This has been the week of watching the infant repeatedly get her mind blown. At a) helping to push herself to a much-assisted standing position; b) kicking out music on a Fisher Price piano; c) the waterslide episode of "Malcolm in the Middle."
She gets wide eyed, round mouthed and raised eyebrows. She waves her hands. She's all DO YOU SEE WHAT I'M DOING?! And of course I think she's a) freakishly strong; b) musically inclined; c) wait ... attracted to Frankie Muniz? Is that humanly possible?
Then, during tummy time, she tries to suckle a bed sheet -- I mean she really goes for it, mouth and tongue and everything -- and I wonder if she'll ever be able to read.
So this happened: Chuck took the PBG to his dad's house, marking the first time I was home alone without the baby.
I promised myself I wouldn't do laundry or wash bottles or pack for our trip to Rochester. I'd read about Charles Manson and stare blankly into the face of the internet with my mouth hanging open and my chin wet. I'd drink an entire glass of water and sit on the porch.
Then, I stood at the door and watched them leave and cried.
Impulses I suddenly understand:
1. Going out for a pack of wipes, blowing past Walgreen's and landing in Las Vegas where I assume the name Ranger Fifth Place and live on karaoke winnings;
2. Throwing ones body in front of a rabid dog, kidnapper, extended cab pickup to protect an innocent;
3. The desire to control time with the flick of a universal knob;
4. Crying for all styles of reasons, the good, the bad, the overwhelmed, the bored, because someday I'll have to go back to work, because right now I have to stay home, the projectile seedy mustard shit now staining a tube of Vaseline, the adorable rabbit onesie with matching footie pants and ruffle butt that are two minutes from being outgrown.
"That never goes away," my aunt Jules says of the crying. I believe it.
We took the bambino to Rochester under the guise of meeting her relatives, but really because we needed a break from holding her. Ma Pista is charmed by things like couch-vibrating gas and relish-colored craps. She would take 100 percent of the holding shifts and enough of the diaper changing shifts to make it worth the 4-hour one-way drive.
We went out-out on Friday night, just the two of us and found that that no venue, including one that smelled worse than her diapers, paired with no amount of beer was more interesting than watching the PBG acquire chins. We took a cab home by midnight and found the baby asleep on top of my mom, also asleep, and my dad watching them from his chair in case the latter startled awake and catapulted the former toward the Sandford section of the built-in bookshelves. We did not pay them.
I performed an experiment mixing breast milk and alcohol test strips, which turned black on contact indicating I'd ingested too much booze to feed her from the tap. SCIENCE!
The PBG put on a good show for the rels, then came unglued when no one was looking. Her sleep was filled with grunts and kicks and noises heard in a stable. She seemed to be awake all night, and officially awake-awake three or four times to eat.
This has inspired a new sleep descriptor: She slept like a jerk.
The good news: She seems able to entertain herself in eight hour increments.