It's Saturday afternoon. Little Oliver arrived exactly three weeks ago yesterday, and my wife and I feel like we've been blearily awake and barely coherent ever since. While we're beside ourselves with joy that the little guy arrived safe and sound, the one-two punch of stressing about him and looking after Charlotte (who just recently crossed the perilous Rubicon into the realm of the fabled "Terrible Two's") is taking a toll. Oliver has become a robust eater with absolutey no regard for clock-imposed parameters. Similarly, Charlotte has decided that 6 am (and sometimes earlier) is a better time to wake and greet the day at the highest possible volume. Peggy has barely been able to leave the house, much less the neighborhood (today was her first trek outside of our three block radius since our son's birth). I'm either on my way to work, at work, or on my way home from work. Once I get home and help bathe and put the 2 yr old to bed, Peg and I limp across the finish line to dinnertime then promptly go to bed ourselves (usually prior to 10 pm), only to be routinely roused from the first, fleeting vestiges of slumber by Oliver's piercing call for more nourishment. We sail through a choppy night and rise obscenely early to start the process all over again.
None of this comes as a surprise, of course. We knew damn well going in that the first few months would be tough (despite the theory that one's biological imperative to procreate makes one forget the more labourious elements of looking after a newborn). Mercifully, Charlotte has taken to her brother with a combination of curiosity and indifference (as opposed to, say, wanting to bludgeon him or set him on fire). A few instances notwithstanding, she has been the perfect little lady in terms of dealing with the meteorite-like impact of the new arrival. If anything, she's benefitted. Because Peg and I are largely too zonked to deal with her in the early morning, she's gotten to soak in a lot more children's television than we'd prefer. Eschewing Barney and Elmo (both of whom I loathe with a frantic intensity), we've taken to flipping on the Noggin network (home of Maisy the mouse and Miffy the Bunny). I can handle those two, but Dora the Explorer (and its incessant penchant for repetition -- this is worth a whole hate-riddled, ranting post in itself) makes me want to gargle with sulfuric acid. Mercifully, Oliver isn't yet interested in this stuff. He's only interested in screaming and breasts.....much like his father.
So, it's been a tiring road so far, but we're getting there. We've had to cancel a lot of plans, forego invitations to parties, miss a few shows (I didn't make it to either of the events detailed here) and some of my regular partners in crime are incredulous that I can't come join them for a few beers now and again, but at the moment -- we simply have our hands full. I've had loads of ideas that I've wanted to put up here on Flaming Pablum, but simply haven't had the time. The posts I have managed to put up aren't even really up to snuff, as far as I'm concerned. But as we struggle to normalize here and establish a rhythm, I'm sure things will get easier. But overall, we have no complaints. We've been blessed with a beautiful, healthy pair of children, albeit ones armed with ample vocal chords and the lung capacity to vocally project. So, until we get some more rest and my hearing comes back, please bear with me.
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