sleep wobbles in carrying its shoes in one hand

The boy had three glorious days of those 1-1/2 hour naps. On day four, he decided to just take one 2-1/2 hour nap. On day five, he hardly napped at all.

And so it goes.

It hardly seemed worth mentioning that he was on another poop strike as well. Three or four days. I’d lost track. Ended this morning. Apple butter consistency; pumpkin color; thank you.

He continues to smile like a jack o’ lantern (speaking of pumpkins). All big and wide gaping gums (wherein the teeth slither insinuatingly upwards, the pain of which sometimes takes that smile away).

He’s also begun grabbing things in earnest, putting them in his mouth. He had a good hold of one of his brightly colored ring/rattle/sunface things for a fair long bit today, seemed content to hold it and then sometimes let it slide down his arm — too big for a bracelet, more like a jaunty purse, hanging in the crook of his elbow as my mother’s helper carried him around.

He barely cried with her today, which was a relief for both of us. Though she spent more time with him as a result, and thus my laundry still needs folding. She’s coming back tomorrow, though. I’ll get her to do it then. This mother’s helper thing is ingenious. I never liked folding my laundry. Why didn’t I think of this before I had a baby? I should have been subcontracting out my chores a long time ago. I’ve never been very good at doing them. Except I doubt I could’ve found a teen willing to come over and do my chores without there being any cute fun baby time involved.

I haven’t been sleeping much because I am less and less willing to go to bed at 8 p.m. and thus when the boy wakes at his usual 12-1-2 (pick a time, any time) and then continues to wake 1-3 hours from then on, well, you get the idea.

This morning I ordered two new baby carriers from the diaper service. Possibly my favorite thing about the cloth diaper service, aside from the whole here’s-my-dirty-diapers-you-wash-them, is that they are attached to a retail store with all this really great stuff and all I have to do is call and ask for what I want and they bring it with the clean diapers and charge my credit card. Voila! So today, I asked for a sling and an Ergo. The sling because I want something soft that doesn’t require a master’s degree in origami to put on (a.k.a. my beloved but a little ungainly Moby Wrap), and the Ergo because as ergonomic as that new Bjorn claims to be with its lumbar support, I’m finding that as the boy gets bigger, it’s starting to hurt my shoulders. The Ergo uses hip support, ergo…

In other embarrassing news: I didn’t realize the whole months/weeks thing with babies is different than pregnancy. In pregnancy, every four weeks is a month; i.e. at 40 weeks, you’re actually 10 months pregnant. In infancy, the babies age by weeks until they reach 12 weeks and then you switch to months, but you count real months, by the baby’s birthdate. So I’ve been saying Jonah is four months for a couple of weeks now, but he’s actually four months tomorrow. So there you go.

One function of realizing his age is that it’s dawning on me that another promised milestone is not yet met. That one about his digestive system getting more organized. He’s still spitting up like a champion, if it were a sport. I’m starting to give up hope. Not to mention giving up on all the dietary stuff I’ve been doing. Well, not all. Still going to avoid cow dairy since that keeps his baby acne at bay. But my enthusiasm for the rest of it is waning. And that includes the (insert expletive here) cranial-sacralists. I tried a new one yesterday, but the story is still the same. You’d think, if cranial sacral work was effective, that on this, his sixth appointment between three practitioners in his four short months of life, someone would report a little progress, say something encouraging. But it doesn’t seem that way.

Again, his “volmer” was adjusted. What’s a volmer? I don’t care anymore. Again, his digestion was “worked on.” Again, some “releases” were reported. And today, yes, we had poop, but we would have eventually. It’s the spit up I’m sick of and the spit up remains the same. So I’m ready to quit the whole thing. But then…

My friend who had the perfect water birth, her baby doesn’t spit up. She says her hippie earth mama friends report success with cranial sacral work on their spit-uppy babies.

Argh.

Would my boy be bigger if he didn’t spit up? I can’t help but wonder.

Of course the doctor isn’t worried. Nobody in the medical profession worries. Some babies spit up, some don’t. Nobody knows why. Nobody cares, as long as the growth remains on an upward curve of some kind.

The psychic chiropractor thinks he’s healthy too. Just a boy with a sensitive digestive tract. Not that that makes me feel better anymore. I don’t know. I’ve lost my faith in all the things, wacky and otherwise, that I’ve been doing. Like someone just told me the truth about Santa Claus. Smoke. Mirrors. Oz.

Oh phooey! Listen to me getting all maudlin. I’m fine, he’s fine. I still feel like it’s my fault every time he spits up. But what’s being a mother for if not to enjoy (and later exploit) the exquisite knife pain of guilt?