Cry Baby

This baby cries a lot more than his brothers did.

He's not difficult or particularly fussy. He sleeps fairly well for a 21-day-old. He crashes hard around eleven each night and sleeps until four in the morning, cuddled comfortably into my side. It's a bit unfortunate that he picks 4-6 for his nightly milk fest because if there were two hours I would choose to be asleep on a 24-hour clock it would be those two hours.

Of course, around six, like clockwork, Cue starts to claim false sun sightings. "Sun ON, Momma."

No. Sun not on. I know because I set the god damned sun and it is SO not on.

Digression. Babynater sleeps almost five hours every night and so do I and for now that's pretty darn acceptable. During the day, he's easy to comfort. He's just like both other boys. He either sleeps or he'd like that soft milk delivering nipple in his mouth at all times please. If denied, he spends thirty seconds gaining unlawful carnal knowledge of whatever blanket or car seat part or carpet fuzz is directly beside his right ear before he lets his displeasure with the lack of nipple situation be known.

I'm a very relaxed nurser. I've let all my newborns hang out on my nipple like it's a convenient, slightly awkward for conversation, pacifier. I'm not shy. I don't use a cover or a blanket or a hooter hider. I just pull up my shirt on one side, attach baby, recover unused bewb and move on. Really, I move on, I'm not a sedentary nurser either, much to the horror of any dads at the playground. I police my three other children, I help Cue climb the steps, I get drinks and snacks. I'm an adept, experienced one-hand-for-nursing-baby, one-hand-for-life mom.

Gee didn't cry. At all really. I was a first time mom with few other obligations and his lips remained firmly attached to my nipple for six months. Cue, a little less so, he cried when I was busy, but he also lived for a while as a permanent bewb attachment. Babynater cries. There are parts of the daily routine for my three other children that require two hands. The lunch/naptime hour, bedtime, bathroom breaks. I like to get everyone cleaned up after lunch and into nap and quiet time and then nurse the baby into happy, hopefully quiet oblivion.

I try to time it right, but it seems like he inevitably hits newborn meltdown mode just as I have both three-year-olds on the potty and Cue is desperate for his nap. I put him off. I let him cry. Some afternoons, he achieves that dying nanny goat newborn cry. I know every woman who has ever raised a baby knows this cry.

mmmmm WAHHHHH!!!
mmmmmmmm WAHHHHH!!!
MMMMMMMM WAAAAAHHHHH!!!
uh WAH! uh WAH! uh WAH! uh WAH! uh WAH! na-a-a-a-a-aWAH!WAH!WAH!

Dying nanny goat. Oh God. Every alarm bell in my heart is ringing at full intensity, but I just need five more minutes to get Ess and Gee wiped and Cue's diaper changed and then I'll be there. I know it's okay. It's only been three minutes or eleven million YEARS.

I plough on with the nanny goat sobs jarring every fiber of my being. Just a few more minutes, Ess and Gee are settled in the basement with their toys. One quick book for Cue. He's been crying for light years, glance at watch, or ten minutes now, only ten minutes.

I peek at him on my way upstairs. He is in full on pissed off falling baby monkey mode, arms akimbo, legs kicking, red, sweaty face scrunched into paroxysms of fury. I break a sweat and hurry Cue up the stairs. Cue wants his time, he wants to be cuddled, read a book, he demands his nap time routine. He won't be rushed and when, at the end of the ten minutes, in desperation, I leave him unsatisfied in his crib, he throws himself down and sobs, "MOMMA."

But, he quiets. He's tired. Ess and Gee play almost nicely with their animals in the basement until someone whacks someone else with a plastic elephant. I sit with my sweaty, angry baby and let him nurse until he is relaxed and content and sleepy.

It works most days. We are learning. We go to the park. Babynater sleeps through morning outings. I have time to snuggle Cue at night with Daddy's extra hands present. Gee and I whisper some mornings when he wakes early. Ess goes with me to the store, just she and I.

Most days, it works and some days it doesn't. Some days, some parts of days, no one is happy. I feel tired and deflated and stretched too thin. I wonder. I panic in my head about our choices. What if they were a little further apart? What if we'd waited? So much of their day is spent being managed in mass, like a rolly litter of puppies. Is that okay? Are they okay? Will I know them, each one of them, spend time with them like I should? Maybe it's too much. Maybe I can't do it alone.

Yesterday, it didn't work so well. Nate woke as I unloaded them all from the car and started to fuss. I rushed the older kids to the bathroom. I tried to focus.

"I tirsty, momma," Cue whined as I hurried him up the stairs. If I could just get him down. I tried to carry him up. "MINE do it." Great. That gives me time to beat my head against the hall wall.

"Mommmmmaaaa, I'm finished." Shit. Literally. Ess was still on the toilet.

"Hang on, I'm coming." I held Cue's hand for the last few steps and quickly wiped away my tears with my other hand.

A suspicious quiet settled downstairs. Maybe the baby had fallen back to sleep? (Or been smothered, or been kidnapped.) I flew down the stairs to get Ess off the potty. Gee was not in the other bathroom. He wasn't in the basement with Ess. He wasn't destroying my computer in the office. Somewhere, I heard the murmured tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

Feeling panicky, I checked on the baby and found Gee. Nate was rapt, wide awake, his eyes fixed on his brother. Gee leaned over the bouncy seat, gently singing his own lyrics to Twinkle Star.


Don't cry, baby, do not cry.
I'm your big brother.
I'm your big brother.

Just like that, my three year old reminded me that I'm not alone. We're a family and we all have each other to turn to for comfort. Even when we're about to lose it and do the flailing monkey, nanny goat cry. Or, you know, the ugly, oh-my-kids-are-so-freaking-wonderful-even-when-they-are-completely-overwhelmingly-awful mommy cry. Either one.

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Pssssst. Look Tracey and Pop and Ice, I'm making progress. Flexibility. Change. Popsicles, they're not just for the bathtub any more. Baby steps.