His & Hers: Little miracle came with an asterisk

By Bob and Callie Clark Miller

Husband-and-wife journalists Bob Miller and Callie Clark Miller use this space to offer their views on everyday issues.

SHE SAID

The Coen Brothers couldn't script our life. That was the thought running through my head this afternoon as I paced back and forth across the nursery, 19-pound Dawson propped on my right hip, clutching my T-shirt, which was splattered with bright orange carrots. I tried to stuff a peanut butter sandwich in my mouth -- dinner for the third night in a row -- with my still-recovering left arm aching every time my baby turned his head. Since starting to eat solids, he thinks anything that goes in my mouth should go in his.

That's a snapshot of what our life has become, a never-ending run-on sentence of things that must all be done immediately, all at once, a scurrying kind of life from dawn until the late hours of the night, and sometimes even more scurrying in the early morning hours when our 6-month-old decides to break our newly formed meal deal and scream for a snack at 2 a.m. and on and on and on.

I look in the mirror and tell myself: This is what you wanted. This is what you prayed for, cried over through the miscarriages. This is the miracle your heart ached for each time you saw a baby being pushed through the park or read the birth announcements in the newspaper.

Except, it isn't. It isn't what I wanted.

Have I just earned the title of Worst Mom of the Year? It's OK, because I already feel like I deserve the award. The constant need for my attention, the colic-induced screaming, the fussy car rides, the wailing and flailing at 4 a.m. weren't what I envisioned. I pictured sweet smiles and soft cooing.

I'm not being entirely fair. In the past four weeks, we've made huge strides.

Dawson started sleeping through (most) nights. He started smiling spontaneously, something all the books indicate he should have been doing months ago. He's started laughing, rolling from one end of the room to the other in a futile attempt to catch Fletcher the cat.

There are moments when my heart feels like it might explode, I'm so overcome with emotion for this amazing human being. He is a miracle; how quickly he is growing and learning new things is astounding.

But simultaneously, I struggle at home to get all the chores done. I struggle at work to finish projects on time, certain that I'm falling short of expectations but no longer able to work the long hours I once did. After all, day care closes at 6.

And then last Friday, I got sick. Really sick. I was already in a lurch, still recovering from shoulder surgery and having a rough time with physical therapy. I got a call from the day care Thursday saying Dawson was sick; I rushed him to his pediatrician. Another double ear infection -- the second in six weeks. He hasn't slept through the night since. Friday morning I woke up with a fever, sore throat, stuffy nose -- the works. I had Bob pick up every over-the-counter medicine available, trying them in possibly lethal combinations certain something would kick the problem without a trip to the doctor.

By Monday morning, I gave in to Bob's nagging and went to the doctor, fully intending to head straight to work afterward. And then I found out that on top of the sinus infection, I had pinkeye. Highly contagious. I was quarantined at home.

But being sick doesn't mean you stop being a parent. There's something the pregnancy books don't mention. How even when you can barely move your body, your throat is on fire and your chest can't take in air for all the sinus-y gunk, you still have to get up at 2 a.m., slather on some hand sanitizer and feed your baby.

Where's Bob in all of this, you ask? He's there, by my side, doing what he can. But the simple truth is -- and he'll admit it -- he's not very efficient at these things. At packing the diaper bag and laying out clothes the night before so you're not rushing around in the morning. At making sure the bottles are washed and the spit-up rags handy.

The result is that sometimes I feel like I'm in this alone. Do I get the Worst Wife of the Year award, too?

There have been arguments in the wee hours of the night, both of us frustrated by our inability to comfort Dawson. I have cried more times than I care to admit in self-pity. Readers out there currently struggling with infertility will judge that one harshly -- I'm certain I would have -- during those years when Bob and I went through our miscarriages.

Could I have forgotten so easily that heartache? That longing for a miracle?

Maybe you've noticed our column has been lacking lately; a little uninspiring, maybe a little forced. Probably not worth your time on a Sunday morning or any other day of the week, as some readers would readily agree. I'm sure we'll get our sparkle back.

For now, all I can do is cling to those moments when Dawson smiles at me and hope I don't trip over the shoes in the walkway while I'm stuffing the peanut butter sandwich in my mouth. And pray I don't have to add Worst Journalist of the Year to the mantle.

HE SAID

Callie's been awesome. A hero if I've ever seen one. Woman of the Year if you ask me.

I'm a mere mortal.

When Bob and Callie Miller aren't changing their clothes from spit-up, doing another load of laundry, recovering from surgery or various illnesses such as pinkeye or kidney stones, they're working at the Southeast Missourian. Bob is the editor. Callie is the special publications managing editor. E-mail them at cmiller@semissourian.com.