Random Thoughts on Having a Four-Month-Old

Sleep training is not nearly as relaxing as the name implies. In fact, it is f'ing exhausting. And our baby sleeps through the night, we just struggle with naps. I can't imagine having one that wakes up every two hours at night.

Sometimes, if I look at Eamon for too long, he starts to remind me of any one of the bald cebrities I can think of: that guy on "Lost," Telly Sevalis, Pat Morita, Howie Mandel, Mr. Clean, Sinead O'Connor, the dude from Midnight Oil...the list goes on.

I'm tempted to join a moms' group, or at least take a mom/baby class of some sort. I find that by the week's end, if I didn't get out of the house enough beyond the usual errands, I really need a break. I have friends who have babies and young kids, but most of them work at least part time so it's hard to get together. There's a class at our community center, but do I really want to pay $140 to have someone tell my baby about different types of flowers and -- yes, this is really advertised as a feature of the class -- sprinkle water on my baby's feet?

Eamon has a huge smile (see photo), and he loves to laugh. He cracks up when I change his onesie, for God's sake. So it's funny to me when he's straight faced but just looking around in his car seat at, say, the grocery store and the checkout clerk says, "What a happy baby!" Eamon and I exchange a look, like, "you don't know the half of it, lady."

Shenanigans

This is what they do when I am not home.

Photo, of course, by Brian.

The Ugly American

At the post office last weekend, I actually stood in line behind him. The Ugly American. The guy who embodies every quality Europeans - and likely the people of every other continent in the world - hate about us.

I first noticed how loud he was joking to his wife about how "there'd better be drinks" on their trans-Atlantic flight on British Airways. Soon, his obnoxious humor turned into what can best be described as irrational rage, when the postal employee at the counter tried to politely explain to him that his hospital issued "birth certificate" was not a sufficient form of identification. (He was applying for a passport, presumably his first.) The certificate he brought, which he insisted should be "good enough, g-- d--- it, I'm paying you four hundred dollars for these g-- d--- passports!" The certificate he was trying to use was the one with his baby footprints and a sketch of the hospital he was born at some 40-plus years ago. How does a grown man not know what a legitimate birth certificate looks like? As he repeated, while shouting and swearing at the employee, that he'd never been out of the country (you don't say?!) and how would he know what was needed, the employee calmly warned him that if he didn't stop verbally abusing her, she would have to contact the police.

While he continued to berate her, saying, "What the hell are they gonna do, arrest me?!" his two children, who were around 10 and 12 years old and most likely mortified, went out into the post office vestibule. His wife said nothing, just rested her chin in her hands and let him yell. Eventually a manager appeared and again told the man they would have to call the police if he didn't calm down and show his staff some respect. After about five more minutes of arguing, he finally realized he could indeed be arrested (and in our suburb, the cops are just itching to arrest someone for disorderly conduct, or expired city stickers, or failure to adjust one's rearview mirror before starting the car as instructed in drivers' ed class -- disorderly conduct would get you a write up in the local paper), and started to calm down. But all I could think of is how this guy and people like him are exactly what other countries hate about Americans who visit their countries. Well, that and that whole war in Iraq, the eight years we let GW Bush run the country, etc.

I hope he gets his pocket picked over there.

Back to the Grind

Okay, so I haven't quite found a job yet, but next week Eamon will be 12 weeks old. I told myself I'd start looking for a part time gig right around now, sort of a self-imposed maternity leave. Thanks to Obama, I am still on unemployment and may very well be until August, and even got a little extra cash because I now have a "dependent."

So today I dusted off my LinkedIn profile, printed out my resume and actually found one listing for a part-time PR specialist at a national nonprofit whose offices are located downtown, in the Loop, which would be nice. I'll submit my resume and if I get an interview, great. If not, I'll at least know there are indeed part-time jobs out there that I would actually want. I just can't believe it's time to start looking. At the same time, there are days when I miss the challenges and mental workout brought about by having a job.

I love being a mom, but I can also appreciate why some women decide to go back to their careers. Yesterday, Brian came home at 6:30. I heard him fiddling with his key at the back door and I said to Eamon, "Oh, no, we locked the door on your dad!" Then, horrified, I corrected myself, "We didn't lock the door. He locked it when he left at 7 a.m. this morning. We didn't leave the house all day!" The thing that horrified me about that was that I hadn't even noticed. But I did kick ass at that day's episode of "Jeopardy!"

Stop following me.

No, really. Who are these people who are following me on Twitter? It's been so long since I've even visited the site, I can't even remember my username and password.

And today I heard yet another reason not to visit Twitter: Jessica Simpson posted a photo on Twitter of herself "going over a song" for her new album with -- say it isn't so -- Billy Corgan.

Goodbye, Year

Every year at this time, I break open a new calendar for the kitchen refrigerator and write in all the birthdays, upcoming weddings and the Marquette basketball schedule. I usually look back at the previous year's calendar at the days spent vacationing or the miscellaneous events and am grateful for a fresh start. This was the first year ever, I think, where I actually wanted to keep the old calendar just as a reminder of what a great year 2009 was for us.

The fun started in February, when we found out Eamon was on his way. The rest of '09, according to the calendar, was full of networking events and job interviews (all unsuccessful, but probably not meant to be otherwise), doctor's appointments and quick trips to Michigan and Iowa. Not exactly the European vacations we'd taken in previous years, but still fun.

I haven't thrown the calendar away; I think I might store it with the issues of the Chicago Tribune and New York Times we bought the day Eamon was born. It might be fun to look at 10 or 20 years from now if I ever wonder, "what did I do with all that free time when I was pregnant and unemployed?" Truthfully, even with the calendar as a reference, I still don't know. But I know it was a very good year.

Zzzzzzz

I have really been slacking on this blog writing. You would think I had another human being in my care. Someone to think about besides myself. Oh wait.

Eamon is seven weeks old today, and I can hardly believe how fast the time is going by. I swear every time I pick him up he gets bigger. Then again, that might not just be me. The kid eats every two hours. According to one of our baby books, he is about the size of the average three month old.

We can't really complain much about his sleep habits at night. He sleeps in pretty long stretches for a baby his age, and I get about eight hours of sleep a night, interrupted by one feeding. It's during the day that he seems to think he is six years old already. He is not a good napper, much like I wasn't when I was a kid. (I remember fighting my mom on this more than once.) He'll fall asleep in my arms -- cute, right? -- well, then I think it's okay to set him in his nice, sturdy, Consumer Product Safety Division-approved crib, and he throws up his legs like he's working on his abs, or he throws his arms in the air like a referee in the end zone (I have yet to tire of yelling "touchdown!" when he does this) and he is awake again, wanting to be held.

I know there will come a day very soon when he will be "too big to cuddle" (Raising Arizona) and will want nothing to do with me in public, so I should cherish these days. And I try to. I sometimes cave in and just watch a movie on cable while I hold him, or try to just read a magazine or book one-handed while he sleeps in my lap. But there are days when I need to clean, or do laundry, or just need the freedom to get up to pee, for God's sake. Today, though, he is snoozing (albeit somewhat fitfully) in his bouncy seat in front of the Christmas tree. Every once in awhile he lets out a little sigh. (To add to the picture, you should know "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is playing softly on the iPod.) And it's taking everything in me not to drop what I'm doing and go pick him up.

Awwww.

Note: I just got a new, "fancy" camera but have yet to browse the user guide. This photo was taken on the auto mode. But hopefully there will be more photos on here soon. Also, disregard the array of rattles and gymini parts strewn about the living room floor.