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.

Month 1: All Wet

Miles turned one month old last weekend. If I had to pick one word to sum up his first weeks of life it would be “pee.” That’s right, pee. Tinkle. Urine. This is one leaky kid. On the upside, he’s clearly not dehydrated. We know the plumbing’s working. On the downside, he goes through a load of laundry and easily a dozen diapers a day. I began to wonder if perhaps we had picked up a faulty batch of Pampers at Sam’s Club. Those suckers were doing absolutely nothing to contain the pee. Then again, neither did the Huggies or the Target brand diapers we tried.

Nearly every evening, C. would come home from work, pick up the baby, and cry out, “Ah! He got me!” lifting Miles to reveal a large damp spot on his shirt where the baby’s butt had been. We took to using a cloth diaper as a protective barrier between the baby and any surface at all times. Sometimes, I didn’t even bother to put clothes on him.

One night C. came running when he heard a blood-curdling shriek. He was sure I’d dropped the baby. It was worse. Miles had peed IN HIS OWN FACE. How could such a bizarre and horrific act be possible, you might ask? I’ll tell you. I was changing his diaper (for the billionth time that day) and had lifted up his ankles to slide the clean diaper underneath him. Apparently, this positioned his pee producer at the exact angle of his face, because the next thing I knew I heard a hiss and a splutter. I looked up to find the baby blinking and dripping with a stunned expression on his wet little face. The horror!

I polled all my mom friends, who came to the same conclusion: It’s a boy thing. Somehow, that tiny little firehose just can’t be controlled when they’re this young. It’s not clear whether it’s due to the force of the pee stream, too-loose diapers, or too-skinny thighs, but somehow, the urine escapes the diaper every time.

And where it comes out is a mystery. You’d think the pee would leak out the front of the diaper, right? Wrong. The wet spot is nearly always on the back or side of the baby’s clothes. How is that even possible?! Once, the pee followed a curved trajectory all the way up the back to the baby’s neck! Baffling.

One friend suggested pointing our baby boy’s, er, “equipment”down instead of allowing it to point up. C. was horrified. “We will do no such thing!” he exclaimed. Nor would he allow the use of what he deemed a humiliating product called The Pee-Pee Teepee. (Picture a mini party hat.) I couldn’t bring myself to do it, anyway. Instead, I tried folding the diaper every which way as if attempting to fashion an origami bird. Tuck the flaps under, fold them out, cinch the velcro tighter. Nothing worked. I resigned myself to a soggy future with my firstborn.

Then, miraculously, the font of pee subsided. Now Miles goes through two, maybe three outfits a day, tops. Once he even made it till dinnertime in the same onesie. I think it’s partly because his thighs have chubbed up and fill out the diapers’ leg holes better. He’s also now wearing a bigger, presumably more absorbent, size. Of course, now we’ve moved on to spit-up. Can someone please hand me a burp cloth?

Week 42: Birth Day!

Welcome Baby Miles! Our son was born on June 8, 2006, at 12:40 p.m. I went into labor the day before I was scheduled to be induced. (I’m sensing Miles will be a bit of a procrastinator like his dad.) I soon learned that despite months of preparation, classes, books, and advice from friends and family, childbirth rarely goes as planned.

I will spare my readers most of the gory details. I’d hate to be one of those women who regales others with her labor horror stories. Anyway, it wasn’t exactly horrible. Just long. Really, really long. I intended to labor at home as long as possible before going to the hospital. So when I started getting contractions on Tuesday night, I tried to remain as calm as possible and went to bed. The next morning I was still having them, now about 30 minutes apart, so C. stayed home from work.

We took a long walk with the dog, I did some yoga, we ate lunch, I finished “The Nanny Diaries,” and we generally just tried to keep busy. By 6 p.m., my contractions were about 4 minutes apart, so we decided to head to the hospital. Imagine my disbelief when the doctor on duty informed me I was only 1 ½ cm dilated. Are you kidding me?! She also told me that active labor is technically defined as contractions plus dilation, and I appeared to only be experiencing the first part.

