First, I want you to know that I've got a really long post in the works, so long that it requires a lot of concentration, several hours spanning a period of days, and many more words than are probably actually necessary. I hope you'll like it when I finally finish it.
Today was a day of frustration and triumph for Rage Baby. In the last week, she's learned to do so many new things that it almost seems like we are taking care of a different baby than the one we had before. I suspected several days ago that she had something epic in the works when she slept from 7 PM until I finally woke her up at 1:15 the following afternoon. Rage has a lot of hate to share with the world, and she certainly can't do that while she's asleep, so she gives everyone the business whenever her tiny body is on the brink of exhaustion. Yet here is the sleep-boycotting devil spawn herself, having to be woken up from the type of slumber that her father and I have been known to do. My dad and Stitchfrank were slightly concerned that she might be sick, but she didn't appear bothered any more than usual by life when I finally roused her. I posited that it was a growth spurt, and the changes that took place in the days after proved I was correct.
The night after the big sleep, Rage Baby went to sleep more easily than normal and I breathed an inner sigh of relief, having anticipated a real fight thanks to her stores of rest. I exhaled too soon, though, because around 2 AM I heard her chattering to things from her position in the swing in the living room. Since she wasn't fussing, I ignored her. I hoped she'd get bored and drift quietly back to dreamland. Instead, the sounds emitting from her tiny megaphone of a mouth began to get louder and more insistent, soon diving into the abyss known as "Screaming Like You're on Fire." I got up (off the couch - did you think I was sleeping so early? Ha.) and changed her, made sure she had her owl, and gave her gas medicine and tylenol in case either of those things helped solve her meltdown. She put on her cute and happy act while I was tending to her, which she dropped the moment I placed her back in her swing. Rage lived up to her name that evening, angrily howling her fool head off well into the wee hours. The night after that, she became alert and batshit insane around 11. And the day after THAT she decided she was fed up with my shit and screamed not only all day but well into the evening, causing my laid-back father to have a meltdown and insinuate I should go fuck myself with a cactus due to my inability to soothe Rage Baby.
I know what you're thinking: how on EARTH are any of these events indicative of new skills or development? Shouldn't I be concerned that she cries so much, and that maybe something is wrong? Perhaps a visit to the doctor is in order? Believe me when I say that I've thought something along those lines many times, and always she checks out healthy as a miniature pony. She has more doctors and practitioners and therapists than you can shake a stick at, and she's been released from the care of many of them because she doesn't require their services any longer.
No, Rage Baby isn't ill, just ill-tempered. She really is a carbon copy of Stitchfrank, who freely and vociferously hates the world. For fuck's sake, this is a kid who never knew what it was to be held until she was almost four months old, who spent 144 long days lying on a warmer or in an incubator staring at fucking nothing while almost everyone she came in contact caused her grievous pain. She was poked and prodded six times or more a day with ridiculously large needles. She has huge, noticeable scars on her hands and feet from IV needles, and the bottom of one of her feet has a huge patch of pink, sensitive skin from where she had necrotic tissue due to an IV.
Let's not discount the fact that she has a large hole in the middle of her stomach with a button sticking out of it so she can receive milk, since she was so traumatized by the breathing tubes in her throat that she developed an oral aversion and super-sensitive gag reflex. Not only has this thing been accidentally yanked out three times since she got it (picture blowing up a water balloon and pulling it out of your nasal cavity), it seeps and leaks stomach acid that smells putrid so I have to clean it several times each day, and I'm guessing that having a foreign body piercing your stomach wall and then being poked and jiggled frequently doesn't feel like a Swedish massage. Also, I refuse to let her play with the really fun toy that is always attached to her body because I'm the meanest mother ever.
My point is that Rage Baby is not sick. She has very clear likes and dislikes and is absolutely unafraid to vocalize objections and complaints. Besides everything, the one thing she hates above all else is being put down for any reason. She wants you to hold her, always. It's not enough to face her over your shoulder and sit on the couch, or sit her on your lap while you watch TV. She wants to bounce up and down using her feet to shove off your legs as you suspend her in at an agonizing and awkward angle, she wants you to turn her towards you and hold her an inch from your face as you gaze lovingly into her eyes and talk to her. Stitchfrank and I don't mind doing these things, but she never wants you to stop, ever. Arms go numb extremely quickly and never seem to increase their endurance. And sometimes, we just have shit that needs to be done, or maybe we just need a fucking break.
