First it was a few hesitant steps before falling back down onto the floor. Then it was a few more steps here and there, when Sydney didn't have any place important to go. Then all of a sudden, one day, like a switch had been thrown in her head, it became the dominant method of locomotion.
The Sydney walketh.
The entire process between the first few steps and the actively walking toddler took about two months, belying my romantic notion (and really I should know better by now) that these things just happen one day and then you're on to the next milestone, say, speaking words that make sense to the adults around you.
The pinnacle of the walking saga so far has been the walk we all took on the weekend, complete with dog, stroller and baby. On the way out Sydney was content to be wheeled about but on the way back she insisted on getting out. Once out, she insisted on getting down. And then she walked--marched, more like-- all the way back home.
Uh oh.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Gray Anatomy
Years ago while I was still in high school, and the specter of having children was at least a ways off if possible at all, I entertained my friends with the notion that should I ever have children I would inflict upon them a language no one else would understand, though it would still be English. I would do this by teaching them that a knife was a "fork", a spoon a "bowl", and so forth. Of course I myself would have to learn this new language to really be consistent about it, but that didn't factor into my fantasy. I just thought it would be funny.
So these friends might think this is only karma.
Sydney and us are at the point where limited but emphatic conversation can occur. "Do you want to read a book?" will be met with an enthusiastic nod. "This one?" --another nod. "Do you want me to read it? Or Daddy?" -- another nod (the multiple choice question is usually where the conversation breaks down). Occasionally there is something which does not meet her approval and she will vigorously shake her head to indicate her unwillingness to take part.
So we've embarked on a somewhat serious effort to impart the knowledge which was passed down to us. I decided to start with body parts.
"This is your eye! This is your nose! This is your mouth! This is your ear! ..." and so on. Then I'd ask her to show me where the body part was. Until recently, I've been met with a blank, disinterested stare before Sydney would turn away to show me something much more interesting, like her stuffed dog. But the other night we finally had a breakthrough: when I asked Sydney where she thought her nose might be, she confidently and enthusiastically patted the body part she thought I wanted. Surprised, I asked her again, with the same result.
Here it is folks: Sydney's nose is where most people might think her right ear would be.
So these friends might think this is only karma.
Sydney and us are at the point where limited but emphatic conversation can occur. "Do you want to read a book?" will be met with an enthusiastic nod. "This one?" --another nod. "Do you want me to read it? Or Daddy?" -- another nod (the multiple choice question is usually where the conversation breaks down). Occasionally there is something which does not meet her approval and she will vigorously shake her head to indicate her unwillingness to take part.
So we've embarked on a somewhat serious effort to impart the knowledge which was passed down to us. I decided to start with body parts.
"This is your eye! This is your nose! This is your mouth! This is your ear! ..." and so on. Then I'd ask her to show me where the body part was. Until recently, I've been met with a blank, disinterested stare before Sydney would turn away to show me something much more interesting, like her stuffed dog. But the other night we finally had a breakthrough: when I asked Sydney where she thought her nose might be, she confidently and enthusiastically patted the body part she thought I wanted. Surprised, I asked her again, with the same result.
Here it is folks: Sydney's nose is where most people might think her right ear would be.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Venturing Outside
My husband came home from a trip to the dump to the sounds of his daughter screaming in the wilderness, as if she'd been abandoned in a cave, or her arm had been cut off, or she was surrounded by hungry bears about to tear her from limb to limb. Concerned, he rushed towards the sound, only to confront his wife coming out of the field, holding onto their struggling, protesting daughter.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I picked her up," I replied.
Sydney has discovered the Great Outdoors; the infinite wonder of leaves, dirt, bugs, and worms. And she loves it so much that she will stay there, thank you, until she's had her fill. Never mind the black flies, the sun, the inclement weather, or the fact that its time to go eat dinner.
While we take in the whole landscape, noting the little baby on the big lawn, she's examining the minute details of grass, dead leaves, a baby-hand-sized rock which she's found hiding under the grass. She will reverence these objects for long moments, and then, as a final compliment, she will put them lovingly into her mouth, a kind of reverse engineering; I like you, therefore you must be edible.
As with all new things this too will become old hat, and we'll see her start walking through puddles, running over fields, walking into the forest, climbing up mountains. But for now the kid is rooted in one spot, endlessly picking at the growing grass. If I could only pick her up and move her to another location without causing World War III, I almost wouldn't have to mow.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I picked her up," I replied.
Sydney has discovered the Great Outdoors; the infinite wonder of leaves, dirt, bugs, and worms. And she loves it so much that she will stay there, thank you, until she's had her fill. Never mind the black flies, the sun, the inclement weather, or the fact that its time to go eat dinner.
While we take in the whole landscape, noting the little baby on the big lawn, she's examining the minute details of grass, dead leaves, a baby-hand-sized rock which she's found hiding under the grass. She will reverence these objects for long moments, and then, as a final compliment, she will put them lovingly into her mouth, a kind of reverse engineering; I like you, therefore you must be edible.
As with all new things this too will become old hat, and we'll see her start walking through puddles, running over fields, walking into the forest, climbing up mountains. But for now the kid is rooted in one spot, endlessly picking at the growing grass. If I could only pick her up and move her to another location without causing World War III, I almost wouldn't have to mow.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
One Year Later: A Retrospective
One year ago today, Stanley Hilarius became Sydney.It's certainly been an interesting one year and nine months. It's been a long, hard fought battle, but I must admit that Sydney has won. And I have the scar to prove it.
We've learned alot since those first shell shocked days. Mostly by trial and error, we've learned what Sydney does and does not like, when she'll sleep, and when she won't. We've also composed quite a few songs which, I'm sure, would make my operatic brother cringe but actually shouldn't surprise him too much. After all, I did come up with the words to the fantastic song: Fat Person, Sittin' on a Bike.
Chewin' on the Sydney Hands
Chewin' chewin' chewin'
Whatcha think you're doin'?
Chewin' on the Sydney Hands!
Magic Bag
Sydney's in the magic bag!
Cuz she is a baby.
Sydney's in the magic bag!
And I don't mean maybe.
Big Syd
It's the Big Syd!
The Big Big Syd!
The Big Big Big Big
BIG little Syd!
The Sockless Sydney
Sydney doesn't have any socks on!
What are we gonna do
About the sockless Sydney?
Washing
Oh, we're
Washing the face
Washing the face
Washing the face
So we can go to bed.
Cuz if we don't wash the face
then we can't go to bed
and if we don't go to bed
then the morning doesn't come.
Talent creeps up on you, you know.
Chewin' chewin' chewin'
Whatcha think you're doin'?
Chewin' on the Sydney Hands!
Magic Bag
Sydney's in the magic bag!
Cuz she is a baby.
Sydney's in the magic bag!
And I don't mean maybe.
Big Syd
It's the Big Syd!
The Big Big Syd!
The Big Big Big Big
BIG little Syd!
The Sockless Sydney
Sydney doesn't have any socks on!
What are we gonna do
About the sockless Sydney?
Washing
Oh, we're
Washing the face
Washing the face
Washing the face
So we can go to bed.
Cuz if we don't wash the face
then we can't go to bed
and if we don't go to bed
then the morning doesn't come.
Talent creeps up on you, you know.
In any case, we've managed to go back to our previous hectic lives, albeit with the copious help of relatives agreeing to babysit and rotating schedules which, whilst we were still in the midst of the breastfeeding saga, basically took me entirely out of the picture every two hours. Fortunately Sydney took up the slack. That girl can stack a cord of wood in no time.
Wait, that's not how it happened. Turns out she was with me.
So today is Sydney's Big Day, and to celebrate, she decided to cry around 2am this morning, just about the time she first made noise. She's on her own journey, notwithstanding us, her parents, and we're really just following along. We try to guide her towards the carrots and the sweet potatoes of life, but more often than not they'll end up on the floor. Whatever she ends up putting on her plate isn't really up to us.
