Babyhood (9780062098788) (12 page)

So, according to the experts, when your baby sleeps, you have to go to sleep, while simultaneously doing everything you couldn't do when the baby was awake.

Any way you figure it, those precious windows of opportunity between “He's cranky because he wants to sleep” and “He's cranky because he just woke up” are to be treasured. And maximizing this Golden Time requires precision planning.

“Okay, if we feed him now, he should be asleep in the car. Maybe we can have a conversation. If we take him out of the car just right, he'll very likely sleep through soup, salad, and possibly the main course. He'll definitely be stirring by coffee. Flip him over quick, that'll knock him out for dessert.”

Getting your child to sleep becomes such a blinding obsession, I myself would often lose sight of the big picture: What is the actual goal here?
Constant
sleep?
No
awake-time?
Zero
consciousness?

I mean, we must accept that at
some
point babies have to be awake. They didn't come to the planet just to sleep. Are we determined to get them asleep just so we can get a taste of what life was like
before
we had kids?

Because if we are, then tell me again—why did we have a kid? Just to lie there and look soft and fuzzy? We could have just gotten, say, a peach. A Saint Bernard. A narcoleptic houseguest. Or why not just get a huge chenille bathrobe? Chenille bathrobes are fuzzy and just lie there—why don't we just get us one of those and name it
Michael
? And the great thing about a bathrobe is, no matter how hard you slam a door, it ain't getting up.

The Mad Patter

I
used to think that patting babies on the back was simply to “burp” them: to coax little gas bubbles out of their tiny digestive systems. But, oh, it is so much more.

First and foremost, it is primarily a tool of Distraction. Anytime you see them on the brink of waking up or crying, or detect even the slightest hint of displeasure, start patting. Essentially, you want to talk them out of it. They can be ready to absolutely bawl and explode into a dissertation on “Why Everything Sucks,” but if you pat them just right, they'll stop and turn to you, slightly confused, as if you bumped into them in a crowded airport.

“Hmm? Beg your pardon? . . . Somebody say something? . . .”

Then they spend the next few moments trying to isolate the patting. “Where's that damn rattling coming from? . . . Anybody else feel a shaking? Like a ‘thump, thump, thump, thump?' . . . Nobody? Okay, maybe it's just me . . . as I was about to say . . . Waaahhh . . .” And then they go ahead and cry anyway. But for a second there, you feel very clever. You momentarily outwitted an infant.

If you keep it going long enough, you sort of retune their entire body frequency to the rhythm of your patting. They will ultimately surrender, and go for a ride on your little percussive train.

Sometimes, I must admit, I get carried away. Because patting out the same, rhythmic thump can get a bit monotonous. So you find ways to amuse yourself. You add a few syncopations. You double up the beat, change the feel, transition into a little waltz time, jazz it up, thump out the opening drumbeat of the “Sergeant Pepper” reprise—whatever your mood dictates. But you can become mesmerized by your own thumping prowess. One time I had the baby in my arms, didn't realize I had already successfully patted him to sleep, and for another thirty minutes banged out an entire Tito Puente album on his spine.

Nobody wants to see a baby cry. But the truth of the matter is that, sometimes,
on their way
to crying, babies
warm up
for a cry, and it can be pretty damn cute.

Usually, when they just wake up, babies feel obligated to cry about
something
, even if they're not sure what. So they scan their little brains, thinking of a viable source of discontent. Plus, they don't have quite the
energy
one needs to cry, so they just start to squint their eyes and lower the corners of their mouth, until the entire mouth becomes a downward-facing curve. Like the sales chart of a company about to go under. Or the “Tragedy” half of the Comedy/Tragedy masks.

The challenge I set for myself is, How long can I let that drama-award face go before allowing actual tears? How close to the edge of hysterical can I let him get? What you want to do is catch him just a microsecond before he spills over into a wail. Timing is crucial: If you wait too long, you leave the category of “Fun-Loving Parent” and enter the world of “Cruel for No Damn Reason.” It's a game of risk, the parental version of bungee jumping.

T
here are those who would belittle my expertise in the art of Baby Patting, and argue that thumping someone's torso continuously is not that difficult. If I weren't around, they maintain, the job could easily be performed by a metronome with an oven mitt. But they underestimate what I have accomplished. I've become more than a mere
tapper
, more than a pedestrian
thumper.
I've become, in essence, a great
hypnotist.
The Amazing Daderino.

“Give me a baby on the brink, I will do the rest.”

Even if they're totally awake, I can put them down.

“Look into my eyes . . . Are you looking? . . . Just a moment . . . wait a minute . . . and . . .
Voilà
—ladies and gentlemen, I give you: a Sleeping Baby.”

It used to be, if you put people to sleep, you were considered Dull; now, it's a Gift.

O
nce your child is asleep, however, if you're not careful transferring him out of your arms, you'll wake him up. Then you have to start your act all over again.

Many is the time I've patted my son to sleep on my chest, and then, too scared to wake him, I elect to just lie there. Whatever I had planned to do I forgo and prostrate myself with a small human being clinging to my neck, doing my best to remain perfectly inert. Like Sean Connery and the tarantula in
Dr. No.
(Although with a tarantula, you get bitten and it's over. With a baby, if they start crying, your whole afternoon is shot.)

Not that lying with a sleeping baby on your chest is the worst thing in the world, either. In fact, it's one of the sweetest pleasures I've ever tasted. An entire person curled up between your collar bone and stomach, covering and warming your heart, all the while breathing little bursts of perfect air onto your neck. It's not hard to imagine why moms love the sensation of breast-feeding. For dads, breast-
napping
is about as close as we get.

While you hold your sleeping child, you envision all the wonderful things you hope to do, and all the details of the charmed life you have planned together.

