Early to Bed and Early to Rise...

...makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. So said Poor Richard, aka Benjamin Franklin.

That may be true of a man, but for a baby, early to bed and early to rise makes for a cranky momma. Unless she is lucky, like me, and wonderful Daddy got up early with the baby this morning and let her sleep in.

Ryan doesn't really have a set daytime schedule yet, but he is falling into a nice nightime routine of tubby time at 8pm or so, followed by one last bottle and then bed at 9:00 or 9:30. He generally sleeps straight through till 7:30, no matter whether he goes down a little earlier or a little later. But every once in a while he throws us off by either getting up as early as 6:30 or sleeping as late as 8:00. Sleeping till 8 is just fine by me, and I'd love that if he'd do it every day. But that hour between 6:30 and 7:30 is a killer. I think the minutes prior to 8am automatically double in sleep value. So missing that hour is like missing two hours at another time.

During the day, I can sometimes manipulate his nap length by getting him to play really hard beforehand and then giving him a big bottle. Physical exhaustion + food coma = up to a 3-hour nap, hooray! But at night, he seems to be less flexible. I'd love to know what it is that tells him it's 7:30 and time to wake up. The neighbors leave for work at 6:00 (poor souls) so it's not the sound of their car engine starting. The sun rises at roughly 6:30, so it's not light creeping through the blinds. Heaven knows, it's not Daddy and Mommy's alarm clock that he can hear down the hall! I guess it's just some secret ingrained genetic clock, the same thing that tells the swallows when to return to Capistrano or the salmon when to start swimming upstream or the grizzly bears when to come out of hibernation.

So there's probably nothing I can do about it but get to bed a bit earlier myself. After all, if early to bed and early to rise makes a man (or woman) healthy, wealthy and wise, Ryan's just helping nudge me towards perfect health, piles of riches, and the wisdom of Solomon!

That Face, That Face

Babies have incredibly expressive faces, and Ryan is no exception. Emotions flutter across his face in rapid succession, from smile to frown to confusion to comprehension. His eyebrows raise in astonishment, his cheeks dimple in laughter, his lips pucker in consternation, his eyes widen in excitement or narrow in suspicion.

And each new expression is a new discovery for him, as well! He cracks himself up with his own giggles, he fascinates himself with sticking out his tongue or blowing bubbles or wrinkling his nose. His constantly changing expressions remind me how new everything in the universe is to him. How amazing to have a sense of wonder about something as simple and basic as making facial expressions!

So as each expression blossoms across his face, I can feel my own expression bursting again and again into wonder and delight and laughter. Watching this little child discover the world of emotion and expression brings joy to me as I share his discoveries. I could watch his face for hours, taking in each dimple, marveling over those clear blue eyes and thick dark lashes, rubbing my cheek against that perfectly soft skin, touching those delicate brows, nuzzling that button nose, and kissing those rosebud lips. Even at three months, his face has changed so much that I try to burn each moment and each expression into my memory before it's lost forever to time. Photos help, but they can't possibly capture every fleeting expression that I see. So I look and look and look and then I look some more. Because I don't want to miss a single glance!

"I'm Watching the Baby"

One of the best baby gadgets we have is our video monitoring system. We have a multi-level house, and when I'm working in the basement office (when I'm busy blogging, for example) I can't hear all the way up to the nursery. It's not a problem when I'm puttering in the kitchen, because the sound carries from the second floor to the first. But in the basement, I have no idea what kind of din might be going on up there. Fortunately, the video monitor lets me keep an eye and an ear on things.

One of the features I really like is the visual noise level monitor. Which means that I don't have to listen to the screaming when I'm letting Ryan cry himself to sleep, I only need to keep an eye on the red lights to know whether he's given up the ghost or if he's still yelling. And I can turn on the viewscreen any time I like to see if he's squirming and wriggling or if he's physically collapsed but still protesting. If he's making little peeps I can take a look to see if he's cooing in his sleep or if he's getting wiggly and starting to wake up.

