The Recovery

We've been home from the hospital for four days and have finally started to settle back into something akin to a routine. The chaotic mess we abandoned in favor of the delivery room has now been nursed back into a more manageble disorder. We finally got around to showering the hospital funk from our weary bodies. We've ironed out a few of the kinks related to Young Old's belly demands and sleep (or lack thereof) cycles. We've had time to take a moment and breath in the reality of our status as parents, and what this gift of responsibility for another life truly means.

In other words, we've been laying around doing a whole lot of nothing, clothed in our pj's, watching the boob toob, catching up on some reading, taking naps, eating disgustingly fatty and delicious foods. Oh, and cleaning up a whole lot of piss and shit. In fact, during the early hours of morning Mama K and I have begun to affectionately call the wee one Eat Shit Sleep; despite the distinct lack of the third word, I think Eat Shit is just a tad vulgar when cooed to your son at 4am milk bladder feedings and the subsequent daiper change, however appropriate our weary feelings may be, bless his incontinent little heart.

Mama K has been recovering nicely. She reconnected with her dear friend named Beer (Lagunita's Cappucino Stout, brewed in my hometown of Petaluma, CA. Props!), though no more than a sip until we start up bottle feeding in three weeks, at which point we can let the alcohol in the breastmilk metabolize while chilling in the fridge for a few hours. You see, we've got our alcoholism down to pure science. Um, just kidding, Mom (...but we are in Portland aka Beervana aka Brewtopia, so don't begrudge us our malty-hopped beverages, thanks!).

Onto other small victories...Mama K was exceedingly happy when she was finally able to tie her own shoes again. Don't worry, I gave her a gold star and a cookie for her success. She's also been very excited to have some of her figure back, tearing into the darkest recesses of the closet to rediscover the fashion items she can work towards once again sporting...no more stretchy pants, Bella Bands, suspenders, or super glue needed, thank God.

Unfortunately, we made the horrible mistake of pulling out the scale. You'd think after birthing Young Old the belly worm, she'd be back down to her previous weight class, ready to compete with the other featherweight contenders. Pre-body snatch, Mama K weighed in at 145 lbs. (I know, I know, you'll all cringing for my personal safety after exposing a woman's weight, or even discussing the topic, but rest-assured, Mama K personally approved this story). At her peak, moments before crapping out Young Old, she had moved up the scale to around 193. Upon coming home, after a dainty step onto the scale, we both inhaled quickly in surprise...183 lbs. Apparently, that's the normal amount of weight one loses after birth. 6-9 lbs. for the baby, a pound of placenta (which would be a cool band name, no?), and a pound or two of fluids. Kes, however, after a bit of silent brooding, uttered disgustedly, "Great. That's depressing." We promptly did 478 jump squats and ran a half-marathon to get her spirits back up. [Update: She just weighed herself at 175, and is now feeling much better about this whole process.]

Young Old is acclimating well to this bright, noisy, scent-filled world. He lays there in awe upon waking up from a lengthy nap, contentedly soaking up all the colors and objects he can capture within the foot or so he can focus on. We think he can recognize our voices and has been turning his head to look at us when we walk into the room or sit down next to him, though it is in the realm of possibility that this is mere coincidence. One thing he can do with great certainty is scoot around like a molasses-trapped crab, slowly clawing and kicking around when on his belly. This does not bode well for my plan to avoid teaching him to crawl or walk until the age of 19.

Grandpa Elder-than-Old was in town this weekend, having driven the six hours from Northern California to witness this child, his first Grandson, for a 24 hour period before having to head back home for work the next day. This show of love and commitment to his offspring's offspring came as a bit of a surprise, figuring the last time I had mentioned to my father about coming up to visit the baby when born elicited this response: "Just let me know when he can discuss Sartre and Nietzsche." You've redeemed yourself, my good man. Bearing gifts didn't hurt much either. Young Old is now equipped with a onesie emblazoned with FUTURE PRESIDENT, a t-shirt stating PARTY IN MY CRIB, 2:00AM, and a teddy bear wearing a shirt that says I LOVE MY GRANDPA holding a baby teddy bear.

However hard I try, it's all just too cute for words...