Happy First Birthday, Sydney!
Monday, March 10, 2008
Standing on Ceremony
Babies are constantly on the move and their brains are constantly calculating the next developmental step, and most of all, babies do things on their own time, so you often miss the next big thing until it happens out of the corner of your eye while you're having a conversation with your spouse.
Look ma! ...no hands!!
Sydney has learned to stand and she's learned to cruise, and apparently she's been processing the fact that her parents don't need to hold onto things when they walk about the room or carry her about, and so yesterday, apropos of nothing, she removed her hands from her mother who was being used as a support, lifted them up, and for two seconds was standing on her own two feet with only gravity and air keeping her upright.
To which we responded with the appropriate amount of praise, while our minds were whirling. Oh no! And we just got the house child-proofed for a crawling baby!!
Next I suppose she'll start saying real words, like "president" or "tricycle" instead of "bababa!" or "rarara!"
Should I start making her apply for college now, or wait until the summer?
Look ma! ...no hands!!
Sydney has learned to stand and she's learned to cruise, and apparently she's been processing the fact that her parents don't need to hold onto things when they walk about the room or carry her about, and so yesterday, apropos of nothing, she removed her hands from her mother who was being used as a support, lifted them up, and for two seconds was standing on her own two feet with only gravity and air keeping her upright.
To which we responded with the appropriate amount of praise, while our minds were whirling. Oh no! And we just got the house child-proofed for a crawling baby!!
Next I suppose she'll start saying real words, like "president" or "tricycle" instead of "bababa!" or "rarara!"
Should I start making her apply for college now, or wait until the summer?
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Cutest Baby in the World
It is increasingly obvious to us that our baby, of all the babies in the entire world, is the cutest baby there is. We know this for several reasons:
1) We think she's cute. Now you'll say that we are hardly subjective and of course we think our baby is the most beautiful creature to ever crawl this earth, but we are both intelligent, objective, independent people who are not above admitting to ourselves an ugly truth, or an ugly baby.
2) All of her relations say she's cute. Again you'll argue that this is not exactly definitive proof either, since her relations will also not be entirely independent and probably as blind as we are, but we're going to take their words for it because:
3) Perfect strangers go out of their way to tell us she's cute. Or more likely, they won't talk to us at all. They'll interrupt an earnest conversation about whether to buy another pacifier to replace the 10 misplaced ones, duck their head in to Sydney's level and go: oh aren't you precious boy you're a cute one what beautiful eyes.... oh, I'm sorry. They'll finally say to us. But she's just the cutest thing.
This last phenomenon drives us crazy, as it makes shopping a hazardous obstacle course full of well meaning, googly-eyed old ladies, sentimental, sheepish middle aged men and younger people of both genders who look at our bundle o' joy with romantic ideas and have no idea what they're in for.
These conversations are excruciating, because no longer is this a matter of one adult being rude to another, as was the case throughout the long nine months of pregnancy, but of an adult ignoring the social constructs of normal human behavior to ogle directly at another human being, who, cuteness factor aside, is learning rapidly from everything around her--including that her smile will get her everything in the world, that everyone loves her, and that she is the cutest thing around.
On the other hand, we don't want her to think that all strangers are weird and scary. "Thank you," we say politely, if we can ever get a word in edgewise.
1) We think she's cute. Now you'll say that we are hardly subjective and of course we think our baby is the most beautiful creature to ever crawl this earth, but we are both intelligent, objective, independent people who are not above admitting to ourselves an ugly truth, or an ugly baby.
2) All of her relations say she's cute. Again you'll argue that this is not exactly definitive proof either, since her relations will also not be entirely independent and probably as blind as we are, but we're going to take their words for it because:
3) Perfect strangers go out of their way to tell us she's cute. Or more likely, they won't talk to us at all. They'll interrupt an earnest conversation about whether to buy another pacifier to replace the 10 misplaced ones, duck their head in to Sydney's level and go: oh aren't you precious boy you're a cute one what beautiful eyes.... oh, I'm sorry. They'll finally say to us. But she's just the cutest thing.
This last phenomenon drives us crazy, as it makes shopping a hazardous obstacle course full of well meaning, googly-eyed old ladies, sentimental, sheepish middle aged men and younger people of both genders who look at our bundle o' joy with romantic ideas and have no idea what they're in for.
These conversations are excruciating, because no longer is this a matter of one adult being rude to another, as was the case throughout the long nine months of pregnancy, but of an adult ignoring the social constructs of normal human behavior to ogle directly at another human being, who, cuteness factor aside, is learning rapidly from everything around her--including that her smile will get her everything in the world, that everyone loves her, and that she is the cutest thing around.
On the other hand, we don't want her to think that all strangers are weird and scary. "Thank you," we say politely, if we can ever get a word in edgewise.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Long time human, first time parent
We've been feeding Sydney increasingly chunkier pureed mashes consisting of different types of vegetables for almost three months now, and for the most part they've agreed with her. She's also developed some sense of what she does and does not like; for instance, carrots and cauliflower are on the do-I-have-to? list, while applesauce is on the I-can-not-will-not-Sam-I-am list. Winter squash, rice cereal, avocado and beets are on the favorites list.
Anyway to make a long story longer, Sydney's last meal the night before had been beets.
I put her to bed with no incident at 7:30, and then we spent an enjoyable hour watching TV, a luxury which has only just begun to return to us, puttered around for a little while, took the dog for walk and finally climbed into bed around 10:30.
I swear she has radar in her head. Okay, now's the time to do my trick! At first it was a just a cough and a whimper, then it became more insistent, finally it was definitely something I had to deal with; so I strode into the darkened room and found Sydney covered in what could only be a puddle of blood.
Did I mention Sydney's last meal had been beets?
When I turned on the light to see what was going on, I found that Sydney had deposited her very last meal onto the bed, her clothes and herself, creating perhaps the most horrifying, disgusting sight I have ever been subjected to. And it was up to me to clean it up. Talk about your Dirty Job. Also, while my very first instinct was to pick her up and reassure her that everything was alright, my second instinct was to hold her like a dirty rag, well away from me and everything else. I compromised by holding her close but away from me, in case any more of the beets should make their appearance.
Two baths and several retches later, we finally had her cleaned up enough to reassure her that everything was fine, whereupon she deposited more of her dinner onto herself and the floor and we had to start over. Eventually there was nothing left, which left us free to call the Night Nurse, a service which has been started presumably so that pediatricians can be shielded from anxious, clueless first-time parents and their stupid questions like: "Pedialyte?? What's that?"
We substituted apple juice instead, but it just wasn't the same.
Finally, around 3am, on the recommendation of the Night Nurse, we bundle Sydney up to take her to the hospital to be evaluated for dehydration. We trundle sleepily outside, put the baby in her car seat, turn on the car, and start down the road.
"Car's awful loud," my husband said.
"How's it handling?"
"Okay. Well...." he stopped the car, I got out, and sure as rain, the right front tire was flat as a pancake.
We turn the car around, limp back up the driveway on our flat tire, take the kid out of that car and put her in the other one, turn it on and remember that this car is low on gas. We debate whether we think we have enough gas to get to the nearest gas station, twenty minutes away. We decide we probably do, and drive to that gas station only to discover that it isn't the 24 hour variety of store we were led to believe it was. The attendant isn't moved by our plight, repeating that they were open at five am, but finally relents enough to inform us that the Cumberland Farms down the road is open now.
So we finally get gas at the Cumberland Farms and head off towards the hospital, about an hour later than we'd planned.
When we got there, Sydney was wide awake, quietly smiling at her surroundings and interested in all the new pull toys such as the nurse's station button. The doctor pronounced her fine, repeated the story about the Pedialyte: Elixir of Good For All Babies, and sent us home.
