We brought you home on a blustery Friday evening. Poppy and Gigi took turns holding you while your dad and I got readjusted to being in the apartment again. We watched the Cardinals get stomped by the Giants (boo!) and your dad and Poppy went out to get dinner for us at Which 'Wich.
I remember being so nervous once they left. We had this old cradle that used to be your dad's and your aunt Amanda's before him. It was a little rickety, the bars were more than 2 3/8" apart, and I ended up making a "mattress" for it since it had weird dimensions and at the time we didn't have an extra $100 to put toward a custom mattress. You did not like sleeping in that cradle. I don't blame you. I hated putting you in it.
We put you down for the night and tried to get some sleep ourselves, but you were awake again in 15 minutes. I tried to nurse you back to sleep. You wouldn't have it. We changed your diaper and tried to nurse you again, but you wouldn't nurse. We swaddled you, but you continued to fight. We knew you were hungry, but you just wouldn't eat. Already we started having these thoughts of "why won't you stop crying?!" and they scared us. We didn't want to be frustrated with you, but we were.
Finally, your dad went and got one of the bottles of formula that the nurse sent home with us. I remember being so mad at her for making us take them home. I can do this myself, I thought. How dare she try to sabotage my plans to exclusively breastfeed my child? I don't know why you wouldn't nurse that night, but you happily gulped down that bottle. I cried. "He hates me," I said to your daddy. He tried to tell me that you didn't, but I wasn't listening.
Looking back, I know I was feeling some of the baby blues that new moms are always talking about. I do feel guilty for having those thoughts now. You weren't trying to be malicious or anything, but my hormones made me think you were. This might be making you uncomfortable, but I think you need to hear it in case you ever become a dad and your wife is just flipping out about something. Birth does crazy things to us ladies. Beautiful, crazy things.
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