Shroud of Poopin'

Deep down inside (well, actually, not deep down at all--I just flat out know it), I know that this photo crosses some sort of threshold from cute to gross. Sorry. But I can't help myself.

Yes, this is a poop outline of Miss Baby, from The Diaper Change to End All Diaper Changes. My goodness, but those breast milk poops are plentiful and runny. So this is the actually, unedited, marking that she left once the diaper and the onesie came off--that shmear up at the top right is where she, um, proceeded to pee in the whole mess. Ultimately, I just wrapped her in a receiving blanket and marched her off for an impromptu mid-day bath. And, of course, took this picture. The clarity of it appealed to me, the line-drawing quality, and, yes, the bum-cheek outline adds a certain je-ne-sais-quoi that, for me, places this photo back in the 'cute' category. But then, I'm her mother. I lack perspective.

True Story: Cat Edition, part 2

As usual, when Pynchon came home from work last night, I handed him his Miss Baby (or, as I like to call her at 5pm, 'your baby') and darted from the house to Starbucks, muttering stuff like 'she needs a nap' and 'hasta la vista, baby' while clutching my laptop like a life preserver.

Once more, while I knew that Poor Crazy Kitty was asleep in the nursing rocker in Miss Baby's dark room (did I mention we covered the window with black garbage bags, in hopes that maybe that would help her sleep?), I failed to pass this information along to the replacement shift.

Long story short: PCK slept right through the wind-down routine, with all the singing and pacing, a couple of minutes of Miss Baby token protest whines, and then the entire nap with the door latched shut, only to be discovered by Pynchon after Miss Baby woke up.

Don't tell my mom, okay? She's always hated PCK and is convinced that said pet harbours murderous intent towards Darling Granddaughter.

Life becomes more civilized?

Witness the contents of my fridge last weekend ...

Yes, that's right! It's miniature bottles of champagne alongside miniature bottles of breastmilk! Hurrah and praise be, Miss Baby is well on her way to bottle expertise. The miniature champagne is for the miniature celebration that Pynchon and I later had over a friendly game of Scrabble (recreating our first date). He was celebrating finally being able to feed his baby daughter, and I was celebrating finally not having to feed his baby daughter.

Here's the act in progress. Doesn't she just look like a pro, and her Dada, too? I was so proud that after I took this picture, I kinda got the sniffles. I was very relieved, but also a little weirded out. I mean, no one but me has ever fed her before. Holy smokes. Um, and yes, she's swaddled. To within an inch of her life. Helps her concentrate ;-)

Anyhow, Miss Baby cried for about an hour for The Dada, before, as he says, "it's like a little light went off in her head" and she realized there was food in them thar nipple. Now, she drinks like a pro, I tells ya, a pro.

And the Scrabble was great. I won. The champagne? Delicious, and well-earned, if you ask me!

Neglect, guilt, and broken promises

Oh, blog, how I've missed you. Yes, the neglect has all been on my own side. But it's not my fault! Miss Baby has engaged in a campaign calculated to test the sanity of the hardiest of Mamas, and I'm not the hardiest! The Husband's work and reality-television obligations have removied him from our home for more hours than he manages to spend in it! And my free time has been spent reading reading reading, in five-minutes snatches, some of the most inspiring, moving, funny, and just generally awesome mommy blogs. How's a girl supposed to follow that up?

Oh, and then there was the salmonella poisoning, 8 hours in emerg, and 3 days in the bathroom. That kept me away from writing.

And then there were the fairly regular, "I can't do it" parenting-related crying jags. It's hard to type while you're sniveling and hysterical.

Well, I did spend all day yesterday shopping for new, non-maternity, non-stay-at-home-shlump clothes yesterday while Pynchon introduced Miss Baby to the bottle. Retail therapy is sometimes more appealing than a burst of bloggorhea. Sometimes :-)

Of course, it doesn't help that I have officially zero readers among the demographic segment that is not married to me. Hard to feel much compunction to keep up to date for, ah, myself.

But! Herewith a slew of posts, to make up for lost time, lost topics, and lost sleep ...

Missing Miss Baby

Isn't she just breaking your heart, right this very minute?

It's just happened, really for the first time: I am missing Miss Baby, with my whole heart and body. Pynchon has really stepped up this weekend, giving me time away from the house to do copyediting and general tidying of a publication project that is drop-dead-due tomorrow. So I'm on my second trip to Starbucks of the day (switched from pep-me-up lattes to cool-me-out peppermint tea, natch) and ...

... my whole self hurts for missing my baby. My Miss Baby. All 15+ pounds of no-poop-yet, nap-striking, nipple-chomping, boobie-yanking, drool-mad beautiful happy smart adorable heartrending gorgeousness of her.

I'm at once pleasantly surprised and in pain: I've been attached to her so long and so completely and sometimes so frustratingly, and I've so been cherishing any little hours or half-hours I get to myself, that I figured I was just heartless and irredeemably selfish. But now I miss her and I feel like I could actually burst into tears.

Huh. That's new.