Was it a wasted trip? I don't know; we apparently needed the Pedialyte anyway, and our country bumpkin drugstore isn't open at all hours of the night. Plus Sydney fell asleep in the car ride over there, and we weren't sleeping anyway. We might as well be on the road. Finally, isn't it a given that the first time parent will over react the first time their kid vomits (beets or no beets)? We're just following the same story line that's been carefully laid out before us. We can't wait to see what happens next.
Anyway to make a long story longer, Sydney's last meal the night before had been beets.
I put her to bed with no incident at 7:30, and then we spent an enjoyable hour watching TV, a luxury which has only just begun to return to us, puttered around for a little while, took the dog for walk and finally climbed into bed around 10:30.
I swear she has radar in her head. Okay, now's the time to do my trick! At first it was a just a cough and a whimper, then it became more insistent, finally it was definitely something I had to deal with; so I strode into the darkened room and found Sydney covered in what could only be a puddle of blood.
Did I mention Sydney's last meal had been beets?
When I turned on the light to see what was going on, I found that Sydney had deposited her very last meal onto the bed, her clothes and herself, creating perhaps the most horrifying, disgusting sight I have ever been subjected to. And it was up to me to clean it up. Talk about your Dirty Job. Also, while my very first instinct was to pick her up and reassure her that everything was alright, my second instinct was to hold her like a dirty rag, well away from me and everything else. I compromised by holding her close but away from me, in case any more of the beets should make their appearance.
Two baths and several retches later, we finally had her cleaned up enough to reassure her that everything was fine, whereupon she deposited more of her dinner onto herself and the floor and we had to start over. Eventually there was nothing left, which left us free to call the Night Nurse, a service which has been started presumably so that pediatricians can be shielded from anxious, clueless first-time parents and their stupid questions like: "Pedialyte?? What's that?"
We substituted apple juice instead, but it just wasn't the same.
Finally, around 3am, on the recommendation of the Night Nurse, we bundle Sydney up to take her to the hospital to be evaluated for dehydration. We trundle sleepily outside, put the baby in her car seat, turn on the car, and start down the road.
"Car's awful loud," my husband said.
"How's it handling?"
"Okay. Well...." he stopped the car, I got out, and sure as rain, the right front tire was flat as a pancake.
We turn the car around, limp back up the driveway on our flat tire, take the kid out of that car and put her in the other one, turn it on and remember that this car is low on gas. We debate whether we think we have enough gas to get to the nearest gas station, twenty minutes away. We decide we probably do, and drive to that gas station only to discover that it isn't the 24 hour variety of store we were led to believe it was. The attendant isn't moved by our plight, repeating that they were open at five am, but finally relents enough to inform us that the Cumberland Farms down the road is open now.
So we finally get gas at the Cumberland Farms and head off towards the hospital, about an hour later than we'd planned.
When we got there, Sydney was wide awake, quietly smiling at her surroundings and interested in all the new pull toys such as the nurse's station button. The doctor pronounced her fine, repeated the story about the Pedialyte: Elixir of Good For All Babies, and sent us home.
Was it a wasted trip? I don't know; we apparently needed the Pedialyte anyway, and our country bumpkin drugstore isn't open at all hours of the night. Plus Sydney fell asleep in the car ride over there, and we weren't sleeping anyway. We might as well be on the road. Finally, isn't it a given that the first time parent will over react the first time their kid vomits (beets or no beets)? We're just following the same story line that's been carefully laid out before us. We can't wait to see what happens next.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Creepy Crawly
We have officially entered into the next phase of baby-hood. Sydney is crawling.
At first it was a just a few hesitant missteps before falling back on the much more reliable "commando crawl" which involves slithering forward on your belly lizard style to get to your desired object. Then it became more insistent. Now it is what Sydney does best.
Now we live in constant fear of what might be on the floor or what Sydney might walk into. We are not neat people, but we've cleared out the spaces the baby crawls in as best we can and we're becoming intimately acquainted with our vacuum, broom and mop. We've gotten down on our hands and knees and scrutinized the rooms from a baby eye's view, and tried to put ourselves in the mindset of a fearless but clueless 8 month old, discovering electrical cords and outlets for the first time, interesting items in the wide cracks of our pine floors, and completely uninterested in basic physical concepts such as gravity.
Even so, she still manages to find and chew on things which the more mature of us do not consider edible. So far we've pulled the following out of her protesting mouth:
moss
scotch tape
dog hair
paper
unidentified fuzz
flower petals
half a dead lightening bug
a burr
That's just the things we've found before they were swallowed. Who knows what's made it down into her digestive tract. So far, nothing obvious has been spit out the other side but I fully expect to see, reconstituted in way I've never seen before, inedible, inorganic items which have followed the same path as all the other stuff that goes into her mouth.
The crawling has also made us both uneasy enough that it invades our sleep. I sat up the other night and asked wildly where the baby was. My husband, woken up from his own uneasy sleep, assured me she was in her own bed. "Did you put her back?" I asked, because I had been dreaming that she was in bed with us but kept crawling away. My husband was silent for a time but decided to humor me. "Yes," he said, " I put her back." So far she's been unable to escape from the crib or the playpen but I suspect it is only a matter of time before those monkey instincts kick in. She'll progress from crawling to swinging from the trees before I know it.
At first it was a just a few hesitant missteps before falling back on the much more reliable "commando crawl" which involves slithering forward on your belly lizard style to get to your desired object. Then it became more insistent. Now it is what Sydney does best.
Now we live in constant fear of what might be on the floor or what Sydney might walk into. We are not neat people, but we've cleared out the spaces the baby crawls in as best we can and we're becoming intimately acquainted with our vacuum, broom and mop. We've gotten down on our hands and knees and scrutinized the rooms from a baby eye's view, and tried to put ourselves in the mindset of a fearless but clueless 8 month old, discovering electrical cords and outlets for the first time, interesting items in the wide cracks of our pine floors, and completely uninterested in basic physical concepts such as gravity.
Even so, she still manages to find and chew on things which the more mature of us do not consider edible. So far we've pulled the following out of her protesting mouth:
moss
scotch tape
dog hair
paper
unidentified fuzz
flower petals
half a dead lightening bug
a burr
That's just the things we've found before they were swallowed. Who knows what's made it down into her digestive tract. So far, nothing obvious has been spit out the other side but I fully expect to see, reconstituted in way I've never seen before, inedible, inorganic items which have followed the same path as all the other stuff that goes into her mouth.
The crawling has also made us both uneasy enough that it invades our sleep. I sat up the other night and asked wildly where the baby was. My husband, woken up from his own uneasy sleep, assured me she was in her own bed. "Did you put her back?" I asked, because I had been dreaming that she was in bed with us but kept crawling away. My husband was silent for a time but decided to humor me. "Yes," he said, " I put her back." So far she's been unable to escape from the crib or the playpen but I suspect it is only a matter of time before those monkey instincts kick in. She'll progress from crawling to swinging from the trees before I know it.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Magic in the Air
Perhaps all parents already know this, but there's always one object, one beloved item or action which, if all else fails in a parent's myriad comforting bag of tricks, is the one emergency item you bring out because you have discovered that it works. Every time, like clockwork. That item is magic.
The first item we discovered was magic was an Infantino Sling Rider, basically just a bag with a strong padded strap, capable of carrying up to 20 pounds of baby weight. When placed in the sling, Sydney would be all scrunched up and terribly uncomfortable-looking, and would, 30 seconds later, fall fast asleep. Wearing the baby around our neck all day quickly became the norm, especially earlier in her career when "awake" generally meant "crying" and "asleep" generally "didn't happen." We began to call the sling the Magic Bag. We even gave it its own song, as we are wont to do, the lyrics of which went like this (to the tune of Magic Bus):
The need for the Magic Bag has tapered off in recent months, although it is still resorted to in a pinch. Mostly things don't get that tragic anymore, and Sydney has learned to entertain herself to a certain degree. Also she is getting a lot more mobile and the memory of the womb is fading, so being squished up in a bag she can't see out of is less comforting than it used to be.
