Annika: Two Weeks and Counting

Early morning. I make coffee, download emails, listen to NPR, start writing something.

Marin was awake most of the night again. She may not see Teo before he leaves for day care this morning.

Time passes. At 6:30 I gently hoist Teo out of his crib, and carry him upstairs to where his “juice and nurse” is warmed, waiting for him. He proclaims that he doesn’t want me touching him, so I go back to my computer. After 20 minutes, he’s more interested in interacting.

I ask him what he wants to eat, strongly suggesting, “cereal?” He agrees. It’s the cooked multi-grain all organic cereal I make in week-sized batches, warmed in the microwave with applesauce and yogurt and maple syri-up. That’s his pronunciation. I always miss his odd ways of doing things when he figures out the right way.

He poops in his diaper :-( then says he wants to sit on the potty :-) but it doesn’t produce anything :-( then I take him down for a shower, which he resists, but I insist on. When he says he’s done showering, he hasn’t washed out his undercarriage at all :-( which I assist with. Then he wants to do a “slippy bath” which is to sit in a couple of inches of water for fifteen minutes, playing.

I go back upstairs to finish up my breakfast, rudely interrupted by thoughts of him hitting his head and drowning in two inches of water, which electrifies my race downstairs listening for any sounds to discover, with great relief, he’s draining the tub and ready for clothes.

This “raising kids” thing, it’s to break your heart. Like: Matteo going to sleep. For the nap yesterday afternoon, he wakes up in the transfer from the car (he’d fallen asleep on the way from skiing to the post office). He’s crying and chanting “it’s not time to sleepy pie,” and I try to enfold him gently on the guest bed, but he’s all wriggling and complaint, until I quietly insert my entry into the noise-fray with a story, which evolves quickly from nothing to be about Pooh and Piglet skiing to the top of Galleon’s lap, the enchanted place at the end of “House at Pooh Corner,” and he quiets, eyes staring at the ceiling (I peek, because I can only tell stories with my eyes closed), but the story doesn’t work, and he doesn’t take a nap.

Later, at 8 pm, I am again telling a Pooh story, arm thrown over my 35 pound 3 year old who wiggles and sighs, and tries to sleep, who puts arms around me and squeezes me tight and then breathes in my ear for a couple of minutes before rolling over the other way. The magic isn’t working, he’s not going to sleep. So I kiss him, urge him to close his eyes, and give him another half hour to himself, in the big bed, and by then he’s managed to sleep. I will so miss this when it’s over. Is there someting else to take its place?

After he’s dressed, Teo and I drive over to day care. It’s thirty degrees. Two weeks ago, when Annika was born, it was minus 45. Hard to grasp.

When I get home, Marin’s up with the little girl. The phone man comes, tells us our phone is okay, and Marin is trying to eat, Annika is squawking, so I lay my thoughts to rest and carry her around and go outside into the warm brightness of early morning.

She looks around, as I pace around on the deck, keeping the bounce going. Such big eyes. I have entirely forgotten what it’s like to have a little tiny baby around. She is a great receiving. She takes it all in, looks around, unable yet to respond. No smiles, no recognition, no ability to do anything but gaze at you, scrunch up her face in displeasure, and cry when something isn’t right. I haven’t noticed her even cooing with happiness, yet, but I’m not always in the know – Annika’s presently a fully owned subsidiary of MamaNurseWorld.

But she is, I’ve discovered, entirely susceptible to kisses, kisses on the forehead, the nose, the ears, the bald head, all warm, sweet, lovely this little eeny baby girl, receiver of kisses.