But the best feature of all is that Daddy can check in on the monitor any time he likes. It's hooked up to our computer, which has Slingbox. For all you technophobes out there, that means that as long as the monitor is plugged into its little docking station, we can tie in to the camera from any internet connection anywhere on earth. (And I suppose, technically in space as well, although I doubt we'll have the opportunity to test that theory.) So Daddy can peek at Ryan from his computer or even his phone whenever he needs a baby fix, or whenever I let him know that something cute is going on. And we have a second, mobile camera as well as the fixed one over the crib, so even if Ryan is playing in his exersaucer or his jumperoo or his bouncy chair, or if he's just playing in my arms or having tummy time, I can set up a camera so Daddy can see exactly what he's up to. He never has to miss a first word or step or even giggle:

This morning after I gave Ryan his bottle, he seemed to be out cold, so I went to put him down in his crib. He stirred a little when I laid him on his back, so I flipped him onto his tummy and he settled back down. When I got downstairs I checked the monitor and he was wide awake - and pushing himself up with his arms to look around the crib! I immediately e-mailed Herb to tell him, "BabyCam alert: Ryan's doing pushups in the crib!" A few minutes later the phone rang, and I recognized Herb's cell phone number. As soon as I picked it up, he announced excitedly, "Hi sweetie! I'm watching the baby!" And what more wonderful thing for a daddy than to be able to watch the baby, too, even if it happens to be Mommy's time to watch the baby in person.

My Old Baby

When Ryan was first born, I posted a semi-rhetorical, semi-serious question on my Facebook page: "When does a 'new' baby become an 'old' baby?" The most common answer I got was, "When you start counting his age in months instead of days or weeks."

The first time someone asked how old he was, I was outside the hospital waiting for Herb to bring the car around, and I proudly announced that he was exactly two days old. The first time we went to church and got the same question, I said that he was exactly two weeks old. Up until a few weeks ago, whenever someone asked how old he was, I would respond with his age in weeks. But how that he's hit three months, it seems right to give his age in months instead. Two or three weeks is meaningful to people without children (or those whose children haven't been babies in quite a few years). Even ten or eleven weeks has some meaning to non-baby folks. But once you reach fourteen or fifteen weeks, counting the age in weeks gets silly at best and confusing at worst. So I'm going by half-months now: Two weeks ago he was three months old; today he's three and a half months old.

Another reason the whole weeks/months thing gets confusing is the same reason it's confusing when you're pregnant: lunar months don't match calendar months. So anyone doing the math thinks sixteen weeks, four weeks in a (lunar) month, that's 4 months, right? But when Ryan is sixteen weeks old, he's still got a week and a half to go before he's 4 calendar months old. And that discrepancy will only get wider with time. So going by calendar months just makes it easier all around.

Also, going by months makes the time seem to go by a little more slowly. When I thought about upping his age every week, time seemed to fly by incredibly quickly! Wasn't he just eight weeks old yesterday? How can he be ten weeks old now? Every time I turned around it felt like I was adding another week to his age. At least with months, I go for four entire weeks before I up his age. It's like finding a rock to cling to when you're swimming across a rushing river - you get a bit of time to catch your breath and get your bearings before jumping back in to the battle.

So I'm not going to think of Ryan as being 105 days old, or fifteen weeks old, or even three and a half months old. I'm going to think of him as being less than a quarter of a year. Then I can pretend that he's not actually growing any older until May...

Is There An Echo In Here?

Ryan is starting to reach that delightful stage of discovering his own voice. He coos, he giggles, he grunts, he snorts, he "sings", he makes noises that there aren't even words for. But he's always making sounds. And I find myself constantly imitating them. When he makes his werewolf "AhhooOOOOoohh" sound, I howl right back at him. When he makes his "mmmmMMMmmm" noise, I "mmmMMMmmm" in tandem with him. When he makes his fussy "mmmmm-ah!", I repeat it to him. Every sound he makes, I make too.

