You broke it already?!

That's what my mother used to exclaim when, two days after Christmas, one of us children would report the untimely demise of that toy we'd been begging for for months.

Ladybug is 6 weeks old today - still practically brand new - and I've been trying to get her here for a good year and a half. Guess what? That's right: broken already.

Please don't misunderstand and send me long lectures on the fact that babies aren't actually toys. I figured that out the first night home from the hospital when she had a stomach ache and I had exactly 30 minutes of sleep. But after that, she was so easy going and simple to take care of! Feed, change diaper, burp, put down for a nap, repeat. But suddenly, these last few days, she starts crying at the slightest provocation: I do nothing, she cries; I pick her up, she cries; I put her down to sleep, she cries; she wakes up, she cries.

Yes, I think it's broken.

Okay, it's not as bad as I'm making it sound. However, there has been a distinct increase of Ladybug-type crying (and a proportional increase in Carolynn-type crying) over the last several days. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't 6 weeks when some magic switch gets flipped and babies suddenly sleep 8 hours a night and start crying a whole lot less? Maybe the switch is broken, or maybe it was defective. Maybe Ladybug's just out to get me.

The reality is that she's not broken at all, and that's just the problem. She's working so well that she's growing like a weed and becoming more active, making her more demanding as she always wants something new to look at or more food to eat or for someone to explain to her why her little body probably aches from all that rapid growth. Moreover, I imagine she's demanding reasons why we insisted she come out here in the first place since she was so comfortable in the womb.

The amazing thing is, despite the sleep deprivation, frayed nerves, and this post, I actually feel sorry for the poor baby and still expend all my resources to ease whatever has upset her. I love her more every day (except maybe during that cursed midnight hour when she refuses to sleep because apparently shrieking is more fun) and find myself panicking at the thought of being separated from her for several hours just in case she should want to scream at me and - heaven forbid - I not be there.

In fact, Ladybug is working perfectly. She has brought me right into line. Now excuse me, I have to go and rescue my new toy before she decides to fire me.

I've succumbed...

Not only do I have a blog, but I've actually put some effort into my Facebook page. That's right, I've given in to the influence of Internet networking. Next thing you know, I'll be adding Facebook to my bookmarks and checking it every day (with bated breath) to see who has Superpoked me since I last checked!

I would wonder how this all got started, but I already know: pregnancy. Yes, pregnancy has lead me from the innocent use of email to stay in touch down the primrose path and into the brambles of "networking." It started out innocuously enough. I joined a pregnancy webpage so I could track the development of the fetus inside of me, then soon found myself lurking around the message board. After about two months of enjoying the wit and wisdom of the mothers whose lives I was following, I finally got up the guts to start posting about myself.

It wasn't a big step from there to accept an invitation to join Facebook so I could keep up with the social events of an old friend. I never really felt up to dragging my 150+ pound body out to any of the events, but it felt better to be connected.

Then, all at once, I was postpartum and my brother decided that meant I had all kinds of time on my hand to pick up on an old hobby: writing. Alas, writing and I had become estranged when I fell in love with a different hobby, my husband, and I had been meaning to patch up the relationship for months. "Start a blog," my brother urged. "It's a great way to get feedback. You've got time, right?"

Right.

Today my daughter is one day shy of six weeks old, and I'm two days shy of 23 years. It's time to get back in the habit, and since my younger sister conveniently agreed to come and help with the baby (and, little did she know, become my tutor in the intricacies of Facebook) I thought I would finally become a full convert. Yes, I've updated my profile on Facebook, added some friends, and am finally committing the final act of network-ism - writing a blog post, then expecting my family and friends to come and read it.

It's not so bad, really, belonging to the cult of technological communication. I do still talk to people. Sometimes. When Facebook is down.