What I didn’t do in 2008: write enough, travel outside the country, make a lot of money.
What I did:
(Yes, I’ve taken more recent photos. No, I haven’t uploaded them yet.)
A resolution: I will birth more stories in the coming year than I did babies in the last.
What do you want for 2009? Share your new year’s resolutions in the comments!
Inspired by Akeeyu, I have a few cosleeping haikus for you.
I’m not sleepy, Mom!
Look, I bounce! I pinch! I kick!
No way am I – zzzzzzzzzzzz.
This is your boob. Soft,
full of milk. Why must you push
your brother off his?
No bite! No bite, no
bite, no bite, no bite, no bite.
Quit your wiggling, child.
It is past three a.m., and
I am fucking tired.
Oh, cat on the bed:
You are cute, but if you wake
these kids up, you’re dead.
Finger up my nose
explores, prods. I was asleep;
not anymore. Thanks.
Just in case there’s anyone left out there who hasn’t yet seen FuckYouPenguin:
I get it, Whale, you’re busy. I’ve only been on this FUCKING BOAT for three and a half hours waiting for you, and the only thing I’ve seen so far is my lunch from earlier. It’s not like you spend your entire goddamn life in the ocean, so I see why you would only come up for basically a split second. Personally, if someone was going to all this trouble specifically to see me, I would take time out of my BUSY ASS SCHEDULE to at least stop by the boat and make some small talk, maybe have some salmon. But I understand, Whale, places to go, 500 pounds of food to eat. I’ll be fine. The real question here, Whale, is will you be fine? Can you really live with yourself? Maybe you need to make a change.
One thing that really grates on me is hipster hostility toward parents and children. The linked article is maybe not the best example, since I agree with the writer’s basic point that the Kickbee is a dumb-ass idea, but I find the tone of the piece obnoxious. Berman codes her ire carefully as aimed specifically at “yuppie” parents, but the bullshit alarm goes off when you consider that Berman, a 20-something Salon writer living in “the upper-middle-class baby factory known as Brooklyn,” is pretty much just as yuppie as her targets. Lady, I’m not better than you because I have spit-up flecking my jeans, and you’re not cooler than I am because you don’t.
$13,000 really only pays for one baby.
I’m just kidding. Considering that our twins’ NICU bills came to about a quarter of a million dollars for two weeks, $13,000 isn’t nearly enough for even one.
[No, really, I’m just kidding, FBI.]
Remember progress reports in middle school? They weren’t quite report cards, but could still get you in trouble with their expressions of pseudo-concern for your academic development. You could picture your teacher sitting at home with her sixteen cats, drinking malt liquor and brandishing her pen vindictively as she plotted the most effective way to get you grounded: “Uccellina is generally doing fine, but would achieve more if she would leave the class gerbil alone.”
Well, I am not ready to assign a grade to the babies’ sleep, and they’re already grounded by virtue of being, y’know, babies. So a progress report seems in order.
Overall assessment: Room for improvement.
Both babies still nurse through a good part of the night, which is fine by me as I mostly sleep through it.
We had to drop the cosleeper down to playpen level, because Robin has been pulling up on the edge of it and frowning pensively, as if gauging the distance to the floor.
He has also been wriggling himself up over my shoulder in his sleep, necessitating a hauling-down-by-the-shins. This maneuver resulted last night in a weird popping sound in my neck and a lot of pain this morning.
Right now I sleep with Wren on the inside and Robin on the outside, both snuggled in the crooks of my arms. But three times now I have woken to find my right arm empty. Where is Wren?!?!?! OMG CHECK FLOOR. Not on floor. Where the hell did she go? How could she – wait a sec. [Look more closely at baby tucked under left arm.] There are two babies there! Wren rolled all the way across my body to lie squarely on top of Robin. I actually used to joke, when I was pregnant, “Twins! They’re stackable!” Turns out I was right.
In light of the above, we might be looking at replacing the cosleeper with a twin bed pushed up against our current queen. Mostly for the sake of the babies’ safety, but also because Husband has been relegated to a tiny slice of edge-of-the-bed realty, and I’m afraid he might fall off and be swallowed up by the dust bunnies that have taken over our bedroom.
Robin has decided that if I don’t open my eyes after he has yelled thrice, biting is warranted. I disagree. We are currently in negotiations.
Because Mia Farrow is clearly my daughter’s real mother.