We took Graham to the doctor this afternoon to see if she could talk to him about his little attitude problem. Diagnosis: He’s hungry. She said babies 6-8 weeks old go through this major growth spurt freakout and that during that time she has lots of parents running in saying what happened to our baby?? She said babies this age cry an average of three hours a day, which is a LOT – especially if you have a normally mellow baby.

Anyway her theory is that he’s screaming after meals because he’s still hungry and probably also because he cannot believe he got stuck with such stupid parents. She thinks the soy formula helped last night simply because it was a lot more filling. So my new hobby for the next couple of weeks is feeding Graham continuously. I don’t know though, I’m back to feeding him tonight and he’s back to being an asshole but I’m willing to give her theory a fair chance. She seems very knowledgeble despite the fact that she looks like a Barbie doll and I;m not kidding has the voice of an 8 year old girl. For real. Kevin can’t decide whether it’s okay that he finds her attractive because on the one hand she is hot, but then when she talks it’s suddenly very, um, is your mommy home?

We also took Nicolaus in because at lunch today he stuffed bread in his ears “to make them stop hurting”. We’re all getting over nasty colds so I figured he was having sinus trouble again. Diagnosis: Toddlers are freaks who sometimes stuff bread in their ears for no reason.

So basically we paid $40 in co-pays to find out that I worry too much.

Take that bread out of your ear and eat it or we're not goimg to be insiide a whale anymore.

For the last week or so, Graham has been very fussy. I’m being polite when I say fussy. The other day, I took the boys for a walk and left Kevin a note that said, in my best frilly girly cursive, “Gone for walk. Might stop by Christy’s. Love, Tiffany ps. Your children are assholes.”

Nicolaus was grouped in among the assholes because that was the day he pooped in the bathrub and then denied it.

“Mama, I’m ready to get out, please.”
“Okay – let me get your towel. Wait, did you poop in the bath??”
“No. I dinet.” He said this very earnestly as a turd the size of my dog floated past him.
“Nicolaus.”
“Well I just dinnet KNOW. I dinnet know… if. There was a potty in the bathtub or not.”

I put down the fussy (asshole) baby and let him cry while I fished out the poop, then scrubbed down his older (asshole) brother, the bathtub, and all of his toys. He howled when I had to put his plastic fish in the dishwasher, which I really didn’t have to do but it seemed like the most efficient way to clean them and at the same time help him remember that for future reference, no there is not a potty in the bathtub. Those moments where the baby is screaming and the two year old is also screaming and crying and yelling “I’M JUST NOT VERY HAPPY ABOUT THAT.” Every parent lives for those moments. Same rush people get with extreme sports I’m pretty sure.

So Graham has been fussy. Evenings are the worst, but it’s been starting earlier and earlier every night. Oh no, what if his definition of “evening” is the same as my mother in law’s? To her, evening means anything after 1 pm, and supper can be served as early as 12:30. For more and more of the day, I haven’t been able to put him down at all without being struck by laser beams. During and after meals the screaming is pathetic. And honestly very frustrating. Everyone knows logically that a crying baby isn’t trying to stress you out on purpose, but it’s hard not to personify an infant. They LOOK like little people you know, with their human eyes and all. And this kid is very expressive… he can give you some dirty looks like maybe if you would have gotten me a beer like I asked I wouldn’t have to scream at you like this. And I start to apologize, and then I’m like wait! You’re a BABY. No you may not have beer young man. And he’s all, do I need to shoot you with some more laser beams?

We argue like that sometimes until 3 in the morning, and even though I know he’s not just complaining for the hell of it, sometimes it really does feel like he has a malicious desire to keep me from sleeping ever. The other night I almost called the police. “Yeah, hi. My son is here and he won’t stop screaming at me. I think he might be drunk. He can’t walk or anything, and he’s being really horrible and he refuses to leave. Can you come talk to him?”

