Other uses for Vaseline

Get your mind out of the gutter.

So rather than have this blog be 24/7 whine, bitch, moan about how tough it is having a baby… I’m going to also try and pepper in some actual useful advice.

And here’s an interesting tidbit. When we went to our first Pediatrician appointment for our son, we met a sweet mom who had been going to this doctor for over 20 years. She had in tow children #2 and #3, who appeared to be about 13 and 15 years old, respectively. She was sweet — she pulled out their baby pictures from her wallet, and couldn’t wait to share them. (The teenagers, it goes without saying, were humiliated. “Awww, mo-om.”)

In addition, she did share with us one nugget of wisdom that has seemed to work well: put vaseline on everything. Bruises, cuts, rashes. In one of our baby prep classes, the instructor said the best way to prevent diaper rash is to smear vaseline everywhere poo/pee can get. Well, this lady went one step further and said she puts it on cuts and bruises too.

And you know what… I think it works. Our son will occasionally cut or scratch himself with his out-of-control little arms that flail everywhere. (I assume some day he’ll get control of them, because otherwise, that would suck to be in a business meeting, and just having your arms fling randomly in the air while you’re trying to review the quarterly report.)  Anyway, we’ve been following her advice — yes, we’re in the business of following the advice of completely random people on the street (it’s basically how the internet works, right?) — and his cuts seem to heal pretty quickly. (Or do babies just heal vampire-fast anyway?)

One addition to the story: the sweet mom relayed a story to us about an elderly neighbor who fell (as old people are want to do), and could feel a big ol’ knot on her forehead starting to come on. She advised the elderly neighbor to quickly go and smear Vaseline all over it. And the neighbor swore that it prevented the bump from bruising/discoloring or from knotting up. Not that I advise going around thumping old neighbors to test this.

I’ve got to admit it’s getting better

Paul: Getting better, All the time.

John: It can’t get much worse.

Here I sit. Week 9. And things are looking up. The cockles of my heart, which are normally crusted over with barnacles and flotsam, are slowly warming to my kid.

Two big things have happened in the last couple of weeks that have made our life easier. First off, when he wakes up, and sees us, he smiles. Oh my god. I would never have dreamed a smile could make my day. But when this drooling blob of a crying thing normally stares at blank walls… and then one day he catches your eye, focuses at you, and you can watch the smile expand across his face… wow. That just is awesome. You can actually see his little brain work. He stares at you. He locks in. And then this grin just blossoms to a full fledged smile as it cleaves its way across his cute little face.

The other big thing is that when we set him down on his back now, he’s able to stomach… er, umm, he’s able to “back” it a bit better now. He’s not going to set any marathon records for “chilling” (by the way, the lowest ratest Olympic event on television)… but he at least can occasionally occupy himself by staring at who-knows-what for 10-15 minutes at a time. You wouldn’t think that’s a lot — but it feels like a world of difference. (Like at my old job, when it was 1:45pm, it felt like I had all the time in the world to get shit done for the day; then suddenly at 2:45pm, I was in panic mode because I only had a couple hours left. It’s all perception.)

Feeling free for the first time… being able to not have a baby on your chest (me) or boob (well, me kind of, but supposed to be my wife) is amazing. I can go upstairs and poo. She can take a quick shower. We can microwave ourselves a nutritious dinner and scarf it down at the same time. We can eat with two hands.

So, yeah. Things are getting better at week 9. He can hold his little head up for longer periods, before his neck caves and his big ol’ noggin’ slumps over to his shoulders. (It’s like watching a weight lifter give out on the last bench press.) He’s following us now with his eyes when we leave a room.

And I can make him laugh with funny sounds. (Well, sort of “laugh…” It’s more like he’s smiling, and he tries to breathe in at the same time and it’s likely more of a wheeze, but I prefer to categorize it as a laugh.)  He has this weird jingly-toy with a bunny head and dangly legs. It sounds and looks like a broken wind chime with the head of a possessed bunny. My wife hates it– but it captures his attention for hours…er, well… minutes. (Which feels like hours when he’s quiet and staring at it.) I’ve given it life, and made a voice for the toy: she’s a Spanish speaking old woman, I call her, “Senorita Conejita.”  (Miss Bunny, roughly translated) And she sounds like your high school Spanish teacher on LSD, “Hola mi hijo. Como estaaaaaas? Me llamo Senorita Conejita. Como te llamas? Me gusta ir ala bibliotecaaaaaa.”

Oh, and all of the above stuff I whined about: my wife has it 20x worse. She’s much tougher than I am. She rarely gets a break. I leave for work sometimes, or go on short business trips. I’m complaining about having to hang out with him for maybe a few hours a day, and she’s stuck with him for hours. So I know I’ve got it easy to begin with.