Tiny Fists, Tiny Feet

Tiny feet, covered in cloth drag down my bare chest,
The rubber grips pulling my chest hair as streak downward,
I bite the insides of my cheeks, suppressing a cry,
the searing pain of being involuntarily waxed.

My eyes pop open, and even in the utter darkness,
I can see the shadows of his tiny body squirming perpendicular to my own.
I push my hands down against the mattress,
and gently slide them underneath him,
careful to not disturb him,
and I rotate.

As he settles into his new parallel position,
I feel the weight of the mattress shift,
and his body rolls toward mine.
Despite the fact that a third of my body is hovering,
over the black abyss that lies beyond the edge,
he is pressed tightly against me.

I close my eyes, trying to fade out of consciousness,
reality begins to fade, and I start to drift.
His tiny fist slams into my right eye socket.

My eyes blink open,
from the right I see an array of colors,
a tiny holographic rainbow that is only mine.
I stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up.

31 Day Blogging Challenge Day 17: What is Your Most Proud Moment

I have a few moments in my life that I’m proud of, but there are only a couple that can compete for the title of proudest.  I was pretty proud when Sarah said she would marry me, and then pretty proud when she DID marry me, but the moment I’m most proud of, the moment that stands above all others is the when Logan was born.

I know that it may sound cliche to say that the moment when your first kid is born is the proudest, most special moment of your life, but it’s one of those cliche’s that needs to be cliche because of how important of a moment it is.

By the time Logan was born, Sarah and I had been at the hospital more than three full days, and we were sure that he was going to be a girl, because we thought that the original OB had accidentally let it slip to us two or three months earlier.  So when the doctor doing the C-Section said “it’s a boy,” we were both stunned.  We had chosen not to find out because we wanted it to be a surprise, and by using the female pronoun, the original doctor had set us up for a massive surprise, and we couldn’t have been happier.

I was near Sarah’s head, and Logan was brought over to a table to clean him off (where he pooped on the table—giving a mini proud moment) I could see him, and they asked me if I wanted to come see him while they weighed him.  I took a picture with my phone, in which he looks like a little gorilla, but within a few minutes he started to look like the Logan I have now.

Then after a couple of minutes, they took Logan and me to the nursery, where he lay under an incubation light, and they did the different measurements and shots and things, while Sarah was sewn back up and rested.  Logan and I sat for nearly two hours in that incubation room, and other than my wanting the three of us to be together, the thing that I remember most about sitting there was how tight Logan squeezed my finger, and thinking that all of the people walking by seeing me smiling must have thought I looked like an idiot, but I didn’t care.

Also, I should mention, that having had that experience, and the rush that comes with it, I somewhat understand when someone has a bunch of kids.  It is a high that I think could easily become addicting (plus the act of getting there should be a lot of fun too).

Anyway, I know it probably sounds cheesy, but there isn’t really anything that can compete with that feeling.  For any parents reading this, you know what I mean.

What is your proudest moment?  Let me know in the comments below.

(I am not including the first picture, because that is really only for Sarah and me!)

White Out Conditions

I am trapped!  I need your help.  It is the middle of a blizzard, and it’s unsafe to go outside (I know, why do I continue to fucking live in this state of shit—sorry, I mean Massachusetts).  It’s snowing, and my son is rotating through hyperactivity and screaming fits.  He’s teething, normally he’s much better behaved.

Every time he screams, each of the veins in my body swell and pound as the blood shoots through them.  My eyes burn from being tired, and my stomach aches due to my inability to soothe him.  I’ve tried everything, a fresh new bottle, his favorite show, turning the lights down, rubbing his belly, giving him an icy teething-soother that is shaped like a hand (I assume it’s Jesus’s hand because there’s a big hole in the middle of it).

I manage to get him to calm down for a couple of minutes, as long as I’m paying one hundred percent attention to him, the second I stop rubbing his belly, or don’t hold the bottle for him—something he is capable of doing for himself— he loses his fucking mind.

Even right now, I snuck away to my office while he listens to music, and drinks a bottle, but every few minutes I hear him cry.

In addition to the helpless feeling of him being inconsolable, is the feeling of frustration that I cannot get anything done.  Doing the dishes is like a relay race switching between soothing him, and washing a single dish.  Completing a thought, actually thinking something and coming to a conclusion seems nearly impossible.  I cannot remember the last time I had an uninterrupted thought.

Driving is how I manage to get peace when there is none to be had.  On days like today, when nothing seems to work, a bottle, and his car seat put him to sleep, and allow me a little bit of a breather, but the snow is currently dumping on my home like a fluffy white ice-shit.

I genuinely hate living in a place where the weather dictates my sanity so much.  The days are too short, and the weather is erratic.  Yesterday was sunny and sixty outside, and today it’s like I live in the Overlook Hotel.  I think I’m Shelley Duvall though, and not Jack Nicholson.  Maybe I’m the kid?  Or one of the ghosts.  I think the fact that I’m unsure of who I am in the whole situation is yet another sign that I’m definitely living it.

The one good thing about Massachusetts and their fucking snow is that they know how to clear it.  Within an hour of the snowfall stopping, the roads will be pristine streaks of black (well except for the potholes) and perhaps tomorrow, I can take him on a ride if he is at full melt-down status still.

So, the good news is, he can’t teeth for ever, and the snow can’t come down forever.  So it’s just a waiting game at this point, and YouTube has plenty of tropical destination videos for me to watch and fantasize about.

Good luck braving the storm!