Results For "Month: January 2007"

We don’t know how long it took Sisyphus to roll the stone up the hill only to have it tumble back down, but we can only hope that the gods were merciful enough to give him enough time to make it back down the hill and look for a moment upon his accomplishment.

Gods can be fickle, though, so there’s no telling.

K and I, however, know exactly how long our little Sisyphus takes to complete one cycle: three to four hours.

L eats almost in a panic at first. She doesn’t give a sign she’s hungry until she’s starving. Then it’s crying hysterics. When she gets the breast, she goes wild, as if she hadn’t eaten for days.

That starts with feeding. L is a gulper. When she’s nursing, she’s literally audible in the next room — which means she’s getting a lot of air with her milk. This requires a couple of burping sessions during the feeding session, and one long one after.

Burping L is an activity in and of itself. It can take anywhere from fifteen to ninety minutes.

What follows can be either an extended awake period (which requires constant monitoring, as L likes to have a bit of pacifier when she’s squirming about, and falls into hysterics when it falls from her mouth) or a sleep session.

Sleeping is shortly interrupted by pooping — apparently, an excruciating process for a number of infants, our pediatrician says. Much of it is just gas, which gets the girl squirming, straining, and turning red as she tries to get it out. As with burping, there’s a simple method to help get the offending gas out: pump the girl’s legs against her belly.

Once the natural gas exploration and extraction are accomplished, L may or may not go back to sleep. If she does, it’ll be for a very short spell, because it’ll soon be feeding time…

Usually, when I rush out to work at 7:33 (and a minute later, else I’ll be late), the Girl and her mother are asleep. The early morning feeding is done and they’re both still pooped (and the girl probably still pooping), so I kiss them as the sleep and head out.

Saturday mornings are different. I take L while K sleeps for a while. We walk around the apartment, chatting about current events and what we might do that day. “Chatting” is still my monologue with her bright eyes looking at me; the day’s activities are still confined to whether or not to go for a walk. But it’s the principle: Saturdays are father/daughter time.

After the stroll through the apartment, L might start indicating that she’d be keen to suck on something. About the only thing I can offer her is my nose and a pacifier. The latter is much more hygienic, not to mention convenient. So I put her down for a bit of pacifier while I take a bit of coffee — at some point in the distant, perhaps we’ll share a Saturday morning coffee when she’s home for a visit, but for now, we don’t have much in common in the way of oral gratification.

If she’s in the mood for lying down with the pacifier (which is the most convenient position for a pacifier, given her apparent interest in the sport of distance pacifier spitting — if it were an Olympic sport…), I put her in the bassinet beside me at the computer and I read the latest headlines to her while she sucks contentedly.

Last night, I was chatting with K with what Saturday morning with L might be like in a few months — perhaps early morning walks (and sooner than later, walks with L actually walking), playing together in the floor with whatever she’s interested in, reading to her. But for now, it’s good just to have a little father/daughter burping, pacifier, crying, gazing time.

Not to mention giving K a chance to rest some.

And what about Sundays? Pretty much the same..

Newborns are completely covered for most of their first weeks, an L has been no exception. First, she was swaddled with a cap. Then we began dressing her in sleepers, but the cap remained, as did the mittens slipped over her dangerously sharp fingernails.

I got used to seeing only a round bit of olive skin, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, and the occasional gummy grimace as the crying begins. L was born with a head full of hair, but it was so rarely visible during her first couple of weeks that she might as well have been bald. But then the cap came off and we all got used to her beautiful dark hair, and how much it added to her features: her dark eyes seemed darker; her olive skin seemed more Mediterranean; her faint eyebrows were more visible. She looked less like the cheese-covered bundle of pink, wrinkled skin she’d been only weeks earlier and more like a little girl. It became possible to imagine what she might look like in a year, two years, five years.

Now, the mittens have finally come off, and the effects are equally dramatic. The eyes, some say, are a window to one’s inner thoughts. The fingers, it turns out, can do the same. What’s she touching? How’s she wiggling her fingers? How much control does she have over them? Mittened hands make mysteries of such questions.

Bare hands also highlight fragility. Fingers little larger than a matchstick could probably break with just as much ease.

It’s also now easier to see what she’s wrapping K and me around…

Call me bizarre, but I like changing L’s diaper. True, the contents don’t stink yet, so there’s no gag reflex to deal with. But I’ve a feeling that even when the Poopsmith does start incorporating fragrance into her artistic endeavors, I won’t mind it. I’ve come to realize that changing L’s diaper is the most loving, intimate thing I can do for her now.

I can’t feed her — that’s all K’s responsibility at this point — but I can clean up the mess.

Changing a diaper helps a father realize, I think, how completely dependent an infant is on on him and his, even for what in later life will be one of the most private of acts. Yes, that’s obvious, but hearing it and experiencing it are not the same.

For me, as I suppose for most men with the birth of their first child, changing a diaper was an entirely new activity, something requiring a bit of instruction, some patience, some practice, and a sense of humor when things go wrong.

Patience is key, for L poops in shifts. Hence, the first time I changed her, an almost scripted adventure: I get the new diaper on her only to hear the tell tale noises that say, “Time for a change.” I get that diaper on and it happens again. Lesson learned: give the little girl time to get it all out.

Patience is not enough, though. Practice combines with patience to create that mystery known as the quick diaper change, for it’s possible — in a rush, mind you — to put the diaper on wrong side out. This is not very effective, but fortunately the mistake makes itself readily manifest when you try to close up the diaper.

The need for a sense of humor is the most obvious — fountains of pee, squirts of poop, leaking diapers, heels planted firmly in dirty diapers all have their role in a diaper change.

Yet, changing a diaper is not for everyone, especially grandparents. When I asked my mother if she wanted to change L this weekend, she simply said, “No.” The great advantage of being a grandparent, I suppose: all the joy without the mess.

Burping L — a complicated process involving gymnastics, moan interpretation, patience, a sharp ear for slight gurgling, and a love of spit-up milk.

L has problems burping, which we’ve found we can solve by putting her horizontally for a few moments until all things gastrointestinal get good and worked up and enough pressure builds. By then, it’s no longer a bit of spit-up milk — it’s a fountain. Pick her up quickly, pat that back, and feel the warm ooze of undigested milk covering anything not covered with a burping cloth. (I think the milk gains sentience in the belly and then actively seeks any portion of the body not covered with the proper burping accessory.) Thump, thump, thump on the diaper (we’re using cloth diapers — they go halfway up her back at this point!) and then hold her still for a few minutes. Once she’s calm, repeat the process.

If we just hold her vertically and pat her belly, she’ll burp a time or two, fall asleep, and then squirm madly a few minutes later as the pressure builds up. Then L wakes with a start, crying, wiggling, and obviously in pain. And sometimes, to our terror, choking. So it’s best to do what works, even if the whole feeding process takes up to an hour and a half.

Yet these are the fun things about being a parent — finding out the little quirks of your child, the little combinations of this and that in order to calm, soothe, burp, bathe, etc. effectively and quickly. Such things also speak to the coming quirks and wonders we’ll be discovering about her as she begins to smile, to speak, to walk, to run.

She also has problems sending it out other end, but perhaps another time…