Tonight we reached full volume around 8:00 and as Kevin got ready for work, we started working together to figure out why our placid, easy going baby is now broken. Clearly this has to do with his stomach. Possibilities: Reflux, Lactose sensitivity, Gas, Meanness.
Reflux seemed to fit better than any of the others. Feeding him sometimes takes two hours because he has to stop and cry before frantically eating again. As we discussed it, I gave up on breastfeeding him and went to fix a bottle. You have to remember that throughout this post, during everything I’m doing or saying, there was screaming.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
“I’m going to make a bottle.”
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
“Good idea”
AAAAAAAAAAAAA
“Where’s the scoop?”
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
“I think it’s in the diaper bag.”
AAAAAAAAA
“There should be another one in the kitchen.”
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
“I don’t see it.”
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
“Well open another can and use that scoop.”
AAAAA
“The only other can we have is that yucky soy stuff. I was going to donate it or something.”
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
“Well use a measuring cup! Or a spoon!”
AAAAA
“WHAT?”
“A spoon!”
“No I heard you, but we can’t use a spoon!”
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
“AAAAAAAA!”
“AAAAA!!”

Somewhere in there Kevin came up with the idea to try giving him the yucky soy formula. Maybe this is a dairy problem! We tried it. And afterwards, he was still fussy but was measurably less belligerent. Hm. So all night as an experiment I fed him soy instead of breast milk. And all night the asshole baby was sweet as a June watermelon. No screaming, no drama, nothing.

Ah, you’re thinking, a happy ending – but no! No no no no. This SUCKS. Very bad ending! Because I feed him with my boobs, and there’s milk in my boobs. I mean besides human milk, there’s dairy and if dairy makes him scream, that means that I need to either give up breastfeeding or go on a strict no-dairy diet.

We’re stupid for not figuring this out sooner, because Nicolaus became lactose intolerant at about this age. But at that point with Nicolaus I hated breastfeeding so much that quitting immediately was the obvious, welcomed answer. By then he was getting about half formula, half pumped breastmilk. There was no magical bonding cuddling wonderfulness to give up. It’s been different this time – I keep meaning to post in fact about how wonderful and magical the stupid breastfeeding thing is. And I think I secretly thought that the only reason Nicolaus rejected my milk was because I wanted him to. It really did not occur to me that Graham would have the same problem, because this time it’s different, this time I want it to work. I’m converted. I get it now, all the stupid hype about the wonderful magical bonding loving lovefest lovey love makes sense to me now. Because when a baby snuggles against you and reaches up and holds your shirt and makes cute grateful little noises, it’s really cute and cool. Why don’t they just say that? Why the need to make up all this nonsense about what’s best for your baby?

So I love it.
But do I love it enough to give up eating chips with queso?

That might sound like a trivial question if you aren’t a person who would live at El Fenix if they had beds, just so you could wake up in the morning and have chips and queso while you watched the sun rise. But believe me, it is not a trivial question. I have a lot of thinking to do.

“You’re an airplane Mama.”

“Cool! And what are you?”

“I’m an airplane too. But I can’t fly yet. My wings are too little.”

“Yeah.”

“And why is Graham… why is he attached… Why is he just attached to your landing gear?”

“Oh! Is that my landing gear?”

“Yes. And he’s attached to your landing gear so he can drink milk.’

“Really!”

“But it’s not really milk. It’s actually oil.”

“Oil? Ew!”

“Bucus Graham is a baby airplane too! And he can’t drink milk. Only oil. And that’s whyyyyyyy! He’s attached to your landing gear right now.”

“Well that makes sense.”

Week 5’s update, had I done it, would have been short: We are all alive. I managed to keep myself and my kids fed and sometimes clothed, and that was it. Graham fussed, Nicolaus whined, I cried, and Kevin slept.

This week was better.

Graham’s major accomplishments
* Acquiring first cold, acheiving whole new levels of pathetic.

* Worshiping his new god when he saw his first ceiling fan last night, at ’s house.

* Smiling more. Are these real smiles? Maybe not, I have no idea how you’re supposed to be able to tell. People just have it in their heads that even though babies smile all the time, it doesn’t really mean anything until they are a few months old. Before that it’s gas. Why would gas make them smile? Gas never makes ME smile. Kevin says it makes him smile all the time because gas is useful for making really loud burps, which annoy me in a funny way that makes him smile. Is that it, Graham? Are you smiling because your gas lets you do gross things? If that’s the case, then I think that should totally count as a real smile. In any case, the smiles are super cute.

