Week Seven

The child is not herself this week. This week being, week seven of her existence. Ok, so who exactly is "herself," and who am I to say that she is not being herself? I am her biological mother this is true, but it is unlikely that she is too aware of that apart from the smell of the boob. That established, she does appear to be having a clingfest combined with a possession. She is only calm when I hold her, facing inward, squished up like a grapefruit. The only way I managed to calm her today was to place her in the ergo carrier and walk around with her until she fell asleep. Otherwise she just cried and cried. Real tears. Real tears make everything much more drastic. I feel a thousand times the worse mother thanks to the real tears. Oh damn you tear ducts! That and the dirt under her finger nails, must I now bathe her daily? Or the acne, should I alter my diet? (My diet of chocolate and bagels. Oh how healthy we have become).

She poo'ed all over me today, and the duvet cover, followed after the clean up, by a pee, rinse and repeat. Charmed, I'm sure. She screams hysterically every single time I change her diapers or change her clothes and little distractions, say rattle shakes or loud music, work to appease her for seconds, at best.

Andrew got a few minutes peace with Metallica or so he said, but I was in no mood for his remedies having endured about seven hours of non-stop joie de pill.

She also likes to HOWL after I remove her from the boob.

So, she doesn't know who I am, but only wants to be with or on me.
She has no sense of self and yet has managed to convince us all that she is satan's offspring.
She is covered once again in baby acne and has me feeling extra guilty for my lousy diet.

and yet... she is perfection and I love her.

But when she finally sleeps I will pluck out the eye boogers and trim her nails. Oh yes, and then I'll smear Aquaphor all over her dry, acne face and hope she doesn't wake up.