Month 7: In the Groove

You know how people are always saying that kids grow up so fast, so enjoy them while they’re little, because before you know it they’ll be teenagers, and boy are you in for it then, and you just want them to shut up because all you’re focused on right now is getting your baby to please, dear God, please sleep through the night for once? Well, it’s true, people. They do grow up fast.

OK, so my baby’s only 6 mos. old. Maybe that doesn’t make me an expert, per se. All I know is I saw a couple of newborns this past week and, oh my goodness, were they tiny. My friend JF’s baby, Laura, looks like a fragile little baby bird, all pink skin and stick legs. I was afraid to hold her, and I just had one of these things myself less than half a year ago! JF was asking me questions about sleeping and feeding and I honestly could not remember what Miles was like at one week old.

I know he once looked like Laura – we have the stick legs documented on film – but when I look at the photos now, it doesn’t even look like my son. I thought he was cute then, never imagining the beaming, shrieking, chubby-thighed baby he’d be in just 6 mos. I got a little misty looking at those newborns, I have to say. Then I saw their parents’ frazzled, dark-circled stares and thought, “I wouldn’t trade places with them in a million years.”

I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this parenting thing. Oh, sure, I’m in tears weekly over something or other, and I still cling to “What to Expect the First Year” like it’s the Bible. But I actually feel much more relaxed and confident these days. I know how to make Miles laugh, and how to get him to stop crying (usually). I can tell his bored cry from his tired cry, and I can tell when he’s just about to lose it (the maniacal laughter is a sure sign). He’s much more predictable now. And when someone says “Mom,” I no longer look around for an older lady wearing sensible shoes. I’M Mom!

Not that I’m getting complacent. See, Miles is working on his first tooth. And he’s decided to go ahead and try to crawl. And he’s showing a keen interest in technology.(If you can call rolling over to the DVD player and kicking the buttons an interest in technology.) I’m just trying to keep up with him. And to enjoy every moment while he’s still small.

NEW FEATURE: TIP O’ THE WEEK: In an effort to make this blog, um, useful or something, I’ve decided to add a bit of practical advice to each entry. This week’s tip is to keep a stain stick on the changing table next to the diapers and wipes. The reason should be obvious.

Month 6: Giving Thanks

I’m a big fan of Thanksgiving. Surprising, perhaps, given that I’m a vegetarian and turkey is wasted on me. (People always ask me what I eat on Thanksgiving. I need a clever answer, like “Soy tacos. Duh!” Usually I just say, “Everything but the bird.”)

I like it because it’s a low-pressure holiday. There’s not all this build-up like there is to Christmas and New Year’s, which inevitably leave you feeling disappointed, stressed out, and/or hung-over. There’s no worrying about the perfect gift – Thanksgiving’s just all about food. And, you know, family and giving thanks and stuff.

I have so much to be thankful for this year. Number-one, of course, is my gorgeous, healthy, adorable baby boy. Not a day has gone by since his birth that I haven’t given thanks for him. Even those days when he’s working his way through a jumbo pack of Pampers and fighting tooth and nail against taking any nap whatsoever.

Here are some other things I’m thankful for:
A husband who’s happy to change diapers, wrestle with tiny onesies, get up at 3, 4, and 5 a.m. to soothe the baby back to sleep, make dinner occasionally, mop up the basement when it floods (again!), and countless other tasks. And I’m thankful that he gave our baby his big dark eyes and sunny disposition.

A family that gets as much joy out of our son as we do.

Friends who are more than generous with their hand-me-downs, advice, and willingness to listen.

My health, and the health of my family. I know enough people who’ve faced unspeakable health crises to not take it for granted for a single second.

Kind strangers who hold doors open for us moms struggling with strollers and unwieldy diaper bags.

New friends who reach out to us less-outgoing types.

A roof over my head, a warm bed each night, and enough food to feed my family.

The safe births of all my friends who’ve had babies recently. Welcome, Baby Laura and Baby Jack!

This list could go on and on. But I fear it would get sappy, and where’s the fun in that? Just so you don’t think I’ve gone totally sentimental, I’m also thankful for Tivo, Entertainment Tonight, and Starbucks gingerbread lattes.

