If Baby Bowie were a machine, she'd specialize in making poo, crying, and confounding and amusing people for hours with her vacant, milk-drunk stares and chubby-cheeked expressions of befuddlement.
Her first 24 hours home have been exciting, exhausting, and nerve-wracking...and I'm not even her mother or father. When she cries, at least three people are on their feet, trying to decipher the particular tone of her cry. Is she hungry and therefore require a breast full of milk? Did she make a poo-pee and therefore require a diaper change? So far, those seem to be the only things she requires...and thank god. If she were crying for higher education, I'd be at a distinct loss.
I got to hold her for the first time today, and let me tell you, it was terrifying. After about 30 minutes, my hand, supporting her lumbar, was cramping. I fretted over moving because of her delicate neck, and her baby body heat had cooked my internal organs. It's like holding a squirming round roast cooked medium rare and covered with down...or a soft loaf of freshly-baked bread with a bomb inside it.
Fiona's been reduced to the function of milk dispenser, and cows to Bowie's incessant, nearly hourly demand for sustenance. Apparently, sucking on my knuckle is not enough.
I can't wait for the day she can feed herself.
Fortunately, I have yet to change a diaper or do any of the other things required of Bowie's parents...hopefully, they won't catch on to that anytime soon, because I am inexplicably beat.
1 comment:
Cheer up! At least she can't talk yet so she can't say the darnest things like, "You look weird."
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