Prodigy

I've had three months with my little Bumblebee.  Three months already...how does the time go by so quickly?  And I have discovered something amazing:  my Baby Bee is a prodigy.  And also the happiest baby alive (as long as you are paying attention to her).  And, incidentally, they go together.

A few days after my little Bee was born, people started telling me she had smiled at them while they were holding her.  Okay, first.  Babies don't smile when they're only a few days old.  They just don't.  If you try to tell me otherwise, I will mentally roll my eyes at you while saying, "Oh, how sweet!"  And second.  If my baby smiled, which, by the way, she didn't, then why didn't she smile at me?  Her mommy.  The one who suffered through thirty hours of increasingly painful, okay-just-go-ahead-and-kill-me-NOW labor to bring her into this world (not to mention all the little aches and pains during the months before labor) - didn't I deserve that first smile?

Although, really, it was a non-issue.  Because the smiles didn't happen.  I mean, less than a week old.  Come on.  Pull the other one, it's got bells on.

When she was five days old, we had to go back to the hospital so she could have some follow-up bloodwork done (usually done before you leave the hospital, but we left early, so we had to go back).  There was this absolutely awful soap opera-style drama on the television in the waiting room - think "Dr. Drake Ramoray" on the pseudo-Days Of Our Lives from Friends - and we spent the first five minutes in the room transfixed, amazed that something so awful could be on television, and wondering which actor's living room they were using for the set.

There's five minutes of my life I'll never get back.

I finally got bored with the inanity, and noticed my bee-bee girl was looking up at me.  I smiled at her, and started to sing, Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are...

And then it happened.  My five-day-old baby smiled at me.  Looking right at me.  While I sang.  No sleeping, no gas.  Fully alert and smiling.

I punched Craig in the shoulder to dislodge his brain from the mire that was on the TV, then sang again. The wheels on the bus go round and round...  She smiled again.  It was true!  It really happened!

"Look, look!  She just smiled at me!" I told the lady sitting across from us. 

She looked, and said, "Oh, what a beautiful baby!  How old is she?"

"Five days - she was just born on Monday.  And she just smiled at me!"  I replied (and repeated), excited.

"Aww, she did?  How sweet!"  she cooed, while (I am certain) thinking, I bet it was gas.

A lab tech called us back.  "She's so pretty, and so alert!" she observed while leading us to the Baby Torture Chamber, otherwise known as the lab room where they do heel pricks.

"Yes, and she just smiled at me!"

"She's adorable." And I bet she has gas. "Put her down right here."

"Look, look.  I'll get her to smile.  'The wheels on the bus go round and round...'"  (No smile, of course.  OF COURSE.)

"Okay.  Oh, she's very sweet.  But, here - let me just --" And then the time for smiling was over.

But I know she did, because she kept doing it.  It wasn't an isolated event...she smiled at least once a day in response to a song, or a smile, or a "Bee-bee Bee-bee Boo!"  But I didn't have the chance to document it until she was three weeks old:

Yup.  There it is.  And if you tell me that's gas, then I'll pull your leg.

In Trouble

One thing that we all know as parents:  sooner or later, our child is going to tell on us.  They're going to get to that "repeat everything they hear at the worst possible time" age when we're not paying attention, and before we know it, they're saying the "s-word" in front of our mother-in-law whose swearing vocabulary includes things like "oh, foot," and then protesting, "But Mommy says it all the time!" when they're told it's not a nice thing to say.

(I did that to my mom when I was little.  And I can still see my grandmother standing at her kitching sink, saying, "Oh, foot!")

(I guess, technically, I just did it again.  Sorry, Mom.)

But do you expect, as grandparents, for your grandchild to tell on you?  I'm not sure, because I'm not a grandparent (and hopefully won't be for a loooooooooong time), but I didn't.

However, the other morning, after Craig gave the kids breakfast, the Imp started throwing one of his tantrums when his pumpkin muffin ran out.  Now, if he'd just asked for another one, I think he'd have gotten it, but instead, he started screaming as soon as the last bite was gone.  Daddy, of course, then refused him another muffin, which escalated the tantrum.  Then things got really bad.  The Birdie started making fun of his screaming, which made him a fount of tiny toddler fury. 

Daddy:  "Don't make fun of him.  That isn't nice."

Birdie:  "Grandma does."

Hee hee.  Glad to know it's not just us parents who are at risk.