The doctor invited us to stroll the halls for a few hours, or go back home. I felt like crying. If the hundreds of miles I’d logged in my last month of pregnancy – not to mention several evenings of marching up and down the stairs in desperation – hadn’t done the trick, I doubted a leisurely stroll around the waiting room would do it. Besides, I was scheduled for induction at 6 a.m. the next morning, so what was the point of going home?

My doula arrived with homemade cookies. (My original doula, that is.) By this time, they had a room ready for us. Margo massaged my back during contractions and fetched me water. She and C. slept uncomfortably on hospital chairs while I lay on the bed wishing the baby would hurry up already. At some point, the doctors decided to give me Pitocin. Sometime during the night I requested an epidural. Margo went home to send her kids off to school. Time passed ever so slowly. Then I started feeling the urge to push. I was 10 cm at last! We called Margo and told her to come back to the hospital. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version of the rest.

Low points:
- What felt like the longest labor in history.
- An epidural that never quite worked on my left side.
- A pair of midwives (invited by whom?) barking at me to stop whining and frowning – 3 hours after I’d started pushing. No, I’m not kidding.
- The doctors having to use a suction cup to get the baby’s head out.
- The pediatricians whisking away the baby before we’d even seen him due to the meconium situation. (Translation: He pooped in the womb and needed help breathing. Gross, but not that uncommon.)

High points:
- The popsicles we’d brought with us. The best thing I ever tasted!
- C. staying by my side the whole time, and his reaction when he first saw the baby coming out.
- Margo’s constant calm, soothing presence.
- Most of the nurses and the doctor who delivered the baby were super-friendly and supportive.
- Seeing our gorgeous baby boy for the first time! He had these huge, dark eyes that just stared and stared at us.

It’s been three weeks now since Miles was born. Of course we think he’s the best and most adorable baby ever. In some ways, our pre-baby life feels like forever ago. In other ways, we’re still adjusting. The other night I came home after running a few errands by myself and was startled to hear a baby crying when I walked in the door. Then I remembered, “Oh, yeah, I’m a mom now!”

I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep up the weekly installments of this journal, but I plan to try. Life with a baby is nothing if not interesting. And I definitely can’t rely on my overtaxed brain to remember everything if I don’t write it down!

Week 41: The Best Laid Plans

I’m a week overdue, my OB/GYN just quit, and my doula has gone out of town. No, I’m not kidding. Actually, losing my doctor is not that big a deal. She’s one of five female OBs in a group practice, all of whom see every patient several times, so she’s “my” doctor only in the sense that her name is on all the forms. I’ve known all along that any one of the doctors could be on call when I deliver my baby.

As for the doula, well, I can hardly expect her to put her life on hold till this baby decides to show up. She postponed a family trip last weekend since that’s when I was due. I could tell she felt bad. She found me a back-up, but I’ve decided it’s not worth the hassle.

See, like my original doula, the back-up doula is an Orthodox Jew, which means that she can’t drive a car, handle money, or answer the phone on the Sabbath or any Jewish holiday. Just my luck, one happens to fall on this weekend. What that means is, if I go into labor, we will have to call her cell phone and let it ring twice. That’s the signal to tell her we’re coming to pick her up on our way to the hospital. Can you picture C. and me – who don’t do so well with directions under the best of circumstances – driving around a strange neighborhood at 3 a.m. while I’m bent in half with contractions, looking for the third white house on the left after the drycleaners?

I’m trying not to give the baby the impression that he or she is inconveniencing everybody, even though it’s sort of true. My dad just got bilked out of a party to celebrate his 65th birthday and retirement because my mom figured they’d be here visiting the baby and didn’t plan anything. Plus, he hoped his first grandchild might be born on his birthday, June 1, but that day’s come and gone.

I’ve continued to try all the tricks to bring on labor (the latest is eating lots of pineapple) to no avail. My (back-up) doctor has scheduled me to be induced next Thursday if the baby doesn’t arrive before that. Today, C. and I went to the hospital for a fetal non-stress test and a sonogram to check the level of amniotic fluid. Everything looks fine.

We even got to see the baby for the first time since my last sonogram four months ago. It’s got fat cheeks and big feet! The nurse actually laughed out loud and said, “The baby looks mad. Look at that scrunched-up face and those chubby cheeks! It looks like it’s storing up nuts for winter!” She continued laughing way past the point that it was appropriate. It hurt my feelings a little. How dare she imply that our baby is funny-looking! Even though, I have to admit, that fat little mad face was pretty funny.

