La Vie En Rose

Dear Parks,

I name this entry after an old French song for a couple of reasons-one because I feel it fitting to describe the past month of your life. You turned four-months-old last Friday and while your father, at times, exclaims frustrated, “She cries 80% of the time,” I am your mother. I do understand that being your mother probably gives me a slightly rose-tinted view of you and how you act. But, to me, you are full of goddamn awesome-ness. I know your dad feels this way as well because he only screams about your screaming when your screaming has almost made me scream and with the amount of Xanax I take on a daily basis-that’s a lot of screaming. The other reason I name this entry this has to do with how this song makes me feel. It reminds me of skipping in sunshine and sidewalks I’ve never walked drenched in smells I have yet to smell. You do the same. Despite the screaming

What I find amusing about this situation is the fact that I’m awfully glad that the Powers That Be didn’t give us a “normal” baby. I say “normal” because everybody that meets you says you are the most laid-back “chill-laxed” child they have ever seen. And I must admit that most days you sit back and enjoy the ride that is your current life. You handle things much better than your mother and father. Sometimes, while we are both freaking out around you, you just lay back and smile really big and if you didn’t look exactly like my grandmother, I would wonder where you came from. Large amounts of anxiety should be hitting you genetically from every single side of your DNA. How are you escaping this? And if your takin’ something on the side, you should really let Mama in on it.

Last night your father walked in and told me he had some “really bad news”-and other than your head suddenly exploding from the amount of formula you are currently scarfing-there really wasn’t one single thing I could think of about you that could be “bad news”. It was at this point he decided to inform me that you were not my baby. For half a second, I totally believed him. After all, you enjoy watching football and will sit in your own poop and smile for whole minutes at a time. These are all traits of your father.

This month you learned to roll your tongue and hum. You talk to us in a little bird-y voice trilling your “rrrr’s” in this extremely pleasant tone with a big smile on your face. When I roll my “rrrrr’s” and answer you in the same way your eyes get huge and its like you just realized I’m not mentally retarded and can actually speak-instead of just stare at you and grin insipidly. Then, when you realize that the gin and tonic I’m pretty sure you asked for isn’t on the way like you wanted, you start screaming and realize that English is a shit language that the rest of the world doesn’t speak anyway. I’m expecting you to start asking for a bottle in Spanish because-after all-it’s a much more useful language and your early mastery of the rolling of “rrrrr’s” gives you a leg up.

About three weeks ago you discovered the remote control and JESUS CHRIST I can’t explain your love for it. Sometimes your dad will hand you over when you are screaming and will quickly leave the room to give his ears a break from the deafening wails and when the room immediately becomes quiet upon his vacating it, he will walk back in to see what magical “mommy trick” I have pulled from my repertoire to quiet the desperate wailing. It is then that he will see me sitting on the couch waving the remote control in front of your face while you purse your lips, bounce up and down, and scream, “Ooooh, ooooh, ooooh” like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Your father will then call me a cheap whore for using electrical appliances to keep you entertained. Whatever it takes, kid, whatever it takes. That’s our main parental philosophy at this point.

We are what is called a “baby-led” household. You eat when you want, you sleep when you want and you poop when you want. We do what you want (except sticking forks in electrical appliances. We only allow that after six months of age-or until you at least grow enough hair to make it entertaining). We also “co-sleep” “Co-sleeping” basically means you sleep in-between us with all of your appendages flung out to the far corners of the bed. This relegates your father and me to tiny portions on opposite sides of the mattress teetering on the edges. We don’t care. You sleep ten hours straight at night and for that, my dear child, you could sleep on top of me and periodically spit up IN MY MOUTH. I don’t care. This arrangement also conveniently prevents unwanted siblings which I'm sure makes us both happy at this point.

Getting nine hours of sleep a night has allowed your mother to not only have a baby and return to work. But, it has allowed me to decide to change jobs and take on one that is much more challenging and full of responsibility. You know, because getting married and having a baby in one year wasn’t enough. I blame this all on a rush of post-delivery hormones that forced me to believe I was a super competent adult who could actually “have it all”. This is still up in the air. But, things are looking promising. And, every day that you are actually ALIVE proves that we must be doing something right.

Your GG takes pictures of you during the day and sends them down the street to the Kroger to get processed and then gives them to your father when he picks you up after work. I’m appreciative of that as I wasn’t sure that real hard copies of pictures actually still existed until your GG started doing this. Every time she gives us a new picture I marvel and marvel at how much you are starting to resemble my grandmother. I mean, minus the mustache. Thankfully, there seems to be less of the hairy Italian genes in you as you are half-bald and sorely lacking any other body hair (let’s go ahead and thank the Baby Jesus that the hair on your butt you were born with finally fell out. I was really concerned about your marriageability for a while there and thought we might just have to build a house out in back for you to live in and hire someone to come monthly and wax your back-like my Uncle Jimmy)

Other than looking just like your great-grandmother, you smile just like my brother; you have my hands, your Nana’s hair, and your father’s eyes and toes. You are a delightful mix of everything that’s ever happened before you ever got here. Life is, right now, la vie en rose.

One day you will make fun of me for all this horrible old time-y music I listen to and I look forward to every minute of it. After all, things aren’t nearly as much fun as they will be when I teach you to cuss and we are finally on even ground.

Love,
Mama