Simple things like microwaving leftovers, tossing a load of laundry in the wash, or checking Facebook become a complex and time-consuming chore when you add Rage Baby to the mix. Stitchfrank and I have developed the skill of speed-eating, and we've also grown used to having every conversation at presentation-level volumes. We pass the baby back and forth throughout the day, entertaining her as best we can until our arm muscles seize up or we begin to contemplate tying a plastic bag over our heads. In this manner we can usually keep the rage level fairly low until she begins to get tired. But some days, like the ones following Rage's extended siesta, there's nothing you can devise that amuses her for even an instant. She's a humorless monarch being presented with an endless line of jesters that can never hope to win a smile. On those days, the vodka bottle comes out early, tempers run hot, and Rage spends a lot of time getting to know the inside of her swing.
It was the third afternoon or so following the 18 straight hours of sleep when I began noticing some new behaviors. Typically, when Rage Baby is content she acts much like someone who's taken copious amounts of hallucinogens. She stares deep into the soul of the blank wall and yodels to it in her quietest (read: not at all quiet) voice, or she examines her hands like they're an alien species as she holds them an inch from her face (almost always resulting in her accidentally poking or punching herself in the eye). She'll smile at thin air and use her feet to rotate herself in a backwards circle. When she's not staring at her hands, she's jerking them spastically as she tries to shove them the entire way into her mouth. Her most favorite activity recently has been what we call "scritching," where she puts her hand on a surface that feels interesting to her and scratches her nails back and forth on it. Scritching is adorable and only became something she enjoyed doing within the past month or so, evidence that she has been slowly gaining control over those weird things attached to the ends of her arms.
On that third day, I held a toy out to Rage and shook it as I always do for her, to get her attention and try to get her to engage in some sort of play with the object. She snatched the toy (a plastic ring with beads on it) and shoved it directly into her mouth, then pulled it carefully away and examined it. Overnight she gained the ability to purposefully direct her hands to do things AND grab what she wants. Now I have the option of handing her various items to keep her entertained. It's thrilling, like unlocking a new level in a video game. Level UP, motherfuckers! She developed a particular fondness for an empty bag of Hot Cheetos, and spent almost two hours one afternoon picking it up and shaking it, scritching it, and trying to fit the whole thing in her mouth (yes, I know babies aren't supposed to play with plastic bags, but I was sitting right fucking there and the amount of time it kept her amused was well worth the new Bad Mommy Award in my trophy case). It makes me so happy to see her finally gain this skill, because while I don't compare her to full term babies, or even other micro-preemies, it's nice to know that she is developing new abilities sequentially. Proud mommy moment! *tear*
The next thing she did only somewhat surprised me. I began to suspect that I was hearing her call for me during those three long days and nights of her meltdown, when I'd disappear from view and she'd call out in a plaintive come-hither voice something that had two syllables repeating. At first it varied between sounds- neenee, nana, and yeeyee were most common. Of course I have been trying to get her to say mama since the day she came home, and I spend several minutes every day with my face close to hers repeating it. Fuck you, don't judge my narcissism. You can imagine my pleasure at finally hearing her attempting to form the correct sounds. Granted, it always seems to be when she's demanding that I do something for her, or when she's so exhausted that the only thing she can think to do is try to shout the world down, but I'll take what I can get. She knows who I am and wants me to comfort her, and those are good things, so if I only get to hear her say it when she's whining, I'll take it for now. I was also impressed by her sudden use of consonants in her babbling and hollering. Usually she uses only vowel sounds and the soft 'h' sound. She's spent the last few days refining her technique and trying to get it right, and the 'n' sound can now be heard fairly often, along with the 'p' sound. Most of the time I am Yeeyee, not technically accurate but it's always clear to me what she's saying. She's been nailing the perfect word mama more and more frequently in the past day or two, and additionally has started asking for Daddy by name (perfectly pronounced, fucking naturally), as well.
Since beginning to say mama and daddy, Rage Baby likes to mix things up and seems bent on causing us trouble. When it's Stitchfrank's turn to bounce her and kiss her butt, she'll repeatedly look around to find me and stare at me, and then she'll begin to conversationally say "Yeeyee?" Now that she can use her hands for some of their intended purposes, she'll reach toward me and indicate her desire to hold me (I'm sure that's how she sees it). Eventually both Stitchfrank and I will be overwhelmed with how cute and amazing this is and he'll pass her to me. She'll watch him walk away with a look on her face that can best be described as crestfallen. I'll entertain her with my faces and conversation for a moment or two before she starts trying to find him, and within five minutes she's calling out for Daddy and reaching for him whenever he gets too near. I think perhaps her intentions are that we challenge each other to a duel to the death, or perhaps joust for her amusement, but I can't be certain. Stitchfrank informed me that when I was at work yesterday, she spent the entire morning freaking out and shouting for me. Naturally, when I arrived to sweep her into my arms she wanted no part of me and only Daddy would make her happy. Sadistic, fickle child.
