Okay, enough with the damned "wow, can my baby sleep!" posts. Time for a new tidbit in Max's development, that being the relaxing of his hands. What started as unintentionally restless attempts to scratch his face (some of which resulted in big red marks slashed across his cheeks), Max has begun to grab at things and--equally important--find his mouth. This means that a) he's about to get a whole lot more entertaining, and b) he's close to taking a key step toward soothing himself.
As a second-time father, these occurrences are a reminder of how much I've forgotten from Jackson's infancy. I have no memory of watching his hands relax, of seeing him suck his thumb for the first time, or even what his first words were. A big reason for this is the single most frustrating moment I've had as a father, namely the loss of his baby book.
Anyone who's had kids knows that the baby book is the domain of the first-time parent. That means that when Jackson was born, I quickly assumed about 95% of the responsibility for his baby book, and I relished that job. I stuffed everything in that book--from his first nail and hair clippings to when he started saying "dada" to who was at his first birthday party. There were receipts and photos and a family tree and lists of gifts, not to mention the lengthy lists of early favorites--such as foods, books, music and TV shows. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry.
Thankfully, Sarah, being the first-time parent in our household, is in charge of this task for Max, and Sarah does NOT lose stuff. At least not important stuff. To be fair, I didn't really lose Jackson's baby book as much as it lost itself. I moved my office from one room of my San Jose house to another, and poof, the book was gone. No idea how or where, but suffice it to say, I turned that house upside-down about 19 times trying to find the danged thing to no avail.
Anyway, my point is, my baby is growing up fast (don't they all?) and with Sarah in charge, I can feel fairly confident that come 20 years from now, I'll be able to read all about it.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
This Parenting Thing Isn't So Hard
Eight weeks into my parenting sequel, I can safely declare that the whole "like riding a bike" thing applies. My anxiety level is about one-hundredth what it was when Jackson was a baby. I don't worry as much about injury. I don't fret about whether I'm doing everything right. The whole fear of being tied down for the rest of my life is non-existent.
Of course, this is as much a function of my partner being a first time parent to my seasoned veteran as it has anything to do with my being 12 years older. It isn't often in life that we get to revisit major experiences from a more mature perspective, and I'm savoring the opportunity. It's enlightening to watch Sarah experience the uncertain and worrisome state of first-time parenting, and to actually get to occasionally be the voice of reason, a role I'm not renowned for playing. Not that I've had to express that voice much; Sarah's doing a bang up job that demonstrates a levelheadedness far beyond that of most first-time parents I've seen.
But before I get carried away patting both of us on the back, much of the credit should go to Max himself. He has made these first weeks a smooth ride with a combination of joyful energy, fast-developing sleep patterns, and an innate ability to comfort himself. Last night, he slept eight hours. The night before, it was 10 1/2, and the night before that, nine. Those are not typos--those are actual sleep totals for a seven-week-old. It's enough to make us the envy of the newborn circuit.
Getting back to Sarah, one of the most remarkable things I'm witnessing is her transformation from mere woman into mother. On the first go-round, my partner was a third-time parent, so there was very little change. But Sarah is evolving before my eyes into a completely different person. I'm not talking the obvious stuff like new daily rituals and rawer emotions. I'm talking about the maternal instincts released by the time capsule that activates at the core of a woman-turned-mom, the combination of nurturing and nesting and tenderness and protectiveness that rapidly build like a storm sweeping across the Midwestern plains.
What's sad is that so many men find these changes to be so threatening. It's often the time when couples struggle to maintain their connection, when resentments start to germinate and frustration constantly simmers under the surface. I feel the opposite as I watch Sarah the Mom emerge. Sure, there's sadness regarding the all-too-brief honeymoon period I got to enjoy with her, but my overarching sense is that of feeling touched that I get to share this crazy experience with her, and excited by the prospect of watching her one day rediscover the self nature has forced her to suppress in the name of the biological imperative.
I guess what I'm saying is that the amazing woman I fell in love with just over two short years ago is becoming an even more amazing woman right before my eyes. Couple that with a seemingly ideal baby who has effectively eliminated the typical stress levels associated with having an infant, and what you get is more good fortune than one man deserves.
Of course, this is as much a function of my partner being a first time parent to my seasoned veteran as it has anything to do with my being 12 years older. It isn't often in life that we get to revisit major experiences from a more mature perspective, and I'm savoring the opportunity. It's enlightening to watch Sarah experience the uncertain and worrisome state of first-time parenting, and to actually get to occasionally be the voice of reason, a role I'm not renowned for playing. Not that I've had to express that voice much; Sarah's doing a bang up job that demonstrates a levelheadedness far beyond that of most first-time parents I've seen.
