Comma Dot Comma

The other night was lonely for me. We moved the baby from the cradle in our room to her crib in her own room. Gary was up late working and monitoring the baby and I was by myself sleeping for the first time in months. It was an emergency move, precipitated by an unseasonable cold snap– our bedroom is the coldest spot in the house, and its temperature drops 10 degrees during the night even with the heat on, even with new insulation in the attic and a new double-paned window and thermal curtains. I missed propping myself up on my elbow to peek at her, and hearing her little sleep grunts and groans.

Other than my emotions, there’s not really any good reason to keep Abigail in our room. Dr. G’s alarm goes off five or six times when he needs to wake up. The poorly designed plumbing runs through the bedroom walls, making showers and toilet flushes abominably loud. She is a big baby and restless as she falls asleep or wakes, though she now sleeps most of the night. The cradle is the kind that rocks, and even though it is stabilized with pegs (and paper jammed around them), she rattles it with her wiggles and wakes herself up. She scoots up and bangs her head on the headboard, pulls down the bumper, and once got her leg stuck between the cradle’s slats, despite said bumper.

But moving her to another room means the end of one of my cherished rituals. After nursing Abigail in the wee hours of the morning, I stay up awhile longer to pump and catch up on an internet TV show. It is nice to be up alone in the house, with no one to watch or be watched by, no imminent happenings or chores to be done. Then it is even nicer to go back into the quiet room where my husband and baby are sleeping, listen to the long, peaceful breaths of one and the tiny, peaceful breaths of the other, and think, “This is my family.”

Before my own lovely daughter was born, I used to look with I-hope-not-too-thinly-disguised pity upon mothers who lugged their babies around in car carriers and giant strollers. I would watch them try to maneuver around post office queues and waiting rooms with their SUV-like strollers or awkwardly shift a heavy carrier from hand to hand while balancing three other bags and opening a heavy door (yes, I did open the heavy door for them if possible). That will never be me! I thought. It all looked like a lot of rigmarole for just a tiny baby. I was given a really nice ergo baby carrier and bought another wrap, envisioning myself threading easily down supermarket aisles and through crowds of people with my baby happily nestled against me.

Now, I too, have become a plastic-equipment-lugging mother. And yes, it is just as awkward and cumbersome as it looks. But Abigail is so not into holding perfectly still and nestling against my chest where her view of the world is obscured. She loves to be held but she has to position herself just so. And three minutes later, she has to reposition herself just so again, only in a totally different spot. She likes to see my face, hear my heartbeat, and get a 180 degree view of her surroundings, preferably all at one time. She has figured out that if she leans way over so her head is partly on my breast and partly on my arm, looking up, she can accomplish this. But that is not comfortable for long, and you can’t do it in a baby carrier. So, I put her in one of her carriers, and she is quite happy for three minutes… then the shrieks and wild thrashings begin. Alas. I’ll keep trying for awhile, and save the baby carrier experiments for walks at home. In the meantime I’m getting a little muscle definition on the ole triceps, a vision not seen since… well, has there ever been such a sight?