Month 6: I Am Baby, Hear Me Roar

Miles has a new noise: “Aaaaaagggghhhhh!” It sounds like a cross between a lion's roar and a motorcycle missing a muffler. It’s very loud, and not the most pleasant sound in the world. (If only I knew how to post audio clips … ) And did I mention he makes this noise ALL DAY LONG? It’s bad enough at home, but he’s also done it in the library, a museum, a restaurant, and even at church. (Just once, thank God, but loud enough to draw giggles and stares from several members of the congregation.)

It’s got to be as hard on his throat as it is on my ears (and nerves). I have the only 5 1/2-month-old in the world with a smoker’s voice. The kid sounds like he has a pack-a-day habit. Aren’t babies supposed to coo?

Miles also has a new move. C. and I call it the Frogman. He rolls over onto his stomach and pumps his arms and legs like a surfer paddling out to a wave. He must be fixin’ to crawl, as our babysitter would say, but he hasn’t figured out that his hands and knees actually have to be in contact with the ground. That doesn’t slow him down, though. He’s happy to roll and kick and screech away all day long.

Miles is so happy and animated these days, it’s hard not to smile at him constantly, even when he’s embarrassing his parents in public. When C. goes in to get him in the mornings, Miles breaks into a huge grin. Sometimes he punctuates it with a happy screech. (Not to be confused with the more guttural motorcycle noise.)

Man, I love this baby. All that energy and personality rolled into a person who’s only been alive for approximately 150 days. (Which – coincidentally? – is the length of the warranty on our stroller, which broke down in the middle of downtown Washington, D.C. over the weekend. Guess Snap ‘n’ Go refers to the back wheel. Grrr …)

In other news, we bought a highchair since Miles is starting to eat solid food. It was like the crib-buying ordeal all over again – WAY too many brands, models, and features. And all of them rated "horrible" by at least one person on the Internet. We ended up going with Baby Bargains' top pick, in some crazy rainforest wonderland design. Some choice: tasteful understated deathtrap or gaudy plastic workhorse.

Breaking baby news: last week my friend D. gave birth to a girl! D.’s mom is our sitter, and she called one morning to say she wasn’t coming because D.’s water broke. Is it bad that my second thought after, “Yay, the baby’s coming at last!” was “Crap, no sitter for awhile”? Anyway, good luck to the new parents. May it be several months before their little angel starts frightening people on the street with her shrieks.

Month 6: Till Baby Do Us Part?

I’ll be the first to tell you that having a baby is great. In his few months on Earth, Miles has brought such joy not only to me and C., but to our friends and families as well. It’s so much fun to have a new reason to send out pictures and exchange e-mails with far-flung relatives. (Shout out to my aunt and uncle in California who are big fans of this blog!)

But it’s not all tummy kisses and giggles, people. A new baby is hard work. And it can be tough on a marriage. Just ask Britney Spears. (Why it took her this long to kick K-Fed to the curb is beyond me.) Now, before anyone freaks out and starts imagining Reese and Ryan scenarios, relax. C. and I are fine. I’m just saying, a baby can put a strain on even the strongest relationship.

For one thing, a baby takes a huge amount of time and attention, which, in your pre-baby life, was probably largely devoted to your significant other. I feel bad for my husband sometimes, because at the end of the day, I’m so sick of being physically attached to another person that I can’t even bear for someone to breathe on me. (That goes for C. and the dog. Except Gracie is a little less understanding about it.)

I’m also finding that the baby requires huge reserves of patience I didn’t even know I had. So naturally, I have less patience for other stuff. Like, say, C. leaving the lid open on the box of wipes EVERY SINGLE TIME he changes the baby’s diaper. Or flinging an article of clothing on the floor EVERY SINGLE TIME he changes his clothes. Or forgetting to raise the crib rail EVERY SINGLE TIME he puts the baby to bed. And can someone please explain to me the thought process that compels C. to place the baby’s dirty clothes ON TOP OF the hamper, but not IN the hamper?

I don’t mean to be bitchy. But that just seems to be my go-to mood lately. Chalk it up to 5+ months of interrupted sleep, being responsible for another person 24/7, financial stress from living on one income, loss of my pre-parent identity, whatever. All I know is, I’m usually not Miss Mary Sunshine these days. And while he tries to be understanding, C. bears the brunt of it.