But before I get carried away patting both of us on the back, much of the credit should go to Max himself. He has made these first weeks a smooth ride with a combination of joyful energy, fast-developing sleep patterns, and an innate ability to comfort himself. Last night, he slept eight hours. The night before, it was 10 1/2, and the night before that, nine. Those are not typos--those are actual sleep totals for a seven-week-old. It's enough to make us the envy of the newborn circuit.
Getting back to Sarah, one of the most remarkable things I'm witnessing is her transformation from mere woman into mother. On the first go-round, my partner was a third-time parent, so there was very little change. But Sarah is evolving before my eyes into a completely different person. I'm not talking the obvious stuff like new daily rituals and rawer emotions. I'm talking about the maternal instincts released by the time capsule that activates at the core of a woman-turned-mom, the combination of nurturing and nesting and tenderness and protectiveness that rapidly build like a storm sweeping across the Midwestern plains.
What's sad is that so many men find these changes to be so threatening. It's often the time when couples struggle to maintain their connection, when resentments start to germinate and frustration constantly simmers under the surface. I feel the opposite as I watch Sarah the Mom emerge. Sure, there's sadness regarding the all-too-brief honeymoon period I got to enjoy with her, but my overarching sense is that of feeling touched that I get to share this crazy experience with her, and excited by the prospect of watching her one day rediscover the self nature has forced her to suppress in the name of the biological imperative.
I guess what I'm saying is that the amazing woman I fell in love with just over two short years ago is becoming an even more amazing woman right before my eyes. Couple that with a seemingly ideal baby who has effectively eliminated the typical stress levels associated with having an infant, and what you get is more good fortune than one man deserves.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Max Kontzer is Stealing My Heart
So here's the thing about Max after a month: He's an unusually wonderful baby. And so was Jackson. That makes me 2-for-2 in the "unusually wonderful baby" department. For that, I am very thankful.
Last night, Max slept 7 straight hours--from 9:30 pm to 4:30 am--then fed, went back to sleep, woke up again at about 8, fed again, and went back to sleep again for another hour before waking up for his busy time of the day. The thing about having an infant is, even when it all goes just as planned, it's still draining. Every day is a relentless string of feedings and diaper changes and comforting attempts and long moments of fixation and sporadic sleep.
This kind of schedule puts me into an almost dream-like state. My days often feel like an elastic affair, centered around the comings and goings of people visiting the baby, meals passing in a blur, with more than enough baby responsibilities to keep two reasonably intelligent adults quite occupied.
Naturally, Sarah's taking the brunt of things. It's such an unfair reality that women have to endure all of the most physically and emotionally demanding acts in creating and caring for a baby--namely, birth and nursing. It's pretty amazing the way a new mother is immediately tuned into the needs of the baby at all times, whether awake or asleep, whether the baby's making his needs known or not. It burns inside the mother's gut just as her own instincts do--the baby's not even a separate being in some ways. He's an extension of the mother. As a matter of fact, when you get right down to it, from conception until the baby's, oh, a year old or so, the father is pretty much unnecessary.
Good thing I don't care. I'm gonna touch and kiss and care for little Max as much as possible, whether he needs me or not. Because at this point, let's face it: I need him.
Last night, Max slept 7 straight hours--from 9:30 pm to 4:30 am--then fed, went back to sleep, woke up again at about 8, fed again, and went back to sleep again for another hour before waking up for his busy time of the day. The thing about having an infant is, even when it all goes just as planned, it's still draining. Every day is a relentless string of feedings and diaper changes and comforting attempts and long moments of fixation and sporadic sleep.
This kind of schedule puts me into an almost dream-like state. My days often feel like an elastic affair, centered around the comings and goings of people visiting the baby, meals passing in a blur, with more than enough baby responsibilities to keep two reasonably intelligent adults quite occupied.
Naturally, Sarah's taking the brunt of things. It's such an unfair reality that women have to endure all of the most physically and emotionally demanding acts in creating and caring for a baby--namely, birth and nursing. It's pretty amazing the way a new mother is immediately tuned into the needs of the baby at all times, whether awake or asleep, whether the baby's making his needs known or not. It burns inside the mother's gut just as her own instincts do--the baby's not even a separate being in some ways. He's an extension of the mother. As a matter of fact, when you get right down to it, from conception until the baby's, oh, a year old or so, the father is pretty much unnecessary.
