Thursday, February 25, 2010

Max

I get nervous blogging about Max because either I'll sound like I'm complaining (sleep) or I'll say positive things that will jinx things (sleep.) So, I will do what I'm having my students do this semester which is to describe without evaluating. It's very tricky because I love Mr. Max and think he's pretty much the best thing that ever happened since Zoe was born (see all those superlatives?) but I'll give this non-evaluation method a whirl.

Max is seven weeks and one day old. The first two weeks he mostly slept. In the day at least. At night, he slept for one and two hours stretches but he'd kick and grunt for a good hour before he went back to sleep. Now he sleeps for three hour stretches waking at 2, 5, and 8, just like Z did. I don't mind waking up as long as it's predictable (evaluative comments about my state of mind are acceptable). This week he seems to have a day of sleep and a day of wake. Yesterday, he slept but the day before he was up all day. While he's awake, he stares at you with his dark blue eyes and seems to say, what the hell would I sleep for? I have these big eyes for you to look at. To which you agree but also would like to pee and make something to eat for lunch. Whether he is awake or asleep he is doing Tai Chi with his hands. Or he's conducting the swirling birds above his swing. Either way, he's into his hands and the many ways they can stretch and make new shapes. He likes Zoe a lot (his preferences, since he is the main agent of the piece, can be stated even though there probably is quite a bit of projection here) and exercises his cheek muscles into something similar to a smile whenever she jockeys to hold him. Also among his likes appear to be milk, milk and more milk. Also his dad in the crutch of whose arm Max sleeps an hour or two at night.

In that night, He gets cold and his hands are extremely cold. I warm them up with my body but they just get cold again.

Speaking of cold, he has one. His second. Tiny babies whose sister's go to school are tricky (tricky is evaluative, but everyone knows colds suck). Sisters bring home a lot of germs, it seems. Fortunately I like (again, only evaluating my state of mind, not the text (Max) itself) the bulb suctioning project. To like being a mom, you have to like fluids. Fortunately, I find the production of milk and buggers fascinating (less so poop and pee because that's ordinary). Now I hope that the cold stays a cold in his nose and doesn't traverse to his lungs for I have PTSD of Z's RSV. (Also. I like medical abbreviations though not what those abbreviations stand for).

I mentioned before he roots and grunts like a hedgehog (the word like in simile has been approved, not that I really know that's what hedgehogs look like or sound like. Did you know it's illegal to own a hedgehog in Utah?). He still roots and grunts and I imagine hedgehog over pig. Perhaps it's his soft, still-brown hair.

His legs are still rounded up and bowlegged. I blame the diaper; Erik fears pigeon-toed. Either way, I suspect he'll grow out of it.

He has been to dinner and lunch at Cuvee 928, Collins', Fratelli's (thrice and possibly the fourth time tonight), Beaver Street, Salsa Brava, Dara Thai and Buster's. Most of those were when my mom was here but he has acquainted himself with the local dining scene. He has also been to Safeway, New Frontiers, Target and on several short walks in the sling and too-big-for-him stroller. (Alert ye who say all this going out brought on the cold: The doctors approved the outward going. It's the humans who touch him who give him the colds and Z, who washes her hands and then sanitizes them and then coughs into the crutch of her arm still touches him way more than the outer-world does).

Right now he's in his swing, grunting a bit. He has kicked the blanket off. Later, I'll get up to bring him over to where I sit at the table and prop him in the boppy pillow so he can look at me while I write descriptive comments about my student's essays. I'll go to work and Zoe and Erik will give him a bottle of pumped milk. We'll meet at the CSA and pick up our vegetables for the week and go to Fratelli's for pizza to celebrate the end of the week. Max will hang out in his baby bucket car seat and watch Zoe eat pizza and maybe sleep a little and maybe play a little with his hands.

7 comments:

radagast said...

Maybe it was just the unabashed superlatives in your preamble, but I don't think so. I'm afraid your attempt at a "neutral" description of the little tyke is a total failure. You like him, methinks, in all his hedgehogesqueness, his intricate boogers, his milk junkie ways. What a fortunate fellow to have a mommy who can write him so well.

Lisa B. said...

I am in love with him already.

That *was* what you were going for, right?

My oldest friend once described a family after a new baby has been born into it as an ecology. That's what this sounds like--an intimate ecology.

Logical Libby said...

Meg's hands are ALWAYS cold. I used to think it was because I was a bad Mom, but now I think it's just how she is. Cold hands, warm heart.

Valerie said...

Oh Sweet Max! I can't wait to hold you and share my babes germs with you. You are magic and I love you.

Molly said...

Lovely, lovely.

The cure for cold hands? Socks as mittens.

lis said...

sweet and lovely. reading this makes me feel better about the current state of endless pregnancy I am in.

Dr. Write said...

So sweet. And descriptive. And lovely. Of course we all love Max. I can't wait to meet him/hold him/not germ him.
Soon. Soon!