Long Story Short

So, the newtlet and I are sharing a cold. It's nice when your baby has your eyes, less nice when he has your phlegm, but we're powering through.

Internet, do you ever have that thing where you cough, and the phlegm comes halfway up your throat and stops, and it feels like you're going to gag on it, and suddenly you're scared you are going to vomit a stomach full of mucous and DayQuil all over your bedspread and you can either swallow that slug of phlegm, which you really don't want to do, or take a risk and keep on coughing, hoping you can get it all the way up before your gag reflex is fully activated?

No? Just me? OK, then, let's move on and pretend I never said anything.

So this particular illness hasn't required a trip to the doctor, but sitting here in my nest of Kleenex reminds me of a question I have been meaning to ask you, internet, about medical care and whatnot. Mr. Newt and I agree on most things (it's spooky, really), but this is one of the few occasions when we tend toward marital discord.

OK, so every time we are checking in at the ER or at Urgent Care, there's always a triage nurse who takes down our vital information, and she asks "What is the problem?" Now, it is my firm belief that she wants the shortest possible answer to this question. "Fever." "Coughing." Something she can write down on the form and move on.

In addition to saving her time, this will also save ME time, because I'm going to be asked to repeat the answer to this question at least twice more--to the examining nurse, and then eventually to the doctor. I would just as soon save the long version for the doctor, who is the only character in this little psychodrama with the authority to assign us an official diagnosis and prescribe drugs. Efficiency, people. I like efficiency.

Mr. Newt, on the other hand, usually launches a charm offensive with every single medical professional we encounter, and tells each nurse in line (as well as any kind of technician or P.A. we might meet) the whole story about how the baby woke up at 4 and we thought he felt warm, etc. etc. Long version all the way, with lots of personable parent stuff thrown in.

This is partly a regional thing. Mr. Newt and I are both Northerners living below the Mason-Dixon line, and he has adjusted better than I have to the cultural necessity of maintaining chit-chat with the guy who comes to fix the cable box, etc. When I'm doing my job, I consider it a kindness to be left alone, but locals have repeatedly informed me that this is an abnormal attitude toward human interaction around these parts. Leaving people alone is considered hostile, for some incomprehensible reason.

But even beyond the corn-pone Southern thing, Mr. Newt theorizes that most doctors are going to treat us like hypochondriac first-time parents, and we must set out from the beginning of each office visit to convince them that our reasons for seeking medical care are valid, or we are just going to get a pat on the arm and sent home with the assurance that our baby is just fine, pat pat. Mr. Newt sees the nurses as our first line of attack: they will somehow signal to the doctor whether we are to be taken seriously or not. Get the nurses on your side, he thinks, and the doctor will come in prepared to treat you well.

I tend to think the best way to get the nurses on our side is to be as efficient as possible so they can get their work done and go home to their children or their World of Warcraft or whatever they would rather be doing than listening to me describe the particular color of my kid's vomit.

So, internet, here's your chance to bring marital harmony back to Chez Newt. Who is right? It's me, isn't it? You know it is.

Peekaboo!

Games Mr. Newt plays with the baby:

Goofy Goo: Ask the baby, "Where's your goofy goo?" Then kiss different parts of his face, asking, "Is it here?" "Is it over here?" When baby dissolves in giggles, announce that you have found his goofy goo!

Weeble: They wobble, as you know, but they don't fall down. Hold baby in a standing position with his feet planted in your lap, then lean him in different directions, singing "A-Weeble to the left, a-weeble to the right, a-weeble to the back, a-weeble to the front..."

Greatest American Hero: Hold the baby in a belly-down position, and pretend to fly him around the house, while singing the theme song to this classic tv-show. Bonus points if you put a bib on him backward to form a makeshift cape!

Games Mrs. Newt plays with the baby:

Dangit, where did that paci go?: Try to hold the baby upright as you invert your own torso to look under the couch for a dropped pacifier, now covered in dog hair. Bonus points if the baby screams through the whole exercise!

The definition of insanity: Put the baby to bed. When you hear him crying, rush to the crib to find that he has rolled over on his belly and gotten stuck there. Turn him over onto his back. Wait ten minutes. Repeat.

Dude, don't eat that: Whenever the baby seems a little too happy, double-check that he isn't holding a forbidden object. Here's a hint: he is. Take the object away. Bonus points if the item is an expensive electronic device rendered inoperable by drool!

Oprah Would Be Proud of Me

First of all, THANK YOU to everyone who responded to my last post. You are all awesome and right, and this is going to sound like I'm being snarky, but I'm not: a vacation, exercise, milkshakes, good music, flowers, inspiration, a to-do list, a schedule, and a reward system are exactly the things I need to help myself get going.