And then they wake up and have no idea who you are. Babies awaken slightly disoriented, with a look that's half Angel and half Lost Tourist. They look up at you like you're vaguely familiar, but they can't quite place the face.

“And you are . . . ?”

“I'm Dad.”

“No, that's not it . . .”

“It's me. Your daddy.”

“Were you here earlier?”

“Of course, don't you remember? I tapped you to sleep . . . Half an hour ago . . . ? Tall guy . . . ? Married to Mom . . .”

It starts to ring a bell.

“Mom . . .”

“The one with the milk.”

“Oh, yes, of course, of course . . . Dad! How are you?”

Step Aside, Please

G
iven how much more naturally competent my wife is at almost all areas of parenting, if I do discover an area where I may have a leg up, I jump on it. I pounce on it like a lion on meat.

One day I walked by to see my wife changing our son's diaper, and I witnessed what, for my money, was a rather perfunctory once-around of the boy's young privates. I said, “Babe, what are you doing?”

She was thrown.

“Why?”

I stepped in with unwavering authority.

“That is
not
how we wash balls.”

“Is that right?”

“That's right.”

“Sweetie, I've been changing diapers pretty consistently for a while now, and . . .”

“Maybe. But let me ask you something.”

“What.”

“D'ya
have
balls yourself?”

“No, but . . .”

“All right, then.”

“So what? That doesn't mean that—”

“Well, I think I know a
lit-tle
bit more about the subject than you do. So . . . do you mind?”

“Fine.”

And as she stepped away, I took over.

“Thank you.”

When she was out of the room, I looked down at my son, who I'm pretty sure was smiling at me appreciatively, and I
winked
at him. It was the first time I'm aware of having a specifically
male bonding moment
with my son. (And certainly the first time I ever winked at anybody.)

“Don't worry, Daddy's here. Daddy knows what you need . . .”

As I proceeded to diaper him, I took the opportunity to wax philosophical about all things masculine and intimate.

“You know, Son . . . as you grow older and bigger and stronger, this area will be very important to you. Oh, I know it means nothing to you
now.
Now it's just the area that gets wetter than every place else. But you mark my words: This area will be your friend.”

Powder, powder, sprinkle, sprinkle.

“But it's also important that it not be your
only
friend. I don't want this area to rule your life as it does with so many fine young men. So much energy in life is spent comparing and competing and discussing this area, but you must remember that this is not the true measure of a man. You know, years ago . . .”

And then I noticed he was staring at me. This whole time, he'd been looking at
me
looking at
him.
I could hear the therapy bills ringing up.

“And that's why, Doctor, to this day I cannot put on a bathing suit if there is a man talking.”

Quickly, I turned my gaze elsewhere and finished diapering him without looking. It was at this point that my bride walked back in the room.

“Sweetie . . .”

“What?”

“You're diapering his
thigh.
”

“Huh? Oh, I know . . . hey, why don't you take over? You know what you're doing.”

Is That a Needle
in Your Hand, or Are You
Just Glad to See Me?

T
aking your child for his first checkup is a big milestone. But it's a mixed bag. On one hand, it's exciting, because your baby, who was born seemingly minutes ago, is already mature enough to be doing things as mundane as having a doctor's appointment. He's like a person. With things to do.

“I've got to stop at the dry cleaner's, then I've got a doctor's appointment, and then I've got a three o'clock reading of
Here Comes a Fire Truck.
So let me pencil you in for tomorrow.”

Clearly time is flying, progress is being made.

On the other hand, your baby is in a doctor's office. He's certainly not going to enjoy it. It's bright, loud, and smells like a hospital, a place he didn't particularly enjoy the first time. So it's hard to imagine anything good coming out of this. All you hope for is that you get a perfect bill of health, which means, best-case scenario, you leave with the exact same baby you walked in with. While you wait in an examining room for the doctor to finish proding and poking someone else's baby, you sit and memorize the posters of disgusting ear infections and faulty lung scenarios that you hadn't managed to worry about yet, but are certainly happy to add to the list
now.
So, even if everything goes great,
you
personally still leave a little worse off for the wear.

When the doctor finally comes in, they immediately—if they're smart—say how beautiful your baby is, how much he's grown, etc. This is, frankly, all you want to hear.

Then you hand the baby over to be examined—a moment that feels somehow a little
biblical.
Gingerly and fearfully, you make of your firstborn a sacrificial offering to a Being with abilities far beyond your own. You have nothing but your faith. And the hope that those diplomas hanging on the wall are not forged.

It's kind of like bringing your car into the shop.

“Uh, yeah, it's not making the noise now, but I definitely heard it yesterday, so, you know, why don't you just poke around and tell me what you think, because I myself know virtually nothing.”

And I felt sad because I realized my son was about to take his first Test. He might not have known it, and he might not have studied for it or worried about it, but the fact that he was—consciously or unconsciously—about to respond, or fail to respond, correctly or incorrectly, and have points added or subtracted from his record—it all just broke my heart.

Ultimately, you realize you can't help him, so you merely wish him good luck and tell him to “do the best you can.”

    

But nothing prepared me for the real heartbreak—the moment of The Shot. The actual injection. You know your baby has to get these shots, but that moment of pain and the look of betrayal in his eyes still haunt me. Babies have no idea there's a shot coming. They don't see the nurse shooting an arc of fluid out of the needle. And if they did, they'd probably think it's just a very small, very pointy breast. They don't know why the nurse is squeezing their little thigh and coming even closer, but they don't mind.

They've finally gotten comfortable, they've overcome the initial misgivings about the smell and general vibe of the joint, and figure if
you
trust these people, if you're comfortable enough to hand over your own flesh and blood to them, they must be A-OK.