So this is Diddly. I can't quite decide what to call him on this blog. Diddlydoo is too long to type. Diddly reminds me of P Diddy. And his real name, Everett (which we chose because he arrived so close to Christmas Eve), seems stuffy next to "Junior."
Maybe I'll just call him Nipple Whipper.
Or Diddly.
I've been feeling kind of funky this week. It's part breastfeeding disappointment. Part cabin fever. Snow shock. Sleep deprivation. It's also part melancholy. I find myself staring wistfully at Junior. Diddly's arrival suddenly has made something about him glaringly obvious: He's not a little kid anymore. I mean, he's three-and-a-half so theoretically he's a kid, but when he walked into my hospital room last week I was struck by how big he is.
We talk about growing big. We use the word big to mark milestones and to encourage Junior to eat his vegetables, but until I'd held a newborn again, I didn't understand how big Junior had actually grown. He's smart and complex and independent. He's stubborn and bossy and clever. He's his own little person.
He isn't too juiced about his new brother.
Yesterday, when I asked him how he was doing he said, "As good as I can be." He told me babies are the worst thing in the world. He's wanted to spend time alone in his bedroom, watching his train go around
and around
and around
the track.
Last night he burst into tears and told us he wanted to spend the night at his Grammie's. That's where he is right now. Being fawned over and coddled while I sit here blubbering into my spit-up covered sleeve about how quickly it all goes by. I thought I'd spend the first week home from the hospital adjusting to the baby. Instead I find myself holding on to Junior, asking him not to grow anymore, adjusting to the different ways I see him.
And asking him not to put his feet on his brother's head.
It's going to be an interesting winter.