What is it with this compulsion to imitate a baby's noises? Wouldn't it make more sense to respond to him with English words, perhaps words similar to the sound he's making? When he says "mmmmm-ah", shouldn't I be repeating "Mama" to him? Maybe. But that's no fun. It's much more fun echoing back his funny little inflections and secret language. It's fascinating to try to get inside his head and figure out why he's making those noises. Does it feel good in his mouth? Is he imitating sounds he's heard me make? Is he even aware that he's the one making the noises he hears? And when I imitate him, is he aware that I'm repeating the sounds he's just made?

There are so many times that I'd love to know what's going on inside his head. Everything around him is so new, I'm sure there's a lot I take for granted that he's either unaware of or just noticing for the first time. I'd love to know what new sounds make him think, I'd love to understand the progression of thoughts in his head as he puts ideas together. Making the connection that moving his lips and tongue and throat in a certain way produces the sound he's hearing is really an impressive cognitive leap, when you think about it. It's amazing that children are ever able to understand and recreate language.

I guess that's why it's a good thing that I repeat everything, because it gives him one more chance to understand and learn.

I guess that's why it's a good thing that I repeat everything, because it gives him one more chance to understand and learn.

It Was the Breast of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

This week has been a bit bittersweet for me. Because of medications I'm on for my rheumatoid arthritis, my doctors suggested that I only breastfeed Ryan for three months. Apparently my medication is passed on through breast milk and builds up in his system. So at three months, we've reached the point where the risks of his taking in small amounts of my meds outweigh the benefits of continuing to breastfeed. Which means that it's time to transfer completely to bottlefeeding.

I'm fortunate in some ways because we've already been combining bottlefeeding with nursing. The first few days of Ryan's life neither one of us could really figure out what we were doing when it came to breastfeeding, and there were plenty of tears on both our parts. I remember several occasions during that first week when I spent a late night feeding sitting in the rocking chair with a screaming baby on my lap, frantically nuzzling at my breast but unable to latch, while I sobbed uncontrollably. We were both frustrated and miserable, and poor Ryan was literally starving. Finally we started supplementing with a bottle, and with some continued practice, we eventually both got a handle on the whole breastfeeding thing. But given his voracious appetite, we still needed to supplement. At first I felt guilty that I must be doing something wrong that my milk supply wasn't enough for him. But then I read articles saying that for the first month a baby will take about 2 oz. of formula at a feeding and will feed about every three to four hours. Apparently Ryan hadn't read that article, because he was taking 4 oz. or more at every feeding and feeding every two to three hours. He would often nurse for a full hour and then take a 4 or even a 6 oz. bottle. I wondered if he was even getting anything from me, but although when I pumped right after he nursed I didn't get much, if I pumped after I skipped a fedding because Daddy was giving him a bottle, I could get 2-4 oz. So obviously he was getting something - and as his weight started to skyrocket, it became more and more obvious that he was just a big baby who needed lots of calories!

So at least neither of us had to go through any kind of trauma in transitioning to bottles. Ryan has never suffered from "nipple confusion"; if it gives milk, he'll suck on it, no questions asked. I'm not comfortable breastfeeding in public, so any time we're out somewhere for the day, he gets a bottle all day and has no problem with it. If we're about to get in the car and he's hungry, I can prop a bottle in his car seat and keep him contented so I'm not driving distracted by a screaming baby in the back seat. And best of all, Daddy can take a feeding any time Mommy needs a little extra sleep or Daddy needs some father-son bonding time.

But even though I can snuggle him close when I feed him with a bottle, it's not quite the same as nursing him. The feeling of that warm little cheek against my chest, the little dribble of milk from his pursed rosebud lips running onto my skin, that incredible sense of closeness from seeing my child get nourishment from my own body...these things can't quite be replicated by giving a bottle, and I know I'll miss them terribly over the next few weeks. But I'm grateful for the opportunity I had to bond with my son by breastfeeding him for as long as I have. I'm glad that I fought through that incredibly difficult and traumatic first week. And I'm glad that I live in a day and age where formula and vaccines and excellent medical care all keep my baby strong, healthy, and well-nourished even when I can't breastfeed any more.

