Already five weeks have flown by since Jude entered the world on that frosty January night of ’08. He’s becoming increasingly more aware of the world around him, unlike that of a “fetus” as Dr. Harvey, the baby whisperer, claims as the state of all infants under the age of three months.
On Monday (February 4), Jude smiled for the first time. Unlike the fleeting gas smiles, he looked me in the eye and opened his mouth fully with the corners turned up. Maybe he grinned in pleasure that the Giants won the Superbowl on Sunday or that Obama has a good chance of restoring the dignity to the country, but either way it was gum-filled, big and definitely not a “I want the big boob” gesture.
Later, he repeated the smile as I videotaped him propped up next to his plethora of teddy bears. Matt manages to get the rare grin out of him too, as he shoots Jude into the air, an action that terrifies and excites the baby.
This week I’ve taken to sleeping Japanese style on the floor with Jude. Not exactly on the hard, bare surface because I throw down the featherbed with curious red stains on it, then pile pillows and blankets on top. I find that I sleep much better this way with Jude instead of waking every ten minutes in a panic that he’s either fallen off the bed/couch or somehow suffocated in his bassinet.
Yesterday, I napped with the baby only to wake as Pedro nuzzled and inched his hairy brown body between us, his tongue lapping at Jude’s unsuspecting fist and then working its way up to his face. At least dogs have cleaner mouths than people, or maybe that’s just an urban myth.
Last Friday, Jude and I attended our first “New Mom’s Class” at the Norwalk Hospital. In spite of the rain, at least ten women and their babies filled the room, which I realized after about 45 minutes was the same place Matt and I attended our Lamaze class in November. How strange it felt to be back in the very room where we learned about Edward Scissor-hands forceps, the 1-2-3 breathing method and the plastic crochet-look-alike needle used to break one’s water months later with baby in tow.
A lactation consultant acted as moderator, asking everyone how their week was and explaining how to lessen engorgement or how to deal with cradle cap. At first I felt hesitant and shy, most of the other women seemed to already know one another, but it wasn’t too long before I began talking to the lady next to me with her 7 week old baby. I’m happy to report I wasn’t the youngest mom there and Jude behaved himself for the most part other than a brief crying spell after I nursed him.
Other than the beginning of college, it’s been a long time since I’ve made friends based on similar situations, rather than mutual interests. It’s not hard bonding with people all the same age, away from home for the first time, thirsty for alcohol versus forging a friendship with another female solely contingent upon both of us having babies…which brings me to another point. Although I do feel older and more mature, I don’t think of myself as “a mother” in the stereotypical sense that the thought of driving a mini-van makes me want to puke (sorry Gloria), I still like to go out, travel and see the world and both Matt and I feel no pressure to buy a house (not like we could right now, but still) with a white picket fence and trade Pedro in for a pedigree pooch. In the words of Mrs. Palay, “Life is too short to be bothered by petty formalities.”
Still, it’s intimidating knowing that while I’m still 24, Matt, Jude and I are entering into a different phase of life apart from that of our friends. I write this without regret or sadness, rather awareness that our lives are evolving and changing enormously.
Today, Jude joined the 20% of Americans who are in possession of a passport. It will arrive in the mail anywhere between a month and two months, and my only fear is that Jude may change so much between now and when we leave for Europe that his picture won’t look like him anymore.
Speaking of picture, it was quite an experience getting the passport photos done at CVS. For one, when we arrived, Jude was comfortably asleep, pacifier in mouth, swaddled in his car seat, oblivious to the happenings around him. The technician informs me that I can’t hold Jude for the picture, instead I must place him alone on a huge sheet of white poster board. Half of the store must have witnessed me unraveling Jude, like an exposed mummy, only to place him on the floor, then pry the binky from his lips under the harsh glare of halogen lights.
In a thick Indian accent, the man commands me to “please engage the baby’s eyes” so I whistle, cluck my tongue like some kind of deranged bird and clap in an attempt to wake my peaceful son. His eyes flutter open momentarily and the man doesn’t snap the picture soon enough, so more clucking/whistling/clapping ensues until Jude is fully awake, his lower lip quivering on the verge of an explosive howl.
The final picture is of Jude looking like a little bandit, his arms raised above his head, hair disheveled, lip puckered, eyes wide, but at least we got it.
While at Norwalk Hospital, I rented a Deluxe Symphony Breast Pump, a highly advanced contraption that enables me to gather milk from my two boobs simultaneously. Imagine a yellowish colored box with two tubes extending from the top. You then hook up the tubes to the “horns” that cover one’s boobs and collects the milk in tiny bottles connected to the horns. In addition to harvesting milk, this also provides an opportunity to determine which is the superior boob as they rarely expel equal amounts of milk.
The only problem is that it’s hard to adjust the degree of suction when both your hands are in use, holding up the receptacles. I made the mistake the other night of cranking the switch up before the “dancing” period finished because I didn’t want to release the horns in order to turn up the machine. The dancing period is when the machine preps ones nipples for the suctioning by gently applying pressure that results in the little thimbles contracting and retracting in unison.
Within seconds, the black arrow on the suctioning odometer shot up and I quickly learned that at top force one’s breasts are pulled so hard that in addition to causing a great deal of pain, the boobs become stuck in the narrow horn piece much like the way large objects can cause an obstruction in a vacuum! It wasn’t until I turned the Symphony off that I got my tender boobs back and luckily the bulbous form returned in seconds. Even though I collected 4 ounces (two feedings worth of boob juice) in about five minutes, I learned the virtue of patience with the breast pump.
This weekend we’re heading into NYC for our first night away from home (Pawling doesn’t count because it’s our second home), something I doubt Jude will appreciate but I know Matt and I will immensely.