When we left on our trip Baby Flails-a-lot was an engaging, good-tempered pile of gorgeous. Now she's all of those things and a PSYCHO FLAIL BOT. Jesus Criminy. They tell you time will fly by when you have a kid. What they don't tell you is that this is mainly due to your complete inability to keep pace with your spawn. Two seconds after we get a handle on whatever new things she's doing, *bam* she's onto the next. Remember when the Alien burst out of John Hurt's chest amidst bloody gore and then ran off and no one could catch it? Parenthood's kinda like that.*
Bizarrely (to me) she hasn't gained tons of weight, just lengthened and improved her fine motor coordination. She focuses these new abilities mainly on making sure she's moving at all times. When feeding, whichever arm is free whirls in a constant windmill motion. If, for whatever reason, I cannot pin this arm she will occasionally smack me in the face with it. Add to this the wiggling, the sudden head swivels (with me in her her mouth!), and her attempts to roll off my lap and you have feeding time at the Ish household. This is the but a prelude to what awaits me in Round Two: the Gas Wrangle.
The Wrangle begins with the formerly peaceful process of burping Baby Flails-a-lot by patting all the gas out. I used to like this time. It was all cuddly and peaceful. She curled up against me, sleepy, content and warm. I firmly but gently patted her back, gas came out, everyone happy. That was then. Now it's a smorgasbord of bitch-slapping, eye-clawing and throat punches. Most of it done while she gleefully gurgles and says "mmma mmma MAMMM mmmmmmm" endlessly. She specializes in being cute and happy while I block punches and scream things like, "My eye! My eye!" If I'm not careful she'll punch me in the throat and lean in, effectively cutting off oxygen to my brain. She's either trying to a) kiss my cheek or b) eat my face. I can't tell which.
You'd think I'd be able to contain an 18 pound lump but her limbs are like angry slinkys (-ies?) and there's no telling where they'll go. Also, both sides of my family possess freakish strength, so there's that. My mother once saw someone on my Dad's side lift a boat motor and put it on his shoulder unassisted. Grandma Madness (on my mom's side) was mowing her lawn with a battery powered motor at 87 (the battery is only slightly smaller than a car battery). I don't know about Husband-cat's family but he's got the metabolism of a hummingbird and is both unnaturally strong and flexible. These are not normal people.
I was just like them until I was felled by repetitive stress injuries in my wrists (damn all keyboards!). Now I'm the weakest link in the family chain while newly forged Baby Flails-a-lot is following in the family footsteps. Fortunately (not really) my wrists have been bothering me so I outsourced all gas related movements to Husband-cat. He thinks I'll be taking those duties back when wrists feel better. He is wrong.
* New slogan: Parenthood, it's just like having a chestburster in your home.