If blogging in the middle of the night is cool, consider me Miles Davis. (Yes, blatant Adam Sandler-movie-quote-rip-off, but I'm just too damn tired to think of any witticisms of my own).
The Bub (aka Luca James, aka Supreme Ruler of All Things) has just finished a Dr. Brown's bottle of delicious Sensitive Tummy formula (stay tuned for the inevitable future blogging re: whining over my insecurity about not breastfeeding), and is doing that weird eyes-half-closed baby thing that I'm convinced is a diabolical trick to make me THINK he's asleep. From down the darkened, 2:30 AM street (bar time, as I can foggily recall), I can hear shouts and shrieks from the sketchy occupants of this ramshackle house that we secretly wish would just burn down. I have an overwhelming urge to run outside, spit-up stained burp cloth in hand, and furiously reprimand them using my newly acquired mom-superpowers. Their creepy rusted-out trucks and arrest records don't scare me, nuh-uh.
Two-thirty AM used to be that time you'd get ousted from the bar, tripping out into the pre-dawn hours with cocktails and a million enthusiastically-belted jukebox songs swimming in your head. Sky-high heels, red lipstick, cigarettes. Now, it's the only time that I sit still long enough to remember waiting for Luca - how hard it actually was. The expensive needles and the copious doctor appointments, the miscarriage when I laid on the bathroom floor in my own blood and wondered what it all meant. The odd thing is, even (finally) feeding my beautiful son in the middle of the night, I still don't know. Baby after infertility wasn't the glorious, rainbow-filled daydream I'd pictured - we're still just slogging through these first months like anyone else, trying to get our footing, ready to fall, ready not to. And that's ok.
