A baby girl is so different than a baby boy, and I'm not just talking about diaper-changing technique (good thing, too, 'cause if I did I'd probably get arrested). For one thing, unless she's wearing a pink, frilly outfit, everyone assumes she's a boy. For another thing... well. There is no other thing. It's just different, darn it.
She's a week old today and I really feel like she's mine for the first time. She even has my nose, poor kid.
It is easier this time around, that's the truth. But to get used to midnight feedings and that peculiar (though thankfully not incessant) infant cry again... well, it's easier, but it's still tough. Thank goodness K has told me to stop being chivalrous and go to bed while E's feeding. (I still get up to change her; as I may have mentioned, K's in charge of input and I'm in charge of output.)
I got an unsolicited e-mail from a reader with no connection to me whatsoever, which was a great thing. She was responding to the entry about Spam canisters, and wanted to assure me that K's irrational fear of the answering machine bogeyman was all about the hormones. Let me clarify: K articulated this fear long before we had children. D'oh! Nonetheless, thanks for writing... and reading!
I had all sorts of stuff to write today. It's all swallowed up in the pain in my legs. Here's a Hint from Heloise: when you ride your bike to your piano lesson, STRETCH before you sit down on the bench to murder a Chopin prelude.
I'm sure I'll write more later. After all, I'm very tired, and some of my most hurtful screeds have happened when I'm too tired. Bet ya can't wait!
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