I woke up around seven — which surprised me, since I thought the nurses would be bringing Sophie back from the nursery at six. On the other hand, I’m not complaining; thanks to a change of shift and the nursery’s decision to run her tests and screens (which she all passed), the nurses didn’t give her back until eight. Is it horrible of me to be deeply, deeply thankful for this? The extra time made it possible for Christy to mostly finish her breakfast (French toast, although she didn’t realize it wasn’t regular toast until she’d put jelly on it), take a shower for the first time since the birth, and go to the bathroom again. It also made it possible for ME to once more become conscious; reading over what I wrote last night, it’s pretty clear that I was whimsical from delerium.
No one seems to believe me yet when I tell them what Sophie likes (swaying, swiveling, being walked around, tight squeezing) and doesn’t like (stroking, bright lights, bumping, rocking, thumpy noises, and everyone in the world except me — and, grudgingly, her mommy.) At least, this is how it seems to me; every time I just about have Sophie calmed down and happy, someone will step into the room, wait for me to say something like, “Don’t turn on that light; she hates that light,” and, with thoughtful, contemplative, and deeply sensitive looks on their faces, immediately turn on the light in question and start poking my daughter in the forehead. I may start telling people, “Don’t give me money. Sophie hates that.”
Sara’s heading out this afternoon, back to the “real world,” her husband, and her new job. On one hand, this thought leaves me more than a little concerned; I really appreciated her presence (and her expert swaddling technique) last night, and can’t imagine how I would have slept at all if she hadn’t been available to assist Christy. On the other hand, it’s nice to not have to worry that I’m putting somebody out — and it’s nice to be alone with my wife and baby. It’ll be even better when we get back to the house and I can again walk around naked; sadly, the nurses pop in too often, and with too few warnings, for that to be practical here. The thought occurs to me that it will be strange, once Sophie is old enough to care, to have to be fully dressed at all times in my own home; sitting on the couch in tattered underwear will cease at some point to be an option. I may have to start a list of the hidden costs of parenthood.
But, anyway, since Sara’s leaving later, I seize the moment and head home to shower, pick up a fresh set of clothes, and — because I’m a geek who’s been thoroughly corrupted by this digital age — upload our photos to my website and E-mail announcements to the appropriate people. The cat, fish, and birds are all fed; the garbage is removed to the curb. I am, in fact, a blur of useful domestic activity for a few minutes. At this point, I wander over to the neighbors and let them see the pics and hear the birth story — which has by now evolved into a full-blown legend, complete with iambic pentameter; I’m getting good at telling it.
viagra sans prescription The cause may be any like the excessive intake of alcohol or narcotic drug and the side effects they embody. The problem of erectile discount tadalafil dysfunction can be reduced. 4. Don’t mix this drug tadalafil 50mg with other ED medicines Don’t take fatty or heavy meal before taking this drug. Ignore everything else 2) The goal in terms of erectile dysfunction have viagra 50 mg videoleadspro.com been out in the form of tablets.
I leave the house only a little behind schedule and pop into work, where I show everyone there the pictures and, again, fill in all the necessary details. Two of my coworkers are lithe girls about Christy’s size, and wince in sympathetic agony; this, too, is a reaction I’m coming to expect, and it’s oddly gratifying every time it happens. Walt is, naturally, dismayed that I’m going to be out all next week — but I don’t feel even slightly guilty about that decision. Heck, if I thought for a moment that I could get away with it (and afford it), I’d invoke FMLA and take the full three months. It’s odd to think that Walt, who’s probably not any older than his mid-’40s, is still of an age of men who were expected — even required — to keep stiff upper lips and leave their babies in the care of their wives a day or so after delivery, returning to work with the occasional baby picture and call to the hospital. Society has made some progress on this front, I believe; not only do I think I’ve been some help to Christy throughout this process, but I think it’s been good for me, as well, to be here for all this — and to continue to be here.
A guy at work tells me that his first was born by C-section and turned out to be 12 and a half pounds; the doctors were apparently awed and amazed. I can’t even imagine it — although, to be honest, it seems to be that a C-section would probably have been far, far easier for Christy than the natural birth we wound up having. So, as far as I’m concerned, my birth story wins even if he’s got three pounds on me.
I get back around 11:30, flowers and chocolates tucked under my arm, and immediately wake Sophie by making the classic new father mistake of walking into a room that contains a sleeping baby. I atone for this by walking her back to sleep.
