Every few days, I look at pictures of my little boy in his first few weeks. I'd think, "Yeah, that's what he looks like." But yesterday, the photos suddenly and mysteriously changed from "that's Westley" to "holy CRAP, he's grown so MUCH!" The skinny little shrimp is gone. He's all baby.
Now that he is out of his "fourth trimester" and looking like a Hollywood newborn, I'm trying to remember the details of those first few weeks--when I was too dizzy to see straight, let alone record what was going on with the tiny new person in my life.
00.01
At zero-to-one-month-old, Westley is like a space alien. He sleeps between us at night, and talks in his sleep--little grunts and squawks that don't disturb him at all, but keep me awake and wondering if everything is really all right with him. He also talks about what's going on with his insides. Bowel activity is preceded by an elaborate routine of fussing and writhing and crying. Pooping seems to upset him; it's like he doesn't know that he has to squeeze his tummy and relax his bottom. I wish I could tell him how to do it.
Breastfeeding is a nightmare, and I understand why some women try it and then quit immediately. It's miserable, especially in the middle of the night, when only God is awake. We have to wake him up to feed him, which is a cruel process for everyone involved. It's against nature to wake an eensy sleeping baby. When I'm especially frustrated--because he's not latching on well, or he's fallen asleep again--I start threatening him. "I'll show you. I'll nurse you 'til you're five."
Rob and I take him to church on Christmas Eve. The only place we can find to sit is in the Cry Room. We're surrounded by screaming toddlers and exhausted parents, but Westley sleeps through everything. I'm very thankful that I'm not pregnant and riding from Nazareth to Bethlehem on a donkey.
He coos when he sneezes. It's honestly the cutest thing I've ever heard. He'll sneeze two or three times in a row, followed by a nice long "Oooooooh." He's starting to smile, too. I won't let myself think that it's social, but it sure seems social. Sometimes when we look at him and start to talk to him, he gets this wide-eyed happy look on his face as though to say, "Oh hey, it's you! You're awesome!"
02.03
Westley sleeps in his own bed now. That way, he can talk in his sleep all he wants and I don't have to lie there next to him wondering when "uh…uh…uh" is going to turn into a full-blown wail. I kind of miss having him spooned up against me, my arm draped over and around him so that he can suck my thumb (because he can't get to his own), but everyone seems to be getting more sleep this way.
He still can't suck his thumb, but he'll happily cram both fists up to his mouth and slurp on the side of his hand. His fingers are endlessly fascinating. Sometimes he spouts long vowel-sound monologues while folding his hands in front of him. Toys are only mildly interesting. Hands are where it's at!
Watching Rob and me eat is the best part of Westley's day. We put his baby seat squarely in the middle of the table during dinner, and he watches us. His favorite food-viewing involves forks, and lots and lots of chewing. I wonder if he knows that what we're doing is eating, just like I wonder if he knows that kisses mean love.
There are two little white lines on his bottom gum. I can't really believe that this tiny boy will ever have teeth, but there they are, right under the surface. I'm afraid he's going to be interested in eating table food way before his doc says it's okay. But I guess we'll cross that bridge if we come to it, in the months still ahead of us.
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