day 4

thursday: rebound

It is truly remarkable the difference a full night’s sleep can bring. Logic and reason return to one’s repertoire of facilities and, perhaps more critically, they are accompanied by humor and perspective. After Clara’s sister and boyfriend left and it was just Baby Poogie and me, we bonded in a way that was I think a turning point in our relationship. Did we stare deeply into one another’s eyes and come to some unspoken, unconscious understanding? No. Did I hold her naked body close to my beating heat instilling in her the message that I would always be there for her? Not exactly. Did I leap into a stirring oration about the love between a father and a daughter at the end of which my two-and-a-half-day-old child touched my face and said, “Da-Da”? Not quite.

What did happen is that over the course of that morning I changer her diaper several times. Each time she howled as if I was removing her intestines and replacing them with a new set of clean ones. After each of these traumatic events I would swaddle her. At first these efforts were quite sloppy but they improved over the course of the day. I observed that when she became fussy she would flail her little arms about, knocking out her pacifier and, more alarmingly, punching herself in the face. Thus tight swaddling became crucial. Referencing one of the many baby books strewn about, I learned the differences between the “quick” and “burrito” wrap and became expert at achieving both.

For better or worse, I also became “hardened” to the sound of my daughter’s cry. I know this sounds bad, but this was probably the most critical thing to happen that morning. It’s not that I learned to ignore her audible protestations, but I did learn to not take them so personally. before they were a parallelizing distraction that would prevent me from thinking clearly. By Thursday they were merely a symptom to be addressed (Baby is crying. Why is baby crying? Did Daddy bump Baby’s head against the wall? No, we’re good. Is Baby hungry? No, she just ate. Is Baby’s diaper dirty? Bingo. When the hell did Baby eat something with sesame seeds? Good question, but not one that is critical to answer right now. Keep moving.)

Throughout the morning I also perfected what I came to call the “over-the-shoulder-potato-sack” hold. This became the most sure-fire way to keep my first born from screaming her precious little head off. Hefting her over my shoulder and patting her fairly rigorously on her back seemed to soothe her when nothing else would. The discovery of this magic bullet was crucial. That and the fact Clara’s milk came in.

Having allowed Clara to enjoy a relatively easy morning I felt confident enough to make a brief appearance at work in the afternoon. It was a good thing to see the outside world again (as it was when I briefly returned to the house on Tuesday) and it was also fun to retell the stories of the past few days. I did find, however, that I struggled when I was asked if bringing the baby home had been the most amazingly wonderful experience ever. The proper answer of course was “yes, absolutely” but I didn’t really feel that to be the case. The reality was that it been hard - really hard – and at that moment the triumph was in merely surviving. In time I knew I could probably answer that question properly, but a little more time needed to pass.

The funny thing about memory is that even from the perspective of only a week, I know look fondly back at this time even though at the time it was one of great uncertainty. I feel nostalgic for this particular morning because I now know how this particular chapter turned out. As I held my child in my arms and “There Will be Blood” played on the TV (Baby’s first movie), I saw light return to the world outside my window. As the bluish light of dawn embraced the world outside I felt that I might just survive the daily slog of ensuring my child survived the day. It all seemed possible. And now, of course, I know that it was.