The Color of Poo

This weekend, Jill and I went out with some friends of ours. We’ve been friends with this couple for years. They were some of the first people we called when Madelyn was born. As we’ve grown closer to them, we’ve talked about our marriages (good, bad, and ugly), politics, our Christian faith, and everything in between. Until recently, I thought nothing was off limits. But I may be wrong.

While we were in the car, the girls started talking about Madelyn. Well when you talk about the activities of a three-month-old, topics are limited to the basics: eating, sleeping, puking, and pooping. This particular discussion centered around pooping and the nuances thereof. They talked about what Maddie’s poop was like when she was first born – a tarry dark brown/black sticky mess. They talked about how it changed in a matter of about 36 hours to a thinner, less sticky, brown mess. And they talked about how much nicer it is now that it’s just a yellow, seedy, soupy kinda substance.

Jill was just about to describe what Maddie’s poop does a day after we feed her formula when I looked over at Matt in the passenger seat. His face was contorted and half hidden as he reached for the window button. He looked confused, disgusted, and as if he was trapped in a small space with something that was about to explode.

It was then I realized that we talked less about politics and Christianity lately. Of course, we were one of those couples that claimed that our baby would become part of the family, but would not be the center of the family. And I think we’re still working toward this, but Maddie has certainly become one of the focal points of our conversations between ourselves and with friends.

We have friends that we’ve spent less time with now that we have a baby and they do not. In some cases, the fading or complete loss of friendship has been incredibly painful, especially for Jill. On the other hand, some of our friendships with couples with kids have grown stronger now that we have this major thing in common.

But outside of both of these types of friendships are friends that are there for us throughout the changes in our lives. They were there before we got married and after we got married, before we had kids and after we had a baby. And I know they’ll be there before and after we hit major life iceberg.

It’s great to have friends that put up with how excited we get over the color of poo.

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Never Play the Pacifier Game Again – Introducing the Nuk Headstrap!

Why hasn’t anyone thought of this invention yet? Yeah, yeah, choking hazard, blah-blah, I think all pacifiers should come with elastic headstraps.

Madelyn took two naps today while I was home. In each of them she slept for the first 25 minutes. After that she woke up and slept in an ever decreasing interval of time until I was just standing over her crib replacing her pacifier and watching her almost fall asleep before she would spit it out again and cry.

So I think it would save us all a lot of time and energy if we just made sure that our little ones always have their pacifier at the ready.

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Mad Props to Single Parents

I don’t know how single parents do it. I’m embarrassed to confess the rage that surfaces in me when my eight-week-old baby daughter won’t stop screaming her head off. The thoughts that go through my mind after listening to an hour of non-stop wailing would get me arrested if the authorities knew. There are times that I’m pretty sure our daughter wouldn’t have survived if my wife hadn’t walked in the door at the very moment that I was about to throw the kid through a window.

Should I feel guilty about these feelings? Does everyone feel like this? I know that at least one writer/parent does. Anne Lamott writes about her son, Sam in her book, Operating Instructions:

He’s so fine all day, so alert and beautiful and good, and then the colic kicks in. I’m okay for the first hour, more or less, not happy about things but basically okay, and then I start to lose it as the colic continues. I end up incredibly frustrated and sad and angry. I have had some terrible visions lately, like of holding him by the ankle and whacking him against the wall, the way you “cure” an octopus on the dock. I have gone so far as to ask him if he wants me to go get the stick with the nails… I have never hurt him and don’t believe I will, but I have had to leave the room he was in, go somewhere else, and just breathe for a while, or cry, clenching and unclenching my fists.

When I first read this book while Jill was pregnant, I thought, “Sheesh, can’t you be the rational adult in the situation? Babies cry. That’s what they do.”

Now, I say, I feel you Anne Lamott. I feel you.

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