Little baseball glove hands

As soon as I finished eating stale sushi (from last post) I checked on baby once more. We were now at the eight hour mark of straight baby sleep. Hooray. As I moved away from the crib on my tip toes and fingers crossed, the floor wood cracked and on cue he screamed, "OOOMGAAAAARGH"

You see, my baby doesn't cry baby cries. He cries ooongah. Even when we are just talking, he may turn to me and randomly say, with no emotion whatsoever on his voice, "oomgah," as if to warn me that the real cry is coming and I should have some delicious milk ready soon.

So now we are both rested and watching tv while baking muffins, which is a first. No fussy baby, no fussy momma, and something yummy in the oven.

When you've been on the go and "on" for almost two months with no sleep, changing diapers, trying to soothe an unsoothable baby, yelling at your husband (because somebody needs to get yelled at and he is there, breathing), while mastering the art of crying along with baby (and having baby stare at you frowning with eyes that say, "I am the baby! You should be cool and collected"), dealing with your own recovery, just trying to make sense of the whole thing, and suddenly everything comes to a halt with an unexpected rest, you end up feeling lost and asking yourself the unsettling question, "what do I do with myself now?"

Should I clean the house? Nah. Should I work out (because breastfeeding does NOT make a gut go away, by the way)? Nah. Should I plan on going back to work soon? Double nah.

I should just sit here and write about little baseball glove hands.

When baby was first introduced to me, all white skinned and big and blue eyed I wondered whose baby this little impostor was. Because I was the only pregnant woman being cut open in that surgery room, I had to come to terms that this baby was in fact mine.

I come from a long line of short, brown, and angry Italian people, while my husband comes from a pool gene of norwegian Vikings that breed big boned and laid back football players.

God decided to switch on all these recessive genes when making my baby. When I look into his blue eyes, I see my husband. When I shop for lotions, now I have to look for baby sunblock, when the sun never bothered me. When I hold him, I look clumsy because he is now almost as big as I (no joke, see picture).

His little hands are so wide in proportion to his little, big body that they look like little baseball gloves. My father in law has those hands.

It seems like the only gene baby inherited from me are my cheeks. And we are both doughy at this point in our lives.

Except, of course, the word ooongah. That's what my brother used to say when he was hungry as a baby. Whenever my mother told me that story, I thought she was making it up, until I heard my own baby cry ooongah.

The oven beeped announcing that muffins are ready and I am oongah myself. Signing off now.