It's 4:23 AM and I'm spending a little quality time with my Basset Phoebe. Quality time she has rightfully demanded I'm afraid. I fell into bed at 10:45 in somewhat of a mumbling stupor, ticking off the list in my head of all the things on the evening "to do" list.
Fed baby 6 times, check.
Fed 6 year old twice, check.
Fed Daddy of baby and six year old nothing, check...wait a minute here. (Well he is an adult, adults are fending for themselves around here lately.)
Fed Frog
Fed, watered and located three cats.
Administered subQ fluids and medicine to infirm cat #1 while avoiding needle stick...just barely.
Administered meds to infirm cat #2
Did sniff check of cat box to determine if it could be tolerated until morning....blahhhhhh.
Dog walked by Daddy and now sleeping peacefully in a circle in her bed.
Sleep, that looks good to me, almost there...
Handful of herbs, oils and vitamins gulped down and I'm shuffling off to bed.
The baby awoke at 12:30 to eat, 1:30 to talk about his day (With such a sweet babbley voice who could resist listening) and 2:30 to eat again.
Between 12:00 and now, I have awaken to the gentle torrant of squeaks, whines and whistles of Phoebe approximately 50 times as well. Each time sending Daddy to investigate and fix this problem. You see, when you're listening for a hungry baby on a monitor because your baby is seemingly 100 miles away, you cannot employ the use of earplugs or smothery pillows to get rest, you just can't. Otherwise the partially deaf Daddy who could sleep through a cat5 hurricane will hear nothing and baby will go hungry. Note that Daddy luckily has lost high range of hearing thus cannot hear Phoebe either. That is my joy alone.
After last rousing attempt to get Daddy to put WD40 or SOMETHING on that squeak, I rise to investigate the situation myself. It takes only seconds. Even with bleary eyes and no glasses I can see that she has no water. And now that I think of it, did I feed her tonight? Crap.
Rush of guilt as I fill water bowl and food bowl which she gratefully consumes in noisy Basset style. She is now curled back into her circle, grunting and groaning and sleeping peacefully as I type. Going back to bed now until the baby gets up to eat in about 20 minutes. Besides, I need to be there to poke Daddy when the dog whines again in a half hour or so...to go out.
Trees
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
The Sound of a Diaper
At any other time of the day, a diaper is a soothing sound. The quiet rustle of a downy baby bunny through the papery leaves of the hibiscus. Opening in a hushed stirring of butterfly wings at sunset in the meadow. The fresh little tabs unfastening with the swoosh of the afternoon breeze jostling the wheat on it’s tender dry stalks or the shooshing glide of a soft breaking, bubbly wave across the sand before it’s hasty retreat. The whole process of the diaper change itself no more noticeable than the delicate crinkle of a crispy fall maple leaf as it drifts downward and lands amidst it’s fallen brethren...
At 2:30 AM however, the sodden mass must be exchanged in some deftly choreographed maneuver that will leave baby feeling soothed and refreshed and able to drift softly back to dreamland. I believe I read in one of my baby books somewhere that it should be done “quietly and efficiently” and in the dark, so as to facilitate a smooth transition back to sleep. I laughed then. And now? I laugh even more.
Said diaper now parting in the darkened nursery emanates a sound akin to the crack of a calving glacier or the splitting of a weather worn limb from it’s trunk. Baby’s eyes once closed and drowsy, as he was ever so gently undressed, are now wide with fear and excitement. The handy tabs separate with the earsplitting rip of a bear tearing bark from a hapless oak, not once, but TWICE.
Adrenalin rushes through baby’s tiny little veins as he imagines the source of this auditory onslaught. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead. Working “quietly and efficiently” I attempt to affix the stiff, sandpaper tabs to close the diaper, stretching one too far it springs back from my grasp with the hollow snap of a wiffle ball in a slingshot at a sheet of aluminum foil. One attached, now two...NO! Too loose! It’ll never hold. Now the RIIIIIIIIIIP of a thousand tiny little hooks and loops screaming “SHHHHHHHHHH!” as I unfasten and refasten the tab to the diaper which I am now sure is made of that cellophane that they use to wrap Easter baskets with.
No words are spoken, but even in the dim light coming from the nightlight in the other room I can see the wide questioning orbs of my sweet baby who is frozen in a startled position. No doubt an instinct passed on for millions of years to protect our young as they heard prey approaching the nesting area in the night. His arms outstretched and palms pressed down, feet bracing the changing table. The two of us holding our breath. Him wondering what might happen next and me wondering if he’ll sleep again for the next hour.
Diaper now "quietly and efficiently" changed, I gently bundle my little darling and place him carefully into his crib and slowly back out of the room before the shock of the whole experience wears off. Soft little questioning noises are heard, but thankfully nothing more. Now we're both laying in our respective beds, staring at the ceiling, practicing the art of "self soothing". Me with my idea for a first blog post and my darling baby boy? Probably considering holding his water until it's light enough for him to see what's going on.
At 2:30 AM however, the sodden mass must be exchanged in some deftly choreographed maneuver that will leave baby feeling soothed and refreshed and able to drift softly back to dreamland. I believe I read in one of my baby books somewhere that it should be done “quietly and efficiently” and in the dark, so as to facilitate a smooth transition back to sleep. I laughed then. And now? I laugh even more.
Said diaper now parting in the darkened nursery emanates a sound akin to the crack of a calving glacier or the splitting of a weather worn limb from it’s trunk. Baby’s eyes once closed and drowsy, as he was ever so gently undressed, are now wide with fear and excitement. The handy tabs separate with the earsplitting rip of a bear tearing bark from a hapless oak, not once, but TWICE.
Adrenalin rushes through baby’s tiny little veins as he imagines the source of this auditory onslaught. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead. Working “quietly and efficiently” I attempt to affix the stiff, sandpaper tabs to close the diaper, stretching one too far it springs back from my grasp with the hollow snap of a wiffle ball in a slingshot at a sheet of aluminum foil. One attached, now two...NO! Too loose! It’ll never hold. Now the RIIIIIIIIIIP of a thousand tiny little hooks and loops screaming “SHHHHHHHHHH!” as I unfasten and refasten the tab to the diaper which I am now sure is made of that cellophane that they use to wrap Easter baskets with.
No words are spoken, but even in the dim light coming from the nightlight in the other room I can see the wide questioning orbs of my sweet baby who is frozen in a startled position. No doubt an instinct passed on for millions of years to protect our young as they heard prey approaching the nesting area in the night. His arms outstretched and palms pressed down, feet bracing the changing table. The two of us holding our breath. Him wondering what might happen next and me wondering if he’ll sleep again for the next hour.
Diaper now "quietly and efficiently" changed, I gently bundle my little darling and place him carefully into his crib and slowly back out of the room before the shock of the whole experience wears off. Soft little questioning noises are heard, but thankfully nothing more. Now we're both laying in our respective beds, staring at the ceiling, practicing the art of "self soothing". Me with my idea for a first blog post and my darling baby boy? Probably considering holding his water until it's light enough for him to see what's going on.
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