Sunday, April 13, 2014

Our Pet Human (at 38 Weeks) ...

My left breast is covered in red slivers and tiny blue pinch-sized bruises. It looks catching. A job for prescription ointment. I'm feeding a tiny sadist who has become bored with simply staring into an ivory landscape while she eats. She must poke, pinch, prod and scratch. No meal is complete until she draws pure boob blood.

One of my friends with Le Leche cred tells me about a woman who would flick her baby in the face for this sort of terrorism. I opt for a more verbal response. Unfortunately, at 8ish months, the PBG thinks the word "No" means to grin like a Chuckie doll. 

Edwarda Plier Hands unlatches, looks at me and zeroes in on a nob twist. I watch Chuck's face as he watches the baby grab my nipple with her demon hooves. His faces melts in horror. 

"This is the least of her torture," I tell him. 

She's in the process of learning how to dismantle my trachea with her bare hands. This is worse.



We have a shrieker. A knitting needle-to-brain-level shrieker. It's unpredictable and comes in quick bursts. It can indicate happiness or sadness or vocal experimentation. High school students should have to take her to Target as part of their Sex Ed final.



She's crawling now. Sometimes it's real crawling, sometimes it looks like something that would happen under barbed wire at at basic training. This past Halloween I told Ma Pista that I was sure the PBG would be crawling by Thanksgiving. She just seemed ready.

I should learn to never say words out loud. I sound like a fool.

I had no idea all the minute details that would go into taking a baby from permanently horizontal to a full-fledged crawl. The best phase was when she used a barrell roll, backward crawl combo to get from there to there. Now I'll naively say that she seems more interested in walking, or at least doing a series of Mountain Climbers to get where she needs to be.



The PBG knows No. She doesn't necessarily know what it means. She knows it's hilarious when she shakes her head, though. She responds to all questions, anything with a question mark, with no. Two weekends ago we wandered through Target. I'd hold up and outfit and say "Do you like this?" (Head shake). "Me either. How about this?" (Head shake). "Hmm. Okay. This?" (Head shake).

I envied anyone who witnessed it.

Later we were at Walgreens and I was singing along to Feist in the makeup aisle and she was gasping with giggles and dancing along and I was very pleased at her good sense of humor.

"It's almost like we're co-conspirators," I told Chuck later, still riding high on the most fun day we've ever had as a team.

This past weekend at Target she lost her mind, her screams ripped through my lobes. I had to carry her and push a cart and return clothes to racks, cutting the trip short. We tried again later and lost one of her shoes in the store. Retracing our steps took too long and the shrieking was back and older, more veteran mom-types half smiled at me in this close-mouthed way to express sympathy and that was far worse than any the shriekingest of shrieks.

Now I wonder if I'll ever return to Target or if the PTSD will linger.



The PBG has recently come to own her index finger. She is in a perpetual state of exclaiming "WE'RE NO. 1!"

I recently ripped her pinch grip from my arm. "No, Baby," I said. She looked straight into my eyes and pointed at me.  Never smiling, not breaking her gaze, a single warning digit in my direction. 

With a pointer finger comes great comedic potential. 


Found this in the notes section of my phone from earlier this month. I have to assume it was Chuck, hearing a baby bodily function: 

"Well, that one popped the cork on the shit champagne."


Chuck: "I asked her where my nose was and she pointed at my nose. I asked her where my mouth was and she slapped me. So I think the nose thing was a coincidence."

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