Reach Out and Touch Someone

There have been all kinds of studies published about the crucial importance of physical touch. Babies who are held often in infancy grow to be more emotionally secure adults. Married couples who hold hands often are less likely to divorce. Friends who hug have a closer bond than those who rarely touch. Human beings crave physical touch.

There are, of course, many levels of physical touching, from very casual to very intimate. Shaking hands does not meet that the craving for touch in the same way that lovemaking does. But if the only physical touch a person experiences is lovemaking, there is something missing just as surely as if the only physical touch he or she experiences is shaking hands. We all need to experience the whole range of physical touch. If touch were food, lovemaking would be the filet mignon, the duck a l'orange, the poached lobster, the pheasant under glass. All wonderful and rich and satisfying, but incomplete for a healthy diet. The filet mignon needs to be supplemented by roasted chicken and meatloaf and beef stew and Caesar salad and occasionally even hamburgers and fries. And holding hands and hugging and caressing are the meatloaf of the touching family.

The power of touch has been in the forefront of my mind recently because Ryan has such a need to be held. He can be crying as if his heart were broken, but the simple act of picking him up and holding him in my arms soothes him. Even in his sleep, if he's twitching and fidgeting, quietly rubbing his back relaxes him into calm slumber. When he's fighting sleep, patting the soft down on the back of his head makes him give up the battle. Even the simple difference between being perched on my knee and sitting snuggled against my chest can change him from cranky to cooing. He loves it when I massage his legs, when I pat his cheeks, when I tweak his nose. He loves when I hold his hands or tickle his belly. When he's sleepy, he loves to nuzzle into the crook of my neck. He simply loves to be touched, to feel the closeness of another human being.

And so do I! This morning, Herb and I both half-woke to the sound of Ryan stirring. Once we realized he was just cooing in his sleep, Herb threw his arm across my waist and rubbed the small of my back, and suddenly I went from that tense "alert-mom" mode into a relaxed, calm, ready-to-sleep mode. And any time Herb has trouble sleeping, I can put him out cold in a matter of minutes merely by scratching and stroking his back. The reassurance of another person's presence, especially someone you love and trust, has a natural calming effect. A simple backrub or footrub washes away the tension of a rough day. A kiss and a bearhug melt away life's trouble for a few moments. Holding someone's hand brings on confidence.

So clap a friend on the back, rub noses with a baby, kiss your mother, wrestle with your kids. Go ahead, reach out and touch someone.

The Write Stuff

When Herb and I were first dating, we did a lot of e-mailing, even though we were seeing each other in person often. Three weeks after we started dating, he went to Oregon for nearly a week and the e-mails we exchanged while he was gone became more personal and soul-baring. We discussed emotionally charged topics that may have been much more difficult to talk about face-to-face. We felt free to express our deepest thoughts and feelings, our hopes and fears, our pasts and our futures. It was one of the things that drew us so close together so quickly. We even compared our love letters to the eloquent correspondence of John and Abigail Adams.

In the early weeks and months of our marriage, we continued the writing tradition. He would e-mail me from work to say how much he was looking forward to seeing me at dinnertime; I would e-mail him with hints about what I'd be wearing and how I would do my hair that night. Sometimes our exchanges were fun and flirtatious, sometimes serious and devoted, but always heartfelt.

Over the months, the frequency of those little personal notes dwindled. But we both still sent them every now and then, and their sporadic nature actually made them even more precious and treasured. So this past weekend, when Herb was away for a few days, we resurrected our e-mail tradition. And even better than that, Herb had hidden a gift and a hand-written card for me for each day he was gone, and told me in an e-mail each morning where the next one was hidden. Not only were the cards he chose sweet and perfect in their sentiments, but the personal note in his beautiful handwriting touched my heart every morning.

But above and beyond that personal touch, he managed to find time every day to send me a long, thoughtful e-mail telling me he was thinking about me and how much he missed me. We spoke to each other on the phone several times a day and even manages a videoconference, but his written notes were like a secret whisper in my ear meant for only me.

