I’m fucking tired.
I’m beyond fucking tired. I’m so far beyond fucking tired, I’m into hitherto unknown lands of lassitude and lethargy. I wake up with enough energy to just barely get out of bed, and somehow manage to stumble into the kitchen so I can caffeine up in the hopes that it’ll help get me to my next cup of tea. I stagger through the day, so goddamn unimpressed with the fact that the sun’s up and the kids are awake that I can’t even properly express myself.
Needless to say, I’m going to ramble a bit incoherently now.
See, I had a baby.
A girl baby.
Her name is Amber, but I call her Peanut.
And she’s the most adorable baby ever. Which makes it absolutely impossible to say “no” to her.
Here. Let me show you. After the jump.
You see? How the fuck could you say no to that? She might as well have a frickin’ halo on her frickin’ head. And therein lies the problem. You really can’t say no to a newborn. My other kids? Hell, I say no to them all the time. No, you can’t draw on the wall. No, you can’t have cookies for supper. No, you can’t build a death ray with which to take over the world. “No” is a fairly easy word to say, and it’s frequently heard in my house.
But newborns don’t understand the concept of “no”. They also don’t understand the concept of “didn’t we feed you an hour ago?” and “Jesus Christ, it’s 3:45am; where in God’s name is her pacifier!” And that’s cool, most of the time. It’s those times when you’re doing unimportant things like trying to sleep when it becomes an issue.
But it could be worse. Rick has some idealized notion of the boys when they were Amber’s age. He seems to think that they were both really good sleepers, and really good burpers and that we never had a problem with either one of them ever ever ever. If I’m being fair and impartial, I say my memory tends to skew things the other way: I remember them being malicious little devils who would only sleep if they were up in my arms, who firehosed whoever was changing them every chance they got and who spewed formula like that chick from The Exorcist far more frequently than they digested.
The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle. But fuck it, this is my blog and my memory.
Amber’s a good baby. She eats, she poops, she sleeps. She wiggles around as she tries to learn about this big, scary world she was abruptly shoved into. She doesn’t spit up a whole lot. Her plumbing works, her hearing’s fine. Her eyes are focussing more and more. She likes falling asleep on chests, listening to our heartbeats.
She’s a week old today.
(Yes, she’s a St. Paddy’s Day baby. Call her any derivative of “Patricia” at your own damn risk though; Rick’s a bit touchy about that.)
As adorable as she is, though, she’s my last baby. Despite my Irish origins and the fact that my extended family is what, in polite society, is called “fucking ginormous” (maternal side alone? grandmother had 11 siblings, grandfather had 13, 22ish of which survived to adulthood to more-or-less have decently large families of their own), I’m done with kids. The pregnancy was not fun. The labour, despite the fact that they gave me the good shit, was intensely painful — moreso than the previous two were (and those were both drugless). Pregnancy-related gallstones, heartburn that would have killed an elephant, and enough creaking bones and ligaments to supply a haunted house’s soundtrack… yeah. I’m done.
Two boys and a girl. I’m done. Family’s complete.
And someday in the near future, I’ll manage to sleep and write something that isn’t a semi-legible ramble.