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.

Mom is having her coffee and watching Live with Kelly right now, so I figured it would be a good time for me to give an update. She seems to not like being messed with while she’s drinking her coffee…or her wine…or anytime, really. So here goes.

We had a rough couple of days earlier this week that were brought on by a rough couple of nights. Mom and Dad didn’t catch on to the fact that with all these bubbles inside of me, I might not like lying flat on my back in that cage all night long. I mean, hello? Two graduate degrees between them and this was a news flash? Mom got on the internet, which, second to those books she’s always reading, is her go-to solution. I heard her mutter, “YES! That’s it!” and call Dad to tell him about some magical chair. When he got home from work later (but not soon enough, according to Mom), he was carrying a big box that they opened together. A few minutes later, I had my own recliner. It still sits in the cage they call my crib, but it lets me sleep at an incline that makes it easier for me to push out the bubbles. Now, instead of dissolving into tears or frustration when the bubbles come out, Mom laughs and Dad says, “That’s my boy!” And I’ve slept a lot better since. They don’t seem to realize that a lot of the things that irritate them could be fixed if they would just use their heads. I can tell already that I have a lot to teach them.

Those rough couple of nights, when I would have to cry because–hello again–I haven’t learned to talk yet, Mom would come into my room all tearful and upset and say things like, “You just ate two hours ago! Why is this happening?” Which is funny, because she always seems to be stuffing her face and you don’t see me keeping track of how often she eats! It’s not like I’m asking her to cook up a full meal like she does for Dad, either. All she has to do is pop that shirt open and sit there while I do all the work. I mean, really. And after I ate and she burped me for, like, a minute, she put me down in that flat cage and how could I help it if the bubbles started up again and I had to cry? I heard her over in their room–she told Dad something like, “I can’t look at him right now. You go.” Well, Mom, you don’t look so hot at 4 in the morning either. Just saying. And how about a breath mint every once in awhile?

But we’re doing a lot better now. Mom is closing her eyes a lot more–not just in frustration at my feeding schedule–and saying words to God, and that seems to help. She also likes to get on that internet and play videos of someone named Stefon on a show called Saturday Night Live–he really makes her laugh. And she and Dad make each other laugh too. The other morning, he called to check in (he does that a lot–he must be worried that she’ll do something crazy), and they told each other some jokes about how no one knows what their going through except other parents and POWs. Um, dramatic much? But I guess the important thing is that they really like each other, which works out great for me because between the two of them, they may have just enough brain power to keep me alive.

Okay, I have to go now. I feel a bubble coming on, and I’m hungry–and it will take a few minutes to pull Mom away from her show. Plus, now that we’re on better terms, I really like hanging out with her while I eat: she smiles a lot right up in my face, and calls me the best little boy in the world.

Damn right.

Mommy said the other day that things sure have changed around here, and since I wasn’t here before, I’ll just have to trust her. But I can bear witness to one thing changing: this blog. Though she isn’t crying as much as she was those first couple of weeks, or wandering around the house wide-eyed, looking to and fro like she was expecting someone to give her directions, she does seem to need a break now and then. So I decided I would step in and supply the words for today. It’s the least I can do, right? After all, she did carry me around in her belly for over eight months (and don’t think I didn’t hear her complaining about it, calling it “rent-free living”). And she is doing her best to keep me alive now. With a lot of help from Daddy, who seems to keep her from going crazy most days.

Sometimes when she’s starting to feed me, Mommy will make a little joke: “Get out of your own way, baby boy!” I could say the same thing to her. She seems to think that this whole parenting thing is a lot harder than it actually is right now. She reads a lot of books and makes suggestions from them to Daddy. He responds that they can also go on something called instinct, but Mommy says that they don’t have any of that. She gets really uptight about feeding me at the exact same time interval each day, and if I fall asleep while I’m nursing, she gets pretty agitated. Even though, when the lights aren’t as bright, she falls asleep herself. She seems to be really concerned with doing everything right, but all I really care about is a boob on the ready, a warm blanket, and a dry diaper. I’m glad Daddy’s there to remind her of that.

Today I was taking a nap and peeked one eye open to see her flitting around the kitchen, spray bottle and paper towels in hand. She didn’t seem especially happy while she was busy with that–in fact, she sounded a lot like that movie we watched a hundred times over Christmas, the one with Ralphie and the gun. She reminded me of the dad after his lamp was broken, muttering under her breath and throwing her hands around. But then, a little while later, she put the spray and paper towels away and sat down beside Daddy, who was shaking his head and smiling, and she was smiling too, so I guess whatever she did made her happy when it was done.

Mommy and Daddy seem to have a good thing going, even though Daddy thinks that Mommy watches way too much Fox News and Mommy thinks that Daddy watches way too much ESPN. But they both like to get right up next to my face and call me by nicknames similar to the ones they have for each other, and cover me with kisses, so I think they’re pretty happy I’m here. And although I was comfortable rolling around inside Mommy’s belly, I think the gig I have now is going to work out just fine. Mommy said to Daddy the other day, “I just love our family,” and though her eyes were wet when she said it, she didn’t seem sad or crazy like she has at other wet-eye times. They both seemed happy, and then they stared at me and got this funny look on their faces, like they think this gig is going to work out just fine for them too.