I used to think that the most powerful thing on earth was chemotherapy when it came to exhausting my body.
This was clearly before my darling granddaughter, Baby CJ, was born.
I confess I was genuinely worried when she came along. I was freshly recovering from both chemo and radiation and feared I would not have the energy to be able to help with her. We had the whole thing planned out; after coming back from maternity leave, my daughter would go back to work part time evenings, and I and Baby CJ's grandma, Lisa, would help out with the baby whenever my son-in-law had to work a late shift. This has turned out to average four times a week and when I am in town, Baby CJ gets ALL my attention. Unless I'm teaching a fitness class, I seem to be getting first dibs, but then again, Grandma Lisa has another grandbaby on the way. Son Eddie and wife Jody are having a boy cousin for Baby CJ to whomp on. Such blessed news. So, forgive me if I do not feel too guilty about hogging the baby.
Most would call nine months, CJ's current age, a really terrific time. I'm not so sure. I can tell, she is plotting, plotting, plotting against me. That baby can multi-task. Last night, she tried to eat her solids, feed the dog her bottle, search for her binky and babble what I can only assume were baby talk curses at the hockey game on television. She was doing all of this all at once and she was doing a darn good job until Nana—that's me—threw in the proverbial towel. One disaster at a time, please. And no baby cursing at the hockey game. As if Nana didn't know.
Honestly, that baby exhausted me. My son-in-law showed up to pick her up and found me sprawled out like a defeated beached star fish staring up at the ceiling from my living room floor with Baby CJ standing confidently in the playpen inches from me, gurgle, gurgle, gurgle. Leaning over my prone body and peering into my glazed over eyes, Jay asked anxiously if I was feeling alright.
"Oh," I replied vaguely, waving a limp hand for dramatic effect. "You know, just a bit tired," I sighed pointing at the cooing, incredibly alert baby swaying from side to side on her sturdy little feet. She would be walking soon, I thought. God, but I was exhausted.
Relieved that I was apparently OK and that my condition had nothing to do with cancer, Jay scooped up a triumphant Baby CJ to find her well fed, freshly changed and—smug. Yes, babies can be smug; trust me, I saw it with my own bleary eyes last night.
The baby, I tried to tell her father, wants to kill me.
Not kill as in take my life but kill as in defeat. Defeat as in: Battle Of Wills. She would not nap, she would not slow down, I could barely keep her contained but for a few moments at a time. In fact, she bounced so violently in her sturdy "unbreakable" bouncer that her father has had to reaffix one of the springs inside the legs. Make no mistake, Baby CJ is one determined baby.
"She wouldn't watch the Sprout channel with me," I reported to the ceiling as Jay packed up a apparently wide awake and delighted Baby CJ. "I tried, but the minute she saw it was the Good Night Show, she was having none of it."
"She likes hockey," Jay pointed out diplomatically.
Yes, yes, we tried that TOO, but the Sharks got handed their pride on a stick by losing 2-7 to those dreadful Canucks, and both Baby CJ and I were pretty peeved, so we boycotted the agonizing post-game wrap up coverage.
It must have been the exhaustion, because I did tell forget to tell my son-in-law that Baby CJ actually found a new show to watch on the Cooking Channel called Bitchin' Kitchen. The smokin' hot blond chef with the tattoos and an attitude as big as her uber chic recipes is Baby CJ's absolute favorite show these days next to Sesame Street. I am going to tell my family it is the bright colors and fast pace that keeps her interested, not the racy comments or edgy biker babe personality of the chef.
"Are you SURE you are feeling OK?" my son-in-law asked, when it became clear that I was not getting off the floor any time soon.
I would have reassured him, but frankly, that would have taken too much energy. Instead, I made the monumental effort and climbed off the floor, picked up the diaper bag and followed them to the car. The faster they left, the faster I could fall face forward onto my bed. I'm just saying, the math is irrefutable.
My daughter called this morning to thank me, as she always does, for taking such good care of Baby CJ.
"You are just amazing mom," she said. "You made sure Baby CJ fell asleep in the car on the way home."
Yes, that was my plan all along.