However, yesterday we went to the hospital (an ongoing saga of checkups and appointments for a borderline case of hip displasia, which was detected when she was first born by an emergency room nurse but never since) for an ultrasound and a doctor's appointment, and, because we are weaning Sydney from Mom, meant to bring the all important food and bottle combination. It was all put together properly and stored neatly away in the breastmilk cooler bag and put on the floor with all the other accoutrements we needed to bring, and it was still sitting on the floor when we got to the hospital.
We were going to be at the hospital pretty much all day, and we had no food for the baby. What kind of parents were we? We begged a few bottles of formula off of one of the nurses and bought a sippy cup (the closest thing they had to a bottle) in the gift shop, and made do with these items and some snacks from Mom's rapidly unproductive breasts. Still she didn't eat much. So much stuff was going on at the hospital that she was pretty cool with it, until we finally bundled her back into the car to go home. Then she let loose.
On the ride up earlier that day, before we knew of the food shortage, there had been a slight disturbance in the backseat, in response to which I turned on the car's CD player which had in it: Baby Beluga by none other than Raffi. My husband was less than enthused about this musical choice and teased that I just wanted to hear the CD again. I assuredly did not; this CD has been played way too many times in my presence. It was the only CD I had, though, and our reception in these parts is spotty. Rather than hunt the dial for music worthy of a six month old, I turn on the CD. The disturbance in the back quieted down and we eventually turned off the CD and thought no more of it.
There's not much you can do for a desperately unhappy infant screaming her head off while traveling down the interstate at a higher rate of speed than the posted speed limit, even if there are two of you in the car, so out of desperation I turned on the radio and cycled through the dial trying to find music and not commercials, gave up after a few seconds and turned on the CD again as an interim.
And the sudden silence from the backseat was golden.
After a few songs and a long period of contentment in the back we thought we could, perhaps, turn off Raffi and turn on NPR, but as soon as the CD went off a horrifying wail began again, and continued until I managed to get the CD turned on again. Sydney quieted down only to have the CD switch back over to Track 1, which takes longer than usual, and in the intervening silence she began to whimper again. Track 1 started. Silence again.
"Is there some subliminal message, do you think? Do drugs! Do drugs?" I asked.
"Or maybe, shut up kid or the monster will get you!" Raffi's charm was still lost on my husband. But we both agreed that we had hit upon the Magic CD, and that this CD should be carefully stored and cared for in order that we might, in a pinch, be able to make the world right again, at least for a while.
This morning we were both wide awake at 2am. Finally from the darkness my husband whispered, "I have Raffi in my head."
"Me, too," I said, "Which one?"
"Over in the meadow on a rock by the shore..."
And we both fell back to sleep.
The first item we discovered was magic was an Infantino Sling Rider, basically just a bag with a strong padded strap, capable of carrying up to 20 pounds of baby weight. When placed in the sling, Sydney would be all scrunched up and terribly uncomfortable-looking, and would, 30 seconds later, fall fast asleep. Wearing the baby around our neck all day quickly became the norm, especially earlier in her career when "awake" generally meant "crying" and "asleep" generally "didn't happen." We began to call the sling the Magic Bag. We even gave it its own song, as we are wont to do, the lyrics of which went like this (to the tune of Magic Bus):
Sydney's in the Magic Bag!
Cuz she is a baby.
Sydney's in the Magic Bag!
And I don't mean maybe.
Magic Bag! Magic Bag!
Sydney's in the Magic Bag!
And I don't mean maybe.
Magic Bag! Magic Bag!
The need for the Magic Bag has tapered off in recent months, although it is still resorted to in a pinch. Mostly things don't get that tragic anymore, and Sydney has learned to entertain herself to a certain degree. Also she is getting a lot more mobile and the memory of the womb is fading, so being squished up in a bag she can't see out of is less comforting than it used to be.
However, yesterday we went to the hospital (an ongoing saga of checkups and appointments for a borderline case of hip displasia, which was detected when she was first born by an emergency room nurse but never since) for an ultrasound and a doctor's appointment, and, because we are weaning Sydney from Mom, meant to bring the all important food and bottle combination. It was all put together properly and stored neatly away in the breastmilk cooler bag and put on the floor with all the other accoutrements we needed to bring, and it was still sitting on the floor when we got to the hospital.
We were going to be at the hospital pretty much all day, and we had no food for the baby. What kind of parents were we? We begged a few bottles of formula off of one of the nurses and bought a sippy cup (the closest thing they had to a bottle) in the gift shop, and made do with these items and some snacks from Mom's rapidly unproductive breasts. Still she didn't eat much. So much stuff was going on at the hospital that she was pretty cool with it, until we finally bundled her back into the car to go home. Then she let loose.
On the ride up earlier that day, before we knew of the food shortage, there had been a slight disturbance in the backseat, in response to which I turned on the car's CD player which had in it: Baby Beluga by none other than Raffi. My husband was less than enthused about this musical choice and teased that I just wanted to hear the CD again. I assuredly did not; this CD has been played way too many times in my presence. It was the only CD I had, though, and our reception in these parts is spotty. Rather than hunt the dial for music worthy of a six month old, I turn on the CD. The disturbance in the back quieted down and we eventually turned off the CD and thought no more of it.
There's not much you can do for a desperately unhappy infant screaming her head off while traveling down the interstate at a higher rate of speed than the posted speed limit, even if there are two of you in the car, so out of desperation I turned on the radio and cycled through the dial trying to find music and not commercials, gave up after a few seconds and turned on the CD again as an interim.
And the sudden silence from the backseat was golden.
After a few songs and a long period of contentment in the back we thought we could, perhaps, turn off Raffi and turn on NPR, but as soon as the CD went off a horrifying wail began again, and continued until I managed to get the CD turned on again. Sydney quieted down only to have the CD switch back over to Track 1, which takes longer than usual, and in the intervening silence she began to whimper again. Track 1 started. Silence again.
"Is there some subliminal message, do you think? Do drugs! Do drugs?" I asked.
"Or maybe, shut up kid or the monster will get you!" Raffi's charm was still lost on my husband. But we both agreed that we had hit upon the Magic CD, and that this CD should be carefully stored and cared for in order that we might, in a pinch, be able to make the world right again, at least for a while.
This morning we were both wide awake at 2am. Finally from the darkness my husband whispered, "I have Raffi in my head."
"Me, too," I said, "Which one?"
"Over in the meadow on a rock by the shore..."
And we both fell back to sleep.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Baby Tag
A friend of ours just tagged us with an impossible stunt; turn to page 161 of the book you are currently reading, and then quote the 5th sentence.
While we're flattered that he thinks Sydney is reading books of such grandeur, we're not sure how we'd pull this one off. So we'll take the book that we read most frequently: Caring for Your Baby and Young Child: Birth to Age 5, turn to page 161 and read:
He appears hungry, searching for something to suck shortly after feedings.
How random is that?
While we're flattered that he thinks Sydney is reading books of such grandeur, we're not sure how we'd pull this one off. So we'll take the book that we read most frequently: Caring for Your Baby and Young Child: Birth to Age 5, turn to page 161 and read:
He appears hungry, searching for something to suck shortly after feedings.
How random is that?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Breastfeeding's Final Thoughts: A %$#@*&#!! Pain in the Ass
Well folks, we've made it six months as the sole gravy train and it's time to get off.
On October 17th, Sydney's six month birthday, we celebrated by feeding her "solid food" for the first time. By the time we got around to doing it, she'd fallen soundly asleep. My husband suggested that perhaps we wait for another day, but I was adamant. "Today's the day! We're starting her on real food today!"