Maybe the baby will get mad enough to come out this weekend. But not till Sunday night – that’s when my doula gets back and can answer the phone again.

Week 40: Any Day Now …

Books read in the past week:
“Little Earthquakes,” by Jennifer Weiner
“Digging to America,” by Anne Tyler
“Nights of Rain and Stars,” by Maeve Binchy
Assorted chick-lit paperbacks that caught my eye in the library

Movies watched in the past week:
Rumor Has It
Junebug
Over the Hedge
The DaVinci Code

Phone calls from friends and relatives in the past week:
too many to count

My due date has come and gone. Even though my doctor says that first babies are, on average, six days late, I didn’t think it would happen to me. But here I am, still pregnant at 40 weeks. Technically, the baby is only a couple of days late. And, as I’ve been reminded infinite times during my pregnancy, predicting the due date is not an exact science. Still, I was discouraged when at my last appointment, the doctor reported that nothing was happening. At all. She prescribed evening primrose oil and sex to “get things moving.”

Now, everyone and her sister has a trick for jumpstarting labor. Some swear by spicy food, others insist that long walks, a glass of wine, or a hot bath work wonders. And, of course, there’s the sex suggestion. The theory is, that’s what got the baby in there in the first place, and it can help get the baby out. Only before the baby was in there, you probably weren’t carrying around an extra 35 lbs. and a basketball-sized belly. You probably still had ankles, could fit rings on your unswollen fingers, and didn’t grunt every time you changed position.

So it’s only natural that some of the other suggestions would seem a wee bit more appealing. In the past week I’ve tried: spicy drunken noodles from the Thai place (twice), the Victorian-sounding primrose oil capsules (which get stuck in my throat), daily walks (torture on my sore hips and pelvis), a hot bath, a few glasses of wine, yoga, bouncing on my exercise ball, visualization, massage, and having C. issue stern statements to the baby indicating that we’re ready for him or her to be born.

The amount of phone calls we get these days is comical. I haven’t been this popular since I was the first of my college roommates to get a car. My mother calls daily, and has taken to pretending she’s calling for reasons other than to find out if the baby is on its way. (Sure, Mom, whatever.) If I don’t answer the phone, people panic and start calling everyone else I know to see if THEY know if I’m off having the baby. Believe me, people, when I do YOU’LL KNOW!! I’ll broadcast it on the radio and take out a front-page ad in the newspaper.

Of course, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie beat me to it this weekend by giving birth to the most anticipated celebrity baby ever (a daughter named Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt) -- ON MY DUE DATE. Maybe my baby’s just waiting for the publicity to die down before he/she makes his/her appearance.

Week 39: Have You Had that Baby Yet?

So much for my mother’s prediction that this baby would be early. Even though I haven’t reached the 40-week mark, I’m starting to get anxious. I’ve officially started my maternity leave, the car seat’s installed, the bassinet’s set up – there’s nothing left to do but wait for the baby to decide to be born.

I’m not the only one who’s impatient to greet this little person. My phone’s ringing constantly these days – my mother, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, friends, “just calling to see how you’re doing.” (Translation: Did you have that baby yet?!) I’m tempted to joke, “Oh, yeah, thanks for the reminder. We actually DID have the baby a couple weeks ago. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!”

My friend E.G. was visiting from the West Coast this past weekend. “Are you going to have the baby while I’m here?” she asked eagerly, eyeing my ready-to-pop belly. But it didn’t happen. My dad is attending a conference nearby and had tentatively planned to stop over afterward to meet his new grandchild. But alas, he/she didn’t make his/her debut. I know it’s disappointing for people, but what can you do? The baby will come when the baby darn well wants to come.

I’ve tried to speed things along. C. and I went out for Thai food the other night. I had been thinking the spicy drunken noodles were the golden key to jumpstarting labor. No dice. I’ve been taking long, daily walks with the dog, which only cause me to take to the couch for the rest of the day to recover. (Having an approximately 7 lb. weight with sharp knees and elbows hanging low in your pelvis is PAINFUL, people!) Last night I even bounced on my yoga ball for a good 20 minutes, hoping to jar the baby loose.

