Lost in Diaperland

Little One is about to turn eight weeks old, and I’m still waiting for things to get easier.

I’m awaiting the time when I can leave him unattended in his crib for more than five minutes; I await the time when his shrill cries last less than 30 minutes at a time. I await the time when I have enough energy to actually write.

I knew that having a baby would entail vast amounts of time. What I wasn’t counting on was how much of that time would be spent simply holding the bugger.

Wait. I can’t remember what I’m going to say next. Baby is gassy. Needs to be burped. Needs to throw up dinner on my new dress shirt.

Oh, yes, now I remember.

A baby is a helpless, insecure little person with a neediness that has no bottom (which sounds perilously close to the description of a writer). They need to be changed, fed, put to sleep, and held (if necessary) for hours on end, until that slight numbness grows into a pain that resembles a heated iron ingot implanted into the shoulder.

Now it’s time to write

This is nothing new to any one of you who is a parent, and is probably creating some well-deserved laughter amongst you. “Bookfraud, you fool. Did you really think you would be able to be a parent, hold down a job, and write, blog, or otherwise express yourself save for the quiet sobbing (that you hide from Baby) at 2:26 a.m. when he wakes up yet again for reasons unbeknownst to anyone save for a God that may or may not exist?”

Yes, dear reader, I did believe I could have it all: Baby, sleep, writing, a life. O fatal blow! O fatal ambition!

My son is not yet two months old, and it feels as if I have spent more time cleaning up baby faeces than writing. (Guess what? I felt correctly!) I knew that Baby would wreck my sleep and suck up free hours. What I wasn’t counting on was that it would suck up all of my free hours.

Now, all this bitching and moaning has a point, though I’m having trouble with what it might be. Baby just woke up from his nap. He’s crying louder than I did when the Cubs blew the 2003 playoffs.

Yes, the blog. I was asked to write a book review, and while I accepted (it’s always good to get your name in print, even if you don’t know what you’re talking about), it sucked away any and all time to write for blog or my own fiction, for that matter. I haven’t read nor commented on just about any other blog, for that matter.

Must be a pediatrician

(In fact, I just learned that the most excellent blog of Miss Snark, she of the wicked pen and opinion, went dark. Like, a month ago.)

OK. What was I saying. Baby was projectile crapping. Watch out, Wife, you’ll step in Lake Shit, where previously resided a bedroom floor. Oh, what. Yes. Blog.

Is it a blog if you only write twice a month, only to complain, and nobody sees it?

Just asking.