This weekend was relatively action-packed, which you'd think would be a good thing. Alas, it seems that less is more when you're four (months old).
One of Sarah's college friends grew up to be a real estate lawyer. She married another real estate lawyer who is also an entrepreneur of sorts. The net result of that union (as it pertains to me, dear readers) was that Sarah, Asher and I had a great beach house to visit on Saturday, in a posh/private section of Lido Beach. I'm talking five houses away from a two-mile strip of private ocean and sand, a secluded outdoor shower, lots of grilled meat and zero city noise to distract us from the sounds of the surf, the wind and the birds. Very tranquil.
Of course, Asher decided he wasn't going to nap. At all. And he didn't like the sun. At all. And he was uncomfortable in the shade. Completely. So after five hours of trying, with a few glimmers of fun here and there (Sarah went swimming in the ocean. I found common ground with the husband -- whiffle ball and a discussion about Dale Murphy's rookie card), we chalked it up in the loss column and headed back to Park Slope.
That night, the New Pornographers and the Sadies were playing in Prospect Park's bandshell, a fifteen minute walk from our apartment. We put Asher to bed in his stroller, and once he was asleep, wheeled him out to the Baby Zone near the venue. The Baby Zone is located directly in front of the stage, about a hundred yards back from a flimsy wooden fence that separates the real concertgoers from the young parents who, like us, are determined to recoup some semblance of a life but can't go the babysitter route for whatever reason. In the Baby Zone, we can still hear the show, though the sound is a little flat. Beer and pot are replaced by wine and cheese - not necessarily a terrible trade-off, but a telling one, nonetheless. At any rate, we shared our blankets and wine and cheese (and cookies and pasta salad and grapes) with some other citizens of the Baby Zone who happen to be old college acquaintances of mine. A few other friends stopped by. And Asher slept on.
After the show, we made our way home, transferred Asher to his crib, high-fived, and collapsed into bed. Success!
Until, 4am. Asher woke up moaning, like he'd just slept off his drunk from the show, and needed some aspirin and water to help him find his way back to a restful sleep. Instead, he got breast milk and a pacifier, which eventually did the trick. It also knocked him completely off schedule; he slept until 9am, and then didn't nap once the rest of the day.
Anyone who has kids knows that it's pretty much the most annoying thing in the world when they don't nap. They're pissed off, manic, prone to inconsolable squirming and screaming, and they spit up with reckless abandon. Unfortunately, we were having guests over for brunch. Lots of them. Including preperation, the festivities lasted from 9am-4pm, and we had to deal with a wigged-out, overtired baby the entire time. Worst. Day. Ever.
By the time we got him to sleep Sunday evening, we were intellectually and physically worthless, reduced to feasting on tuna fish and cherries in front of a stupid TBS movie until one of us fell asleep on the pile of laundry that we had time to clean but not to fold.
From now on, we're limiting ourselves to one outing per weekend. Asher can't handle any more, which means we can't handle any more.
One of Sarah's college friends grew up to be a real estate lawyer. She married another real estate lawyer who is also an entrepreneur of sorts. The net result of that union (as it pertains to me, dear readers) was that Sarah, Asher and I had a great beach house to visit on Saturday, in a posh/private section of Lido Beach. I'm talking five houses away from a two-mile strip of private ocean and sand, a secluded outdoor shower, lots of grilled meat and zero city noise to distract us from the sounds of the surf, the wind and the birds. Very tranquil.
Of course, Asher decided he wasn't going to nap. At all. And he didn't like the sun. At all. And he was uncomfortable in the shade. Completely. So after five hours of trying, with a few glimmers of fun here and there (Sarah went swimming in the ocean. I found common ground with the husband -- whiffle ball and a discussion about Dale Murphy's rookie card), we chalked it up in the loss column and headed back to Park Slope.
That night, the New Pornographers and the Sadies were playing in Prospect Park's bandshell, a fifteen minute walk from our apartment. We put Asher to bed in his stroller, and once he was asleep, wheeled him out to the Baby Zone near the venue. The Baby Zone is located directly in front of the stage, about a hundred yards back from a flimsy wooden fence that separates the real concertgoers from the young parents who, like us, are determined to recoup some semblance of a life but can't go the babysitter route for whatever reason. In the Baby Zone, we can still hear the show, though the sound is a little flat. Beer and pot are replaced by wine and cheese - not necessarily a terrible trade-off, but a telling one, nonetheless. At any rate, we shared our blankets and wine and cheese (and cookies and pasta salad and grapes) with some other citizens of the Baby Zone who happen to be old college acquaintances of mine. A few other friends stopped by. And Asher slept on.
After the show, we made our way home, transferred Asher to his crib, high-fived, and collapsed into bed. Success!
Until, 4am. Asher woke up moaning, like he'd just slept off his drunk from the show, and needed some aspirin and water to help him find his way back to a restful sleep. Instead, he got breast milk and a pacifier, which eventually did the trick. It also knocked him completely off schedule; he slept until 9am, and then didn't nap once the rest of the day.
Anyone who has kids knows that it's pretty much the most annoying thing in the world when they don't nap. They're pissed off, manic, prone to inconsolable squirming and screaming, and they spit up with reckless abandon. Unfortunately, we were having guests over for brunch. Lots of them. Including preperation, the festivities lasted from 9am-4pm, and we had to deal with a wigged-out, overtired baby the entire time. Worst. Day. Ever.
By the time we got him to sleep Sunday evening, we were intellectually and physically worthless, reduced to feasting on tuna fish and cherries in front of a stupid TBS movie until one of us fell asleep on the pile of laundry that we had time to clean but not to fold.
From now on, we're limiting ourselves to one outing per weekend. Asher can't handle any more, which means we can't handle any more.
posted by isaacjosephson at 6:05 AM
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