Baby Fog

Forgive us for our recent lack of insight or updates. We've hit that point in the parallel universe of new parenthood when we have oodles to discuss -- and worry about -- among ourselves, but precious little to report to the outside world.

I thought about posting updates this weekend, but realized my big news amounted to stuff like, "Maureen finally changed out of her pajamas today" or "I've almost come up with a second verse to my hit feeding song, 'You Gotta Work it to Burp It.'"

Pathetic isn't it? You'd think those lyrics would just flow.

I returned to work for good today, Everyone was curious. I was surprised how little I had to say. Hope is doing what she should. She eats, cries, farts, poops, burps, sleeps and doesn't seem to mind terribly when our dog, Lulu, walks past and licks her head. That's a three-hour cycle that repeats, 24-7. Occasionally, Hope will stare at her mobile in big-eyed wonder or Lulu will mix it up by licking her feet. But for the most part, the cry-eat-sleep cycle prevails.

There shouldn't be much more to say, but, I found myself calling Mo every two hours today demanding answers: Did she poop? Describe its consistency, mass and color in vivid detail. Any spit-ups through her nose? Fresh or digested? Would you trust generic gas drops?

So that's it how it is now. Any semi-intelligent conversations we once had have faded into what Mo calls the Baby Fog and I call Fussing with the Fussbudget. Mo has left the house three times in 11 days, including once today to place a can in the recycling bin. I have been typing with one finger for 20 minutes because there is a baby on my chest and I'm counting breaths per minute (44.)

I got home about 7:30. We tried the normal, "Hey, any interesting stories today?" blather, but neither of us could fake it. Within two minutes, we were running to the Internet in search of answers for a mysterious pink spot on Hope's forehead and deciding whether three consecutive dry diapers constitute constipation.