Because most philosophies that frown on reproduction don't survive.

Monday, July 17, 2017

The William Report

(or, Why No Posts, Darwins?)

Especially now that the Novena of Paul has been completed, I have wanted to sit down and write up how everything went down (spoiler alert: everything went well, we made it to the hospital, baby is great). I forgot, however, to factor in the amount of time that one needs to spend just looking at a newborn. And what did not enter my calculations was the level of policing we'd need to do with a 3.5yo fellow who is suddenly not the baby anymore.

3.5 is a hard age. You now have the ability to get into all the mischief that you'd just dreamed of earlier, and people keep stopping you. And this makes you angry, especially when no one will let you pet the soft new baby, or hug him, or hit him over the head with a throw pillow, or grab him by the neck. So you move to the next thing, which is the fridge. And when you're pulled out of the fridge, you find the jar of peanut butter. When you're wiped off, you get into the origami paper...

Today I have:

-- scolded William for turning the kitchen faucet on and off and on and off.

-- chased him away from the sprayer.

-- physically guided him in picking up the shorts he threw out of the drawer and refused to replace.

-- removed him from the freezer.

-- tried to persuade him to pee in the potty.

-- pulled his hand out of the toilet.

-- pulled his hand out of his pants.

-- pulled a melted popsicle from its hiding place in the basket in the corner of the laundry room.

-- comforted older siblings after the destruction of a three-quarters-completed 1000-piece puzzle.

-- taken the stabby pencil from William.

-- picked up all the diapers pulled out of the diaper bag.

-- wiped melted popsicle off the dining room floor.

-- wiped grubby feet.

(I pass over what happened yesterday when William broke the Harry Potter wand his sister had so meticulously crafted.)

While nursing, I:

-- fended off William as he tried to head-butt the baby.

-- fended off William as he tried to spit on the baby.

-- cuddled a sobbing William after he'd received a smart tap on the cheek for the above.

-- pulled William's hand out of my shirt, because big boys don't need to nurse like babies.

I've also spent about half my day feeding the ravening maw of the newborn (when he finally realizes that I can't nurse him through his hand).

However, it's not all sibling frustration! Behold, the Four Younger Skeletons of Hodge:

Doesn't that 3.5yo look cherubic?

1 comment:

Finicky Cat said...

Oh, lawdy! What a little dynamo that William be. That is a hard age at which to become a big brother. In thinking about the lovely days of babymoons-past, I always forget the emotional struggle (and physical struggle!) of helping the displaced baby navigate his new role in the family. Even their occasional zealous affection can be dangerous. When our third was born, the second was just two exactly. I left the three-day-old baby in the middle of the king-sized bed while I nipped into the bathroom. But there's nothing quick about visiting the bathroom three days postpartum, is there? When I emerged, the new big brother - too short, as I knew, to climb up on the bed - was earnestly trying to "share" his toys with the baby picking up his Matchbox trucks one by one and lobbing them at the baby's head. Fortunately he was a very poor shot!