Burp the Raven

Nursing is the most full-time gig I've ever had.

Who knew that a newborn could need to eat so much, and so often? He's a very punctual dude, pretty much knowing that it's chowtime every 2.5 to 3 hours, right on the dot.

That's not so bad during the day, although it does require some location planning and boppy juggling (if you're not aware of what a boppy is, just wander through the baby section at Target and look for strangely shaped pillows with a wide array of slipcovers available).

At night, however, it gets tiring, and long. Especially at 3 a.m. I don't really mind it, especially once I'm out of that initial "What, again? Already?" haze. But it is funny what your mind does to keep itself occupied at that strange hour. The other night, I was halfway through our 3 a.m rendezvous, and took a brief break to burp my dear baby. As I was groggily sitting there, patting his little back, I suddenly heard Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" going through my mind. That's strange. Why is that, I wondered? Maybe because I was thinking about my in-laws, who happen to be huge Ravens fans. Huh. But then I realized: I was patting my little baby's back to the exact rhythm of the poem. As in "Burb the Raven nevermore."

There's nothing like literary lessons at 3 a.m. Next up, we're going to be tackling iambic pentameter.