Intermission

Funny that I left off the story with me sleeping. It was the last good night's sleep I had, so I remember it so fondly. And how strange that being in labor at the hospital should be so much easier than having a newborn at home. Or maybe it's just our newborn, who has a delicate intestinal tract, and wakes up at the slightest sign of gas.

Note to the Newtling: Gas happens, kid. Come on, toughen up.

So anyway, it's taking me a while to find some time for chapter three, since my free time is limited to ten minute increments when the baby is sleeping. After ten minutes, he tends to wake up and demand that I waltz him around the room or whip out a boob or rub his tummy or peel him a grape or something. Having a baby is exactly like being a harem girl, I think, except more solitary.

And the wardrobe is a lot less glamorous, I suppose. Right now I look like a new mom cliche: drawstring knit pants, spit-up stained nursing tank, fleece-lined crocs, and a flannel shirt missing two buttons. In my shirt's defense, it was my late grandfather's, and I pull it out and wear it as a security blanket sometimes. It has been a rough few days with the gassy baby, and I felt like I needed it this morning.

On the plus side: I showered today! So I smell OK, even if I look awful.

So please pardon the cliffhanger. Instead of chapter three, I have two queries for you today, internet.

The first is this: Do you have a nickname for your baby just for when you're frustrated with him? After my newtlet's recent behavior, I've had a lot of use for such a nickname, but nothing quite right has stuck.

For instance, let's say you've been rocking your baby for half an hour, and finally his eyes close. When you think it's safe, you walk smoothly over to the crib, gently lay him down, start to tiptoe away, and suddenly you hear a little whimper noise. You turn around, and the baby has his eyes wide open, and is about to launch into full-on hysterics. You say to him, "Oh, you little ______."

Or, let's say you've just changed a baby's diaper, and just as you fasten up the last button on his complicated footie pajamas, you suddenly hear a liquidy squirt that signals the arrival of a very large poo. As you're starting to undress him all over again, you say to the baby, "You're a real _____, you know that?"

If he were an adult, you might say "asshole" or something, but even I know you don't say stuff like that to babies. The newtlet doesn't mean to be a rotten little hellspawn, he just lacks bodily control and emotional maturity. Poor thing is even more of a slave to his whims than I am. I get that. But I don't know what the baby-appropriate, non-judgmental, watered-down version of "asshole" might be.

My mom would say "Dickens." That's adorably old-fashioned, but I can't quite carry it off (despite my propensity for saying "Oh my stars and garters," which I'm pretty sure I got from my grandmother). One of my sisters would definitely say "stinker," which is nice for its mildness, if not for its playground connotations. The other sister might opt for "goof," which is what she uses with her own kids, but I'm not sure if it originated in their infancy or is of more recent vintage. Anyway, I don't think it applies here, quite. The newtling's behavior is more inconvenient than it is goofy.

So I need a word. Whatcha got, internet?

OK, and the second query is this: do you think my baby can carry off the color green? Because I don't want the other babies to make fun of him at the big hellspawn jamboree. I think he's going to get enough grief for his male-pattern baldness and extreme flatulence. He doesn't need the fashion police on his case, too.