? Who gets their 3 month old a new vehicle for their birthday? INSANE PEOPLE DO. Anyway, the stroller and matching portable carseat are hand-me-downs from someone else, so I won’t take it personally that you cry each and every time I strap you in.
You make the BEST eager face when you know you are about to be fed. Your eyes get round as saucers, your mouth puckers and purses, and you make a slurpy sound with your tongue. You wiggle and kick frantically, punching and grasping the air around me when I lay you down on the Boppy. Lately you’ve been impatiently stuffing your fist in your mouth to gnaw on your fingers. Aside from being very cute, the air you suck around your fingers and fist make a sound that can be heard three houses down.
Even this morning you broke free of the straitjacket to enjoy the delicious tender flavor of your right hand, the sounds your enjoyment of which I didn’t need the monitor to hear.
SLUUURP. SLUUUURRRRRRP. GLUCK. SLUUURP.
You haven’t been terribly verbal until recently, but now you will actively vocalize in the 3 following situations:
1) If I turn my back to you or walk out of the room, you scold me
2) If Jacques the Peacock is present you tell him your secrets
3) You have been sleeping on your father’s chest, you make a hilarious protest cry if anyone tries to move you
Most of the time, you open your mouth like you want to say something, but the words escape you. I’m convinced you are watching me and your father constantly to understand how exactly we make noises and words. You watch our mouths very closely to get the hang of it — then one day, you’ll blurt out your preference to have your diaper changed in your first perfect sentence. For now, you are so hesitant and cautious to make a sound (that isn’t crying)…just slight, breathy coos.
I look forward to next month when perhaps we will start to hear our first giggles, as well as more coos and some early form of babbling (from you, not your father). Your father and I love you more than you will ever possibly know, the kind of love you will understand when you have your own child one day.
Just don’t be in a big hurry.
Love,
Momma