Five Minutes

Five minutes is hard to come by these days. I better type fast.

Bug is eight weeks old. He is smiling at us now, not just those gassy smiles, but real certifiable happy smiles. In What to Expect the First Year (I think that's the title, forgive me if I mangled it, I've only got five minutes) one of the developmental signs they say baby may be able to do by the end of the 2nd month is "squeal in delight". Well this morning I think I squealed - it was a loud spontaneous squeak of some sort, one that could be considered a squeal by some, so I'm going with it. He squealed in delight this morning. Thank goodness, because it's those few fleeting moments of joy and delight that keep me going the rest of the time.

Have I mentioned motherhood is much tougher than even I imagined? I thought I had a good set of realistic expectations. And I did. Things are going much as I expected, just a mite tougher. There are many wonderful indescribable joys too though, to counterbalance. Again, thankfully.

Bug is an absolute jewel with family and friends. He puts on his best behavior for his grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Then he saves up all the ugly for his parents. That is not to say we don't get smiles and sweetness too, because we do. But this child absolutely never acts up or cries whenever there is company. It's amazing. He can be wet through three layers of clothes and blankets and he'll still keep making goo-goo eyes at his auntie. But as soon as she's gone boy, the party's o-vah baby.

Right now it's quiet, but that's because I'm breaking the number one cardinal rule of parenting infants, which is put baby to sleep on his back. That's right, I just put Bug down on his tummy. And guess what. After fussing and crying for twenty minutes on his back, two minutes on his tummy and he's out like a light. I feel a bit horrible about it, since the current medical thinking equates tummy sleeping with playing Russian Roulette with your child and SIDS. But sometimes it's the only thing that calms him down, other than holding him. So I've been indulging him here and there, and praying to God to keep us both.

He's on the verge of growing out of his newborn clothes. I am very surprised (and a little embarrassed) to admit this is rather emotional for me. I didn't think it would be. But I've come to realize that the first time the little knit hat they gave him at the hospital doesn't fit on his head any more, I'm going to lose it. On the one hand I want so much for him to grow and learn and mature. But saying goodbye to these sweet baby days (as hard as they've been) will be bittersweet.

Sometimes we sit together in the dark in our big chair and cradle his little head in my hands. His little tiny body is completely relaxed, curled into and around my chest, one little arm draped possesively over my breast. No words that currently exist in the English language can adequately describe the emotion of such a moment. Then I think of Michelangelo's Pieta, the statue of Mary cradling a crucified Jesus. No words can describe that either.

After seeing her on CNN and Fox News, I was intrigued and so decided to pick up Anne Rice's Christ the Lord. I'm only about two chapters into it, as it's difficult not only to find the time to read, but to hold and flip the pages of a hardcover book
with one hand. I'm curious. Haven't heard or read much of what the rest of Christendom thinks about such a book coming from the former atheist and so-called "Queen of the Damned". It seems to me, after listening to her, that she really has had a genuine life-changing encounter with Christ. I really, really hope so. I really do. So far I'm not a fan of her very long one-run-on-sentence paragraphs, but I'll continue to plow through it, if only out of curiosity.

Five minutes stretched to ten, but now time's up...

God bless,
Feeble