In the process of taking care of our 7 week old daughter, I see my husband for a total of about 10 minutes a day. Our encounters are limited exclusively to blearily handing over the baby for the next shift, and reporting any new helpful techniques we've discovered that may or may not have coincidentally calmed or entertained her.
At 12:15am: "She's just been changed, and I discovered if you rock her gently from side to side while at the same time jiggling on the balls of your feet, she'll go to sleep."
At 2:22am: "Here, you're turn. She likes it if you hold her tightly with her stomach turned towards you while bouncing up and down on one leg and holding the pacifier in her mouth."
At 3:58am: "Take her. I haven't eaten in three days. Oh but I found out that the best way to get her to burp is if you get in a crouching position, hold her arms over her head and roll her from side to side while humming."
"Wait - humming what?"
"Steve Martin's The Thermos Song or Carly Simon's version of Itsy Bitsy Spider but NOT Cat Stevens or she'll scream."
At 5:03am: "I tried what you said, hopping up and down on my left leg and chanting "rigatoni, rigatoni" but she wouldn't go to sleep."
"Did you spin around clockwise three times first?"
"Oh, CLOCKWISE? I thought you said counter-clockwise. No wonder she was so upset."
The books don't help at all. They make suggestions for soothing what must be NORMAL babies, but not OUR baby, because none of the suggestions ever work or even make sense. "Establish a bedtime routine to teach Baby when it is time to go to sleep, and the difference between night and day." Well, her bedtime is 7pm, 7:45pm, 8:30pm, 9:45pm, 11pm, etc. So when, exactly, should this routine be performed? "Sleep when the baby sleeps." Yeah right. That sounds terrific in theory and yet is impossible to do. After spending two hours trying to get her to sleep, she finally conks out, at which point you run around like a maniac trying to get all the piled-up chores done so that you can lie down too. As soon as you lie down, a little light goes off in her baby brain and she starts wailing.
I know my husband is the other person in the house who is an adult and wears a bathrobe, but that's the extent of our relationship now - vague recognition in the hallway as we pass the baby back and forth along with our newfound theories, each one more ridiculous-seeming than the last.
Meanwhile our daughter also seems to have no idea who WE are. While she eats she gazes up at me with wide eyes that seem to say, "I appreciate the milk. Do I know you?"
"I'm your Mommy," I remind her with false cheer as I struggle to keep my own eyes open.
"Hm, no, sorry, not ringing any bells," her eyes say. "Where would I know you from?"
"Um, the womb?"
Her gaze doesn't waver but appears apologetic. "Nope, sorry. Maybe you have me confused with another baby? You do seem nice, though."
And just when it seems hopeless - I will never again curl up with my husband on the couch to watch inane TV, my daughter will never catch on that I am the same person who fed her two hours ago not to mention gave her life - she'll throw us a bone in the form of a tiny smile that may or possibly may not have been gas-related. But it's enough to keep us going for a little longer.
And we three strangers struggle on towards the very distant hope of a full night's sleep.
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