Good thing I don't care. I'm gonna touch and kiss and care for little Max as much as possible, whether he needs me or not. Because at this point, let's face it: I need him.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Diapers and pooping and pee, oh my!
Four weeks into this second parenting go-round, and it's amazing to me how different it is. Most notably, I'm so much more tired than the first time around, but I'm also much more accepting of that exhaustion. Maybe it's because, whereas I was the first-time parent with Jackson and his mom nursed him but watched me take care of the rest, this time I'm the one watching from the experienced parent seat as Sarah dives into the infant-parenting rituals with zest.
Actually, I've really been struck these past weeks by just how much more natural women are at this. Sarah has WAY more of an instinctive feel for what's going on with Max than I do--we men are so clueless about so many things. For instance, today, I came home from running an errand, was greeted by Sarah at the front door, and somehow didn't notice that Max was propped on a pillow--and nearly sat on him! This is something that Sarah would NEVER do--in fact, if she leaves for a few minutes, her first words when she walks in the door are, "Where's my baby!?" (Conversely, my first words are usually, "Can we have sex yet?")
Still, before I make us second-time dads sound like total boobs, there are some things that come back quickly. Like changing diapers. It never ceases to amaze me how afraid of this simple activity many men are. They look upon the diaper-changing table as if it were a sewage treatment plant. This is true even of experienced fathers--I can't tell you how many men I know who judge their success as parents by how low a percentage of diaper changes they're able to get away with handling. What they're missing is that diaper changing is an easy way to bond with baby, relieve mom and earn lots of a brownie points without having to devote a lot of time. It's certainly a lot easier than nursing (which is obviously out of our hands) or doing the laundry (Sarah's handled every load so far--not that I want her to, she's just on top of it like noboby's business).
Not to mention that you really get a feel for how your baby is changing. Like today, I changed two diapers that were absolutely PACKED with poop and pee, and they were quite different from Max's previous, uh, output. The poo is changing colors, and the pee is coming out in larger quantities, reflections of his increasing appetite and the maturation of his digestive system.
If that's not enough, there's also the entertainment aspect. Take the second of those big diapers today--as I was changing it, I had to pick up Max and hold him naked for a moment to help Sarah (who had managed to lock herself in the bathroom--don't ask), and in those brief seconds, Max proceeded to unleash a pee of biblical proportions all over me. To think--I'd never have had that experience if I hadn't been on diaper duty! (Okay, I admit this probably isn't going to convince many men that they're missing out. Their loss.)
I'd love to tell you more about Max's bodily fluids, but it's nearly 1 am, and I'm violating that sacred advice to new parents: Always sleep when the baby's sleeping. And he's been asleep for more than 3 hours at the moment, which means a feeding can't be far off.
In the meantime, enjoy this absolutely beautiful shot of Max that I took a week or so ago.
Actually, I've really been struck these past weeks by just how much more natural women are at this. Sarah has WAY more of an instinctive feel for what's going on with Max than I do--we men are so clueless about so many things. For instance, today, I came home from running an errand, was greeted by Sarah at the front door, and somehow didn't notice that Max was propped on a pillow--and nearly sat on him! This is something that Sarah would NEVER do--in fact, if she leaves for a few minutes, her first words when she walks in the door are, "Where's my baby!?" (Conversely, my first words are usually, "Can we have sex yet?")
Still, before I make us second-time dads sound like total boobs, there are some things that come back quickly. Like changing diapers. It never ceases to amaze me how afraid of this simple activity many men are. They look upon the diaper-changing table as if it were a sewage treatment plant. This is true even of experienced fathers--I can't tell you how many men I know who judge their success as parents by how low a percentage of diaper changes they're able to get away with handling. What they're missing is that diaper changing is an easy way to bond with baby, relieve mom and earn lots of a brownie points without having to devote a lot of time. It's certainly a lot easier than nursing (which is obviously out of our hands) or doing the laundry (Sarah's handled every load so far--not that I want her to, she's just on top of it like noboby's business).
Not to mention that you really get a feel for how your baby is changing. Like today, I changed two diapers that were absolutely PACKED with poop and pee, and they were quite different from Max's previous, uh, output. The poo is changing colors, and the pee is coming out in larger quantities, reflections of his increasing appetite and the maturation of his digestive system.
