It’s a Girl

If you’ve seen season two of the television show “Lost,” you’ll recall that the entire season revolved around the need to push a button every 108 minutes. Why? Because if the button went unpressed, the mysterious island where the show takes place would go nuclear. Or something like that.

At the time, I thought, “Jeez, having to push a button every 108 minutes would really wreak havoc on your sleep cycle.” Now, of course, I know exactly how poor Desmond Hume felt during season two of the show.

Since “Lost” is produced by a bunch of guys, maybe none of them realized that new moms — such lucky ladies! — already get to push a button every 108 minutes. If it’s not time to breastfeed, it’s time to change a diaper, or do laundry, or soothe a fussy baby who’s cross at being left in the bouncy seat for more than 10 minutes.

Having a baby is like becoming one half of a symbiotic organism. This shift is overwhelming both psychologically — I look back at photos of us in Croatia last summer and think, “Where’s the baby? Did we forget her at the hotel?” — and physically. And not just every 108 minutes.

See, once upon a time, I was an adult (sort of ) who generally managed a decent level of personal hygiene (except during the sweaty summer months) and kept a reasonably tidy and clean house (well, kind of grungy on a regular basis, but still). All of that is now gone.

It’s not just that we have a baby who’s a constant physical presence, a little person who — except when she’s asleep — always needs to be held, fed, cleaned, changed, soothed, etc. Now we have a mommy, too, who needs all of the above as well — except that she’s trying to provide both for two people instead of just herself.

Which means that a typical day at our house can feel like two incompetents trying to accomplish the basic tasks of staying fed and clean and clothed. The baby needs to eat every two hours; this is a messy business, speckled later with even messier spit-up. The mommy needs to eat, too; this is also a messy business, with mom cutting up her food into little pieces so she can try to eat one-handed while dandling the baby on her knee and not dropping too much food on herself or the baby.

At 10 weeks of age, the baby has also entered what our diaper service refers to as “the blowout stage.” (Dear God, please let this stage not last too long.) Few experiences are more frustratingly Sisyphean than breastfeeding followed by bathroom disaster (generally a perfect trifecta all over baby, mom, and whatever furnishings happen to be nearby) followed by cleanup followed by the entire cycle repeating itself — a mere 10 minutes later.

Try taking the baby to anything lasting more than two hours and it’s like not pressing the button: everything goes nuclear. Team Caroline and Delphine has already managed to totally trash a parenting class, the doctor’s office, and the audiologist’s office. Heavy-metal bands on tour have nothing on us.

As mom walks barefoot around the house — by the way, that whole barefoot-and-pregnant thing is all wrong, as the barefoot thing comes AFTER the baby is born — she notices how disgustingly black and gritty the bottoms of her feet have become. But she can’t stop to vacuum or mop, because she’s too busy just trying to keep herself and the baby together. Dishes? Lucky Caleb gets to do them when he comes home from work, tired and hungry.

According to a recent New York Times article, placing value on work done with the mind is now passé; instead, we’re supposed to value the broader satisfactions of physical labor. Maybe. But when the day’s physical labors never seem to end, it’s hard to find them satisfying. (Taking a few minutes to blog about how difficult they are? Much more satisfying.)

Frankly, the British empire at its late-Victorian peak is looking better all the time — at least the part in which an army of underpaid, underfed servants helped out new mommies. (I could really go for an ayah right about now.) And what about the pioneers who supposedly built America? Find me one of those moms who, like the one in the Little House on the Prairie series, agreed to live in total isolation with her spouse, give birth by herself, and cook, clean, and raise kids with no assistance whatsoever. If she’s not actually insane, maybe she’d have some free time left over to come help out at our place.

On my way to becoming a crazy pioneer woman myself, I’ve allowed my standards of physical comfort drop way, way down. Red welts on breasts clawed by baby during feedings? Eh, they’ll heal. Forgetting to put on those Brünnhilde breastpads that are supposed to absorb leaking milk? Oh, yeah, the sharp edges of the cross-chest seatbelt digging into tender nipples are the real reason moms don those breastplates. But hey! we just got the baby in the car seat and everything’s packed and it only took us three hours to get ready so can’t stop now! Gotta go!

