A week ago today I was starting off what was supposed to be my last week of work. I had just hit Inbox Zero, and was down to one last big thing on my to-do list for the week. Other than that, I figured I’d pitch in with whatever small tasks I could, get in some quality office-socializing and the last of the knowledge transfer, and (if we’re being totally honest) sneak out early a couple of days.
A week ago today I was thinking about the glorious 2 weeks of puttering and preparing I’d have to get ready for the baby’s arrival. Finish putting up the new headboard we upholstered the weekend before, wash and put away all the baby clothes (currently in bags and boxes in the crib) we’d accrued, finish the last bit of shopping for things like crib sheets and wall-decor. Bake a bunch of bread and treats for the freezer. Wash the windows. Grab lunch with a few friends. Finally put the car seat in the car. Nap.
A week ago today, we had our home visit with our birth doula, who was officially on-call for our birth now that I’d just passed 37 weeks, or what is known in the medical world as “full-term” even though most first babies don’t show up until 41 weeks, 1 day. We went over our birth preferences draft, talked about all the little things I was going to do over the next couple weeks to prepare, and when to call her once things finally got started.
A week ago today we were most of the way through an episode of House when I got up to pee, did that, was about to get off the toilet when there was a distinct *pop* in my belly, and a whole lot of not-pee gushed out.
I’ll document a full account of Isaac’s birth story later, but labour was incredibly fast – like the compressed for TV versions that don’t actually happen to people in real life – and the kid made his grand debut at 5:48am, Tuesday March 1st.
With most of a week under our belts, this parenthood gig is actually pretty cool. We are understandably tired (sleeping in 2-3 hour stints isn’t particularly restful), but focusing on not taking on much more than hanging out, resting and baby-wrangling during the day. I’ll go ahead and jinx us now by saying it all seems pretty do-able at this point.
The kid is healthy and mostly happy (the rest of the time, he’s either sleeping, or living up to his middle name). He, like all infants, has the mental capacity of a goldfish (ooh look, a castle… ooh, bubbles…. look, a tree…. ooh look, a castle….) but it’s obvious his big, blue eyes are curiously taking in the world around him (within his 12″ focal point) and trying to figure it all out.
So far he’s got his mom’s prominent chin and the furrow in her brow. He has his dad’s feet & toes. He has a perfect replica of Pantone’s formula for Yellow 012 C somewhere up his ass, or so his stunningly vibrant diapers would lead you to believe.
And I happen to think he’s just about the best thing ever, in that way apparently only parents can.