|This comes courtesy of the Norwegian Wonder.|
I had no idea how to get through Thanksgiving. My dad, after all, is retired law enforcement. He's a trained observer. My mom has wanted another grandchild for so long that I imagined she would be able to see the kumquat's heartbeat through just the force of her wishes. Meanwhile, I'm a wretched liar trapped in the body of a person who loves to spill info about herself. I wrapped both of us in layers upon layers of black sweater in case my turkey bloat manifested in the shape of a baby bump. And I avoided wine and eye contact.
I suppose it will be months of this: Last year at this time I was *this* pregnant. It has been some year, let me tell you, full of all sorts of life lessons about body pillows and Ortega sauce.
And this one: No one can tell you're pregnant at six weeks.
Me: Something I'm wearing smells like poop. I think it's my sweater.
Chuck: Maybe it's your underwear.
Just when it really seemed like we were getting into a rhythm, that we were maybe even good at this, something changed. There is so much more going on now than eat-poop-sleep-poop. The PBG developed all these new tricks, ticks and bits of neurosis and it all sort of feels like standing in a batting cage while a malfunctioning robot pitcher whizzes balls at your head, two robot handfuls at a time.
After carrying the PBG around 24/7 for the first part of her life, she has suddenly become exponentially more independent. She slouches in her exer-saucer like a business executive after a long day at the office. I call it the "Fat Cat" chair. She tries to dismantle her activity center -- with her mouth. She was making cat-like screeches in her bedroom and Chuck thought she was in distress. Instead he found her going front-row, New Kids on the Block all over her mobile.
And then there is this hum she makes for 20 minutes, a sleep alarm that indicates she's about to conk out.
"Does yours do this?" I said to a woman in the baby department at Target, as the PBG broke a record for making the longest vowel sound ever moaned in public.
"They all do it," she said.
On the other hand, it's interesting to have this kind of expert intel on another person. She was fussing in the car one day and I knew exactly what was troubling the lass. It was the stuffed frog that dangles from her car seat.
Me: Is she crying because she can't get the frog into her mouth?
In other news, she has a constant beard of spit, refuses to sleep on her back -- and sometimes just refuses to sleep(1) -- and loved Miley's appearance with the space cat at the American Music Awards.
(1)When you brag on the internet that your baby sleeps very well, it just alerts the fates to the fact that someone has been having an easy go of it. And then that gets remedied.