Today my kid turns one month old.
I still can’t wrap my brain around it.
We have a one-month old.
He easily weighs over 10 pounds, eats like a champ, rocks three-month-old onesies and as of yesterday, drinks from BOTTLES.
A ONE-MONTH OLD.
And guess what?
We’re still cheerful people, enjoying adequate amounts of sleep and comfortable periods of normalcy.
Sure Henry turns into a gremlin from 9 p.m. to 10 p.m. every night, but Joe’s got the lulling-him-to-sleep thing mastered during this hour: the witching hour, the Hank hour. (FYI: Hank is Henry’s evil Gemini twin.)
Friday night Joe lulled him to sleep by dancing with him in the living room during a live, streaming Phish festival.
It was an especially touching moment.
Joe was in his boxer shorts. I was breaking in my breast pump, which is electric and sounds disconcertingly similar to a dairy milker.
Suck, suck, woosh, woosh.
I don’t remember which Phish song was on, but for the sake of this post, let’s just call it long.
I was taking pulls from a tiny bottle of champagne. (Yes, while I was pumping.) Joe was also sipping champagne, which we received in a “baby warming” gift basket from friends. They were the size of Yoo-hoo bottles and they lasted about five minutes and tasted delish.
At home in our living room, in boxer shorts and PJ pants, we toasted to the start of a long holiday weekend while the pug ate old meatballs in the kitchen and the baby grooved to Gotta Jibboo* in Joe’s arms.
Since I was sitting on the couch milking myself, I didn’t see my neighbors walk by our front picture window at 9 p.m. According to Joe, who was standing front and center in his underwear rocking the baby, the neighbors got in a good 45-second stare as they moseyed past.
“Ah well,” he said, shrugging. “The neighbors saw me in my underwear.”
“Big whoop,” I said. “You’re just a man in his skivvies, dancing with a baby to your favorite band of all time. You should be so lucky.”
“Yeah. While his wife milks herself on the couch.”
“Party time,” I added, pulling the suction shield off my boob. “Did you ever think when you met me that we’d end up spending our Friday nights this way?”
He smiled. Said nothing.
“Admit it. You love it. You were built for this,” I said.
He did a little two-step with Henry.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose so.”
*Gotta Jibboo is a Phish song. Whether or not Henry grooved to it during the Friday night Super Ball IX set is unclear.
PS. Photo by the talented, super hip and very sweet Cat Pennenga. We did a family photo shoot with her last month. Henry’s cuteness factor was off the charts that day. So was the pug’s. So was Joe’s. For more images, see Cat Pennenga Photography. My favorite is below.
Naked baby in a suitcase with a camera? ENTER METAPHORS HERE.