Talk shows and magazines are full of all sorts of advice: “Schedule a regular date night with your husband,” “Keep the lines of communication open,” “Make time for yourself.” All good ideas in theory, sure. Except time and money and real life tend to get in the way.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I sometimes think if celebrities – with their personal trainers and chefs and nannies and spa vacations – can’t make it work, what chance do us mere mortals have? I mean, I doubt Britney and Kevin were fighting about whose turn it was to do the laundry or the dinner dishes. And was Reese resentful because Ryan wanted to go to a football game with his friends on the one day he was supposed to watch the kids? I know, I’m being silly. It was probably his wardrobe of wife-beaters and do-rags that sealed K-Fed’s fate. Wonder if he put them in the hamper.

Month 5: Mysteries of the Universe

How can I love someone so much who’s only been alive for 4 ½ months? I have lettuce in my fridge older than that.

How can I love someone so much who’s constantly grabbing fistfuls of my hair and pulling REALLY HARD?

How can I love someone so much whose idea of fun is cramming his socks into his mouth?

How can I change a sopping wet diaper, undershirt, and sleeper* without opening both eyes when I can’t cross my bedroom without banging my shin on the bed?

How can the baby nurse, burp, and repeat without opening his eyes when he couldn’t find his own foot until recently?

How can I be bored to tears some days when I’m too busy to brush my teeth?

How can I be lonely when I am never alone anymore?

How can I be giddily happy and so sad I can’t breathe in the same day?

How does spit-up get in the baby’s ear when he’s lying on his stomach?

How can the baby be crying hysterically one second and dead asleep the next?

How can the baby grow 6 inches taller in 4 months and his hair not grow a millimeter?

How come on the rare occasions the baby sleeps through the night I’m wide awake worrying that something’s wrong?

*Update: Huggies Overnites = Godsend.

Month 5: Confessions of a New Mom

You know I’m starting to get my act together when I post more than once a month. I feel compelled to report on a disturbing trend I’ve noticed among my women friends – the tendency to beat themselves up for anything and everything.

Take my one friend, a working mother of two whose home is always tastefully adorned with seasonal decorations. She beats herself up for not being able to fit into her pre-pregnancy jeans. Then there’s another friend, well into her third trimester and still working, who feels bad about herself for not getting to the gym more. Another new mom admitted to feeling like a slacker because she sent out store-bought invitations to a shower she’s hosting.

Come on, ladies, lighten up on yourselves! I’ve had the same vase of fake cherry blossoms in my living room since last spring. I still eat ice cream every night even though I’m no longer eating for two. And if someone gives me a cute gift bag that hasn’t been written on, damn straight I’ll regift it!

Still, I am sort of embarrassed to admit all this (notice I’m only doing it anonymously on the Internet), which I guess proves my point that we women are too hard on ourselves. And even though we know we shouldn’t, we constantly compare ourselves to other people. So I’m going to make all those self-haters out there feel better about themselves. I’ve drawn up a nice long list of all my shortcomings as a mother. Read it and gloat (or recoil in disgust, your choice):

I drink fully caffeinated coffee, wine, and eat spicy food, even though I am breastfeeding.

I watch all the morning shows while Miles plays on the floor in front of the TV, even though I know the AAP recommends no TV, ever, for children under 2.

I didn’t play classical music or read to my baby in utero; since he’s been born, I’ve only read him a book about 4 times.

Sometimes I go several hours without talking to Miles (not counting “boogety-boo” and “Who’s the cutest boy?”).

I don’t always make people wash their hands before they touch my baby.

If Miles leaks pee onto a particularly cute outfit, I sometimes dry it with the hairdryer rather than change his clothes.

My baby sometimes wears the same socks two days in a row.

I did not once wash his bouncy seat during his first three months of life, despite several diaper leakage incidents.

When Miles was really tiny, I would bite his fingernails rather than attempt the scary nail clippers.

I pick my baby’s nose instead of using the suction-bulb thingie.

Just so you don’t think I’m totally gross, I do bathe my son regularly (OK, semi-regularly) and Purell my hands after I change his diapers. Although just the other day, I overheard a woman at yoga talking about how you’re not supposed to use antibacterial products. Something about killing off the good bacteria, too? Sigh. Add it to the list . . .

Month 5: Had a Bad Day

You know how magazines are always featuring these successful working moms who effortlessly balance their careers and families? Of course their lives aren’t as perfect as the articles make them out to be, but I wonder if those moms ever have days like the one I had the other week.

