Whitman boys.

The past few days (ever since his four-month checkup, see last post) T and I have been working on The Gus’s sleep schedule. He was waking up and snacking three or four times each night, and with T easing back into the capitalist work cycle, that doesn’t work. So we have been working on a system that is intended to get him to sleep earlier, and wake up only once for a full feeding, in the middle of the night. The problem is that if we intend him to eat at 1:00 a.m., for example, he reliably wakes up ravenous at midnight, or 12:15. And a ravenous baby who goes unfed is an angry, frustrated, terrified baby. And is LOUD, regardless of our efforts to soothe him.

Now, bear in mind that The Gus is an easygoing soul, a mellow, go-along-to-get-along type. He may cry for a couple of minutes as we are putting him down for a nap, but he is far from colicky. Once, coming over the mountain pass from Black Butte, he cried for fifteen minutes, but that was because the elevation was making his ears hurt and because with the sudden snow (and no snow tires) the ambient level of adult frustration and tension in the car was enough to make any child cry. But that was the record.

Now, we have committed to a course that has our laid-back, surfer-dude baby crying for up to an hour at a time. And we are talking about full-throated, “you have betrayed my trust” wails, not fussy little whimpers and snorts.

I think it is not-so-slowly killing us. Saturday night, as I tried to change his diaper, with ten minutes left before his feeding and with his whole body tensed into a little rod of starved misery, I broke down, hyperventilated, went to pieces. “All he wants is to be fed,” I thought. “He counts on us for everything, and we are refusing him food when his body tells him it needs it.”

Thank goodness The Gus has one parent stronger than he is. I retreated downstairs with my guilt and shame, and when I came back fifteen minutes later, T had calmed him and slaked his thirst with lifegiving milk. But then again, she survived childbirth, so I shouldn’t be amazed by anything.

The Gus had his four-month appointment today with his pediatrician. (The Gus’s mother, my beloved wife, concedes that his pediatrician is a cutie. Just objectively speaking. But I digress.)

Anyway, the statistics: 15 lbs 7 oz., reduced somewhat when he peed entertainingly all over the scale. 24 3/4″ long — he breaks the two-foot barrier! His weight is now solidly at the fiftieth percentile, his length about the fortieth. Both of these are improvements from the two-month appointment. His head circumference is at the 25th percentile, which is right where it was last time. So he is growing, but his head is shrinking proportionate to the rest of him. Our child is Zippy the Pinhead!

Seriously, The Gus is in perfect health, is meeting all his developmental milestones with flying colors, and is a happy, well-adjusted and entertaining baby. I asked him for a comment on this post, and he said, “oooooooooooo? oooooo. oooooooooo…..oooooooooooo. ooo?” Good baby.

So T went to the beach last weekend and took The Gus. Four moms + four babies = unknowable amounts of fun. They were gone for three nights, which is too long. I pined. True, I was able to sleep for five and even six hours uninterrupted, but all that sleep apparently signaled to my body that it was OK to actually feel how tired I have been for the past four months, so I was bone-tired in their absence. The homecoming was joyous. But they returned with pictures:

First, she put The Gus in his adorable square hat.

Then there was a photo shoot with his contemporaries. Clockwise from The Gus: Carver, Owen, and Rose.

He established a meaningful rapport with the camera.

He endured attempts to upstage him.

And finally, he attained serenity.