His life

I'm up most nights at 3 a.m. and not because Kyle is too but because at any given point, on any given day, I am thinking about eight million different things and it's very, very hard to turn all eight million off when I want to sleep. I've never in my life dealt with serious anxiety before but I suppose just like those pregnancy hemorrhoids, there really is a first time for everything.

My posting has been noticeably lighter lately, and it's honestly not because I'm short on time (although I'm short on the kind of time I was spilling over with before Kyle), but because I don't know how to give justice to the experience of motherhood, especially new motherhood. I felt this way -- to a much lesser extent -- about pregnancy: I have this one shot to write honestly and emotionally and well about my personal experience and the pressure causes me to use my computer to update my Facebook status and not my blog.

But, tonight I was reading an archived post of Backpacking Dad's (a blog I just recently discovered) and he wrote about sending e-mails to his daughter while he stayed home with her. I fell in love with this idea, especially since Kyle already has an email account -- has had one for months now because his geeky dad set it up for him when I was still pregnant and sent me emails on my son's behalf. ("Sorry about all the puking, Mom. I promise I'll be cute!") I liked BPD's idea so much, I think, because I know I'm not going to remember these days the way they really are. These days of abnormal sleeping, lounging in yoga pants with my son draped across my chest, and many, many diet sodas getting me through it all. I'll remember it rosier than it has been or fuzzier or better, as we always remember things, but I'll also lose all the little things that make these precious first weeks unlike any I'll ever live again. If I don't write them down somewhere -- through a strange email chain or even a badly-written blog post -- it will be as if they didn't happen at all, in a way. And I just can't stand that. I just can't knowingly let these tiny things slip away.

So here's a start, and it's not all good but it's his life and dammit I should be proud to speak it out loud:

The other day Kyle screamed pretty much non-stop from the time we woke up to the time he collapsed for his afternoon nap, around 4 p.m. He screamed when I held him and when I rocked him and when I danced with him and when I cried tears onto his still-dark hair. We went to the pediatrician today and got a reflux diagnosis, and I'm praying our plan-of-action takes care of his discomfort. Not because the sound of the screaming bothers me or frustrates me but because it kills me. He's in pain and, MY GOD, nothing sucks more than hearing that sound and knowing there's not a damn thing I can really do to make the pain go away.

We don't get out much and that's because of a flu that was going around the area and also because his carrier is a real bitch to carry around. I watched "The View" for the first time in my life the other day and I'll always associate Jason from "The Bachelor" with this time at home because it was, no kidding, one of the biggest news stories of Kyle's young life. I asked my son never to propose to a girl on television especially if he's still carrying a torch for a different girl. I believe he rolled his eyes, so I took it one step further and asked him never to marry a girl who shares a name with our dog, even if she has very pretty eyes.

I have a glass of wine every now and then and it makes all the difference.

Molly has been really great with Kyle. There's constant interest never jealousy, but her barks are the only sounds that really wake him up from a deep sleep, so I find myself yelling and snapping at her far more often than I used to. I hiss in loud whispers, "Don't! Bark!" and she cowers in the corner wondering, no doubt, where her mama went and who is this mean woman always sending her to bed. And the guilt piles on top of the guilt. (See: I'm drinking wine again.)

I still cry, especially when he cries and I can't seem to comfort him. I still feel like I'm doing this all wrong. Give me a do-over, please! I'll have another kid just to prove I've learned some things these first weeks! But that's not the only reason I think of doing this again, something I really didn't think I'd consider after those long, hard months of being pregnant. I would do it all over -- would do it over and over a thousand times -- because I'm in love. And you've been there, haven't you? You've been exhausted and drained of energy and scared and unsure and weak in the knees when you lock eyes and a mess when you think of them hurt and hopeful and proud and humbled, too. You can't imagine feeling better or feeling worse. You can't imagine how you ever managed to wake up before, without the possibility of spending even a minute with them motivating you. You grieve for a life you've given up but your only truth is that you would gladly give it up again and again and again because it's only with that sacrifice that you have all you'll ever need.

Earlier tonight I thought I saw him begin to smile at me. Absolutely fucking worth it.

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My first e-mail:

Hey buddy,

Today was cold! I think Texas pissed off everyone else in mid-March just so I could put you in this hip sweater we bought for you way back in October, when we first found out you had (have!) a penis. Texas is trying to redeem itself for being kind of an asshole in many other areas. We went to the pediatrician today, just you and me, and then we swung through Chick-Fil-A so Mama could get lunch. I promised I'd bring you back one day soon when you have teeth and a better appreciation for fried meat. You're fussy, can't lie kid, but we think we know why now and we hope to fix it quick. That's what I'm here for -- among other things -- to do everything I possibly can to fix things when they're not right for you. And, remember buddy, you can always tell me when they're wrong.

Love,

Mama