For the past two nights Gavin has gotten up at midnight to nurse. Usually this wouldn't be a problem for me because nursing is not my department. That's all Stacy. In fact, we call her Booby Cafe, Gavin's preferred dining establishment. All I offer is Pump Lunch (and, today anyway, rice cereal mixed with formula that caused Gavin to make the face I might imagine him making had I fed him directly from Jasper's litter box. After about two spoonfuls we were done with that. It has since hardened to a foul smelling cement in its little bowl on the counter. I'm surprised the cat hasn't eaten it or at least knocked it on the floor for the dog. They tag-team like that). If Booby Cafe is his own personal restaurant, I'm pretty sure he sees Pump Lunch as some kind of roadside stand. Gavin is quite good at taking a bottle, thank God (this was not the case a couple of months ago), but he is definitely a boob man. In fact, Stacy has even surmised that he dreams about her nipples. And standing up, which he loves to do (assisted, of course). But mostly her nipples.
Anyway, for whatever reason, the past two nights Gavin has decided that after his midnight feeding it was "up-up time," as we call his conscious hours. We took turns rocking him to sleep, gently placing him in his crib, only to have him start crying as soon as we made it back to our own bed. This lasted about an eternity (a.k.a. an hour) each night. Perhaps Gavin knows that we are planning on Ferberizing him soon since the rocking to sleep thing has gotten progressively harder now that he's 19+ lbs. Maybe he's testing our wills.
Gavin and I watched some trucks out the front window today. A yellow tree chipper and a small white pick-up truck belonging to the city. A few guys out there in dark blue jumpsuits feeding huge branches into the machine. I tried to explain it to Gavin, how the chipper cut made the tree branches into tiny pieces and that you had to be very careful when you used that machine because the chipper doesn't know what is going into it and will make anything into tiny pieces. "Someday you'll watch Fargo," I told him, "and then you'll understand."
Gavin's Aunt Amanda came over today to watch him for a couple hours while I went to an appointment. I got lost on the way there (I'd never been to their new location before) and was very stressed out. Then on the way home I got even more lost and it took me forever to get home. The weather is really crummy outside. We're under a Winter Weather Advisory here in SE Michigan. I'm hoping that Stacy's school has a snow day tomorrow so she can stay home with us. Maybe we'll take Gavin outside in the snow. And take pictures, of course.
On pictures: there are hundreds of photos of Gavin (over 400 on Facebook alone) in existence. By the time he's a year there likely will be well over 1,000. He's very photogenic. "Photo session" is part of every day's routine activity. I love dressing him up in his little outfits (I buy him clothes almost compulsively) and taking pictures. He has a grandma and other relatives in Florida, an aunt in Boston, an uncle in Arizona. My best friend is in California and Stacy has friends in D.C. So it's a duty and an obsession to take pictures of Gavin so that his peeps can track his growth from afar. Plus, did I mention that he is very photogenic? He is so very handsome. I love his face. Probably too much in that I love it to be clean as well. And if this means picking his nose or constantly dabbing at drool on his lips and chin, I consider it my job. He doesn't like it at all. He'd be fine with hunks of dried snot hanging on his face, but I care about him too much to let him go around like that. Granted, I can already see how this is only going to become more difficult as he gets older. Eventually I won't be able to get him to sit still for countless photos and there will even come a day when I no longer pick out his clothes or take care of his hygiene needs. About age 18 sounds right.
Added mama bonus: persistent heartburn every night. Awesome.
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