Today we had Rage lying on the bed having naked time, which is her super favorite, and she was starting to get fussy. I was busy playing Slingo on my phone and refusing to acknowledge her repeated demands to be picked up, when suddenly she let out a particularly loud and ferocious bellow and proceeded to effortlessly roll onto her stomach. She's rolled over exactly twice before, each incident weeks apart and apparently isolated. My dad saw her do it the first time, and I was there for the second time. Each roll made her instantly irate, because she had no ability to command her arms to get the fuck out of the way so she could flop around. She's always abhorred tummy time, so much so that I haven't forced her to do it, especially in light of the protruding button. I can't imagine that putting all of your weight on something surgically implanted would feel at all pleasant. The few times I did force her to lay on her stomach, she would just lay there and bitch, rubbing her face on the floor miserably, until someone came and rescued her. It was pitiful, really. That was exactly what she did after she rolled over the first two times. The second time she did it, she looked up at me and gave me a look that said, "Oh, great. Now what the fuck do I do?"
Today, though, Rage flipped onto her stomach like she'd been doing it for months, then swiftly extricated her arms from underneath her. Stitchface grabbed the phone to take a video, and we watched in amazement as she began to try to use her arms to push herself up on her knees. For a minute, she was doing really well at it. It was so funny to see an 11 pound baby attempting to push up like a larger and more coordinated child. Then she seemed to realize that we were staring at her and that she is supposed to be the helpless child who can do nothing but be held, so she carefully lowered herself back to the mattress and began to fuss. She rolled over a few more times throughout the day, each time acting like it was no big deal and she'd been doing it all along.
So as you can see, it's been an eventful week for little Rage Baby. All of these new skills must be tiring, because by the time 5 PM rolled around, she was shot. She had become the schizophrenic baby, one moment trying to babble at me and giggle, the next making so much of a fuss we were worried that someone would think we were beating her. I tried to keep her amused a bit longer, since bedtime is at 7, hoping that we could get close enough and then she'd be ready to settle down. However, it was not much past 5:30 when she was inconsolable, and she was rubbing her eyes so hard that the skin around them was red and puffy. Her demeanor was not in the least helped by what I think might be the imminent appearance of her first tooth. Her drooling was out of control the whole day and she couldn't keep her fingers out of her mouth (moreso than usual). I swear I saw a clearly raised bump in her bottom gum line, but I've been convinced of that for months and it has yet to materialize.
Anyhoot, I went ahead and got her ready for bed and popped her in her sleep swing, that most hated and poorly designed contraption sent from hell to punish me for prior misdeeds. With Rage Baby, the swing is a hit-or-miss proposition. Sometimes when I put her in it, she hugs her owl and gets snuggled deeply in the seat before peacefully drifting off to sleep. Occasionally when it's time for her feeding and she has to be in the swing, she won't sleep but will just sit contently and watch the world go by. More often than not, though, putting her in the swing results in an immediate squawk of indignant anger. This is the initial blast, and Stitchfrank and I both hold our breaths as we wait to discover whether there will be more vitriol to follow. If we are lucky, she will fuss for a minute or two at most before falling asleep.
Tonight initially seemed to be a lucky night, comprised of a mere ten minutes of intermittent fussing before she packed it up. We began to relax. I laid on the bed to play a game of slingo and maybe browse some porn videos, and Stitchfrank sat in front of the computer to "read" his "graphic novels". Twenty minutes of blissful silence went by before I heard the telltale creaking of the swing. I ignored it to see if she would settle back down to sleep, but restless tossing and turning soon became grunts and hoots to let us know she was awake and come get her please. When I failed to respond to those either, she began calling for Yeeyee and Daddy, which quickly degenerated into sniveling. Suckered and resigned, I turned the swing off and got Rage Baby back up for another round at slightly after 6 PM.
Twenty minutes of sleep twice in a day is not nearly enough for a baby of her age and intensity level, so of course after waking up from her non-restorative catnap she is usually still tired and grumpy. She gave us about four minutes of contented chatter from the head of the bed before summoning us to cater to her whims. I sat her on my lap while we played a game of slingo on Facebook, and then handed her to Stitchfrank so he could do her favorite knee-jumping hold. A few more round of back-and-forth and she was once again an overtired bundle of hatred and exhaustion. Back into the swing she went, this time without possibility of parole. Unfortunately, despite the yawns and eye-rubbing that consumed the small amount of her time not devoted to being fussy, sleep didn't really seem to be on her agenda. She let us know with rapid-fire screams designed to cause maximum irritation and brain fog.
