Sweet Baby – Week 17

First the disclaimers: I have a cold. Trombone is teething like a sonofabitch (seems to get worse once a week or so). Poor Saint Aardvark is clawing at the door, he wants so badly to get the hell out of here. (The catt is climbing the walls but this is not unusual.)

However, you all know how I feel about the number 17. It’s perfect, it’s everywhere, it’s the leader of the pack, it’s an average, everyday sane/psycho supergoddess. It has wings. It will absorb all your blue water and come back thirsty. It loves love.

For example: Trombone is in his 17th week on earth. On Wednesday he weighed in at 17 lbs 3 oz. See how perfect? How can I not post? Can I not post? No, I can not not post.

He gets weighed at the weekly Mom & Baby drop in at the community centre. There are several moms with a vested interest in Trombone’s weight. They gather ’round and stare at him while he sleeps in my arms (he always falls asleep at the drop in – I think it’s the echoing zoo-like atmosphere of 30 babies under 6 months old in a gymnasium) and marvel wow, he’s so big! don’t your arms hurt? how much does he weigh now? and I say yes, not all the time, 17.3 this week . One woman asked me if I was going to start feeding him solid food early because his weight was so good. I think she must think that breastfeeding is just to fatten a baby up until he’s heavy enough that his nutrition is no longer in jeopardy. I guess? I was confused by her question, so I just said, no. too much work and she nodded. No one wants More Work.

Until the teething demon took hold of Trombone’s soul at about 5 pm on Friday (coinciding with a visit from a friend, naturally, as everyone who comes to visit must be subjected to as much screaming as possible – the last person who came to visit got to watch me turn the vacuum on and off and on and off again and again while Trombone lost his shit.) he was having a great week. He had naps, even.

And was quite pleasant the rest of the time.

On Thursday we went with my mom and cousin to a strange mall (someday I will write a book called “Strange Malls: My Life in Suburbia”) over the Queensborough Bridge and he consented to being carried in the Bjorn through several stores, including Wal-Mart and for several hours, without so much as a “hey, change my diaper” squeal. So I got new pants!

He has taken to waving his right arm around madly, sometimes beating his thigh (or me) with it and saying, “Rah rah rah rah rah rah!” Usually this means “Feed me!” We figured out why he won’t suck his thumb – because he’s actually chewing everything that goes in his mouth and his thumb is probably sore. He has gnawed on the knuckles of me, his father and his grandmother and we all agree: kid needs a stainless steel finger-shaped teether. I’m just going to keep shoving things in his mouth in the hope that something will meet his approval.

We stopped in at the coffee shop yesterday on our way from the library book sale and Trombone was quite happy for a little while, perching on his papa’s lap, snatching at his security beard and looking at the cute baby in the shop window. Sadly, we did not make it to the pumpkin patch after all so we did not get a free house/pumpkin/hot chocolate. But I had a London Fog latte, which turned out to be Earl Grey tea with steamed milk. It was one of the wussiest drinks I’ve ever had, but that’s what I get for ordering something without asking what’s in it.

Trombone pities the fool who is his mother.