Oh, this can't be my kid. They must have switched him at the hospital. There must have been another baby boy born that night who happens to be the spittin' image of my husband. Because there is no way I gave birth to this small person who is grinning and giggling at six in the morning.
Welcome to eight weeks and the beginning of our schedule. Sam went to sleep around six last night, which wasn't the plan at all. In fact, it was so not the plan that we hadn't fed or bathed him and had to do so when he woke up a little before 10. He passed back out and mommy and daddy took some alone time to engage in some sweat inducing physical activity...
Wait, wait, not that! We played Just Dance on the Wii. Hilarious, and it made for a date night that didn't involve us watching TV while on our respective computers in the same room. Well, for awhile anyhow. Had to watch the new South Park. One more feeding a little after midnight, and SuperSam slept nearly five hours.
Mornings are contentious around here. I object to waking up. No one is going to be happy in this house until I'm sitting down with my first cup of coffee. It means that Sam wakes me up with his screaming, and I make him wait. He gets to continue his fit in the crib while I put on the coffee, make his bottle, and grab some breakfast. Sometimes I even make him wait while I make myself some eggs! I subscribe to the airplane "loss of cabin pressure" theory of child-rearing. I put my oxygen mask on first, then take care of the small child.
Of course, I feel awful by the time I go get him. My punishment is usually soggy cereal, cold eggs, or tepid coffee that I take in with the one hand I have free during his bottle.
Sam will be two months old at the end of this week. Jerry and I are trying to integrate him into our normal life a little more, so we booked our yearly vacation to Myrtle Beach. We'll see how that goes. If he's good, I might take him to Michigan in June. Maybe.
Other updates? He spends a good amount of time chewing on his hands. I prefer this to outright sucking his thumb. He loves music and lights, and refuses to live without this Baby Einstein toy I picked up for him last week. I sing to him at night and found that "American Pie" is a good lullaby, except when I can't remember what order the verses go in. He's wearing some 3 months clothes, and should be headed to the pediatrician next week for a routine visit (depending on if we can get in or not).
Sam and I spent Easter at his Nana's. Jerry stayed home to catch up on his sleep and the laundry. That meant a two hour drive in each direction without my extra set of hands. It went surprisingly well. He managed not to cry on the toll road, which is all a mommy can ask. He fussed most of the time we were there, but managed to make friends with my aunt's puppy.
Sam's Grammy will be here tonight to take care of him while I dig myself out form this pile of schoolwork. Despite giving birth while in the middle of taking my last class, I managed an A. I'm trying desperately to continue the trend. That's me. Always in pursuit of perfection.
Wait. What's this? A mid-morning nap? Yeah, I guess he is my son...
Today's lesson: It's one thing to see the physcial genetic traits you've given your child: his daddy's ears, my nose, his aunt's lips, his Poppa's hair and eyes. It's so much more amazing when you see bits and pieces of your personality mirrored in the tiny image. Unless, of course, you realize that your son dances like your husband. It must be genetic, because it certainly can't be taught.