Had a son recently. First one. A few stray observations came to mind throughout the first 72 hours or so:
- The birthing classes, “What to Expect” books, and other parents completely failed to crib from Sea World’s orca show, with its “you may get wet” warning, in advising me. Consequently, I had no change of clothes at the hospital. D did. So did T, who wasn’t even born yet. But I was stuck with what I had worn to work that day. For more than the usual number of hours. With bits of projectile vomit to keep me company.
- Also, the birthing class’s indication that “it is never too late to ask for drugs” is sort of bullshit. Nurses will twist the arms of pregnant women with a couple of hours worth of “you’re so close, you’re almost there, so we shouldn’t wake the anesthesiologist.” Hmm..
- The primary reason to keep a man about your life after you’ve been knocked up–well, biologically speaking–is that he doesn’t smell like food. On several occasions now, T has tongued the world with urgency, tried to swallow his fist, and generally acted as if he was hungry, only to promptly fall asleep unlatched with a nipple near his mouth. But when D tried to put him back down to sleep, he’d go right back to indicating he expected snack time to begin in the near future. Only when I tossed the little blighter back in the bassinet did it become clear that he’s just like his poppy: inclined to gorge in the presence of tasty morsels, even in the absence of hunger. Take away the lactating boob smell, and Bob’s your uncle.
I suspect more observations will be forthcoming, but I smell fresh feces emanating from across the room that I must investigate.