The only one I'm currently on top of is the exercise thing: I've been getting a little run in about three times a week, with the goal of not embarrassing myself in a 5k Labor Day Weekend. It does feel good to run, and sweat, and get some endorphins moving again. After what, two years? of early miscarriages and then hormones and pregnancy and childbirth and recovery and breastfeeding, it feels amazing to have my body back to normal (although "normal" is somewhat older than where I left it). I'm trying to enjoy it while I can, before the babylust hits and I get back on the merry-go-round.

(I don't think it's a thyroid problem, by the way, but I really appreciate the suggestion, and if my energy doesn't improve in a few weeks, I'll definitely look into it).

The vacation thing is going to have to take a back seat for the moment (we'll be flying to Florida next weekend to see Mr. Newt's family, but I have a feeling that four days with the in-laws bracketed by a nerve-wracking plane ride with a six-month-old is not quite a prescription for romance. My in-laws are delightful, though, and I'm looking forward to the newtlet's first swimming experience. Special bonus: I'll get to wear my girdly bathing suit. Score!)

So that leaves us with music, inspiration, and a to-do list/schedule/system of rewards. All right, I'm going to i-tunes now to get something new and awesome. That's my to-do for right now.

Meanwhile, the weirdest thing happened right after I wrote that last post. It was like an episode of Oprah or something, internet, I couldn't believe it. I closed the browser window, and opened my email, and there was a forwarded message from the head of the local center for children and families noting that they need volunteers.

How weird is that? I ask the universe for a way to get my mojo back, just like Oprah says to do, and the universe is all like "Hey Newt, how about you quit your bitching and go out and do something useful for somebody else for a change?" And I was like "OK, geez, you don't have to be such an asshole about it, universe. I could have a thyroid problem or something, you know."

So anyway, I'm going to go to the volunteer orientation next week, but don't go thinking I'm getting all lovey-dovey and shit. Given that I'm not exactly a people person, I'm almost certainly going to hate it. But I'm going to do it anyway, and we'll see what happens.

And then the universe is going to buy me a milkshake. At least I think that's how this works--I guess I'll have to check with Oprah.

Ennervated

Hi, internet. I am finding I don't have any energy lately, and can't seem to get excited about anything or finish anything I have started. I need a little boost--can you help me out?

I'm not depressed, I'm getting enough sleep, and there's nothing physically wrong with me, so we can rule all that out. I wonder if I just put so much effort for so long into having a baby that I don't know what to do with myself now that the newtlet is here and he's healthy and adorable and everything's kind of awesomely good?

Everything's kind of awesomely good, that is, except for how the house is a mess, and there's a big pile of unopened mail by the door, and I owe everyone I know a phone call, and nothing is getting done, and I spend way too many of my evenings watching bad tv. Everything except for that. It's not that having a healthy baby is a let-down, not at all. I think I need to re-learn how to function in the world, though.

So internet, what do you do when you need a little revving up? The only things I can think of are pretty banal--changing my hair color, learning to golf, that sort of thing. Surely you've got some better ideas? I don't really want to learn to golf.

The Case of the Masticated Munchkin

So, the newtlet goes to a lovely daycare. It's a marvelous non-profit founded by hippies who used to barter care in the olden days, though the center runs on the basis of conventional currency since the 80's. They call the care-givers "teachers," even in the baby room. The kids all do arts and crafts (the newtlet finger-painted a mug for us this week). They teach the little ones baby sign language. The zoo sent some petting animals over last month, and the newtlet got to see a pot-bellied pig up close. We get daily report cards and quarterly parent-teacher conferences.

Mr. Newt and I really love this center and think it's good for our newtlet to be around other kids and interact with other adults and have a variety of experiences from an early age, so I refuse to feel guilty that he's not with me 24 hours a day, even though it's summer and my schedule is quite flexible. I have work to do, and I do it from home, and both the baby and I are happier if I'm not trying to do two things at once.

So, as I said, the newtlet goes to a lovely daycare. We have had a bout or two of the sniffles, but nothing like the rash of infections some kids experience when sent into the land of snot-nosed children. I think it helps that the baby classroom is set apart from the older kids, and the teachers disinfect the toys every night. (Really, every night. If I pick up our newtlet at the end of the day, his teacher is often carrying him around in a bjorn while she sets out the disinfected toys on a big towel or launders the crib sheets.)

In fact, the only problem the newtlet has had since starting there is that he is just far too delicious to mingle among other children. Another baby bit him last month. On the forehead.

Mr. Newt went to pick him up one day and had to sign off on an "incident report" describing the accident. Having inspected our son to make sure the damage was light (it didn't even break the skin), Mr. Newt read the report and innocently asked the teachers "So, which baby bit him?"

They seemed a little taken aback. Oops. Turns out the daycare does not release that information. Because, you know, we might try to take revenge on a 9-month-old. Take away her pacifier or something.