Maybe it's because there's a certain level of trust in placing a tangible expression of intimate thoughts in another's hands. There's no lingering proof of what was said in a phone call, no way for someone to accidentally stumble across a previous Skype conversation. But the written word can be treasured and savored over and over, it can be tucked away in a safe place for the reader to return to again and again, it can be hidden in a secret trove, never to be seen by any but the receiver.

Love letters are, indeed, the write stuff.

Go Daddy!

No, not the website with all those annoying Superbowl ads. I mean "Go" as in hooray, whoopie, you rock, do the happy dance, and hot damn and hallelujah. And I mean "Daddy" as in wonderful man, wonderful husband, and most of all, wonderful and devoted father of two. In other words, Herb rocks.

[Happy Dance]

He got home this morning after having been away for four days. Now, four days is not a particularly long time. It's not like I was pining for him because I hadn't seen him in months and months. I talked to him on the phone a couple of times a day, we emailed each other often, we even had a Skype videoconference once. So how is it that I missed him so much? Well, for one thing, this is the longest we've been apart since we've been married. Come to think of it, other than that one week in October 2007, this is the longest we've been apart since we met! And for another thing, I had no idea how much I rely on his support dealing with Ryan.

He's fantastic in terms of giving me a break when he comes home from work. He loves taking Ryan and playing with him before dinner, which makes it a lot easier for me to make dinner. And as I've mentioned before, he takes care of tubby time and the last diaper change and bottle before bedtime. So I get a nice long break to clean up after dinner, throw in a load of laundry or two, empty the dishwasher - all those tasks I can't quite manage during the day. Not to mention just being able to sit down without a 23-pound sack of potatoes on my shoulder.

But above and beyond that, just having his emotional support is so much more important than I ever knew. When Ryan is crying for no particular reason and I'm feeling like it must be my fault for not being able to figure it out, Herb reassures me that that's just what babies do. And I know that's true, but somehow hearing it from another adult, one that I love and trust, makes it more believable. He constantly reassures me that I'm a good mother, that I have good instincts, that I take care of Ryan, and that I'm still a good wife to him on top of that. Sometimes I feel like he's getting the shaft a little because I need to spend so much time taking care of Ryan, but he reassures me that he doesn't feel left out.

So this is a public thank-you and acknowledgement of his all-around awesomeness. Go Daddy!

My (Very Short) Life As a Single Mom

I am currently developing a deep and profound respect for single moms. I've always marveled at how hard it must be, and even moreso since Ryan was born. But this weekend Herb is away visiting his daughter in California, so I am experiencing it firsthand. And understanding why God made two parents physiologically necessary for procreation!

For a large part of the day, there isn't a lot of difference in what goes on. Since Ryan's been sleeping through the night consistently, I've been the one getting up with him at 7am, since I can catch a nap later in the day while Herb is headed off for work. But Herb often takes him for at least a few minutes in the morning so I can make myself a piece of toast, or go to the bathroom, or brush my teeth. And I didn't realize how much I look forward to him coming home at the end of the day and taking Ryan out of my arms for a few minutes. Evening tends to be his fussy time when he likes to be held, and by the end of the day my arms are TIRED and looking forward to a break.

And as jealous as I sometimes am of Daddy's evening tubby and bed time with Ryan, I will admit it's nice to get a break and be just an observer for a bit at the end of the day. I adore watching them play together, but it's nice to not be the one making sure Ryan isn't crying, and juggling the bottle while trying to wipe up spit, or manhandling that heavy sack of potatoes into the crib without waking him up. In short, it's just nice to have a little break from the first-hand responsibility for a few minutes - or a few hours.

But above and beyond that, I miss having the moral support of another person in the house who can "cover" for a few minutes. When Herb works from home, even though I do my best to not interrupt him, just knowing that if I desperately need a minute to myself - to shower, to get dressed, to grab a snack, whatever - I can hand Ryan over and go do what I need to do without listening to him cry because he wants to be held. And because I know I can, somehow I rarely need to. But those long days when I'm all by myself make me realize how much I do look forward to another adult in the house, someone I can talk to in full sentences (that don't include the words "Boo boo boo!" or raspberry noises). Someone who'll amuse Ryan while I make dinner. Someone who'll give me a few minutes away from being just a baby-caretaker. I'm always a mom, but sometimes it's nice to be just "on call" instead of "on duty".

