The poor guy would push and cry and push and cry, and I was trying every trick in the book: hot baths, pedialyte water, back massages, the magic thermometer "trick" (he was not impressed), hypnosis, dancing to the Beatles, looking deep in his eyes while trying to telepathically send "push push push push" message his way, scaring it out of him, performing ritualistic Indian rain dances in the living room...nothing worked.
And then, today, at 3:04pm, the clouds parted, the heavens opened, the good Lord smiled upon on our little family, and the floodgates were released. A good two diapers full of peanut-butter-poops came forth, and by the way we danced and sang and laughed and cheered, you would have thought the three of us single-handedly won the World Cup. I mean, he was so dirty, it wasn't even worth wasting all the wipes it would have taken to clean that busy bum of his: it was straight to the tub for the little man.
I have never in my life been so excited for someone to have a bowel movement.
The little man is sleeping soundly now. Things are going to be ok. He turns two months this Saturday: if I wasn't so depressed that he is getting so big so fast, I would be relieved that we have made it this far.
Jason always celebrates Christmas or his birthday by going on an Amazon shopping spree, and one of his birthday purchases arrived today: "From Vines to Wines." You can guess what new hobby he's taken interest in.
Tonight, right before he drifted off to sleep, he rolled over and said, "We need to get busy making that wine."
"Don't we need grapes first?"
"Yes. Which is why we need to plant them. It takes a few years to get them started."
"Don't we need somewhere to plant them?"
"Yes. Which is why we need land."
"But we live in Chicago. In an apartment."
That conversation pretty much explains how I feel about Avram turning two months. I desperately want him to be crawling, walking, talking, smiling, laughing, learning, proving to everyone that he is a perfectly healthy baby boy, but the reality is that right now he's busy deciding if his hand is a part of his body or some kind of bizarre animal. I want the wine, but first we have to get some land.
I'm reading "Operating Instructions" right now in a small attempt to keep myself more on the joyful side of the fence, so forgive me for quoting Anne Lamott so much. In the book she tells a story about one of her mom-friends. This lady was on a business trip and had taken her two year old with her. The rental house they were staying in had those extra-thick, black-out curtains, and the mom had placed her two year old down for a nap in the bedroom, shut the door, and sat in the living room to get some work done. The two year old woke up early from his nap, and began to call for his mom. When she went to get him, he had somehow managed to lock the door. She panicked: she called the manager of the property, the booking agent...no one picked up. As she got more anxious, her little boy got even more frightened and began crying and shrieking. Just as she was about to call the fire department, she had the idea to get down on the floor and stick her fingers under the small, 1-inch opening under the door. She called to her son, telling him to find her fingers down on the floor. The two of them laid there for half an hour, with him grasping her finger tips until he had calmed down and was able to jiggle the door open.
I feel like I'm nose-to-the-carpet with God right now, with a death-grip on His fingertips under a door. I know He could smash down the door if He really thought that was the best thing to do, but I also know that He wants me to figure some things out before the lights come back on, to work and push and cry through some of the crap I've let sit around for too long. It's taking just about everything I have to not scream or hide in my closet some days, but I'm reminding myself to look for His fingertips.