I keep trying to think of something profound to write, about being a new mom, about my funny little baby. About expectations and reality. About the intense ordeal of giving birth to a baby. There’s just too much I think. Too much to fit all into one coherent idea. Or several connected ideas. I keep trying to write the story of his birth, but then realizing that the only people who would be interested in his birth story are other pregnant women about to give birth.
And time – there will be an hour free here or there. I have to decide quickly and so carefully how I’ll spend that hour. Do I want to check my e-mail? Paint my toenails? Read a book? Take a nap? I don’t know why, but I never quite realized how little sleep we would be getting. I certainly don’t think I ever assumed I would be getting plenty of sleep. I just don’t think I even thought about it at all. The whole time I was pregnant, when sleeping was uncomfortable, I just couldn’t wait to have my body back again so I could sleep. Now sleep is so very nice, but there is no time for it.
What is there to say then? My baby makes noises like a goat, snorts like a pig. He barks like a dog in his sleep. He smiles when he is sleeping too. And instead of letting me give him his bottle, he attacks it, like it might go somewhere, like he has to hunt it before some other hungry baby gets it first. I don’t know how or why he learned to do that, but it is hilarious!