Mom keeps saying this word, routine, like I’m supposed to know what it means. What is she talking about?

When I was born, I didn’t cry much. Apparently I was supposed to cook a couple weeks longer than I did, and though Mom went to the hospital a month before I arrived and had two steroid shots to pump up my lungs, they still took their time getting ripe. But Mom says that they are making up for lost time now. And I’ve got her number: apparently she read in some book that whenever I cry, she should wait two minutes before checking on me, just to make sure it’s not active sleep or fussiness, because I may just fall back asleep within those two minutes. Well, screw that. I can wait out her two-minute rule and then some. In fact, one of my favorite things to do these days is wait until she lies down for her nap, then push my paci out and release a scream. She waits; I continue. Then–and this is the fun part–as soon as she walks over to me, I shut my eyes and paste that angelic look on my face and fall right asleep.

She hates it. But I figure it’s my responsibility, this breaking of her need to control and plan everything. I mean, life is messier than that list she keeps, right? Especially with kids. Just doing my job here.

The nighttime is still going pretty well; I lay off the tricks then because hey, I need my sleep too. But occasionally, when I do sound the alarm to let her know it’s milk time, I’ll hear a big sigh from her and Dad’s bedroom. Then some brief conversation–he’ll say something I can’t hear (he’s a little quieter than she is) and she’ll respond with something like, “How can you be so sure he’s my baby?” Then she’ll come into my room and I can feel how she’s trying to calm herself down–but usually the only thing that works is  seeing my face. Her mood changes then, and in the 3 am darkness I can even see her smile. Then she’ll say something funny, like quote that show 30 Rock that she loves: “Cranston, why are you crying?” (I know she’s quoting something because my name isn’t Cranston, duh); she also likes that line from the movie Clue: “I had…to stop…his screaming!” By then she’s laughing, and I have to start crying again to get her to hurry up and change my diaper.

She actually talks to me a lot. I wonder if before I came along, she just talked to herself instead? Anyway, we went to Target the other day, and she finally figured out that I don’t like sitting still anymore in my stroller, so she kept things moving, providing narration the whole way: “Boy, you so crazy! Ooh, we could use a waffle maker, don’t you think? Little dude, if you’re going to cry, then you’re going to have to give a reason for it–use your words. Sorry for bumping into that.” (She bumps into everything. When is she going to figure that stroller/walking thing out?)

So I don’t know about the whole “routine” thing, but I guess we do have our own rhythm going on. Speaking of, that rhythm tells me it’s almost milk time. And I see Mom now, tiptoeing around and glancing my way as if I won’t hear and smell her. Nice try, lady. Now bring that food over here.