I decided I was ready to start working again. Not full time, just enough to earn a little bit of money on the side. Since I’m a freelance writer who works from home, I figured this would be pretty doable. Especially since I’ve hired a babysitter two afternoons a week.

So I accepted a couple of short assignments. Then I set up a meeting, asked the babysitter to come a little early that day, ironed some non-drawstring pants, and (gasp!) blow-dried my hair. I waited until the last possible minute to put on my white shirt. (I’ve learned a thing or two by now about the digestive habits of babies.)

That was the day the babysitter’s bus was running behind schedule, for the first time ever. When she finally arrived, I tossed the baby into her arms and dashed out the door. In the car, I immediately noticed a foul smell. Was that … ? Could it be … ? Noooo … Did I accidentally drop a dirty diaper into my purse?

As the car filled with a horrible odor, I looked down at my shoe and saw that I had stepped in a disgusting deposit left in our yard by the neighbor’s dog. Not just a little bit, either. A huge, gooey gob stuck to my shoe and, by now, ground into the floor mat. I pulled over and, while cursing like a sailor, attempted to scrape the crap off my shoe with an old napkin I found in the glove compartment. Wouldn’t you know it, the baby wipes and Purell I’ve been carting around for months were conveniently packed in my diaper bag – at home. The more I tried to clean up the mess, the worse it got, and the worse it smelled. I cried. I cursed some more.

And then – what else could I do? – I called and cancelled my meeting. Then I cried some more and felt very sorry for myself. How had I ever thought I could do this working mom thing? Who was I kidding? After that I drove to the mall and bought myself a new pair of shoes. I figured I deserved them.

While Dog Poop Day ranks right up there, it may not actually be the worst day I’ve had since I became a mother.

Other bad days include:
The time our basement flooded (again!) and C. accidentally unplugged the freezer to plug in the Shop-Vac and ruined my whole stash of frozen breastmilk.

The Sunday we finally managed to get ourselves to church on time and then Miles had a diaper blowout minutes into the service and I hadn’t packed another outfit since we were only going to be away from home for approximately an hour.

The day (OK, today) that I left the cap off the baby’s vitamin drops – a sticky, dark-brown, foul-smelling liquid – and spilled half the bottle all over the beige carpet in the family room.

But you know what? Moms aren’t the only ones who have bad days. Babies have them, too. I don’t know why that surprises me. Maybe because I figure that without checking accounts or stretch marks, they have nothing to stress about.

But some days, for no apparent reason, Miles is in a bad mood. Even if he’s had his nap, just been fed, and not wearing a shirt with a scratchy tag. Inevitably, that will be the day I decide to take him to the gym and they page me three times during my 20-minute Stairmaster session: “Will Miles’ mom please report to childcare.” Then the next day, same scenario, only he’ll be shrieking with glee and grinning like a maniac.

Could I learn something from my little munchkin about accepting that there will be bad days and that every tomorrow is a new chance for a better one? One thing’s for sure: being covered in poop never seems to ruin his day.

Month 4: Where Does the Time Go?

A single friend came over for dinner recently. He asked whether I was doing any freelance writing these days. I said I planned to start again at some point, but I just hadn’t found the time yet. “I don’t get that. Don’t babies sleep all the time?” he said, genuinely puzzled.

Even though I now know otherwise, there was a time not too long ago when I shared our naïve friend’s perspective. Surely I could continue to write and raise our child, I thought – you know, during naps and in the evenings when the baby’s gone to bed. I wouldn’t even need to pay a babysitter since I work from home. Ha. Let me repeat that: HA.

It is in fact true that early on, newborns sleep most of the day. Their mothers, however, not so much. At first I was so exhausted that I tried to follow that age-old advice: nap when the baby naps. Easier said than done. Inevitably, each time I would lay down my weary head, the doorbell and/or phone would ring, the dog would bark, and a car alarm would go off. No amount of white noise could drown out these distractions, nor could a sleep mask completely block out the noonday sun streaming through the blinds.

Besides, Miles’ nap times are the only chance I have to get stuff done. Pre-baby, I foolishly imagined this “stuff” to be writing, preferably the income-generating kind. Silly, silly me. I still remember the day I was paralyzed with indecision when the baby fell asleep at last. Should I eat, shower, or sleep? If I could’ve figured out a way to do two of these things at once, I would have. In the end I chose a shower.