Going about my business.
I woke up around seven — which surprised me, since I thought the nurses would be bringing Sophie back from the nursery at six. On the other hand, I’m not complaining; thanks to a change of shift and the nursery’s decision to run her tests and screens (which she all passed), the nurses didn’t give her back until eight. Is it horrible of me to be deeply, deeply thankful for this? The extra time made it possible for Christy to mostly finish her breakfast (French toast, although she didn’t realize it wasn’t regular toast until she’d put jelly on it), take a shower for the first time since the birth, and go to the bathroom again. It also made it possible for ME to once more become conscious; reading over what I wrote last night, it’s pretty clear that I was whimsical from delerium.
No one seems to believe me yet when I tell them what Sophie likes (swaying, swiveling, being walked around, tight squeezing) and doesn’t like (stroking, bright lights, bumping, rocking, thumpy noises, and everyone in the world except me — and, grudgingly, her mommy.) At least, this is how it seems to me; every time I just about have Sophie calmed down and happy, someone will step into the room, wait for me to say something like, “Don’t turn on that light; she hates that light,” and, with thoughtful, contemplative, and deeply sensitive looks on their faces, immediately turn on the light in question and start poking my daughter in the forehead. I may start telling people, “Don’t give me money. Sophie hates that.”
Sara’s heading out this afternoon, back to the “real world,” her husband, and her new job. On one hand, this thought leaves me more than a little concerned; I really appreciated her presence (and her expert swaddling technique) last night, and can’t imagine how I would have slept at all if she hadn’t been available to assist Christy. On the other hand, it’s nice to not have to worry that I’m putting somebody out — and it’s nice to be alone with my wife and baby. It’ll be even better when we get back to the house and I can again walk around naked; sadly, the nurses pop in too often, and with too few warnings, for that to be practical here. The thought occurs to me that it will be strange, once Sophie is old enough to care, to have to be fully dressed at all times in my own home; sitting on the couch in tattered underwear will cease at some point to be an option. I may have to start a list of the hidden costs of parenthood.
But, anyway, since Sara’s leaving later, I seize the moment and head home to shower, pick up a fresh set of clothes, and — because I’m a geek who’s been thoroughly corrupted by this digital age — upload our photos to my website and E-mail announcements to the appropriate people. The cat, fish, and birds are all fed; the garbage is removed to the curb. I am, in fact, a blur of useful domestic activity for a few minutes. At this point, I wander over to the neighbors and let them see the pics and hear the birth story — which has by now evolved into a full-blown legend, complete with iambic pentameter; I’m getting good at telling it.
viagra sans prescription The cause may be any like the excessive intake of alcohol or narcotic drug and the side effects they embody. The problem of erectile discount tadalafil dysfunction can be reduced. 4. Don’t mix this drug tadalafil 50mg with other ED medicines Don’t take fatty or heavy meal before taking this drug. Ignore everything else 2) The goal in terms of erectile dysfunction have viagra 50 mg videoleadspro.com been out in the form of tablets.
I leave the house only a little behind schedule and pop into work, where I show everyone there the pictures and, again, fill in all the necessary details. Two of my coworkers are lithe girls about Christy’s size, and wince in sympathetic agony; this, too, is a reaction I’m coming to expect, and it’s oddly gratifying every time it happens. Walt is, naturally, dismayed that I’m going to be out all next week — but I don’t feel even slightly guilty about that decision. Heck, if I thought for a moment that I could get away with it (and afford it), I’d invoke FMLA and take the full three months. It’s odd to think that Walt, who’s probably not any older than his mid-’40s, is still of an age of men who were expected — even required — to keep stiff upper lips and leave their babies in the care of their wives a day or so after delivery, returning to work with the occasional baby picture and call to the hospital. Society has made some progress on this front, I believe; not only do I think I’ve been some help to Christy throughout this process, but I think it’s been good for me, as well, to be here for all this — and to continue to be here.
A guy at work tells me that his first was born by C-section and turned out to be 12 and a half pounds; the doctors were apparently awed and amazed. I can’t even imagine it — although, to be honest, it seems to be that a C-section would probably have been far, far easier for Christy than the natural birth we wound up having. So, as far as I’m concerned, my birth story wins even if he’s got three pounds on me.
I get back around 11:30, flowers and chocolates tucked under my arm, and immediately wake Sophie by making the classic new father mistake of walking into a room that contains a sleeping baby. I atone for this by walking her back to sleep.
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