So here's to all the single moms who never get a break. My hat is off to you. I'm glad I only have to walk in your shoes every now and then.

How To Resist a Screaming Baby

Or perhaps this entry should be entitled, "How To Resist a Screaming Baby?" Because I haven't quite figured out the answer to that one yet. As I type, there is an absolutely exhausted baby upstairs in his crib, screaming like a banshee because he doesn't want to go to sleep, even though he hasn't had a nap in five hours and can hardly hold his head up, he's so tired. But he's reached that stage where he wants to take everything in, and all that's going on around him is so exciting that he can't stand to go to sleep and miss even a second of it. So he fights and fights and fights to avoid going to sleep. Which means that I have to listen to him screech for fifteen or twenty minutes before he finally drops off.

Every once in a while I'm lucky and he's so exhausted that he only screams for a few minutes before his body takes over and he falls into a sound sleep. But on days like today, he manages a second (and maybe third and fourth) wind and after a several second rest or two, starts screeching again. I should know by now that if I can resist going to him for those fifteen minutes, he'll tire himself out from crying and get that much-needed rest. It's incredibly rare that he doesn't fall asleep if I can only hold off for those fifteen minutes.

But it breaks my heart listening to those woeful, pathetic cries! I feel like I'm abandoning him in his hour of need, even though I know all his needs are taken care of. The only time I let him yell like that is when I know he has a full belly and a dry diaper, when he's been well-burped, when nothing is poking him or scratching him, and when I know the one thing he needs is sleep. And I watch him on the video monitor so I know he's fine. But my mother's heart wants to run and comfort him.

And every once in a while, he either screams for longer than fifteen minutes or I just can't listen anymore, and I go in and pick him up and cuddle him. And most of the time, he relaxes immediately and snuggles into the crook of my neck, which is such a wonderful feeling that it makes it that much harder to resist the next time. I just love knowing that a snuggle from Mummy is enough to cure all his woes. I love that he feels so safe in my arms that just being picked up soothes and comforts him.

So how to resist a screaming baby? I guess that answer is, sometimes you just can't. And that's okay, too.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

There are certain things about pregnancy and childbirth that you are aware of on a certain level, but that you cannot truly comprehend until you experience them. Some are profound, like the incredible serenity of nursing, or that magical bond you feel the first time you set eyes on your baby. Some are humbling, like the weird changes your body undergoes after you deliver or the out-of-control pre- and post-pregnancy hormones. And some are just odd and funny, like hair loss.

I was totally prepared for some postpartum hair loss. I'd read so much about women whose hair thinned drastically after they gave birth. I had steeled myself against freaking out over hair clogging my hairbrush and had planned out ways to wear my hair so any thin spots would be less obvious. What I wasn't prepared for was that my hair would look like its usual full self, and yet I would be leaving trails of hair everywhere I went.

Every time I wash my hair, I pull out clumps of hair as I scrub. And when I'm done, I clean out more clumps from the drain. Then when I comb it through, I rescue still more clumps from the comb. I end up throwing away a ball of hair roughly the size of a small gerbil every time I shower!

And yet, I still seem to travel in a small cloud of loose hair. I am constantly plucking hairs off my shoulders, detangling them from Ryan's fingers, brushing them off burp rags, pulling them out of Ryan's clothes. When I take a load of laundry out of the dryer, the lint trap is filled with auburn strands - and there are still long red hairs woven into every piece of clothing I take out.

If I could figure out how to save all these hairs, I could make myself a lovely wig. Or knit a sweater or two. I could make a diorama about gerbils in the desert and realistically represent an entire gerbil tribe. (Flock? Warren? Herd? Whatever a whole bunch of gerbils is called.) I could provide nesting materials for every robin in the county. I could weave it into rope. I even read an article about an idea that NASA was testing using human hair to absorb oil spills. (No, seriously. Check it out: NASA Tests Hair-Raising Technique to Clean Up Oil Spills)

But I think I'll settle for remembering to pull it out of the drain most of the time.

