My First Week – Notes from an American Baby

Is that title pretentious? Hope it works for you, cause I’m going for something kinda grabby. I want to get on Stewart or Colbert as soon as I can talk.

People have wondered  whether I will keep up blogging, considering the lack of sleep. Let’s be clear: I do not have a problem with sleep. My parents have a problem with sleep.

I am getting plenty of microsleep in 10-minute intervals which, by the way, is exactly how it’s supposed to be.

From the early days (and nights) of human development we slept around campfires with lots of dangerous animals lurking outside the flickering circle of safety. If everybody fell asleep, they’d be eaten. So we learned to sleep in short bursts. Infants like me are simply continuing this sensible practice.

By the way, I have been practicing singing in a loud, loud voice. My father calls this ‘screaming.’ He knows nothing about music. My plan is to keep singing as loud as I can until my parents become confused and compliant and give me what I want. It’s been working so well! They are becoming more cranky and vulnerable every day. Yet, over the past 72 hours or so, I have discovered a problem with my perfect plan. My parents do not speak baby. My lyrics are great and my tunes are catchy. Everything I do has a hook that Jay-Z would envy. Sadly, my people here are not understanding a word. Like an American in a foreign country, I’ve tried speaking louder. I’ve tried texting them, but they’re too tired to find their phones. I can’t email them. There’s no WiFi in my crib. So I just keep singing my aria, arpeggio upon arpeggio to rival Caruso, until they get the picture. I know it’s going to work.

Update: I took a ride in my stroller with my mommy. She is producing lots of milk now and I chug it down like mother’s milk. (Sorry, I haven’t mastered these metaphors yet.) I like to stretch out next to her in the big bed and stare into her green eyes. I love to feel the energy glowing between us like an eternal light. I saturate her with my Buddha-nature and my intoxicating cocktail of hormones, and I set an intention, for us, together. Mommy, before I graduate high school, I expect you to buy me a car.

I kid you, though. I know my mommy loves me. And even though my dad is kind of gruff when he is changing me at 3:30 in the morning, I know he loves me too. He is getting a little edgy, though. We have run out of coffee filters and my dad is in the laundry room right now ripping apart an old t-shirt so he can put coffee through it. Next time he is changing me I am going to recommend he try a little cup of breast milk. It’s very calming. Note to self: Would they object if I set up a breast milk stand out front like some kids have lemonade stands? People find this kind of capitalistic enterprise charming in children, and I could pick up a couple extra bucks.

Another update:  I went to the doctor today for my second checkup. Everything is good. I’ll hit my birth weight soon. They talked about my poop again without an opt-in from me, which is a worse violation of my privacy rights than any Facebook has committed.

Well, anyway, looking back, it’s been a helluva week, although I have no concept of ‘week’ because I can’t discern the difference between night and day. Until I figure that out, I am working on something I’d like to share with you. Reaching out to other babies reading this, do you think it’s better to wait until my dad is almost done changing me to pee on the changing table? I can soak my clothes pretty well that way, but it’s literally hit or miss. Or does it work better to let a high stream go in a graceful arc, creating maximum coverage, but risking peeing myself in the face, which I wouldn’t really mind anyway? Fellow babies, feel free to comment below or let me know about other tricks you have to make changing more fun.

My dad says he is working on his blog. We will see how it stacks up to mine. Got to get some sleep now so I can wake up my parents later. See you soon.