* So is the sticking out your tongue at any face you see, including your own when we hold you up to the mirror.

* And coo-hooing. Are those real coos? I don’t know but oh my god. Up until a few days ago, if he made a noise it was always a complaint. It’s astounding to hear him vocalize and realize he’s not fussing. Just making a contented little sigh, Hoooooaohoo.

* Pooping an entire sea of bright yellow poop all over your mother. You’ll pay for that one day, Graham Edison. You think I’m writing all this down for the fun of it? I’m taking notes, and you will PAY. In cash. Pooping on your mother? $140. And yet we will pay YOU if you poop on either of your grandmothers. See how this works?

* Shooting laser beams out of his eyes at anyone who puts him down, even if they tell him a really good reason for putting him down like needing to pee and drawing the line at holding the baby while sitting on the toilet because that’s gross and because I’d die if I had to explain to Kevin how I managed to drop the baby into the toilet while trying to wipe. Are these real laser beams? The books all say that before 2 months old, laser beams shooting out of a newborn’s eyes are probably caused by gas, even if they happen to be directed at people’s heads. In any case, it’s very cute watching him smite all those who oppose him and fail to do his bidding.

Graham’s big butterfly/pilot/train/clown fish/horse/brother
* I’m not sure if this is related to the baby or not, but Nicolaus has now given up all potty training. It has now been a year since we initiated the potty training sequence. Which was all HIS IDEA. No, idea is too mild a word… it was his freakish obsession. It was also my personal hell (that will be $450, Nicolaus). And now, all that work, completely undone. I swear I should get this kid a t-shirt that says “I can do that, but I don’t wanna.”

And he lies about it. To the point of hilarity… he has this weirdly strong sense of smell, okay? Like I’ll wash my hands with a new kind of soap and walk in the room and he instantly says “Oh you smell beautiful Mama!” – So he’ll have an accident and start gagging and coughing and almost crying “What do I smell? WHAT DO I SMELL?”

And we’re all, “Um, did you poop?”

“No, I dinnet,” He answers indignantly. “But what’s THAT SMELL!” Cough, gag, drama. Classic comedy.

* Tantrum city, USA. Very entertaining. “I never get annnyyyting! You never let me have anyting or do anyting FUN.” Gosh, he sounds like Mouse.

* Still totally in love with Graham. I love the way he’ll be working on something important – coloring himself pink with a bath crayon, arranging straws into shapes, pretending that bolts are flowers – and he’ll tell me “Go get Graham so he can see what his big brother his doing.” Because Graham definitely gives a rat’s ass about anything more complex than staring at lights at this point.

How we’re doing
* Today was my 6 week post partum checkup. I weigh about 10 pounds more than I weighed before getting pregnant. I was disappointed until I remembered that wait! My boobs are at least 10 pounds bigger than they were a year ago! Take THAT, diet and exercise!

* I am one crazy breastfeeding rock and roll star. The biggest challenge we’re having at this point is that I produce enough milk for twenty-five or thirty babies. That probably doesn’t sound like a problem, especially if you’ve ever struggled with milk supply in which case you probably hate me a lot right now, but dude. Feeding a baby from a dang fire hose is not quite the peaceful, magical experience that La Leche League promises.

* We figured out how to make these awesome eggroll pocket things. Is that really journal worthy? Absolutely. They are that awesome.

* Emotionally, how are we doing? It’s hard to say. This is a very intense time. Intensely happy, intensely frustrating, intensely emotional and exhausting in too many ways. This week we’ve both been sick, depressed, frustrated over job and money issues, and physically and mentally so, so, so, so tired. And yet there’s this underlying something that keeps us both from completely falling apart. What is it? I can’t speak for Kevin, but for me it’s this awareness that we are so lucky and have this amazing thing going on here and it’s very important that we not blow it. So we’re trying our best to take turns being weak and being strong, and we’re helping each other stay afloat with affection and help and humor. And soon maybe Zoloft.