Observations on Fatherhood #15

April 25, 2012 · 2 minutes read

Our new spawn.

Light of my life.

Eater of sleep.

“Behold! For I am become Shiva, Shatterer of Worlds!”

He’s a good kid, for a fetus (and until they hit three months old, clearly humans are just fetuses outside of the womb, cursed to the airy-world due to their enlarged heads). But one foible of his that his elder brother did not have is his strong preference for warm, rather than room temperature, milk.

When making formula, this is not a major problem. I use warm water from the tap instead of cold. But when the formula’s been made, or the breast milk is coming from the fridge, this means warming it up for him, or else half of it will end up splayed across your body while, in shock and horror, you witness Lewie’s impression of a lawn sprinkler. Then a red-faced air raid siren.

The other night, he was handed off to me early in the evening so my suffering wife could actually get some shut-eye. Our diagnosis before I started a movie was that he was “about to wake up”, so I kept the bottle of milk warm underneath my armpit. For the entire, terrible, movie (Captain America: The First Avenger). After that, fetus was still asleep, so I went to bed with the milk in tow. I didn’t want to let it cool to room temperature and face his wrath.

I slept for three hours with a bottle of milk between my thighs; he just kept sleeping.

This has happened since. I now consider a bottle of milk uncomfortably kept warm as a talisman against the Sleep Eater.

Uncomfortable, yes.

Worth it.