Which brings me back to our bachelor friend. How can a person not even have time to shower? he wondered, incredulously. Let me walk you through the following snippet of my daily life:

5:29 a.m.: Awake to the sound of baby’s hungry cry.
5:42 a.m.: Cries getting louder. Guess he’s not going back to sleep.
5:44 a.m.: Feed baby.
5:56 a.m.: Burp baby.
5:58 a.m.: Feed baby.
6:08 a.m.: Burp baby.
6:09 a.m.: Realize too late that I forgot burp cloth to catch spit-up spewing from baby’s mouth.
6:10 a.m.: Another bodily fluid spews from another part of baby. Still no burp cloth in sight to absorb leakage.
6:12 a.m.: Wait for next diaper explosion sure to follow. No sense rushing to change it too soon.
6:15 a.m.: Change baby’s diaper, clothing.
6:20 a.m.: Change mother’s clothing and, if necessary, bedding.
6:25 a.m.: Baby dirties another diaper. Should’ve waited longer to change previous one.
6:30 a.m.: Realize we are out of baby wipes. Make mental note to bring some up from downstairs later on.
6:31 a.m.: Bright-eyed baby shows no signs of going back to bed. Go downstairs.
6:33 a.m.: Baby plays in bouncy seat while mother forages for coffee and cereal.
6:35 a.m.: Realize we are out of milk. Make mental note to ask husband to buy some later.
6:36 a.m.: Baby spits up on shirt.
6:37 a.m.: Change baby’s clothing.
6:42 a.m.: Play with baby on floor.
6:59 a.m.: Baby falls asleep on play mat. Transferring him to crib will allow mother to shower and/or eat breakfast, but will almost surely wake and anger him. Decide not to attempt it.
From 7 a.m. on: Repeat above sequence many, many times throughout day. Remain unshowered. Forget about wipes and milk.

Of course, it eventually gets easier. Sort of. I can now shower while my baby’s awake. I park him in front of the open bathroom door in his bouncy seat. He usually entertains himself long enough for me to do a cursory cleansing of most parts of my body. Not long enough to fully rinse the conditioner out of my hair, mind you. And shaving my legs is out of the question.

On a good day, I can start a load of laundry (“start” being the operative word), load or unload the dishwasher (but not both), and finish eating two-thirds of a sandwich before baby duty calls again. One rainy afternoon I managed to watch the first hour of “Memoirs of a Geisha” and open the mail while Miles slept. It was a banner day.

As for my writing career … maybe I should take up haiku.

Month 3: Milestones

Miles has achieved a lot of firsts in his third month of life. He went on his first trip (a 7-hour car ride to visit both sets of grandparents), rolled over for the first time, and started sleeping in his crib in his own room.

Yep, once he surpassed the bassinet’s 15-lb. weight limit, I couldn’t put it off any longer. This nightly separation is definitely harder on me than on him. It took me a few nights to stop tip-toeing into his room every 20 minutes to make sure he was still breathing and hadn’t wedged a body part between the crib rails.

This month also marks the first time I’ve left Miles with a babysitter who’s not related to him by blood. It was easy enough to leave him with my dad while my mom and I went off to a yoga class. (Easy on me, that is. When I called to check in, my dad sounded frazzled. By the time we pulled up to the house, he was waiting outside with the baby in his arms, frantically scanning the street for our car!)

But leaving my precious child with a stranger is another matter entirely. OK, so she’s not a complete stranger; she’s my friend’s mom. Let’s call her “Scarlett.” Scarlett positively oozes gentleness, patience and Southern charm. I’m in desperate need of a few baby-free hours a week. And I plan to be right upstairs most of the time she’s here, catching up on e-mail, bills, etc. Yet I’m still a little uneasy.

For the first hour after Scarlett arrived yesterday, I ran around doing laundry, putting away clothes, and wrestling with the confounded crib sheet. They make those things so snug you almost need pliers to get them around the mattress. Which is why my poor son has been sleeping on a soiled crib sheet for two nights. You try changing that thing with a sleepy baby in your arms at 4:30 a.m.!

