Fine, thanks, and how are you?

Believe it or not, this is the short version:

Labor: Me like stadol. Me like epidural.

Delivery: Baby came out with one arm up by his face, exactly as he was positioned in all the ultrasounds, which is why we couldn't get a cute profile. Remember I said he was a diva (back when he was a she)? Divas are hard on the birth canal.

Recovery: Love those ice packs. Pregnancy was hard; labor was hard; I could sleep for a month. What's that? I have to take care of a newborn? You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Newborn: Noisy little suckers. Ours kind of looks like a turtle, and sounds like an angry Pterodactyl.

Intake: Breastfeeding is going surprisingly well. The lactation consultants visited three times in the hospital, which was a tremendous help, and the newtling has an excellent latch. My milk came in on day three. There is some definite soreness, but I'm neither as freaked out nor as chained down as I expected. It all seems surprisingly...natural. But don't worry, I'm not going all soft or anything.

Output: Although he's eating a ton, and is generous with the farting, our baby is stingy with both peeing and pooping. This is uncomfortable for him, and worrisome to his parents.

First day home: The dogs are interested in the baby, and careful of his welfare. Success is declared, prematurely. Big dog quickly develops the habit of barking when the baby cries. We are impressed with his vigilance, but briefly consider murdering him.

First night home: Picture the scene--3 am, inconsolable screaming baby, no dirty or wet diaper for almost 24 hours, baby appears dehydrated, we can't figure out the thermometer well enough to determine if he has a fever (also, dog barking now constantly). It's like something out of a sitcom, isn't it? We knew it was a cliche, but we took the little sucker to the ER, because better safe than sorry. He immediately calmed down, enjoyed the flourescent lights and ammonia smell (maybe he just missed the hospital?), the nurses cooed over how cute he is, he passed all tests with flying colors, got patted on the head, and sent home. Yay, parenthood!

Second day home: Dog figures out he isn't helping anybody with this barking thing. Stops. Very popular decision.

Second night home: Although he is peeing, baby still won't sleep or poop. He drops off, and then startles awake five minutes later with what seems like a pain. Mr. Newt runs out at 3 am for baby Mylicon drops, which seem to help his gas pains. Baby sleeps. Compared to first night, this is a rousing success.

Big Breakthrough: Today, 10am, nice big poop! Alert the Media! Kill the Fatted Calf! Baby is unimpressed, acts like this has all been no big deal. Sleeps for hours at a stretch. The very model of a well-behaved newborn.

Mama Newt: Godsend. Here until next Tuesday, but I might hide her driver's license so she can't get on the plane home.

Mr. Newt: The most adorable dad. He's sitting in the rocker now, reading, with the newtling asleep on his lap. When the baby cries, Mr. Newt is by far the best baby-soother in the household. Wiley seems particularly impressed with a song Mr. Newt has made up about how ugly the baby's umbilical stump is, so we all can't wait for it to fall off. The heart swells.

Current distribution of labor: Mr. Newt has agreed that if I have to feed the baby all the time, he should be in charge of the ass end. When we made this deal, I had no idea that the baby's intake would so spectacularly exceed his output. We are both hoping this shifts soon.

Exhaustion level: Very very high. I should be sleeping, but at some point, your brain rebels and you have to something besides feed and sleep.

Happiness level: Also very very high. I am not sure how it is that I can be so tired, so sore all over, so overwhelmed, so far out of whack hormonally, and so uncertain of what I'm doing, and still not really feel bad. I feel good. Babies are nice. I like mine. I think I'll keep him.