The baby, who does not yet have a nom de blog, is sick again. After a few days of antibiotics, he seemed to perk up, but he had a relapse on Thursday and we had to change his medication. A few days later, he doesn’t seem to have improved that much. He’s still rubbing his ears, and his stomach is upset from the medication. During waking hours he must be both held and kept in motion at all times. It’s like attachment parenting with an added weight-loss plan.

Between Aitch and secondo I had forgotten that awful muscle tightness and joint ache that sets in and keeps you from sleeping too late even when your husband tells you to take it easy. I had also forgotten how important it is to have the right stroller for every activity, and how your day can be ruined by a canopy that collapses when you try to move it to shade the baby from the rising or setting sun. The amount of time it takes to get a baby ready for an excursion had faded from memory, too.

But all those things are manageable. Right now it’s the baby’s discomfort, and resulting need for constant movement, that are getting us down. I don’t know how the attachment parents do it. Sure, you can hold the baby and walk about 55 minutes of every hour, but there are those five minutes when you need to empty the knives out of the dishwasher or put a casserole in the oven or do something else that would be dangerous to a Björned baby. Are you just supposed to sit–excuse me, pace—around all day and let the house collapse in shambles around you? I mean, normally, when the baby isn’t sick, you’re allowed to put him down for a few minutes a day…right?

There is a school of thought that says that any time a baby is separated from his birth mother, no matter how young, he suffers a primal wound that never quite heals. Many adoptive mothers use the term “grieving” for the adjustment period that the baby goes through after arrival. I don’t really buy into this, myself. At four or five months, I don’t think babies have emotions that are really separate from their physical wants and needs. They are “sad” or “angry” because they are hungry or sleepy or their routine is upset, but not because of any separate emotional concern about missing their birth mother or foster mother. But, what do I know? Many people buy into the concept of grieving. All I know is that his ears are still red after over a week of antibiotic therapy, and when we show up tomorrow to get the antibiotic equivalent of the neutron bomb, the cure will have side effects that will be almost as severe as the cause. Poor baby.

There is a bright side to all this. First, other than the baby’s discomfort, he doesn’t seem to be that sick. He doesn’t have a fever or other symptoms other than the pain and redness in his ears. Second, he is a champion little nighttime sleeper, dropping off around 7:00 p.m., sleeping in his crib, and waking only briefly for one or two feedings. (Aitch was a bear to get to sleep, both initially and after every three-hour feeding interval.)

And, finally, in between bouts of gastric distress, the baby is just as sweet as can be. Every time we look into his eyes he dissolves into laughter:

He is more beautiful than I ever imagined. I think I can discern a mild-mannered, affectionate little personality underneath. All I can do is be patient: hold him and walk him until he feels better. As I look at him I find myself thinking of those of you who are adopting from China, who have had such a long, trying wait. Your patience is being tried sorely even before you meet your daughters. I figure if you can do it, I can do it.