If that's not enough, there's also the entertainment aspect. Take the second of those big diapers today--as I was changing it, I had to pick up Max and hold him naked for a moment to help Sarah (who had managed to lock herself in the bathroom--don't ask), and in those brief seconds, Max proceeded to unleash a pee of biblical proportions all over me. To think--I'd never have had that experience if I hadn't been on diaper duty! (Okay, I admit this probably isn't going to convince many men that they're missing out. Their loss.)
I'd love to tell you more about Max's bodily fluids, but it's nearly 1 am, and I'm violating that sacred advice to new parents: Always sleep when the baby's sleeping. And he's been asleep for more than 3 hours at the moment, which means a feeding can't be far off.
In the meantime, enjoy this absolutely beautiful shot of Max that I took a week or so ago.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Max: Filling our hearts even when he's wearing us out
This afternoon, as I drove by the day laborers outside of Home Depot while nibbling on M&Ms in my Lexus, I thought about how lucky I am. Lucky to have an amazing wife who's also my best friend; lucky to have a newborn baby that's healthy and filling our home with love and joy; lucky to have a 12-year-old son who cares about others, does well in school, and finds happiness from the little things; lucky to have a career that allows me to work when I want, how I want, and (to a certain degree) on whatever I want; and, not to be sneezed at, lucky not to be standing outside Home Depot hoping some self-satisfied jerk popping M&Ms in his Lexus would throw me a freakin' bone.
Which brings me back to the topic at hand, my amazing little Maxwell, and how he makes me feel so lucky even when he's testing my mettle. To explain...
After filling us with the hope of an 8-hour sleep two nights ago, the little bugger has shown us the other side of babyhood, waking up every 3 hours last night, fussing pretty much all day today, and then putting us to the test tonight with a persistent cry-fest that went on for a good 2 hours straight. I'm happy to report that I was able to convince mom to stick to our guns and let the tyke cry it out. He'd been fed regularly all day. He'd had his diaper changed at every juncture. He'd had his temperature taken. He'd farted and burped all the possible gas out of his system. And he'd been comforted throughout. But now it was time to draw an early line in the sand.
As he cried, Sarah and I agreed he had no un-met needs at the moment, other than to reinforce his growing sense that a good cry would get mom or dad, or both, to drop everything and cater to his whims. Enough was enough. We needed to establish that a) we would not let his crying deter us from our parenting objectives, and b) he could cry himself to sleep if left to do so. And lo and behold, that's exactly what happened.
When he finally started running out of steam, his cries growing weaker and weaker until they were barely a whimper, we felt a sense of satisfaction. Eventually, his cries completely gave way to the little coos and baby utterings that make a parent's heart melt. It was like music even to our worn-out ears.
Chalk the whole episode up as mom's and dad's first victory in the battle for the upper hand. How long that survives is anyone's guess, but at least we've drawn first blood. And we're feeling might lucky about it.
Which brings me back to the topic at hand, my amazing little Maxwell, and how he makes me feel so lucky even when he's testing my mettle. To explain...
After filling us with the hope of an 8-hour sleep two nights ago, the little bugger has shown us the other side of babyhood, waking up every 3 hours last night, fussing pretty much all day today, and then putting us to the test tonight with a persistent cry-fest that went on for a good 2 hours straight. I'm happy to report that I was able to convince mom to stick to our guns and let the tyke cry it out. He'd been fed regularly all day. He'd had his diaper changed at every juncture. He'd had his temperature taken. He'd farted and burped all the possible gas out of his system. And he'd been comforted throughout. But now it was time to draw an early line in the sand.
As he cried, Sarah and I agreed he had no un-met needs at the moment, other than to reinforce his growing sense that a good cry would get mom or dad, or both, to drop everything and cater to his whims. Enough was enough. We needed to establish that a) we would not let his crying deter us from our parenting objectives, and b) he could cry himself to sleep if left to do so. And lo and behold, that's exactly what happened.
When he finally started running out of steam, his cries growing weaker and weaker until they were barely a whimper, we felt a sense of satisfaction. Eventually, his cries completely gave way to the little coos and baby utterings that make a parent's heart melt. It was like music even to our worn-out ears.
Chalk the whole episode up as mom's and dad's first victory in the battle for the upper hand. How long that survives is anyone's guess, but at least we've drawn first blood. And we're feeling might lucky about it.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
A Series of Fortunate (and Not-So-Fortunate) Events
So here's the down side of having an infant: A trip to Babies-R-Us and Taco Bell qualifies as a veritable party. And that's just what we did today. We bundled up little Max, squeezed him into the infant car seat, and headed off. He cooperated beautifully, sleeping the entire time as we popped him in and out of the car, wandered aisles filled with baby items, stuffed our faces with tacos and burritos, and capped things off with a stop at Starbucks.