"Real" is subjective, and "solid" is kind of a misnomer, as the resulting mush made by the rice and milk was hardly less liquid than what she usually gets. We woke her up, fully expecting a false start, but she gobbled it up, as if she too were eager to get on with this new concept. That night she slept hard and fast, a phenomenon that has disappeared recently with the arrival of teeth.
And with the introduction of food, solid or not, a huge weight has suddenly been lifted from my shoulders. For one thing, I no longer have to rush home from a full day at work to feed a hungry baby. For another, it means that this whole breastfeeding thing will soon be over.
Me and Sydney have been feeding this way for all of her life and sometimes, in the evenings when I put her to sleep this way, I get nostalgic and realize that, five or ten or fifteen years from now I'll try to remember these moments and won't be able to fully recall them. But during the day when I am frantically answering phone calls, racing to meetings and oh by the way, stepping out for twenty minutes three times a day to pump myself dry, I find myself counting the days.
Especially on those days when I forget a vital piece of the pump and have to either jerry-rig the thing or go out to buy new pieces, in between those phone calls, meetings, etc. Or in the mornings when I have to wash and sterilize the various portions before I can leave. Or those days when we are out on the road and invariably Sydney becomes hungry and we have to pull over and feed her, adding twenty minutes to our commute. Or those days when she wakes up every twenty minutes and is ravenously hungry all night.
You know, most days.
My final thoughts on the matter? The bottom line is that feeding a baby is inconvenient, period. But when you decide to breastfeed, it's all on you. Dad can't help unless you pump, and pumping is time consuming, annoying and and in general a pain in the butt. Breast feeding activists are lying when they say that breastfeeding is more convenient than formula feeding. It may be true for a select few, but for those of us who are rushing around trying to live our lives and have jobs and families too it simply isn't true. It may be better for baby and mother, but better doesn't mean formula is bad. Take it from a breastfeeding mother, you are not a bad person if you decide not to put up with what I have for six months. It can be done (I did it) but it doesn't have to be, and don't let anyone make you think otherwise.
That being said, am I glad I did it? Yes-- I like a good challenge. And experience is always a good thing. Life is short and can't be replayed. On the other hand we're about to move on to a new and exciting challenge--keeping up with a crawling baby. One challenge at a time is enough for me.
On October 17th, Sydney's six month birthday, we celebrated by feeding her "solid food" for the first time. By the time we got around to doing it, she'd fallen soundly asleep. My husband suggested that perhaps we wait for another day, but I was adamant. "Today's the day! We're starting her on real food today!"
"Real" is subjective, and "solid" is kind of a misnomer, as the resulting mush made by the rice and milk was hardly less liquid than what she usually gets. We woke her up, fully expecting a false start, but she gobbled it up, as if she too were eager to get on with this new concept. That night she slept hard and fast, a phenomenon that has disappeared recently with the arrival of teeth.
And with the introduction of food, solid or not, a huge weight has suddenly been lifted from my shoulders. For one thing, I no longer have to rush home from a full day at work to feed a hungry baby. For another, it means that this whole breastfeeding thing will soon be over.
Me and Sydney have been feeding this way for all of her life and sometimes, in the evenings when I put her to sleep this way, I get nostalgic and realize that, five or ten or fifteen years from now I'll try to remember these moments and won't be able to fully recall them. But during the day when I am frantically answering phone calls, racing to meetings and oh by the way, stepping out for twenty minutes three times a day to pump myself dry, I find myself counting the days.
Especially on those days when I forget a vital piece of the pump and have to either jerry-rig the thing or go out to buy new pieces, in between those phone calls, meetings, etc. Or in the mornings when I have to wash and sterilize the various portions before I can leave. Or those days when we are out on the road and invariably Sydney becomes hungry and we have to pull over and feed her, adding twenty minutes to our commute. Or those days when she wakes up every twenty minutes and is ravenously hungry all night.
You know, most days.
My final thoughts on the matter? The bottom line is that feeding a baby is inconvenient, period. But when you decide to breastfeed, it's all on you. Dad can't help unless you pump, and pumping is time consuming, annoying and and in general a pain in the butt. Breast feeding activists are lying when they say that breastfeeding is more convenient than formula feeding. It may be true for a select few, but for those of us who are rushing around trying to live our lives and have jobs and families too it simply isn't true. It may be better for baby and mother, but better doesn't mean formula is bad. Take it from a breastfeeding mother, you are not a bad person if you decide not to put up with what I have for six months. It can be done (I did it) but it doesn't have to be, and don't let anyone make you think otherwise.
That being said, am I glad I did it? Yes-- I like a good challenge. And experience is always a good thing. Life is short and can't be replayed. On the other hand we're about to move on to a new and exciting challenge--keeping up with a crawling baby. One challenge at a time is enough for me.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Subject of Tonight's Word
Toothiness.
Nation, one of the most insidious pastimes of babies isn't rattling or spitting up or even crying. No, they do all that to make you think you've got them pegged. What are they really doing under those pouty lips?
Growing teeth.
That's right, fans, Sydney has grown her first tooth. Right now it's a cute little (sharp little) hard nodule on her once smooth gums, but that's just the beginning. She's also learning how to chew. Just tonight she wrapped her arms around my neck and planted a big one on my cheek. I had just done the same thing to her, but she went one step further. She opened up her mouth and bit down.
Maybe she's trying to see if the rest of me is edible, too. Hopefully she decided, not.
Nation, one of the most insidious pastimes of babies isn't rattling or spitting up or even crying. No, they do all that to make you think you've got them pegged. What are they really doing under those pouty lips?
Growing teeth.
That's right, fans, Sydney has grown her first tooth. Right now it's a cute little (sharp little) hard nodule on her once smooth gums, but that's just the beginning. She's also learning how to chew. Just tonight she wrapped her arms around my neck and planted a big one on my cheek. I had just done the same thing to her, but she went one step further. She opened up her mouth and bit down.
Maybe she's trying to see if the rest of me is edible, too. Hopefully she decided, not.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Readily A Parent
It was only a few days after the birth that we went to see the doctor and so we all bundled up, drove in, and stood in the check-in line to be registered for our appointments. I got to the head of the line and was about to announce my name when I realized, for the first time, that I wasn't checking myself in. I was checking the baby in. Whoa. How weird is that?
Stumped, I just stared at the receptionist, trying to get my head around this new state of affairs. Finally I stumbled over some kind of sentence such as, "I am here to check my daughter in." The words "my daughter" did not fly prettily off of my tongue, but at least I'd gotten the words out. I smiled sheepily at the receptionist.
But she wasn't done. "What's her name?"
Uh oh. What was her name? To be fair, I just met the kid a few days ago. How come I was expected to remember what I named her? But I went through my list of possible names and finally settled on the one that seemed the most right.
"Stanley," I said definitively. Now it was the receptionist's turn to stare blankly at me.
"Your daughter's name is Stanley? Are you sure?" the woman said politely.
Clearly I wasn't sure of anything. Not the least of which was this ephemeral idea of being a "parent" of a "child", whatever the heck her name was.
Now, almost five months later, the words "my daughter" do not stick on the way out of my mouth, while the fetus formerly known as Stanley has solidified into her suddenly human brand name of Sydney with relative ease. But I still don't much feel like a "parent." After the initial shock, our daily routines have pretty much re-set themselves, albeit with a central hub which was not there before around which we navigate carefully. Still, there are signs of change, subtle though they are:
1) I can speak Baby.
While I by no means am fluent in the language of baby I do know some limited words and phrases which allow Sydney and I to communicate pretty well. For instance, WAAA means I'm Hungry, while WAAA means my diaper is wet. In contrast, WAAA means that Sydney is cold and needs a blanket while WAAA means that she is bored and wants to be picked up. And finally, WAAA means I'm really tired but I don't want to go to sleep. See how simple it all is? Now you can speak Baby too. Though heaven forbid you get WAAA and WAAA mixed up. Then you'll hear all about it when she says WAAA in a very angry voice informing you of how hard it is to get good help around here. Oui, mademoiselle, whatever you say, mademoiselle.
