Here I sit at 4:35 am, because it's one of those nights (excuse me, mornings) where I cannot get myself back to sleep after nursing. Tucker doesn't have this problem. In fact, Tucker doesn't seem to have much in the way of problems.
Tucker is, simply put, a ray of sunshine. He bathes everyone in it wherever he goes. He is so very JOLLY, with an infectious smile that melts hearts. He opens his mouth in a wide and wonderful grin, and his eyes crinkle into half-suns. I don't quite know what he's so happy about, but would like to think my endless shower of face-kisses have something to do with it. Before he was born, I couldn't imagine loving another child the way I love Addie. But it's true what they say; the heart just grows, and makes more room.
Addie was a happy baby, but his energy was different. I could leave him in his bassinet for an hour, and he'd find something fascinating to contemplate. Knowing Addie now, I will insist that even at six months, he was trying to solve world hunger issues. But Tucker's needs are simpler, and more immediate. He wants to be held. Alot. He doesn't much care for bouncy seats, jumpys, saucers and swings; within five minutes he's making noises to be relieved of them. But hold him in your arms- usually facing out so he can watch the world- and he's content for hours. He'll sit on my lap as I gab with friends, as I eat lunch, as I read a magazine... he'll just wrap his hands around mine and drool contentedly onto my thumb, smiling unabashedly at whoever engages him.
Not that this blissfully happy child doesn't have his occasional glitches.
As a baby, Addie would fall asleep the moment we got into the car, and would say asleep for hours; in fact, driving was one of the most foolproof ways to insure a good, long nap. But with Tucker, we were slightly dismayed to discover that the boy wakes up and cries every time the car stops.
Every single time.
This doesn't bode well for a family who lives in Southern California, home of the dreaded 405 freeway.
We enact scenes from "Speed" every day, frantically trying to keep the wheels turning, desperate to avoid stop signs and traffic jams. There I am, panic-stricken at the wheel, channeling Sandra Bullock: "Oh God oh God oh God, there's a red light in thirty feet, what do I do, what do I do?!" Stan, doing his best Keanu Reeves: "There's a green arrow to the left. Take it, bail out!" "Where?" "Ten feet ahead. It's all we can do. GO GO GO!" "I can't make it, I can't!" "YES YOU CAN, KIRSTEN! YOU CAN DO THIS! TAKE THE LEFT ARROW! LEFT! LEFT!!"
If the worst happens and we do hit an unavoidable red light, it takes about seven seconds before the inconsolable wails begin. The immiment threat of it is as foreboding as any bus bomb, I can assure you.
Another subtle difference between our two boys: Addie never spit up. I mean, never. I, the proud mother, told myself that my breastmilk must be ever-so-pure and wonderful. I was so pompous. Those poor formula-fed babies, vomiting all over their neglectful mothers. We Chandlers were above such nonsense. Stan and I never carried burp cloths; we didn't need them. We were the envy of damp parents everywhere. When earlier this year we unpacked Addie's old baby clothes to put in Tucker's closet, we marveled that all of the outfits were as pristine and unstained as the day they were purchased.
So when Tucker came home and began to nurse, there was not a burp cloth in sight.
Big mistake.
Tucker spits up. Buckets. Everywhere. On me, on strangers, on the couch, on the floor, on the computer keys. He does it happily. He's downright jolly about it, as he is with everything (except red lights). So much for my pure breastmilk theory. Tucker is Mount Vescuvious. Stan and I were in denial about it for a good four months, never remembering to carry a burp cloth anywhere. Every time it happened, it came as a total surprise. "Whoops" was heard from every corner of the house, morning 'til night. Also, "Tucker, dammit..." "Criminy, kid", and the occasional "Jesus, Lord in Heaven." In the beginning, Stan would sometimes glare at me and ask, "WHAT did you EAT?!" He's since learned this does not go over well and results in the cold shoulder treatment, which adds insult to an already very wet shoulder.
It's been suggested to me that I cut out dairy. I have realized I am not that devoted a mother, and that I am okay with this. Give up cheese? A little spit up never hurt anyone. I don't mind doing laundry four times a day, and honestly, the stains come right out.
When I walk in my mother's house, I can sense her mounting tension as I sit innocently on her brand-new sofa to nurse. Before my boob is out, she has nonchalantly tucked four beach towels under my arms and legs.
We're currently considering investing in those plastic ponchos, the ones you can rent at Six Flags Magic Mountain before you ride Roaring Rapids.
Ah, the adventure of a new baby. The discovery that nothing is predictable; that no matter what you think you know, you will be surprised and humbled. And drenched.
I can't imagine a time when my Mr. T wasn't tucked into the crook of my arm. How perfectly he fits there- his creamy, dimpled hands wrapped around my shoulder, so happy just to be along for the ride. There are new rules, new guidelines around every corner, but I love every lesson.
I'm learning that all we really need is each other, a wide open road, and three changes of clothes.
