Welcome to Stockholm

On Wednesday, my adorable mini captor celebrated two months of breathing. Not to mention pooping and barfing. It takes a village something something. Something indeed! I didn’t particularly care for her (or anything) for most of those two months, but we’re on a roll now.  We’ve had to learn each other. It’s been hard. Calculus hard. Middle East peace hard.

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Today she demonstrated her first poor taste when she enjoyed the “Hampster Dance Song.” And since I am a terrible mother, I bought it for her from iTunes. Three minutes of Hampster Dance is soooo much better than 30 seconds. There are nuances. Nuances make a baby giggle and bounce. The liquor bottles on the shelf in the kitchen also make her giggle. So do the Japanese postcards in the bathroom. In a few more days, we’re going to find out how she likes “Snakes on a Plane.” I wonder if it will rate as highly as watching laundry spin?

8 responses to “Welcome to Stockholm”

  1. My only comparison is an infant Goblin, who so frustrated me with her crying and pooping and vomiting that I had to go on a vacation to get away from her. Now that she is 42 in dog years, I miss her if I go away for a few hours.

    So . . . in 41 years and ten months, you’ll feel perfectly normal.

    Ha ha.

  2. Could be worse. The parents of my little ball of DNA just recently escaped from the ragin’ cajun whose been hogging the baby and telling them how stupid they are.
    she had them so beaten down with southern passive aggressiveness that they can’t get over the fact that the little monkey creature seems to actually like them.

  3. leah: but that cajun is right: holding a child all the time will spoil it, and if a child sleeps in an adult’s bed, it will still be sleeping there at the age of 32. oh, and best to start feeding it solids by two months. steak injected with whiskey would be good. helps ’em sleep. it’s a good thing she set them straight, eh?

    aaron: then you may already be a baby!

  4. I, too had a c-section for both of my daughters and I don’t believe any of us were harmed because of it (drug use not withstanding, but that’s from dad’s DNA, not mine).

    Here’s the upside: next time, tatoo the slogan “cut along dotted line” and you won’t have to experience any labor at all. If you’re nice, they’ll even shave your legs while they shave the rest of your torso.

    Honestly, in the big picture, it really didn’t matter at all. We are all very close and I couldn’t love them more if I had experienced the slimy gross-ness of their first moments on earth.

  5. leah’s mom: i don’t think i gave the full story out on the intarwebs yet, but basically we were expecting a very gentle hippie birth and ended up on mr. toad’s wild ride of mortal baby dying terror, with a side of dangerous post-op complications for me. I should be clear to the internets that the hippie birth plans are not what caused any of the complications; there was an underlying pathology with the baby that went undetected despite having totally routine prenatal care with ultrasounds and blood work and the usual fixins. So I am glad that how you delivered didn’t and doesn’t matter to you. We should all be so lucky as to have an experience we are comfortable remembering. Right now, my experience matters to me. It was traumatic for me and for Mr. H, who thought he was going home with no wife and no baby.

    We’re very happy with our darling live baby, but we still have a lot to process from that day. And I do mourn the loss of an experience that I thought we would have. Maybe I’m a freak, but I liked laboring naturally. Of course I immediately consented to surgery because I’d do anything for my child, but it was a stone cold bitch nonetheless. There most likely won’t be a next time, but I’d much prefer a VBAC to another surgery.

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