Hmm….Somehow this didn’t get published. Better late than never, I guess:
Yesterday at 1:12 PM, Stella officially made one week old. This is one of those absolutely surreal things to think about. On one hand, it seems she’s been here forever. On the other hand, it seems she joined us 5 minutes ago. Yesterday was also my official due date, so technically we’ve had her a week (at least) before we were supposed to. I’m really, really happy about that. Not just because I have a really hard time visualizing how this infant was once crammed up inside of my torso, but because now we finally have the opportunity to interface with this creature.
I’ve definitely become one of those “baby people,” who can sit for endless amounts of time simply staring at their kid. I will admit, I used to scoff at those people. Sure, the kid was cute (most of the time), but they weren’t really doing a whole hell of a lot. Toddlers were better, simply due to their more interactive nature. Then again, I’d never had the absolute joy of watching that little face in REM sleep segueing from smiling to angry to surprised to coy in about 30 seconds. That’s really quite remarkable.
The other night, Will and I were both scrambling to soothe the savage Stella after a severe poo necessitated a wardrobe change. I happened to glance in the mirror and the picture I saw of the 2 of us was pretty amusing and so far from where we were about 6 years ago; Will was stumbling around in boxers with his absolutely exhausted “thousand yard stare” on his face, while I was disheveled with my hair looking rather Medusa-like, dark circles ringing my eyes, the Boppy pillow ringing my waist like a really unfashionable belt, and one boob hanging out of my nursing tank. It’s about as unglamorous as I think I’ve ever seen either of us. I’d like to think we may get some of our old selves back at some point, but it really isn’t of major importance now. Now, it’s a time to adjust to some kind of new normal and routine.
We have learned that Will may serve as Stella’s ultimate laxative. His vocal tones seem to have the effect of a Brown Note on the baby. He came home from work yesterday and within seconds of his coming in and settling down on the couch to talk about his day the most amazing ass trumpet solo commenced. This happens a whole lot. Sure, I’ve been “angry pigeoned” (our new verb for the projectile poo she likes to unleash on the unwitting or unprepared during diaper changes), but overall, I don’t seem to inspire jets of the brown stuff. Luckily, Will seems to be maintaining his sense of humor rather than getting offended.