The first month of parenthood reminds me of speeding around the roller rink as a girl. You've got fresh lip gloss, you're singing "The Safety Dance," and then all of a sudden, you slam into a wall.
Funny, even now, a cute boy is nearby to see it all.
Weeks 1 and 2
I remind myself that babies under a month old don't have great vision. Our little butterbean might not have seen his mom cuddling her 22-pound tuxedo cat in the dark that first night. He probably didn't hear her tell the same cat, in a quivering voice, that a tiny bald man had moved into the guest room. As my eyes filled with hormone-induced tears, I imagined his retort: Hey, I was 12 weeks old before you brought me home.
It's what goes on in the first month that makes you a parent. Your actions during this time mold you into the type of mommy and daddy that you will be. One day, after our son was born, the U.S. Postal Service ad campaign with the slogan, "If it fits, it ships" caught our eyes and ears. We looked at our son and the size of the boxes, then back at our son again. Mom did seem eager to see her grandson.
We didn't do it.
We did place a baby monitor beside our bed, on my husband's side.
Just listening to the low hiss it made unnerved me. What if he made a noise? What if he didn't? We left the light on in his bedroom at night. I guess we were more fearful of a baby in the dark. Before his birth we removed the regular door to his room and replaced it with a screen door. It keeps the cats out but allows a peek inside without disturbing the little guy. A latch prevents the cats from pushing the door open. I don't believe they'd steal his breath, but I have seen "Lady and The Tramp.'' Better safe than sorry.
Week 3
I started to feel like that cocky girl at the skating rink again. I'd psyched myself up for my husband's first day back at work. We seemed to do alright alternating middle of the night feedings. Four hour chunks of sleep were better than none, but then it happened. The night before I was to go solo, gas tucked in the lower digestive track of our son caused him to shriek in a way that would cause Blondie's ''heart of glass'' to shatter into a million pieces. We found a 24-hour pharmacy; not a post office.
Mylicon drops, people. Wrap them up with a bow and give them to anyone you know that's expecting. Place a bottle in every room of the house. We worried that we might be giving him too much. The heartbreaking cries of a newborn can make you want to spray the stuff in his mouth with a hose. Picture that carnival game with the open-mouthed clown and the balloon you've got to inflate. Our pediatrician assured us that the only way it could hurt is if we threw the bottle at him. No matter how much liquid magic we squirted into our son's cheek, it didn't replace the sleep we'd lost.
That day at home, alone, with my son was the worst.
Week 4
We got it in our heads that junior was constipated.
We'd started supplementing breast milk with formula, and his regular bowel movements were lost like a sock in the dryer. How long could something that small go without one? Surely he would explode any minute.
We tried Karo Syrup in the formula and after 18 hours still nothing. Finally, I couldn't stand watching him strain and cry. We stood by the changing table, my husband with his hand on our son's rear end and I with a glycerin suppository in my hand. A few minutes later when the boy's diaper puffed up like a blow fish everyone in the house, including the seven cats, took a collective sigh.
I've got my skates on again. This time around the rink I'm singing Rob Base's "It takes two to make a thing go right..." Even though life still has me going in circles, I am happy to report that, for now, there are no cinder blocks in sight.
Christine Lucas writes about being a mom for the first time and adventures with baby. She formerly wrote "Thicket to Paradise.'' Rattled will appear biweekly.