A Land Without Words

Our second night at home with our new baby boy, my milk came in. This meant one baby intent on getting as much as he could get. And, one new mom trying to figure out how to get the little man onto the boob quickly with no wrangling.

I had thought of everything before going to the hospital. That little rolling black suitcase had in it, completely untouched, a hot water bottle, an iPod loaded with “massagy” music, Amnat’s bathing suit for hot shower massage, snacks, three outfits for me, the breastfeeding book, on and on. You get the idea.

The first urge to push came at the front door of the hospital, my water broke as I was getting into a gown, and Jimmy was born less than an hour later. iPod? What was I thinking?

At home we had the same level of preparedness. Little baskets of cotton balls, bins of diapers, basins for washing, on and on. But, it never occurred to me that you need to be able to see to learn how to breastfeed a hungry newborn in the middle of the night.

Our rooms are all lit the same way. One three-foot flourescent strip on the ceiling. You could perform oral surgery under them, but it does not set the proper mood for midnight breastfeeding.

Jimmy was born on the full moon. In what was left of the full moonlight, Jimmy and I were struggling for a latch. I couldn’t see a thing. The little guy was getting frustrated. Amnat was on full alert with no idea how to help. The three of us bolt upright in the middle of the bed with no solution forthcoming. Then, Amnat made a move. He headed for the little black rolling suitcase and came back with the breastfeeding book.


I was in a land without words. Thrilled that he was trying something, but how the hell was I going to thumb through the index at that particular moment?

And, I was touched. You see, my husband and I don’t really share a common language. He is Thai, and neither of us have any advanced skill in the new languages of our married life. I thought - how great, he actually knows what the book I’ve been pouring over is about.

And with that thought in my mind, my husband started flapping the leaves of the breastfeeding book feverishly over our heads. Having decided that Jimmy was hot, that was the problem, he grabbed the first fannable object he could find. Here was my husband violently waving those pearls of lactating wisdom over our heads, without a clue to the irony of it.

In the light of day, with the little boy in a good latch, I started laughing until great big tears rolled down my face. With the little boy bouncing around on my laughing belly, I explained to Amnat so that he could see the humor in it.

In the days that followed, I learned not to break into uncontrolled peels of laughter when the little boy is latched. It just makes my stomach bounce up and down and the little boy has to hold on tighter.

Impressions

Ten weeks ago, my husband and I had a baby. He is remarkable (to us) in many ways, but on day three he began to distinguish himself as a unique talent. He started doing impressions.

Given his communication skills at present, which consist of involuntary emissions like wails, slurps, burps, and farts, the impressions are largely gestural. I’ll give you an example.

Day three, the day my milk came in. Our tiny trooper had been nursing away on breasts bigger than his sweet little face, when suddenly he faced breasts big as his head. The little guy was undaunted. In the middle of the night, with a mum not quite sure what had changed and an oh-so supportive but totally clueless dad, Baby K managed his first impression. He wrinkled up one side of his face, opened wide and plunged forward. I could almost hear him growling, “aargh.” A pirate intent on attainable riches. This impression lasted about a week.

As the drama of the new milk subsided, Baby K refined his second impression. After a milky meal, his head lolled back over my arm, eyes rolled back, half closed. He just laid there with his little mouth lax, breathing slow. He had his milk stone on. Accurate in every detail of lax muscle and blank expression, my little baby's stoner impression.

As the pleasure of the meal became more mundane, he affected a new impression, this one moving away from the “type” and in to the specific personality. He started doing Jack Benny. After finishing at the breast, he would bring one hand up to his chin, rest it there coquetishly, the other hand across his middle. I could almost hear, “Oh, Raahchester.” Where he got this one, heaven knows.

Recently, as Mr. Benny has gone the way of the pirate and the stoner, our little guy has taken on The Keebler Elf. I’m hard pressed to say how he’s doing it, really. Something in the way he holds his upper lip, and of course the leiderhosen and the ridiculous hat are a dead ringer.

Look out Rich Little. Vegas here we come.