Trying Not To Forget...

When M was born, I was so strung out on hormones and fatigue that the first month of her life passed in a surreal blur, and as hard as I try to construct a narrative of how things were, it's pretty impossible. Instead, I have a collection of memory snapshots -- a photo montage of early images that I've been able to recall: The first time I felt her weight on me after she was born. Those miraculous first smiles. Trips back and forth (and back and fourth and back and fourth) to Kaiser because she spit up through her nose, or got the hiccups, or sneezed three times in a row. Incessantly colicky evenings. The first time she really laughed.

Maybe if I had taken anti-depressants blogged then, I'd remember more of those miraculous and terrifying first few weeks.

This time around, I'm still exhausted and hormonal, but I know that unless I make a conscious effort to remember, these first few weeks of Little Homie's life will also evaporate into the ether. Since ze bebe is still pretty much a portable bundle of sleepy newborn cute, I feel like I should take advantage of this time... Alas, in between greedily grabbing time for showers, eating, brushing my teeth and changing my underwear, not to mention hanging out with M, it's not easy to justify an hour spent at the computer. So forgive me for not writing more.

A few people have asked me if the newborn Little Homie is similar to the newborn M. It's funny, but even in utero, I could sense a difference between the two. M was constantly moving - rolling, punching, jabbing, kicking, while Little Homie seemed way more relaxed. In fact, one day, he was so mellow that I called my OB in tears because I didn't think he was moving enough. Turns out, all fetuses are different, and Little Homie was just doing his thing, and chillin' in my uterus. The differences between the two was even more striking when Little Homie was born. M was born screaming -- even when they placed her on my chest after she corkscrewed out of me, she flailed around, disoriented and pissed off. I remember feeling her slimy body tremble as she wriggled and writhed, howling like a banshee. And, for the next three months, that's pretty much all she did along with pooping, eating, projectile vomiting (through her nose) and (occasionally) sleeping. But, when Little Homie slid out of me, he stopped mewling as soon as Dr. B placed him on my chest.

And while I'm enjoying my mellow little dude, I sense that Little Homie merely biding his time and conserving his energy for the toddler and preschool years when he'll be running around in circles, making up for lost time.