There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t feel badly for something I do to Emory or something he does to himself. Take right now, for example. I put him in a car seat so I could do the dishes, write this, and tidy up. Why does this make me feel as though I’m taking advantage of the little guy? He’s perfectly happy, sleeping soundly, but I still feel badly.
And we have a rule in this house that whenever he gets the hiccups we pick him up. Because the hiccups really bother him. He gets a look like, “What is this spasm? Please stop the spasm.” So we pick him up and rub his tummy. If I don’t catch the hiccups in time, I feel sad. And I apologize to him. And then I think of the number of times he had them in the womb (every night at least once) and I feel badly that I didn’t console him then, too.
Sometimes he punches himself or scratches his face with his razor sharp nails. I have a talk with him, try and reason with him.
He doesn’t get to sit up much and is instead forced to lie around and try and expel gas while the veins in his forehead plump up and his face turns blood red. It looks as if he’s giving birth, dealing with labor pains. I try and help him by pushing up on his feet and sometimes a flying fart will shoot out and go straight up my nose. And after that happens I cheer for him because I know that means he’ll feel relief until the next one.
And pooping while on one’s back should be used as a form of torture.
There was that one time he pooped in the car on the way home and it went all over him. That was terrible especially since we spent at least a half an hour trying desperately to get through Holland Tunnel traffic. I wanted to yell to the other drivers, “I HAVE A NEWBORN IN THE CAR! AND HE IS COVERED IN HIS OWN POOP! PLEASE LET US GO AHEAD OF YOU. PLEASE!” If there’s one thing New York is known for it’s forcing people to tolerate a lot of stinky crap.
And taking him to the doctor and having to strip him down so they can weigh him? That’s almost impossible for me to watch. Thank God Tobyjoe isn’t a wimp.
I’ve already warned Toby that come vaccination time, I’m waiting in the other room. With earplugs. Hopped up on Xanax. Drunk.
And the first time he suffers from a broken heart? Bitch (or dude!) is going down.