Tempus Fugit

I've often looked back on my life and marveled at how much has changed in a short period of time. In high school, I looked at how much I'd matured since elementary school. In college, I looked at how independent I'd become since high school. As a young adult, I looked at how self-sufficient I'd become since college. As an older adult, I looked at how my relationships and responsibilities had changed since I was younger. But as huge as those changes seem, they pale in comparison to how much in my life has changed over the past three months.

Three months ago today, I woke up at 2 in the morning and knew that my life was about to take a huge, dramatic turn. I even lay awake for a few hours before telling Herb I was in labor, just to give myself time to absorb the reality that in the next few hours, I would be holding our baby. And less than ten hours later, I was. Even after being pregnant for nine months, being aware of everything I ate and exposed myself to and how it would affect the baby, the reality of having a human being in my arms who is dependent on me for everything he needs was astounding.

Even more astounding is how much he has already grown and learned in the three months that have gone by! He's gone from being a blob who couldn't control his own muscles to a curious person who looks intently at people, who smiles and laughs, who reaches for toys, who recognizes mommy and daddy, who interacts with people and things around him, who kicks and stretches and bounces and wriggles.

And because of him, I have learned so much in those same three months. I learned that I can function without sleep a lot better than I thought I could. I learned that letting a baby cry is not the end of the world. I learned that Daddy and Mommy don't always have the same ideas about parenting and that's not the end of the world, either. I learned that hormones, while useful, can also be terrible. I learned that losing the baby pooch is just as hard as everyone says it is, but much less important. I learned that sunrises are much more beautiful when shared with a nursing baby. I learned that almost anything that HAS to get done can be done one-handed. I learned that a lot of things I thought HAD to get done, don't really. I learned that a happy baby is more important than an immaculate house. I learned that with the right husband, you can have both. I learned that babies don't care if your hair is washed; they'll grab onto it anyway. I learned that a baby smiling into your face with recognition and delight is one of life's most breath-taking moments. I learned that having a baby who looks just like his daddy is an unexpected source of pride and joy.

I can only imagine all the wonderful things that both of us will be learning over the next three months...and the next three years...and the next three decades...

I. Dunno Lives at My House Now

Do you remember in the old Family Circus comics when the mother would ask the kids, "Who left the refrigerator door open?" or "Who left muddy footprints on the living room floor?" or "Who spilled milk and didn't wipe it up?" and the kids would all answer, "Not me" and "I dunno"? And then the mother would picture a pair of characters who looked a bit like Casper the Friendly Ghost wearing shirts that said "Not Me" and "I. Dunno" opening the fridge, and running through the house with muddy boots, and knocking over a glass of milk.

I suspect that I. Dunno has gotten better manners and moved into my house.

It's the only explanation I can think of. Because this morning I got up with the baby at 6:30 am and when I finally got back to the bedroom at 10 to get dressed, someone had made the bed. Who? I. Dunno. And when I went into the laundry room to wash the results of the world's poopiest diaper explosion, someone had finished and folded the previous load. Who? I. Dunno. Last night when I got home from visiting my mom at the hospital, someone had cleaned out the refrigerator and washed out all the Tupperware. Who? I. Dunno.

I. Dunno never announces that he's done these things, never asks for thanks, never keeps track of what I "owe" him for all these favors. He rarely even lets me see him doing them. He just quietly notices things I haven't gotten to, or that are difficult for me, and does them for me without fuss or fanfare. If I. Dunno sees that the diaper pail is getting full, he empties it. On cold nights, he turns on my electric blanket before I go to bed so the sheets are toasty warm when I crawl in. When Ryan and I get stuffy, he keeps our humidifiers filled so I don't have to lug the heavy tanks down the hall.

I. Dunno has certainly come a long way since his days of leaving messes and mayhem in his wake. I wonder what he looks like now that he's all grown up. Actually, I don't have to wonder at all. I know exactly what he looks like, because his is the first face I see every morning and the last face I see every night. How did I get so lucky as to find a husband like that? I. Dunno!