TUMMA, TUMMA, TUMMATIME
If the only exercise I get is going up and down the stairs when the baby cries, I’m glad we didn’t buy a ranch.
All I dream of everyday is the 5 minutes when I can lay down on the couch and watch my DVR like the olden days. It’s the simple things, I don’t ask for much. These days it is literally 5 minutes. The only 5 minutes when I’m not taking care of a small human, medium-sized cat (ok fine a large cat), washing dishes, doing laundry, pumping, commuting, working, or passed the heck out. When those blessed “5 minutes of me” get interrupted by telemarketers calling my house nonstop or the baby unexpectedly waking up after I just put him to sleep, I get cranky.
There are a myriad of reasons why he wakes up and cries. He wasn’t really in a deep enough sleep. His pacifier fell out. He heard the phone ring. He’s still hungry. He’s a demon. Ooh how did that last one get in there? Or he rolled over onto his tummy.
Apparently when babies start rolling over, the easier way is from their tummies to their backs. I guess there’s leverage to push off with the hands to get them over. I’ve never really thought about it before. My son however has mastered the far tougher skill, rolling from the back to the tummy. At first he struggled to get his arm out of the way so he could get all the way over, but now I put him on his back and he’s over in a split second. I return him to his back, and he’s back on his tummy in no time.
He’s a rolling stone.
The problem though, is that once he gets tired or frustrated on his tummy, he can’t roll himself back over. He’s like a turtle stuck upside down on its shell. So he just flails and cries, then ultimately face plants. Usually this is not a big deal when I’m nearby or watching the baby monitor, because I’ll just flip him back over or pick him up. But one night it happened while he was upstairs in his crib and I was downstairs, home alone, pumping.
He started to cry and I quietly prayed that he’d fall back asleep but secretly knew he’d probably flipped himself over. As the crying continued, I had to make a decision. I was tethered to the pumping machine, but my baby was in distress. So I unhooked the tubes and made my way upstairs. There wasn’t time to undo all the rest of the apparatus, and I was hoping to flip him back over and immediately head back to the machine. But when I got to the crib, I realized that I couldn’t get close enough to grab him because I was still wearing the funnels and bottles. Basically I looked like Madonna in the cone bra and when I would try to reach into the crib, I would smack into the railing with the bottles of milk attached to my body.
I can only imagine the mental picture everyone has right now.
I tried everything but I couldn’t get within 7 inches of the crib and my arms weren’t long enough to grab him. I stood on my tippy toes. I willed my husband to come home. I thought about asking the cat for help. Finally in a panic I turned to the side, parallel to the crib, and tried to push him over with one hand. Like he was a pancake and I was a spatula. It wasn’t my proudest moment. Once back on his back, he was hysterical and completely covered in snot, but at least I didn’t lose any milk…