Then I figured I should probably leave the house to make the most of my precious few hours of “me time.” Destination: Panera. Goal: An asiago bagel with sundried tomato cream cheese. Since I’m used to scarfing down my food while standing in the kitchen, I finished my bagel in approximately 4 ½ minutes. Not exactly the leisurely, adult meal I’d envisioned.

As I sat there sipping my lemonade, I realized I felt vaguely guilty. Guilty for paying someone to watch my child while I sip lemonade and stare into space. Guilty for leaving a poor, unsuspecting woman with Miles, who’s recently started this new screaming thing. (If anyone but Mom holds him for longer than a few minutes, he screams.)

Guilty for not showing Scarlett how to turn on the TV because I don’t want Miles watching it, even though that makes me a hypocrite because I often have the TV on when I’m home with him. But, really, was I going to insult the sitter by instructing her how to correctly position the bouncy seat so the TV screen is just out of the baby’s view? And did I really want her to discover that when Miles spots the TV, it often stops the screaming thing and gives you a whole 5 minutes of peace while he fixes a glassy stare at the screen? The answer is no, my friends.

I just remembered I also forgot to show Scarlett how to turn on the baby monitor, where the fire extinguisher is (do we even own one?), or where we hide the spare key in case she gets locked out. Plus, our fridge is practically empty, and she didn’t seem all that comfortable with the dog.

Remind me again why I thought hiring a babysitter would ease my stress?

Month 2: Venturing Out

Two months old. 14+ pounds. I have given birth to a budding sumo wrestler. And I have the biceps to prove it. Miles is one good eater, I’ll give him that. The kid hasn’t missed a meal since he entered the world a few short weeks ago.

I’m consuming calories like Kirstie Alley at a Krispy Kreme and somehow I’ve still managed to shed most of the 37 lbs. I gained during my pregnancy. (My belly button, however, shows no signs of returning to its former state. Seems that being turned inside out for months on end was enough to permanently change my innie to an outie.)

Now that our steady stream of houseguests has dissipated, I’m starting to go a bit stir-crazy stuck at home all day. Let’s face it, Miles isn’t much of a conversationalist. Ask him what he thinks of the war in Iraq -- oh, let’s be honest, the return of the skinny jean -- and his only response is a wide-eyed stare. Maybe the occasional gummy grin. And as cute as those grins are, it’s tough to fill the day with “This Little Piggy.” (I mean, there are only five, and I can’t even remember what piggies three and four do.)

So I went in search of a social life for Miles and me. First I lied and said he was 6 weeks old when he was really only 5 weeks so we could sign up for Mommy & Me yoga. This was my first foray into exercise since I’d birthed the little bruiser. Let me tell you, hoisting a hefty little guy with no neck control on one hip while attempting the triangle pose is no easy feat. But at least we were around other people, including a couple of tiny 6-month-old girls who were dwarfed by Miles’ girth.

Next, we showed up for story time at the library. The librarian insisted babies from birth on up were welcome, but once again, my guy was the youngest one there. So he slept in the sling most of the time, and the finger puppets accompanying “Five Little Monkeys” were lost on someone who can’t see 6 inches past his face. So what? Again, at least we were out and about instead of parked on the couch watching Regis & Kelly.

A new moms’ support group at the local hospital served only to make me count my lucky stars that Miles knows his way around a nipple. Some of these poor moms were spending literally all day long pumping and feeding their babies with these little syringe thingies. They were near tears as they described trying everything under the sun to get their little ones to latch on. Clearly not a problem my chunky monkey shares.

Speaking of breastfeeding, a friend who’s active in La Leche League invited me to a meeting. I was not sure I wanted to stage a “nurse-in” at Starbucks or learn how to discreetly breastfeed a toddler. But boredom got the better of me, and I went. In all fairness, the women there were all very pleasant. I just couldn’t get past the 3-year-old boy who walked up to his mother, who was nursing his baby sister on one breast, and said, “Save the other one for me.”

So Miles and I continue to search for ways to occupy ourselves. A trip to the pediatrician is a big day for us. We stretch out our daily walks with the dog, and we invent reasons to go to the grocery store. (Hey, the recipe called for a rutabaga!) Sometimes we call up C. and beg him to meet us for lunch.

At least we have our yoga class. I’m slowly regaining my abdominal strength, thanks to doing the boat pose with a 14-lb. weight attached to me. And Miles has the flat-on-your-back relaxation pose down pat. His cobra needs a little work, though.