Hadn't even turned on since then. Possibly because the power supply is bad and it may randomly turn off. We never recycled it or gave it away because it contained tax documents and other potentially personal information in its folders, and then over the course of four years of it sitting in the attic I'd started to assume that it was just plain dead. But not so! On a whim, I powered her on and she booted right up after I adjusted the clock.
This is good, actually. We might have her repaired - but only after the ThinkPad power supply and wireless is fixed and then the Toshiba hard drive and power supply is fixed and the mister has replaced his MacBook hard drive. For the moment, my old laptop can be P.'s for rainy days and weekends when Netflix is allowed. if it randomly turns off, we'll just turn it back on.
Aside: Why do we suddenly have so many laptops?
Anyway, going through the old girl was like a trip back in time. I found a silly poem a friend wrote in college. All of the emails and journal entries I composed when I lived in Costa Rica. Old silly photos I found on, ahem, MySpace.
And this. This was one of the last things I wrote before powering my little laptop down, stowing her away in the attic, and forgetting all about her... and possibly one of the first things I ever wrote about P.:
Nursing. It's the most natural things in the world. That's what "they" tell you. This particular "they" is a seemingly endless parade of midwives, nurses, nurses' aides, lactation consultants, pediatricians, and self-proclaimed breastfeeding gurus who fancy themselves experts because they nursed children continuously for nine years.Meanwhile, P. ended up eventually refusing bottles altogether and self-weaning at 18 months. And Bo latched on like a hoover immediately after birth and hasn't slowed down since. Funny how these things work out.
But platitudes are not terribly comforting at three a.m. when I'm trying to convince a very sleepy four pound baby that some idiot at the hospital let me take home open her mouth so I can stick my nipple into it. Apparently, the neonatologists in the NICU were under the mistaken impression that I knew what I was doing.
"Mouth. Boob. Now," I say, never having imagined that I'd ever have to convince someone to take a mouthful of my bosom. But it's a no go.
"Just a minute for mama?" I whine. My daughter's eyes flutter dreamily up at me, reminding me that I've never seen anything so beautiful as this red, skinny, chicken-legged little thing I'm cradling in my arms, but her mouth stays firmly shut.
I consider bribery, but at fourteen days old, this baby is immune to the allure of hundred dollar bills and ponies and trips to the spa.