2005-06-21
Baby G iz inda house
Baby G and Mom came home yesterday -- a day early IMHO -- but home they are. I spent last night over there unpacking her suitcase and all the other sundries she came home from the hospital with, including but not limited to industrial size MONDO-pads, mesh undies, one size fits all (no shit on this, either), rubber things that squirt liquids, rubber things that suck liquids, frightening looking parts to the Breast Pump (aWOOOOga aWOOOOga says the BP), teeny tiny baby diapers, and ointments and creams and blankets and wipes and.... and.... and FLOWERS. Oh those clever friends and relatives brought PLANTABLE flowers, because we all know that the FIRST thing Mom and Dad are going to have time to do is dig holes in the back yard.
I puttered around for many hours last night Being Useful -- getting Allison set up in the living room with a "mini nursery", helping to get dinner ready, moving her husband from point a to point b as he stood and marveled aloud over everything that had happened since a week ago today, and generally bustled about like a good little Godmother. I now completely understand why women have an older, maternal presence around for the first couple of weeks they are home with a newborn -- it is some scary business.
Even though I am not a mother and my childbearing experience is limited to when I was a nanny in the south of France 20 years ago (and both those kids could eat and walk and express their emotions, like "MARIE ALICE: GA GA!")*, and even though Allison and Jim are LIGHTYEARS ahead of me in terms of what all they have to do with, for and to Gracie and when, I think my calming and mature *cough* presence is comforting to them. At least I like to think that.
If nothing else, I run-and-fetch like nobody's bidness. Lunchtime today included a $75 trip to We Be Babies for "a few items", and I'm sure it will not be the last. In spite of years of planning, interviews, and internet surfing (HB says that his sister now has a PhD in All Things Baby), and 9 months of baby showers, it turns out you don't have a clue what you really need until the time comes. They have onesies up the ying yang, heavy winter blankets, snowpants (!), and darling pink dresses with starched collars**, but it turns out that Gracie will probably spend the first 4 months of her life in little easy-to-get-into side-button t-shirts. Babies like to be swaddled now (basically using the same concept as putting together a Fajita -- side fold, bottom fold, side fold, tuck and voiLA! Dinner! I mean, Happy Baby!), so it doesn't really matter what they wear underneath -- except maybe not the chenille Onesie from Saks, okay? Maybe not that. It's 90 degrees out. Chrissakes.
Allison, in spite of a general disdain for relying on medicine to cure all ails, has learned two important lessons as a result of this ordeal. (1) Epidural: not only yes, but hell yes; and (2) prescription pain killers: when can I have more? Atsma gurl. Seriously, she wants to get off them soon because it's probably not all that swell for the baby, and also, I need some. For my headaches, doncha know.
I thought I might get all wonky and boo-hoo-me when Gracie came, because of the baby thing (HB and I will not have any), but I am delightfully surprised at how just plain old happy I am. Everyone's okay. My Godbaby is safe. Her Mom is going to be around for a long time. I get to live vicariously through them, because she will be a little bit MY baby, too.
Besides. Now I have a name with "mother" in it. It's all good.
*In French baby talk, saying "GA GA" to someone at the top of your lungs is the ultimate insult. I'm pretty sure it means something like "YOU SHIT HEAD", and, when delivered in a way only a 2 year can do so, it is startling to say the least. With pure venimous hatred. So if somone pisses you off? Say their name with a french accent and then say "GA GA" right in their face. They will cry.
**Word to the wise for those shopping for new babies or even toddlers: if you insist on buying somehing cute (and let's face it, we ALL succomb at one time or another), run your fingers around the inside of the collar. Is it soft and supple? Buy it. Is it starchy and has stiches which pinch? No. No, I really don't care if it's Baby Prada, put it back. (This is testimony to my deep seeded maternal instincts -- I figured this out all by my lonesome after watching babies pull and tug at their necklines. What? Oh. Okay. I guess it is common sense, too. Yes, I see your point. Now shut up and tell me I rock as a Godmother.)
xquzme at sometime today