At three and a half months, life is still pretty simple. Eat, poop, sleep, repeat. We’re starting to add in some excitement, like holding toys (and sucking on them), reading books (and sucking on them), and rolling over (and sucking on whatever your face lands on). In Wyatt’s eyes, I’m pretty much still the greatest. I don’t leave the house to work, and generally don’t have many obligations that have to happen at a set time, so most of the time we get to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. This suits us both fine.
I’m awake again. My husband is saying to the squirming baby between us: “come on buddy, you’ve been nursing all morning.” It’s true, I realize, remembering like a forgotten dream the last several hours of half-awake contortions, baby talk, and soggy nipples. My entire body feels sucked dry this morning, like every morning, despite the many quart jars of water I down all day. My son is spitting out the pacifier and breathily mouthing whatever he can put his face on: my cheek, my knuckle, my shoulder, my clothed chest, my hip when I sit up in bed.
When I wake for the fourth or fifth time, my husband is dressed and about to leave for work. He is handsome in a button down shirt, grey hair brushed back from his face. I think: they don’t deserve him. I am greedy, and I want him here with us. Someone has to make money though. Today, I am grateful that it’s not me.
Wyatt woke up with a stuffy nose, so I declared a sick day: we’re not going anywhere, we’re not doing anything, and we’re wearing pajamas all day. Well, he’s a baby, so he wears pajamas every day, and I’m a stay at home mom, so frankly it’s a fine line. What sick day really means is we watched an embarrassing number of Veep episodes, and made no-bake cookies. Y’know. To help him feel better.
I’d like to take this opportunity to declare myself a great mom because I made cookies, despite the fact that my child is nine weeks old and won’t be eating cookies for, like, a year. And that the cookies were eaten by me, for breakfast.