The factory is silent. Its assembly line stands motionless. Somewhere off in the darkness, a buzzer sounds. One by one, lights begin to flicker and illuminate on long-unmanned diagnostic panels, giving a sense of enormity and complexity and scale to the machinery. The low hum of power supplies warming up comes next, followed by the higher and louder whine of turbines and electric motors. A whistle sounds, and one by one, employees begin to file in and take their places at the controls. Purposed for a single task, whose time has now come, the factory slowly comes to life...
Saturday, July 18, 2009
40 ml. to Freedom
Q: How much does an 11 pound baby eat?
A: A lot. More than you think. More than you've heard. More than your friend's baby ate. More than your baby ate. More than logic dictates anything that small should eat. Way more than 40 ml. but I just can't pass up a good Sublime reference.
Here's what our baby is like (apart from being adorable, cuddly, sweet-smelling, soft and occasionally sleepy). For those of you who've seen LOST, you'll get this analogy. The rest of you can probably skip ahead a bit (as in this entire entry).
You know in Season 2 of LOST, how Desmond lives in the hatch for three years pushing the button every 108 minutes? And at the two-minutes-to-go mark, he starts getting the friendly cash register beep sound signaling that it's time to input the numbers? And at ten-seconds-to-go, the friendly beep turns into an ominous buzzer type sound? And when the clock runs out, those freaky hieroglyphics pop up and there's that something-wicked-this-way-comes sound of a horrible, horrible thing that's just about to happen? And then the world ends?
Our baby is like that. She sleeps (when she sleeps) for periods of up to four hours at a time. When she wakes up, she's all smiles, making the occasional "I need to eat" gesture. Do not let this fool you. Get as much milk or formula into her as quickly as possible. If you do not, within two minutes, the sleepy-smiley baby will turn into what would sound to the untrained ear to be a vaguely annoyed baby. You do not know how close to the end of the world you are at this point. You now have less than one minute to get a bottle into that mouth or it's
time. If you ignore the previous two warnings, she will begin to let out such an ungodly shriek, you will swear that someone has just set upon a pillowcase full of kittens with a blowtorch. If she is anywhere near your head, your ears will ring for a period of several minutes to an hour. This shrieking will continue until you place a bottle in her mouth. If you're able to get the bottle into her mouth within about fifteen seconds, the screaming may subside and you may, in fact, have bought yourself 108 more minutes of peace. If you do not, the world will end. Which is to say, you will spend the next three to six hours trying to get her calmed down and back to sleep.
I maintain that God sent us this particular baby because He thinks we can handle it. But right now, after two weeks I feel like it's already been three years. If John Locke showed up right now, I wouldn't wait to see if he got the snowman riddle correct. I'd be on my sailboat immediately.
Just kidding, I love my daughter to death and most of this entry has been exaggerated for comic effect. Except the screaming. Oh, god, the screaming. I don't think I came close to doing it justice.
It's not all doom and gloom, though. Stay tuned for our next exciting installment wherein I detail Claire's first bath and how she ended up dirtier when she came out of the tub than when she went in!