In the operating room, the single most surprising thing about Delphine’s delivery was her hair. We really weren’t expecting a thick, dark head of hair. And it’s just gotten longer and thicker ever since.

Her hair has inspired numerous ridiculous comments. Beyond the usual “Wow, that’s a lot of hair!” we’ve gotten the following:

1) “You must’ve had a lot of heartburn while pregnant. Hairy babies cause heartburn.” (This was from a pharmacist, who should’ve known way, way better.)

2) “That must be a boy! Only boy babies are born with hair.” (From a middle-aged female shopper at the grocery store, who should also have known better.)

3) “Boy babies always have longer lashes than girl babies.” (From our parenting-class instructor, who may be right, but D’s lashes sure are long. Maybe she gets them from her dad.)

My favorite, though, is the stranger who commented that her faux-hawk was very chic-looking. Thanks!

A librarian came to our parenting class one recent Friday afternoon to talk about reading to your child, er, infant. She held up copies of the popular Tana Hoban black-and-white books, reminding us that little babies supposedly prefer to look at high-contrast, black-and-white images.

Um, sure. If we’re lucky, we can get Delphine to stare at her black-and-white mobile or her black-and-white art cards (both hand-me-downs from pals Ali and Alexandra) for, at most, about seven minutes. Then it’s back to gazing off dreamily into space or — joy! — focusing on us.

That’s OK, said the library lady. Because guess what? You can READ to your baby instead!

Except that the only time D. is awake, of course, is when she’s nursing, and it’s a little tricky trying to maneuver, say, a book of rhymes while trying to hold the baby at the same time. (This is why they say you need, like Shiva, at least three and preferably four arms to take care of a baby.)

Perhaps we should play music while the baby nurses, you suggest? Well, one of our baby books — What To Expect: The First Year — echoes that sentiment. But the book’s take is the old Baby Einstein schtick: Foisting classical music on a tot will make her a genius.

Infancy is also an ideal time to start exposing your child to classical music (play it softly during playtime in the crib, or during dinner or bath time), although many babies seem to prefer the livelier rhythms of rock, pop, or country music.

I call this magical thinking. Music is music, and no single genre is going to make your kid smarter, happier, or more interested in music as a career. Sometimes I find myself humming Beethoven 6 to the baby; other times it’s yet another round of “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree, merry merry king of the woods is he . . .”

Most often, however, Delphine’s chief form of musical entertainment is our silly reworkings of pop songs, generally Top 40 hits from the 1980s and earlier. (This dates us sadly, alas.) At times, the house can sound like a live version of Kiss This Guy, an online archive of misheard lyrics, or Hit Me With Your Pet Shark, a new book on the same topic. (For the confused, the former refers to the Jimi Hendrix line “Excuse me while I kiss the sky,” and the latter to the Pat Benatar song “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.”)

Embarrassing examples include:

“Dream Weaver” = Dream feeder
“Get Up, Stand Up” = Get up, spit up; spit up all your lunch
“Baby Got Back” = I like big boobs and I cannot lie
“These Boots Were Made For Walking” = These boobs were made for sucking
“The Lady Is A Tramp” = The baby is a champ
“Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” = Gunk gets in your eyes
“The Hotstepper” = Here comes the hotspitter
“Keep On Movin’” = Keep on snoozin’
“Scrubs” = I don’t want no chubs
The Flash Gordon theme song = Snack! or Bath!
The Shaft theme song = Who’s the little baby chick who’s the snack machine with all the tricks?

