inchworm

This journal is becoming All Hobbes, All the Time, for which I apologize -- and yet, I can't seem to help but wallow in the fact of my son. Let me say it in capital letters: My Son, who is still a miracle that I haven't quite grasped in its entirety. He isn't mobile yet, but he is slowly mastering the butt wiggle, wherein he squirms and kicks until he moves in one direction or another. I somehow doubt that his directional capabilities are up to par with his wiggle faculties, but somehow or another he manages to gravitate towards whatever it is that he wants, more or less.

The nights are getting colder lately, and the combination of serious chill plus his 2 month immunization shots -- three at once this past Friday, which rendered him drowsy between fits of abject self-pity that was both heart-breaking and really loud -- led The Guy to give him a special treat. I crawled into bed Friday night to discover that there was a small, tinnily snoring body in the middle of the bed.

"What--?" I started.

The Guy snorted, waved a hand, and I let the matter rest. It really was quite cold, and hard-heartedness aside, Hobbes really looked quite doleful, even in his sleep.

One could ask how much space a 10 pound 2 month old baby could possibly take, and the answer to that is, "A lot." Most of the time he sleeps with his fists balled up and clenched to his face, as though he's worried someone will remove his cheeks while he's unconscious if he doesn't make sure they're firmly attached. In our bed though, he apparently felt secure enough to throw his arms out wide and lay claim to territory in the grand old Imperialist tradition. Frustrated by my own inability to stretch my arms -- every time I tried, there would be a busily buzz-sawing little body obstructing my natural sleep position -- I rolled over onto my side and fell asleep, balanced on the very edge of the bed and secure in the knowledge that here, I could not possibly squash my son.

I woke up disoriented and alarmed at 2 AM to feel a potato-shaped heat source squashed firmly up against my back. And it was pummeling me. Whack. Whack whack whack.

The Guy finds it funny that no matter how many times I return Hobbes to the center of the bed, somehow during the night he will find a way to squirm up against me and take possession of whatever body part I've left unwarily exposed to him. Having laid claim to it, he will eventually start flailing at it with arms and legs. Whack whack. It makes for a less than restful night, not that a two month old baby is in any way inclined towards giving his parents leisure to sleep. Five days later, he's still spending his nights in our bed, and concluding each cycle of sleep with the inevitable wriggle and whack.

"It's ridiculous," I groused to my husband. "How can someone that small take up that much room?"

"That sounds familiar," he remarked to no one in particular.

"He just flails all over--"

"And that."

"--and I'll be lying there, sound asleep, when suddenly out of the blue for no reason whatsoever he hits me--"

"...and that."

"It's like he has no respect for boundaries. Shut up."

"Karma," said The Guy, and smiled beautifically.