2) I have become wise to the dangers of the world.
Every news report which involves missing, abused, kidnapped or killed children immediately becomes wrapped around my mind like it was my child that was in the headlines, not the nameless faceless one with the outdated grainy photo. Then I call home on some pretense just to make sure everything is alright. "Honey, you've called ten times about the bank. I promise not to forget!!"
3) Children's toys have become endlessly fascinating.
Who woulda thunkit but those fish shaped rattles and those blocky stacking toys are major fun when seen through the eyes of a five month old. Actually, when you're five months old, everything is a toy, including the doctor's stethoscope which, by the way, is also edible. Even more interesting is that Mom and Dad also find these toys suddenly fascinating and sometime will bring them to their mouths to see if they taste good. Hey! The red one tastes like cherry!
4) There are a lot more kids in the world than I thought.
Even though of course my daughter is cuter and smarter than all of them combined, I find myself looking at two, three, four-year olds to determine what my future holds in store for me. I notice behaviors I don't want to see in my daughter and try to plan for squelching them gently before they blossom, and behaviors I might at the same time want to encourage, and outfits I definitely will not subject her to. Like most well-thought out plans, this one will most likely get trampled over on the way to whatever Sydney needs to get to, but it occupies my time. Which I have an endless supply of these days. Ha. Ha.
and finally
5) Sleeping in means not waking up until, oh, 5:30am.
The phrase "sleep through the night" is relative. I never before thought anything before 6am was a valid time, and something in the 8am or 9am time frame was a much more preferable wake up time, and a 10am wake up call was downright luxurious. Now, 5:30am is the standard by which we set our alarm clocks. If Sydney sleeps until 5:30am, we're all well rested and yet we can still get to work on time. If Sydney wakes up before that, well, at least she doesn't wake up every two hours like she used to, unless of course it was like last night and actually that is what she does. Sleep, schmeep.
Stumped, I just stared at the receptionist, trying to get my head around this new state of affairs. Finally I stumbled over some kind of sentence such as, "I am here to check my daughter in." The words "my daughter" did not fly prettily off of my tongue, but at least I'd gotten the words out. I smiled sheepily at the receptionist.
But she wasn't done. "What's her name?"
Uh oh. What was her name? To be fair, I just met the kid a few days ago. How come I was expected to remember what I named her? But I went through my list of possible names and finally settled on the one that seemed the most right.
"Stanley," I said definitively. Now it was the receptionist's turn to stare blankly at me.
"Your daughter's name is Stanley? Are you sure?" the woman said politely.
Clearly I wasn't sure of anything. Not the least of which was this ephemeral idea of being a "parent" of a "child", whatever the heck her name was.
Now, almost five months later, the words "my daughter" do not stick on the way out of my mouth, while the fetus formerly known as Stanley has solidified into her suddenly human brand name of Sydney with relative ease. But I still don't much feel like a "parent." After the initial shock, our daily routines have pretty much re-set themselves, albeit with a central hub which was not there before around which we navigate carefully. Still, there are signs of change, subtle though they are:
1) I can speak Baby.
While I by no means am fluent in the language of baby I do know some limited words and phrases which allow Sydney and I to communicate pretty well. For instance, WAAA means I'm Hungry, while WAAA means my diaper is wet. In contrast, WAAA means that Sydney is cold and needs a blanket while WAAA means that she is bored and wants to be picked up. And finally, WAAA means I'm really tired but I don't want to go to sleep. See how simple it all is? Now you can speak Baby too. Though heaven forbid you get WAAA and WAAA mixed up. Then you'll hear all about it when she says WAAA in a very angry voice informing you of how hard it is to get good help around here. Oui, mademoiselle, whatever you say, mademoiselle.
2) I have become wise to the dangers of the world.
Every news report which involves missing, abused, kidnapped or killed children immediately becomes wrapped around my mind like it was my child that was in the headlines, not the nameless faceless one with the outdated grainy photo. Then I call home on some pretense just to make sure everything is alright. "Honey, you've called ten times about the bank. I promise not to forget!!"
3) Children's toys have become endlessly fascinating.
Who woulda thunkit but those fish shaped rattles and those blocky stacking toys are major fun when seen through the eyes of a five month old. Actually, when you're five months old, everything is a toy, including the doctor's stethoscope which, by the way, is also edible. Even more interesting is that Mom and Dad also find these toys suddenly fascinating and sometime will bring them to their mouths to see if they taste good. Hey! The red one tastes like cherry!
4) There are a lot more kids in the world than I thought.
Even though of course my daughter is cuter and smarter than all of them combined, I find myself looking at two, three, four-year olds to determine what my future holds in store for me. I notice behaviors I don't want to see in my daughter and try to plan for squelching them gently before they blossom, and behaviors I might at the same time want to encourage, and outfits I definitely will not subject her to. Like most well-thought out plans, this one will most likely get trampled over on the way to whatever Sydney needs to get to, but it occupies my time. Which I have an endless supply of these days. Ha. Ha.
and finally
5) Sleeping in means not waking up until, oh, 5:30am.
The phrase "sleep through the night" is relative. I never before thought anything before 6am was a valid time, and something in the 8am or 9am time frame was a much more preferable wake up time, and a 10am wake up call was downright luxurious. Now, 5:30am is the standard by which we set our alarm clocks. If Sydney sleeps until 5:30am, we're all well rested and yet we can still get to work on time. If Sydney wakes up before that, well, at least she doesn't wake up every two hours like she used to, unless of course it was like last night and actually that is what she does. Sleep, schmeep.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
The Sound of Music (Please Make it Stop!)
Some people claim that children learn better when their life's lessons are sung to them, and that Mozart makes a baby smarter. This theory has permeated through the toy industry with great gusto, of course, with the predictable result that everything you might buy for your infant takes three double A's, or two triple A's, or six D batteries to truly make for a baby-riffic experience.
We had sworn, before Sydney was born, that we would not fall for anything which required batteries. After all, parents have been mollifying their children for centuries without artificial help. But we quickly found out that that was because one parent was with said infant all the time, and that while this may be the ideal experience for our newborn we were not accustomed to having a living, breathing third brain super-glued to our bodies at all times. We've slowly let go of the no batteries mantra, and as a result, Sydney's musical repertoire has been gradually building.
Too bad you can't change the tune.
Or the instrument. Or the order of the &#$@^&^ songs.
A mechanical swing belts out snippets of artificial notes resembling a carnival ride. Frere Jacques and Oh Suzianna and Row Row Row Your Boat for as long as you can stand it. A musical mobile floats birds and bees and butterflies in the air and croons Papa's Gonna Buy You and also Night Sounds for that outdoor experience. A blue, fuzzy, beloved octopus plays Mozart and some other classical tunes, thankfully short. A lion, when his tail is pulled, plays a lovely little ditty. And a bouncy chair will vibrate (good, good, good, good vibrations..) and will run through a series of sedate tunes which will put Sydney into a nice, quiet, contemplative mood every time. While the music would soothe Sydney to sleep it would make us think of wood paneling and tons of flowers and black umbrellas for some unknown reason until just today we realized that it sounded exactly like funeral parlor music.
Our own musical tastes run somewhat less than clean, to the extent that we actually have video of Sydney "dancing" to the lyrics of Devil's Haircut by Beck. It's still music and fair game but it's definitely a far cry from Mozart's Requiem or Beethoven's 5th or whatever else is supposed to expand the mind of the young.
As for us, we too sing for Sydney, mostly the same thing over and over, and mostly having to do with a) not crying anymore, b) how fun the next activity is going to be c) no, we said the next activity was fun, and d) how did things get so bad?