Of course, his cooperation may have been aided by a landmark development last night, when Max slept--drumroll please--for 8 consecutive hours. Yes, at just 3 weeks old. And I didn't even have to slip him a mickey to make it happen. Truth be known, I did have to spend a good hour-and-a-half ushering him through an extremely fussy mood before he finally conked out at just about midnight. When I opened my eyes upon waking up and saw that the clock said 7:56, I could hardly believe it. In fact, I was compelled to rush into Max's room to make sure he was still breathing.
Not long after this, and moments after he'd finished his morning boob session, Max was propped on our bed as Sarah and I shared a loving embrace. We both looked at him as we hugged, and he flashed us his biggest smile to date, clearly enjoying seeing the love between his parents (or, as he probably refers to us, the Milk Factory and Diaper Guy). Seeing that smile to start the day was like being awash in rays of South Pacific sunshine.
Of course, with any baby, such mesmerizing moments are often interspersed with the stuff they always leave out of the "Have a Baby!" brochures. Our most recent of these came yesterday afternoon, when Sarah decided to give Max a bath. As mom carried him into the kitchen, his little serpent came to life, raining a shower of pee all over Sarah and the breakfast table. Pee with your coffee, anyone? Then, when we finally got him into the little baby bathtub, he proceeded to let loose with a torrent of poop, resulting in what looked like the beginning of pesto soup, only without the basil, Parmesan or pine nuts.
Oops, that reminds me--dinner time!
Of course, his cooperation may have been aided by a landmark development last night, when Max slept--drumroll please--for 8 consecutive hours. Yes, at just 3 weeks old. And I didn't even have to slip him a mickey to make it happen. Truth be known, I did have to spend a good hour-and-a-half ushering him through an extremely fussy mood before he finally conked out at just about midnight. When I opened my eyes upon waking up and saw that the clock said 7:56, I could hardly believe it. In fact, I was compelled to rush into Max's room to make sure he was still breathing.
Not long after this, and moments after he'd finished his morning boob session, Max was propped on our bed as Sarah and I shared a loving embrace. We both looked at him as we hugged, and he flashed us his biggest smile to date, clearly enjoying seeing the love between his parents (or, as he probably refers to us, the Milk Factory and Diaper Guy). Seeing that smile to start the day was like being awash in rays of South Pacific sunshine.
Of course, with any baby, such mesmerizing moments are often interspersed with the stuff they always leave out of the "Have a Baby!" brochures. Our most recent of these came yesterday afternoon, when Sarah decided to give Max a bath. As mom carried him into the kitchen, his little serpent came to life, raining a shower of pee all over Sarah and the breakfast table. Pee with your coffee, anyone? Then, when we finally got him into the little baby bathtub, he proceeded to let loose with a torrent of poop, resulting in what looked like the beginning of pesto soup, only without the basil, Parmesan or pine nuts.
Oops, that reminds me--dinner time!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
I Get By With a Little Help From My Mother-In-Law
In order to cast my new mother-in-law in the proper light, I can't help but compare her with her predecessor. And on this matter, there is no reason to beat around the bush: My first mother-in-law was not exactly an awe-inspiring example of a human being. She may one day stumble upon this post and be aghast at my outing her in this fashion, but that's tough titties. The bitter truth is that she was (and may very well still be) an ugly person with ugly motivations, so really, my new mother-in-law had nowhere to go but up. (Insert mother-in-law joke of your choice here.)
So far, so good--Mother-in-Law No. 2 (Ramona, for the curious among you) is passing with flying colors. And the reason I bring this up is to underscore just how freeing a good mother-in-law can be. Don't get me wrong--I've only known Ramona for 2 years, so there's plenty of time for one (or both) of us to screw things up. But I already feel closer and more connected to her than I ever did to my previous MiL. Then again, I could say the same thing about me and Dick Cheney.
Seriously--Ramona and I can talk, for hours, about just about anything. We don't always agree, but we always come to some sort of understanding. She's a fun-loving person who's willing to explore any topic, no matter how inappropriate, and even though she clearly is becoming aware of my shortcomings (e.g., my blabbermouth), she's able to see that the good way outweighs the bad, and that her daughter has found a man who will love her and treat her with the respect and tenderness she deserves.
Meanwhile, I'm able to see past her shortcomings (and let's face it--people get to a certain age and they wear their shortcomings on their sleeves) and appreciate that my MiL is a happy and willing grandparent who, despite already having had the opportunity to dote on 4 other grandchildren, is ready to pour her energy into helping us in any way she can (and, of course, get more access to her grandson in the process).