So I guess there’s nothing left to do but wait. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go record a message on our answering machine: “If you’re calling to find out if we had the baby yet, press 1. If you’re calling to ask how the mother-to-be is feeling, press 2. If you’re calling to ask when the baby will arrive, please hang up and dial the Psychic Friends Network.”

Weeks 37 & 38: Leisure Pursuits for Preggos

Somehow, I got a week behind. Quite possibly because once you’re in the final stretch, there’s not all that much to report except YES, I’m still pregnant; NO, the doctor has no idea when the baby might arrive; YES, I realize I should enjoy my peace and quiet while I can; and NO, we (still!) have not officially decided on baby names, and even if we had I wouldn’t tell you so stop asking.

So I pass my time reading (three novels in the past week), watching movies (Netflix can’t send them fast enough these days), and going to the gym when I have the energy. It’s not as ambitious as it sounds. I pretty much just plunk myself on the recumbent bike with the latest US Weekly and pedal leisurely for as long as it takes to read about Paris Hilton’s latest exploits and who wore what hideous outfit to which awards show.

Still, I’m somewhat of a spectacle amidst the mostly slim, Lycra-clad set. My maternity workout clothes do little to camouflage my gi-normous midsection. In the elevator and on the elliptical machines, women eye me up and ask, “When are you due?” Most of them nearly fall off the treadmill when I say a couple of weeks. “Wow, you’re brave,” said one lady, inching away as if she expected my water to break at any moment. Well, what else do I have to do these days? At least the gym offers a change of scenery and clean towels.

The other project that’s been helping to pass the time is my birth announcements. I decided it would be fun to make them myself. That was before I visited four craft stores in as many days searching for the perfect paper, spent hours trolling the Internet for matching envelopes, and endured countless paper cuts making several sample announcements. I began having flashbacks to my wedding, when I decided it would be fun (fun!) to personally make 300+ shell-shaped chocolates for our guests.

At least I only have to come up with 75 birth announcements, but mass production sort of takes the fun out of any creative endeavor. And, of course, there’s the issue of not knowing the baby’s sex and, therefore, name. So I’m limited to gender-neutral colors and will have to add the specifics later. In the meantime, I will busy myself with affixing 75 bows to 75 cards with 75 miniature pastel pins. How’s that for fun?

Week 36: No, *I* Have it Worse

Now I know why pregnant women waddle. It’s because we have a crick in our back from trying to get comfortable in a bed that suddenly seems the size of a Saltine. No matter how many pillows we wedge around our swollen selves, there’s still some body part that’s being pinched or smushed. Especially the bladder. Nocturnal bathroom trips have increased exponentially.

We have also developed odd hitches in our hips and pelvis. Things are shifting literally overnight, so that we might spring (OK, roll) out of bed one morning to find that we suddenly can’t lift our right leg and it hurts to bend down to put on the dog’s leash. The last trimester’s no picnic, people.

I figure I’ve earned the right to complain since the beginning of my pregnancy went so smoothly. But I suddenly have competition in the complaining department: my husband. See, he got his wisdom teeth out last week. At age 33, just days before a business trip. (Didn’t seem like a good idea to me, either.) Needless to say, he has been experiencing some discomfort. He’s popping painkillers like Tic-Tacs, and tossing and turning all night. Now, having had my own hellacious wisdom tooth experience not that long ago, I’m sympathetic – to a point.

But on the fourth consecutive day of such statements as, “It’s so hard to concentrate/sleep/be in a good mood when you’re uncomfortable all the time” and “This is the worst pain I’ve ever felt” and the topper, “Now I have some idea of what you’ll be going through – times five, of course.” Excuse me?! Childbirth vs. wisdom tooth extraction. CHILDBIRTH vs. wisdom tooth extraction. Does he really think he needs to explain what it’s like to be uncomfortable 24/7? Try dealing with that for NINE MONTHS, I want to snarl. Does he really think having a couple of teeth pulled is anywhere near equivalent to pushing an entire human being out of a part of your body that’s stretched to 10 times its normal size?

But I don’t say anything. At least not too often. I just smile sympathetically, get us both a bowl of ice cream and prop up my swollen ankles.