Week Seven: The Big Sleep

Cass is a baby who knows what he wants. And clearly he did not want to leave the party at Campus Martius, throwing a temper tantrum in his stroller the very second we pointed the stroller toward home. Who could blame him? There was a free outdoor afro-beat concert and gads of onlookers to fawn over him. Our little socialite soaked up every minute. He danced, cooed, laughed hysterically at a bald man, and got his belly rubbed by a precarious, gregarious two-year old named Kate. He even got his first semi-public feeding. I ducked behind a massive advertising banner, sat on a cement stoop, covered my upper torso region and his entire body with a blankie. It was traumatizing, certainly, but once it was over, I couldn't help feeling a surge of self-righteousness for saving him from the stench and germs of a port-o-potty--a mother's punishment for modesty.

But even conquering the conundrum of the public feed doesn’t top what happened later that night: Cass had a sleep marathon. He slept seven hours. Straight. This is his single greatest achievement since he took his first breath (besides peeing on the mean nurse from the pediatrician's office four times in the same visit).

Week Six: My Son, the Baby Pimp

I know it's rude to ridicule gifts people buy for your children. There's even a cliche, involving gift horses, that never fails to confuse me. So I will restrain myself from asking all kinds of rhetorical questions about where Buyer of said gift (see photos) thought cass might wear this Anne Geddes-inspired getup. But I could not resist sharing the results of a recent photo shoot from an otherwise uneventful Monday morning. Initially, I thought it was a bear jacket, but upon further inspection of the storybook tag, I've realized it's actually dog jacket. None of this changes the fact that it makes him look most like a little pimp in a fuax fur playa's jacket.













Throwing out a high five, yo, this is how I roll.




















I said Cut! Will someone straighten me back up?














Grrrrr...They don't call me The Bear (or is it The Dog?) for nuthin'. This mini mack daddy isn't afraid to bite.

















Just as soon as I get my first tooth, I'm getting a gold cap. Bling!










Pimps Up, Ho's Down. Except for me. This pimp is down...for a nap.

Week Five: Smooth Sailing

Baby Cass smiles now. He tips his hat to passerby, nodding in agreement to the beautiful summer day. That's right, he's just chillin' on Zantac--the miracle drug that saved our baby from an infancy of perpetual wailing.

Weeks Four and Five: Cry Baby

This is what Cass has looked like for the past week or two. Just this face. Always crying, poor little guy. Everyone told me, "don't worry, that's what babies do; they cry." But we're talking intense screaming spells and body thrashing. It wasn't uncommon for these torture fests to last three or four hours. His little back-curling, fist-pounding, head-banging contortionist body is in a constant state of unrest . Ryan and I considered taking him to the emergency room during one particularly long and violent episode.

After a handful of doctor's appointments and one emergency after-hours phone consultation, he was diagnosed with acid reflux and an allergy to the protein in cow's milk. I can consume absolutely no dairy (including cheese pizza, cream cheese, ice cream, chocolate!) for at least six months. The upshot: I stand a chance of being one of those hated sorts who becomes absurdly skinny after childbirth. Oh, and of course, Cass will no longer be in intense chronic pain.