We're not musically inclined, really. So maybe it's just as well that all her toys seem to be. Although the great maestros would hardly consider the noise that comes out of these toys music, I daresay. More like... reckless noise. Which plays over and over. And over. And over.
We had sworn, before Sydney was born, that we would not fall for anything which required batteries. After all, parents have been mollifying their children for centuries without artificial help. But we quickly found out that that was because one parent was with said infant all the time, and that while this may be the ideal experience for our newborn we were not accustomed to having a living, breathing third brain super-glued to our bodies at all times. We've slowly let go of the no batteries mantra, and as a result, Sydney's musical repertoire has been gradually building.
Too bad you can't change the tune.
Or the instrument. Or the order of the &#$@^&^ songs.
A mechanical swing belts out snippets of artificial notes resembling a carnival ride. Frere Jacques and Oh Suzianna and Row Row Row Your Boat for as long as you can stand it. A musical mobile floats birds and bees and butterflies in the air and croons Papa's Gonna Buy You and also Night Sounds for that outdoor experience. A blue, fuzzy, beloved octopus plays Mozart and some other classical tunes, thankfully short. A lion, when his tail is pulled, plays a lovely little ditty. And a bouncy chair will vibrate (good, good, good, good vibrations..) and will run through a series of sedate tunes which will put Sydney into a nice, quiet, contemplative mood every time. While the music would soothe Sydney to sleep it would make us think of wood paneling and tons of flowers and black umbrellas for some unknown reason until just today we realized that it sounded exactly like funeral parlor music.
Our own musical tastes run somewhat less than clean, to the extent that we actually have video of Sydney "dancing" to the lyrics of Devil's Haircut by Beck. It's still music and fair game but it's definitely a far cry from Mozart's Requiem or Beethoven's 5th or whatever else is supposed to expand the mind of the young.
As for us, we too sing for Sydney, mostly the same thing over and over, and mostly having to do with a) not crying anymore, b) how fun the next activity is going to be c) no, we said the next activity was fun, and d) how did things get so bad?
We're not musically inclined, really. So maybe it's just as well that all her toys seem to be. Although the great maestros would hardly consider the noise that comes out of these toys music, I daresay. More like... reckless noise. Which plays over and over. And over. And over.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Pump it Up
Consider this scenario: you are the Vice President of a small financial company, and are a Very Important Person, at least when you walk the corporate halls. People defer to you constantly. Oh! You want the projector? Sure, take it. My presentation is unimportant. Oh! You want to schedule a meeting at 7:30 in the morning before anyone even gets here? Sure! I'll just come in early.
One day you are in need of a particular person's assistance. She's quite a capable employee even though she recently had a child and was out for eight weeks on disability leave. You really need her assistance right now, and you're sure, like everyone else in the company, that she'll jump to your beck and call. So you go to her office to enlist her help and find a closed door with a sign on it: Please Do Not Disturb.
Do you:
a) Decide not to disturb the person?
b) Knock on the door?
or
c) Knock on the door and then open it quickly before she has a chance to respond?
.....or to cover her exposed upper body which she has been trying to find the time to empty of breastmilk for over two hours because everyone needs her right now?
As of now I may be the only person in the company who now has a Vice President tiptoeing around me.
I have, in the meantime, discovered why many women choose to nurse their infants for well over two years. It's not really because they believe it is good for their children or because they can't bear to part with the closeness. It's because when you're nursing, you can eat whatever the hell you want.
My pre-nursing diet usually consisted of:
Breakfast: a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee
Lunch: salad or sandwich
Dinner: half of my entree and half of my salad.
My current diet goes like this:
Breakfast: two bowls of cereal, some yogurt, and two pieces of fruit
Lunch: 4 hard boiled eggs and half a sandwich plus some carrots or anything I can get my hands on
Dinner: All of whatever is on my plate and in my salad bowl and maybe seconds and what's for dessert?
Meanwhile, and here's the really freaky part, I continue to lose weight.
Now there's a weight loss program for you. And since it's typically women who worry about their weight so much at the same time wishing they could eat like their husbands do, I think it's time for a new fad: Lactation Dieting.
All you need is some hormones to get those juices flowing, a breast pump, and a nursing bra. Then you really can have your cake and eat it too.
One day you are in need of a particular person's assistance. She's quite a capable employee even though she recently had a child and was out for eight weeks on disability leave. You really need her assistance right now, and you're sure, like everyone else in the company, that she'll jump to your beck and call. So you go to her office to enlist her help and find a closed door with a sign on it: Please Do Not Disturb.
Do you:
a) Decide not to disturb the person?
b) Knock on the door?
or
c) Knock on the door and then open it quickly before she has a chance to respond?
.....or to cover her exposed upper body which she has been trying to find the time to empty of breastmilk for over two hours because everyone needs her right now?
As of now I may be the only person in the company who now has a Vice President tiptoeing around me.
I have, in the meantime, discovered why many women choose to nurse their infants for well over two years. It's not really because they believe it is good for their children or because they can't bear to part with the closeness. It's because when you're nursing, you can eat whatever the hell you want.
My pre-nursing diet usually consisted of:
Breakfast: a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee
Lunch: salad or sandwich
Dinner: half of my entree and half of my salad.
My current diet goes like this:
Breakfast: two bowls of cereal, some yogurt, and two pieces of fruit
Lunch: 4 hard boiled eggs and half a sandwich plus some carrots or anything I can get my hands on
Dinner: All of whatever is on my plate and in my salad bowl and maybe seconds and what's for dessert?
Meanwhile, and here's the really freaky part, I continue to lose weight.
Now there's a weight loss program for you. And since it's typically women who worry about their weight so much at the same time wishing they could eat like their husbands do, I think it's time for a new fad: Lactation Dieting.
All you need is some hormones to get those juices flowing, a breast pump, and a nursing bra. Then you really can have your cake and eat it too.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Dangerous Knowledge
As new parents we excitedly await every new milestone there is. For instance Sydney learned a few months ago that a smile will get her everywhere. And it does, because it is heartbreakingly cute. We're hoping she doesn't really know that this smile will manipulate us, but we have our suspicions.
Recently she has learned to roll over onto her belly, which causes all sorts of problems. For one thing she hasn't figured out how to roll back over onto her back, so when she's done with being on her belly (usually about five seconds after getting there) she lets us know about it loudly. Immediately upon being rolled over she will try her new trick again. For another, all the new and improved parenting books tell you to put your baby to sleep on her back. Which we do. But apparently she likes sleeping on her belly and will roll over to a more comfortable position as soon as we're out of sight. The parenting books don't say anything about this. Do we roll her over? Or do we decide since she put herself that way it's okay?
We've also discovered that she will bring whatever is in her hands to her mouth. This evolutionary trait must be needed in order to learn what is good to eat and what is not, or possibly just to drive parents insane. Mostly there's nothing in arm's reach to swallow, except mom's hair, which has been falling out in droves (another neat pregnancy trick). Do babies get hairballs?
Possibly the most dangerous trait she has learned is her fascination with sparkly, twirly things. We recently went to a craftsman's fair, and besides our discovery that fairs are Baby Central (more babies than adults, I swear) we noticed that Sydney was absolutely riveted on certain items that we passed. Naturally it followed that she had to have the item. Pretty soon we were lugging around shiny, sparkly, twirly things that we never would have picked up on our own. They say children are expensive. Now I know why.
Recently she has learned to roll over onto her belly, which causes all sorts of problems. For one thing she hasn't figured out how to roll back over onto her back, so when she's done with being on her belly (usually about five seconds after getting there) she lets us know about it loudly. Immediately upon being rolled over she will try her new trick again. For another, all the new and improved parenting books tell you to put your baby to sleep on her back. Which we do. But apparently she likes sleeping on her belly and will roll over to a more comfortable position as soon as we're out of sight. The parenting books don't say anything about this. Do we roll her over? Or do we decide since she put herself that way it's okay?
