Ruled by the Tiny Fist



Emmett Michael is here.  And since his arrival on 2/10/11, he has been ruling our household with his tiny, tiny fists. 

This little guy is a dictator.  He determines when we eat, sleep and shower.  When we can leave the house, have guests over (because lets be honest, I'm sure my brother in law does not want to see me whip out a boob to feed the dictator), when mommy can have that COVETED margarita she had been dreaming of for 8+ months.  He is absolutely in charge. 

He also kind of has it made.  He eats on demand, we wipe his ass on cue and I have suddenly morphed into that woman that speaks in wittle bitty baby voices in order to calm the screaming little person down when he unleashes HIS rage.  Oh yes, the pregnancy rage has transferred from me to my little man.  I kind of feel sorry for the victims of my rage (from the man with that "MOM" tattoo that stole my air hose at the gas station, to cashier at the Hallmark store) because now the tables are turned. 

I am farily certain I am running on adreneline, as is my husband.  Thankfully, the dictator has taken to sleeping in 4 hour stretches at the moment, so by each taking a night shift feeding (me at 12, my husband at 4), we are actually getting some long stretches of sleep in.  For now.

There were MANY things people didn't warn me about when it came to c-section recovery and breastfeeding.  I plan on sharing those with you in my next blog--all of the gory details including the first bowel movement post baby (OMG, I thought I was dying) to breast engorgement and nipples that felt like they have been sandpapered for 3 hours.  Since the next blog will be kind of gross, I will reward you now with a cute baby picture for making it this far:

Emmett Michael

2/10/11

7 lbs. 3 oz. 20 inches

Surely plotting my demise while perfecting his Zoolander poses