I completely understand that they don't want parents to try to settle these things among themselves, but I still find the top-secret identity of the newtlet's attacker kind of hilarious. First of all, there are only eight babies in his class, all of them under a year old. It's not like we think the biter was malicious. Obviously, the newtlet is just too yummy to resist. There are days when I want to nom nom nom all over his fat little face my own self. Completely understandable. Frankly, I think the perpetrator should be commended for her obvious good taste.

So although Mr. Newt and I are completely in sympathy with the spirit of this rule, we are still kind of dying to know which baby did it. When we drop the newtlet off and pick him up, we look around and make mental notes on things like which babies have teeth (4 out of 8) and which babies can pull up on furniture (the guilty party drew herself up behind our boy's bouncy chair, attacking him from overhead). This leaves us with only two prime suspects, but we don't know how to narrow it down any further. Darn baby witness protection program has thwarted us.

I think I'm going to start setting the newtlet down near them by turns, to see if either one makes a lunge at his head. Surely a pattern of guilt will emerge.

Also, we might need to start putting that bitter apple stuff on the newtlet's exposed skin every morning. It's a dangerous thing, being so irresistably delicious.

The Zombie Baby Lament

So, yeah, I'm pretty sure my son is a zombie. He is teething, which I understand makes him want to put things in his mouth, but I wasn't quite prepared for the fact that his first choice of tasty teething device was going to be, well, me. Whenever I am near him, he literally lunges for me, desperate to chomp his little gums down on any exposed body part he can reach. I think it's good that we've weaned now, and the only exposed body parts he tends to have access to are my arms and hands and sometimes my neck or shoulders--or my shins, because he's kinky like that.

Exhibit A:

Do you see that crazy glint in his eyes? That is his lust for human flesh.

Inspired by those immortal classics All the Babies Go to the Mine (Lowered in Buckets) and Oh I Wish I Were a Little 'Lectric Eel, I have composed a new song about the newtlet and his undead habits of personal consumption. Think of it as a lullaby of sorts.

(It's sung to a kind of marching beat. Not knowing anything about music, that's the best I can explain it.)

Zombie baby's coming for me; he wants to eat my flesh. Grrrrrr!
Zombie baby's coming for me; he wants to eat my flesh. Arghh!
He wants to bite my fingers and he wants to bite my toes. Grrrrr!
He wants to bite my shoulder and leave drool stains on my clothes. Arghh!

Zombie baby's coming for me; he wants to eat my flesh. Grrrrrr!
Zombie baby's coming for me; he wants to eat my flesh. Arghh!
He does not want sweet potatoes, squash, or brussels sprouts. Grrrrr!
He just wants to gnaw my bones and spit the gristle out. Arghh!

Zombie baby's coming for me; he wants to eat my flesh. Grrrrrr!
Zombie baby's coming for me; he wants to eat my flesh. Arghh!
It is futile to present him with a teething toy. Grrrrr!
He will only be contented with the real McCoy. Arghh!

Zombie baby's coming for me; he wants to eat my flesh. Grrrrrr!
Zombie baby's coming for me; he wants to eat my flesh. Arghh!
Right now he's not dangerous; this habit's just uncouth. Grrrrr!
But I'm scared of what will happen when he gets a tooth. Aaaaaaaaaaaaarghh!

It's best if this last "Arghh" is sung in a very theatrical, descending scream. Babies, as you know, love that sort of thing.

Homophone

Internet, I am writing to you today to protest the apparent monopoly enjoyed by the Winnie the Pooh franchise as regards infant merchandise.

Please understand that I have no particular objection to Winnie the Pooh himself. I confess, I dislike his voice in the cartoon versions, since it's whiny and too slow and generally not euphonious, but this is a small thing.

Mostly, I am a fan. I like the old-fashioned graphics, and particularly appreciate the gender-neutrality of the color schemes. I am emphatically pro-honey. I am fond of Eeyore and Tigger and especially Piglet.

No, Pooh is not a problem in himself, internet; it's the ubiquity of Pooh that rankles.

To wit: having made no effort to collect Pooh merchandise, the Newt family finds itself in possession of two Pooh crib sheets, a Pooh receiving blanket, a Pooh rattle, two Pooh sleep gowns, a Pooh teething ring, a pair of Pooh footed pajamas, a Pooh hat, and a Pooh paci clip.

And besides the simple overload of a single character in our lives, Mr. Newt and I are starting to be bothered by the frequency with which we find ourselves saying the word "Pooh," which--due respect to A.A. Milne--is not a pleasant word.

Here are some things we wish we had never heard come out of our mouths in the last month or so, in speaking to our cherished son:

• With respect to the P.J.'s: "Do you want to wear your Pooh?"
• With respect to the rattle: "Try to hold onto your Pooh so the dogs don't get it."
• And most egregiously, with respect to the paci clip: "No, sweetie, don't put your Pooh in your mouth."

Ahem. I rest my case.