We've also discovered that she will bring whatever is in her hands to her mouth. This evolutionary trait must be needed in order to learn what is good to eat and what is not, or possibly just to drive parents insane. Mostly there's nothing in arm's reach to swallow, except mom's hair, which has been falling out in droves (another neat pregnancy trick). Do babies get hairballs?
Possibly the most dangerous trait she has learned is her fascination with sparkly, twirly things. We recently went to a craftsman's fair, and besides our discovery that fairs are Baby Central (more babies than adults, I swear) we noticed that Sydney was absolutely riveted on certain items that we passed. Naturally it followed that she had to have the item. Pretty soon we were lugging around shiny, sparkly, twirly things that we never would have picked up on our own. They say children are expensive. Now I know why.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Inconvenience of Breastfeeding Part II: Milking the Salmon
Dr. Sears frequently makes it clear that he thinks leaving your child for any length of time to go on a much needed vacation is akin to child abuse, or at the very least demonstrates a lack of good judgment. Dr. Sears may have something there, but he obviously does not understand the insidious addiction one might have to Salmo salar.
So I packed up my fly fishing gear and some clothes and some sunscreen. I packed up my clothes and a few odd books, and then with a resigned shrug of my shoulders, I packed the breast pump.
Then I left Sydney and her father and headed out to Newfoundland with five other men. And that was the problem, really. Though I warned the trip leader that I was going to have to pump every three to four hours and he nodded sagely, none of my compatriots really knew what that meant, or for that matter, what the big bag was for.
It takes about 18 hours to get to North Sydney, Nova Scotia by car from my house. Then it takes another 6 hours by boat to get to Port aux Basque, Newfoundland, then 45 minutes to get to Rose Blanche, where the road ends and you have to take a smaller boat for three hours to get to the mouth of the river, where you finally disembark and start walking up river until you get to the fishing camp, three miles inland. Somewhere in between all these hours of traveling I had to find a deserted corner and twenty minutes in which to empty myself out and then dump the resulting product.
You may be able to breastfeed your child discreetly while in public, but milking yourself is not a discreet activity. Even the bathroom of the highway rest stop is not a good place to set up your breast pump. For one thing the thing is so loud it penetrates out into the hallway. For another, women are not as polite as they might seem when faced with a closed bathroom stall which has been occupied for more than five minutes. One woman actually began climbing under the bathroom stall, presumably to join me or possibly berate me for spending too much time in the bathroom when the line snaked out into eternity.
After enduring endless hours of being entirely too full and endless commentary from my male companions when I finally emerged from my hiding spots, we finally did reach the camp, where recent renovations had provided a private sleeping area for me in a small outbuilding a few feet from the main camp. Normally I would have protested this special treatment, but the trip up convinced me that a little feminine privacy might be a good thing. And it was-- except for the fact that control over the generator which powers all the buildings rested in the hands of the my friends, with the result that I would be in the middle of a pumping session and be the victim of a sudden loss of power. Good thing the pump also runs on batteries.
To solve the issue of being way down the river into some good fishing when the time came to pump, I stuffed the hand pump into the back of my fishing vest. In between runs, while resting a pool, I disappeared into the bushes, removed my shirt, and, while being attacked by hoardes of black flies, proceeded to pump a few ounces from each side, just enough to tide me over until I could get back to camp.
Despite this extra challenge imposed on me by nature, I had a good time and landed quite a few fish and lost a bunch more and generally enjoyed myself thoroughly, away from house, home, and baby. When I came back, late on a Sunday night, I put the child to my breast as an experiment, and she latched on immediately, seemingly unaware that I had been missing for more than a week. Feeling good that I had survived the week, caught fish, and not lost my milk supply in the process, I asked my husband how the feeding went. I had left him almost five days worth of breast milk and then bought powdered formula to supplement. He managed to stretch the breast milk until I got back but he went on and on about the powdered formula.
"This stuff is so easy," he said. "You just put it in the bottle, add water, shake it and you're good to go. It's totally convenient!"
Convenient, shmenient.
So I packed up my fly fishing gear and some clothes and some sunscreen. I packed up my clothes and a few odd books, and then with a resigned shrug of my shoulders, I packed the breast pump.
Then I left Sydney and her father and headed out to Newfoundland with five other men. And that was the problem, really. Though I warned the trip leader that I was going to have to pump every three to four hours and he nodded sagely, none of my compatriots really knew what that meant, or for that matter, what the big bag was for.
It takes about 18 hours to get to North Sydney, Nova Scotia by car from my house. Then it takes another 6 hours by boat to get to Port aux Basque, Newfoundland, then 45 minutes to get to Rose Blanche, where the road ends and you have to take a smaller boat for three hours to get to the mouth of the river, where you finally disembark and start walking up river until you get to the fishing camp, three miles inland. Somewhere in between all these hours of traveling I had to find a deserted corner and twenty minutes in which to empty myself out and then dump the resulting product.
You may be able to breastfeed your child discreetly while in public, but milking yourself is not a discreet activity. Even the bathroom of the highway rest stop is not a good place to set up your breast pump. For one thing the thing is so loud it penetrates out into the hallway. For another, women are not as polite as they might seem when faced with a closed bathroom stall which has been occupied for more than five minutes. One woman actually began climbing under the bathroom stall, presumably to join me or possibly berate me for spending too much time in the bathroom when the line snaked out into eternity.
After enduring endless hours of being entirely too full and endless commentary from my male companions when I finally emerged from my hiding spots, we finally did reach the camp, where recent renovations had provided a private sleeping area for me in a small outbuilding a few feet from the main camp. Normally I would have protested this special treatment, but the trip up convinced me that a little feminine privacy might be a good thing. And it was-- except for the fact that control over the generator which powers all the buildings rested in the hands of the my friends, with the result that I would be in the middle of a pumping session and be the victim of a sudden loss of power. Good thing the pump also runs on batteries.
To solve the issue of being way down the river into some good fishing when the time came to pump, I stuffed the hand pump into the back of my fishing vest. In between runs, while resting a pool, I disappeared into the bushes, removed my shirt, and, while being attacked by hoardes of black flies, proceeded to pump a few ounces from each side, just enough to tide me over until I could get back to camp.
Despite this extra challenge imposed on me by nature, I had a good time and landed quite a few fish and lost a bunch more and generally enjoyed myself thoroughly, away from house, home, and baby. When I came back, late on a Sunday night, I put the child to my breast as an experiment, and she latched on immediately, seemingly unaware that I had been missing for more than a week. Feeling good that I had survived the week, caught fish, and not lost my milk supply in the process, I asked my husband how the feeding went. I had left him almost five days worth of breast milk and then bought powdered formula to supplement. He managed to stretch the breast milk until I got back but he went on and on about the powdered formula.
"This stuff is so easy," he said. "You just put it in the bottle, add water, shake it and you're good to go. It's totally convenient!"
Convenient, shmenient.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
HeSheIt
"What a cute baby!" We're all in the bookstore, Dad, Mom, and Sydney, where we stopped after Mom's softball game."He's so cute!" the store clerk continues, smiling giddily at our child.
"She is cute," I say, which of course I'll say since she's my baby. She has on her little baseball uniform complete with hat. There's pants with the outfit too but they're too big.
"Oh! It's a girl? She's wearing a boy's outfit."
"It's not a boy's outfit. It's a softball uniform. We were at a softball game." Also, I am wearing the same attire, only larger, and no one has ever yet called me sir when I wear it.
"Gender," my husband added, "is irrelevant."
"I'm so sorry!" the clerk said, flustered, and then, trying to recover, added, "It's still a cute baby."
"Yes, she is," my husband said, and then we booked it out of the store before we burst out laughing.
I can't wait until she's big enough to fit into her little Carhartt overalls.
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