Before you read more, let it be clear that I don't condone allowing any baby, especially a young one, to cry it out. Just because you're lazy (and I am lazy, I can assure you), you shouldn't force your child to suffer, right? Abandoning a scared child to a dark and lonely room seems unjust to me. The fact that my child cries before sleep pains me to no end, but after spending every single day with her since she came home a little over five months ago, I've tried ever method and technique in existence to try to guide Rage Baby peacefully and quietly into slumber. When she first got home from the hospital, we would set her down in her cradle, carefully adjust the angle she slept at (due to her reflux she was always propped up), swaddle her tightly, offer her a binkie (she used to take one, oh how I miss those days), and wish her sweet dreams. She'd be asleep in under five minutes without ever uttering a single peep or protest.
Those days tragically came to an end about three weeks after she'd graduated from the NICU, and we've been struggling ever since. Co-sleeping doesn't work. Rocking, cradling, jostling, walking, patting, singing... none of it works. The swing and white noise is the combination that we've found works best. Recently we tried once more to put her to sleep for the night by walking around and cuddling her to sleep. After five hours, five torturous hours filled with the exact same screaming we are often treated to when we put her to bed in the swing, we gave up and put her in the swing. Her noises ceased and she was passed out in less than two minutes. She hadn't even dozed while we rocked her. Since she seems to somehow enjoy the yelling and fighting she does before sleeping each night, sadistic kid that she is, we simply use the tools that cut the screaming down to the shortest time possible, and again, that's why she sleeps in her swing. If you don't believe me, you are more than welcome to come to my house and try rocking her to sleep. I'll make sure to move all the shit out of the way so you don't fall down as you run crying hysterically out the door later that night.
As any person who's ever raised a fussy child knows, there's only so much crying you can listen to before your mental faculties have shrunken down to the single thought: Shut. The. FUCK. Up! Rational, logical thought simply becomes impossible after a scant ten minutes of that type of noise. There seriously has to be some kind of chemical or neurological response triggered in the body by a baby's cries, because it can make anyone go insane. Stitchfrank and I were banging our foreheads on the table and cursing under our breaths as we poured strong drinks to slam, but still she refused to just give up. After an hour of this madness-inducing clamor, Stitchfrank lost it and picked her up. She appeared wide awake once again, perky even. We groaned and grumbled more and reverted to taking turns trying to shush her and/or put her to sleep. By now it's after 8 PM, more than an hour past the time when she should have gone to sleep. We've been at it since way too fucking early after going to sleep entirely too drunk and way too fucking late (not that any of that is her fault, but there it is anyhow). We simply cannot take any more bouncing, cajoling, soothing, anything. We are, as they say, fucking Done. With a capital D.
I released Stitchfrank into the wild to have a cigarette and regroup before he steals someone's gun and murders people in a post office, and hold Rage Baby just a minute more, making sure her diaper is dry, her button is clean, and she had her disgusting, stinky, vomit-encrusted owl to snuggle with (she doesn't like it to be out of her sight, and she seems to get pleasure from licking the parts she's thrown up on. If she's not screaming, I can't complain.). I kissed her sweet-smelling head (this despite her proclivity for intimacy with an owl clothed only in puke) and put her in the swing. She protested immediately, naturally, but shortly fell silent. I could still hear the breathing patterns that indicated she was awake and moving, though, so I remained close by. Moments went by with no fussing and I began to wonder if she was nodding off, when I heard the swing begin to emit a strange creaking noise.
I peeked around the side of the bed to discover that Rage Baby was attempting, for reasons unknown, to roll over in the moving swing. She was three quarters of the way turned around and scooted so far down in the chair that her legs were kicking vigorously off the edge of it, and her butt was about to fall off the cliff as well. It was actually quite hysterical, and fortunate that I found her before she launched herself into space for her first attempt at base jumping. I chastised her thoroughly as I attempted to contain my chuckling, and engaged the use of the safety straps for the first time so she couldn't attempt to wiggle her way to an injury again. This did not at all meet with her approval, so I was treated to her absolutely delightful and uncanny imitation of a person trying to take a serious shit. Over and over she groaned and strained loudly in her obsessive quest to roll onto her stomach in her swing. It felt like some sort of karmic retribution for all the times that she's been uber-needy for no readily apparent reason. I spied on her from across the room as she vainly tried to escape the bondage placed upon her, and it didn't take her long to realize that resistance was futile. Within ten minutes she was completely asleep, having grunted and groaned her way to the dream clouds. I guess maybe I'll have to try tying her up more often. :D
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