Menu: Parenting
Life with a 4-Month-Old Little Rascal
by Jamie Carter
Updated: Dec. 3, 2020
Originally Published: April 6, 2016
Ah, the dreaded flu, stomach bug, or whatever you prefer to call it—I had it all. Every time I attempted to stand, I felt like I was about to lose my lunch from both ends. But guess who didn’t care and decided that tonight was the perfect night to wake up every two hours, crying until I fed him? My 4-month-old, that’s who. Why? Because he’s a little rascal. So, what did I do? I leaned over and softly stated my latest favorite book quote, “Go the heck to sleep.”
Why? Because I’m a rascal too. It was just one of many nights spent in those four short months, rocking him back to sleep while I cried alongside him—me from sheer exhaustion, and him for reasons only he knows. Maybe his diaper was uncomfortable? Perhaps the white noise machine was too quiet? Regardless, that night, I was holding back dry heaves while trying to console him, wishing fervently for those pre-baby days when sleep was a luxury I could indulge in. Who wishes their own child away? I pondered. Only rascal parents do.
Finally, we recovered and were back to normal when our little bundle of joy decided that the only way to avoid crying was to be held upright on our laps, bouncing on his chubby little legs. Do you know how great it is for arm muscles to hold a 20-pound baby? Maybe this time he was being thoughtful! A thoughtful rascal.
For three days, we exchanged him back and forth, supporting him under his arms just enough for him to bounce until he was too tired to resist being placed in his swing for a precious 20-minute nap. That’s right—our little guy only napped in his swing. We were grateful it was a thoughtful gift from wise friends at our baby shower. Those folks are definitely not rascal parents.
With sore biceps that would make a fitness enthusiast envious, my partner and I decided it was time to invest in a Jumperoo. The options were overwhelming. Seasoned parents at Target exchanged knowing smiles as we perused the bouncer aisle, meticulously comparing specs to find the perfect blend of fun and exercise. We finally settled on one that played our son’s favorite classical tunes. After spending $100, we hopped in the car, relieved that this gadget would keep him entertained while we tackled chores or perhaps enjoyed a quiet moment on the patio.
Once home, my handyman partner assembled the Jumperoo, and we placed our baby in his cozy seat, positioned just high enough for him to bounce on his pudgy legs. What did he do? He smiled for five seconds before erupting into an angry scream, flailing his arms and smacking his little rolls against the toys meant to entertain him. Defeated! We let him cry for a few moments because, well, rascal behavior.
“It’s okay, little rascal. You can dislike that Jumperoo,” I told him. “No big deal, buddy. We only spent money we really don’t have because we’re already sinking in expenses for formula and daycare.” Maybe one day we could send him an invoice for his infant entertainment—because we’re rascal parents who keep track of our finances like that.
The next day, I decided to try the Jumperoo again. Babies have this amusing tendency to enjoy something one day and despise it the next. I held my breath, hoping he would find joy in bouncing long enough for me to tidy the house and sneak in a nap. Nope. Try again, exhausted mom. He reached for the bright sunflower to his left, yanking it toward his mouth in frustration. When it wouldn’t budge, he fumed, swinging his little fist at it as if his anger could make it move. No luck, baby boy; punching things rarely leads to success. Defeated, he grabbed the sunflower with both hands and yelled at it. Because he’s a rascal.
What did I do? I laughed. Not because I wanted my son to struggle, but because this was just one small disappointment, the first of many he will undoubtedly face in life. He will encounter countless unyielding smiling sunflowers in the years to come—each one a lesson in how the world doesn’t always bend to our will. I thought back to that night of nausea, my own frustrations, and my desire to scream at the helplessness I felt. Seeing my little rascal grapple with his first taste of life’s challenges brought me some comfort. It’s okay to feel frustrated, tired, and overwhelmed; we’re all human. We can always try again tomorrow—or simply let it go.
I scooped him up, and he wrapped his tiny arms around my neck, pressing his face against mine. “There, there, little rascal. Your mom is a rascal too.” And together, we’ll be just fine.