Of course, the little ditties we make up just for Delphine are those we like the best. Here’s one I sing to her when she’s quiet, just looking out the window, her head on my shoulder:

Mon enfant
Delphine
Je t’adore

Mon bébé
Delphine
Mon amour

If we have such a thing as a parenting philosophy, it amounts to little more than a spit-up-stained version of the old credo “Moderation in all things.” Baby D. gets a bath, for example, every few days. Not every day at 7 p.m., nor only when we happen to notice she’s filthy. But just often enough.

We’ve been trying to apply the same principle to parenting in public. Restauranting isn’t an activity we do all that often — we like to cook, after all — but we do enjoy it. And since everyone says eating out with a baby is easiest when she’s small (and therefore, hopefully, asleep throughout the meal), we thought we’d try it.

With baby limitations in mind, we duly planned our dining expeditions carefully. Delphine’s first meal out was brunch — on a weekday, in a restaurant we’d been to several times before, with big chairs, lots of room, few customers, and tolerant staff. D. cooperated perfectly by sleeping in her sling throughout the meal.

A brief afternoon trip to the local Italian bakery came next. No weekend crowds, no morning rush — and not a peep from the sleeping baby.

Heartened, we got a little daring, going out at the riskier dinner hour (bigger crowds, longer waits, and a generally fussier baby) for burgers. Again, snoozeville the entire time.

Lulled by our success, we got ambitious and tried to do dinner out after going to an art opening. That was mistake number one, as D. was getting hungry by the time we were looking for snacks ourselves. Mistake number two was our first choice of eatery, a tavern with tasty burgers.

I’m no expert on Oregon’s liquor laws, but apparently a bar that serves food (as they are all required to do) is not the same as a restaurant that serves booze. The former doesn’t allow minors; the latter does. So we got kicked out of the bar (which I had always thought of as, well, a restaurant) and felt like dogs (which, incidentally, are actually allowed at some bars around town).

Shamed, we wandered down the street to a “real” restaurant for tapas. We were seated right away, but by now, of course, D. needed to eat, too. Clumsy mom spent half an hour propping baby on her arms and trying to feed her in the dark under a nursing shawl (aka The Hooter Hider). Even under the best of circumstances, D. is a noisy diner. For the first time ever, we were grateful to be eating in a loud establishment.

We kept trying, going out in the evening a few more times so that we could simultaneously socialize on an adult schedule and parent on a baby schedule. Tricks we have learned so far:

1) A carefully draped napkin is essential for the adult who is trying to eat and hold the baby in a Björn at the same time, in order to keep crumbs (or worse) off the baby’s head.

2) Banquette seating or, best yet, a booth is vital to both stay out of the waitstaff’s way and to stash all the junk a baby on the go needs (diaper bag, the aforementioned Björn, receiving blankets, etc.).

3) The public — at least in mellow Portland, Oregon — just doesn’t care if you nurse or even change a diaper in front of them. But hearty middle-aged men still crack the same tired old chestnuts everywhere. Last night’s version? A offer to buy our baby from us because she was so cute, followed by an offer to sell us his teenaged son. Ho ho ho.

Happy diners everywhere!

Yeah, you thought Tiny Prints was the name of an online photo-card company. But it’s also the stuff that covers pretty much every item of baby clothing we own.

Sure, there’s the pink girl stuff (hearts, flowers) and the blue boy stuff (trucks emitting industrial pollution). And then there’s the “unisex” stuff, generally yellow but sometimes green, decorated most often with baby ducks.

Given that yellow and green are the bilious school colors of the University of Oregon, and ducks the school’s mascot, you’d think somebody would have cottoned on to this whole yellow-duck-baby-gear thing as a marketing tool. Not yet.

Some of the tiny prints are downright strange. What’s up with the shadow teddy bears? Ghosts of teddy bears past, present, or future? And we’re not sure what the connection is between sheep, rain, and wellies.

Baby D, of course, doesn’t care either way.

These are four bibs handed down to us from cousin Adela. I like to think that a baby would wear them each in turn, the fashion progressing in lockstep with the evolution of the baby from cute little tot to demanding toddler.

But what, exactly, do these bibs say about moms?