A few days ago we found a CD called “Baby Asleep” at the library. It’s “gentle classical music,” but the production values are decent enough to afford real musicians. If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s synthesized classics marketed for wee ones. The real question, though, is does it work? I would have to say yes. We’re not the kind of parents who turn on a CD & leave the room for Blake to tough it out, so it doesn’t work like that. It does make me calm, and I can rock & hold him for a lot longer when wordless music is unspooling through the room rather than the hamster wheel of my own thoughts.

Today I met a woman who lets her baby daughter cry it out. Every night her daughter cries for an hour before sleeping. Just the thought of Blake crying for a whole hour before falling into an exhausted sleep makes me feel suckerpunched.

I know, I may change my mind down the road. Heaven knows that I crumbled on the pacifier issue (he started taking it last week, so we started using it in limited circumstances. The scary part was how quickly we slid down the slope of acceptable circumstances!) But for now I’d rather listen to a 90-minute Eagles CD than ignore a screaming boo.

Today I finally made it out to “Baby Time” at the local drop-in centre. Sure, I was a little late, but I was proud of my accomplishment. Turned out that I was more than 2 hours early. (Thank you very much, milk brain.) I stuck around for the Mother Goose hour instead and chatted with the other moms as much as possible (which was the goal all along). Just as I was about to go, a voice called my name.

The problem with going back home is that you inevitably run into the last person you’d expect. Three days after Blake was born, I was staggering through the local Shopper’s Drugmart in search of painkillers. We were on our way home from Loftwyr & Gilamonstre’s house. I was stitched & swollen & bruised & floppy & engorged & exhausted. Dried blood stuck my clothes to my body. And I was convinced that at this supremely inopportune moment I would run into Alexi, my exboyfriend.

I didn’t. But today I ran into a woman with whom I’d attended Grade 4 & 5. She also had a baby, of course. And immediately I was aware of my unkempt, uncombed hair; of my ratty black sweater, huge & shapeless & full of lint; of my inkstained jeans; of my tired eyes & terrible posture. I should just get a tattoo that says, CLEANS UP NICE. Because I do. Just not every day.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 4/19/2004 08:44:00 p.m.