Nathan’s been really fussy with feedings this week. He does not like the bottle. He has to be breastfed. When I try to pry his mouth open, he bats at the bottle and screams something I believe means, “THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE HIGHLANDER!”
During lunch with my mother at PCC:
Mom: Wow, I really like this dessert!
Me: What did you get?
Mom: The apple crips.
Me: The apple crips?
Mom: Yeah, the apple crips.
Me: You mean the apple crisp? What? Is there some kind of pastry gang war going on? Are we to watch out for the peach bloods?
Let’s just say we’re baby-sitting. Little Antonio is staying at our place for a little bit. I don’t want to go into why this is all happening, only that it is and this is the best solution for now. But it is hell. It’s unreal to think that there’s a four-month-old and a four-day-old in my small hovel. It’s only day two and I’ve forgotten the bruising misery of caring for a newborn. I’ve grown accustomed to my heavy, nugget of a baby. With Nathan, he’s husky and durable (wow, he sounds like work boots or camping gear). Warning: CPS-worthy statement coming up and not at all something I would do. I can plop Nathan on my lap or lift him towards the ceiling. I have to treat Antonio like a Faberge egg, whereas Nathan can take a hit.
When Antonio cries, I rush to the crib and try to soothe him before Nathan decides it’s a perfect time to put on his one-act play, “Bloody-Hell Screaming,” as peformed by Sir Nathan McBiteaboob and the There-Can-Only-Be-One-Highlander Players. When Nathan cries, I have to shove a boob in his mouth before he wakes up Antonio and I’m caught in the ninth circle of hell.
If Jar-Jar Binks were to narrate this episode, he would say, “Pleasure this is not. Birth control this is. Jack Daniels please send.”