First of all: just because you've been born doesn't mean I'm dropping your nickname, at least for the purpose of this blog. Letters to Rebecca just doesn't have the same ring to it as Letters to Cletus; also, Letters to Rebecca sounds like the screenplay for a Lifetime movie starring Valerie Bertinelli. So, while to your face I will always call you Rebecca Renee, I'm a little nostalgic for the days when your only name was Cletus the Fetus (did I mention that I'm taking a lot of narcotics as a result of my c-section?).
We've had you home for about a week and a half, and between feeding you every two hours, getting up in the middle of the night, and dealing with an unholy amount of poo, I don't really have the presence of mind to write a perfectly-constructed blog post. So you're going to have to settle for the following thoughts that I have jotted down while feeding you at 2 in the morning:
* My boobs can now double as squirt guns. You're my first kid, and therefore I'm a rookie at breastfeeding (it would be weird if I wasn't). It's a strange adjustment to make, to go from thinking of my boobs as assets to get me free drinks, to realizing my boobs have actually become my daughter's free drinks. So when I inexpertly try to shove some of my boob into your mouth, I'm sometimes distracted by memories of the good old days, when I only used those suckers to flash bartenders (that's how I met your dad, BTW). While you desperately try to get a latch onto said boob, milk just tends to spray in every which direction. Useful fact: wet wipes will clean breastmilk when it gets into your eye.
* You are a diabolical shitting genius (DSG). Cletus the Genius, I dub thee. How do I know this? Let me break it down for you. Your first bath took place in the kitchen sink, and you managed to poo and pee into your dad's hand within 2 minutes. You also time your poo and pee to come out just as we are changing your diaper. At your finest moments, you manage to poo and pee both onto the dirty diaper and the clean diaper. You've gone for the ultimate win a couple of times by getting both diapers dirty, as well as the diaper changing pad. At first, I chalked it up to you just being a baby, but then I thought: "Wait a minute - this is too well-timed." That was when I realized that you are doing this on purpose. I don't know your end game yet, but I have 17 years and 350 days before you turn 18 and storm out of our house while declaring that we're not the bosses of you anymore. I will figure your shit out, DSG.
* Hormones are such a bitch. Nursery finished? Check. Pre-registered at the hospital? Check. Diaper bag packed? Check. Equipped to deal with the CRAZY-ASS roller coaster that constitutes my body regulating itself post-partum? Uh, no.
Cletus, I'm not insane, but I understand if you think I am. It's not exactly normal to read a review for the movie "Seeking a Friend for the End of the World" and then to cry because what IF an asteroid really did hit the earth, what would I do to care for my baby THEN?
Yeah. That actually happened.
Before you were born, I didn't love anyone as much as I loved your dad. Now that you're born, I realize that I still love him a lot, but he's pretty capable and self-sufficient. I also love you, but I know I'm solely responsible for you because you're incapable of doing anything except crying, eating, and smiling (it's NOT gas, babycenter.com - my diabolical shitting genius of a daughter smiles, goddammit). So your life is literally in my hands. It's an awesome responsibility, and by awesome, I mean overwhelming and scary for someone who has been comforted by the thought that my cat could feed itself on field mice if I ran out of catfood. (don't worry, Cletus; if the boob milk doesn't work out, I know that field mice are not an option for you).
Thankfully, your dad is not dealing with crazy-ass post partum hormones. While I would not normally say that men are more rational than women, in this house, at this time, it is absolutely true. If I tried to say otherwise, I would remember just last night, when your dad said to me: "Sweetie, just because she's crying doesn't mean she thinks you're a bad mother and wants to become a stripper to spite you."
Yeah. That also actually happened.
So your dad is helping hold down the fort while my body sorts itself out. In the meantime, I love you like crazy and am so glad you got my nose, because it's so much cuter on an infant than your dad's nose (sorry, but it's true. My nose is way adorable).
My next blog post will be more rational and we'll talk more about your expert shitting at that point.
Love,
Your Mom