Case in point: We just returned form a quick weekend sojourn to Modesto, to visit Ramona and give her some quality time with little Max on her turf. During our stay, I barely had to do any of the usual dirty work, because Ramona was right there, helping Sarah with anything that required an extra set of hands. (Well, except the middle-of-the-night feedings--no point letting things get that Freudian.) Then, this morning, before we left, she offered to watch the baby and feed him while Sarah and I went out to breakfast together, unencumbered.
Not that any MiL in the world wouldn't want to have alone time with her little baby grandson. Well, actually, I take that back--my previous MiL most certainly was not interested in such trivialities. In fact, she barely forged a connection with the one grandchild I gave her, Jackson, and today she has zero presence in our lives (for reasons not worth going into here, but suffice it to say it would raise the hair on your neck). In other words, I do not take such grandparently assistance as Ramona offers for granted, and never will. But as a soon-to-be-44-year-old second time father, I'll be damned if I won't gladly accept any opportunity to be excused from the relentlessness of baby duty.
Which is why, when she suggested Sarah bring the baby and stay with her for a few days for more bonding, I didn't hesitate to support the idea. In the past, I might have balked at such a suggestion, threatened by paranoid thoughts of my MiL trying to muscle in on my territory. Thankfully, I've traded in my youthful stupidity for a more seasoned state of acceptance. Gimme those three days of down time for golf and sports on TV and quality time with Jackson (hard to come by these days), not to mention a few nights of sprawling in our bed all by myself, and when Sarah and Max return, my super-dad batteries will have been recharged.
Mom, if you read this, don't be threatened. We love you, too.
So far, so good--Mother-in-Law No. 2 (Ramona, for the curious among you) is passing with flying colors. And the reason I bring this up is to underscore just how freeing a good mother-in-law can be. Don't get me wrong--I've only known Ramona for 2 years, so there's plenty of time for one (or both) of us to screw things up. But I already feel closer and more connected to her than I ever did to my previous MiL. Then again, I could say the same thing about me and Dick Cheney.
Seriously--Ramona and I can talk, for hours, about just about anything. We don't always agree, but we always come to some sort of understanding. She's a fun-loving person who's willing to explore any topic, no matter how inappropriate, and even though she clearly is becoming aware of my shortcomings (e.g., my blabbermouth), she's able to see that the good way outweighs the bad, and that her daughter has found a man who will love her and treat her with the respect and tenderness she deserves.
Meanwhile, I'm able to see past her shortcomings (and let's face it--people get to a certain age and they wear their shortcomings on their sleeves) and appreciate that my MiL is a happy and willing grandparent who, despite already having had the opportunity to dote on 4 other grandchildren, is ready to pour her energy into helping us in any way she can (and, of course, get more access to her grandson in the process).
Case in point: We just returned form a quick weekend sojourn to Modesto, to visit Ramona and give her some quality time with little Max on her turf. During our stay, I barely had to do any of the usual dirty work, because Ramona was right there, helping Sarah with anything that required an extra set of hands. (Well, except the middle-of-the-night feedings--no point letting things get that Freudian.) Then, this morning, before we left, she offered to watch the baby and feed him while Sarah and I went out to breakfast together, unencumbered.
Not that any MiL in the world wouldn't want to have alone time with her little baby grandson. Well, actually, I take that back--my previous MiL most certainly was not interested in such trivialities. In fact, she barely forged a connection with the one grandchild I gave her, Jackson, and today she has zero presence in our lives (for reasons not worth going into here, but suffice it to say it would raise the hair on your neck). In other words, I do not take such grandparently assistance as Ramona offers for granted, and never will. But as a soon-to-be-44-year-old second time father, I'll be damned if I won't gladly accept any opportunity to be excused from the relentlessness of baby duty.
Which is why, when she suggested Sarah bring the baby and stay with her for a few days for more bonding, I didn't hesitate to support the idea. In the past, I might have balked at such a suggestion, threatened by paranoid thoughts of my MiL trying to muscle in on my territory. Thankfully, I've traded in my youthful stupidity for a more seasoned state of acceptance. Gimme those three days of down time for golf and sports on TV and quality time with Jackson (hard to come by these days), not to mention a few nights of sprawling in our bed all by myself, and when Sarah and Max return, my super-dad batteries will have been recharged.
Mom, if you read this, don't be threatened. We love you, too.
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