“We never learn” should be our family motto

Since our last trip was such a stunning success, we’re going to do it again!

That’s right, folks.  We are going on a three-hour drive one-way, overnight trip this weekend!  The day after the Buddha gets her vaccinations and will probably be feverish and cranky!  For an occasion so fraught with stress that we have already fought about it TWICE! 

Who wants to come along?

In all seriousness, we did learn one thing.  Instead of a nice B & B, this trip we are staying in a crappy but anonymous hotel.  This way we won’t have to face other guests at breakfast, but can instead sneak away in the morning with the Buddha stuffed in our duffle bag while loudly exclaiming in our grumpy voices, “Man!  Whose kid wouldn’t stop crying last night?  If you can’t keep the kid quiet, you should keep it home, that’s what I always say!”

The family that snots together, stays together

The Buddha caught a cold at day care last week. (Probably because of her weakened and deteriorating condition.)(That was a joke.)

I woke up on Sunday and realized I had caught it.

Then the Alias Father woke up and realized he had caught it.

Then I called my mother and learned that she had caught it.

Then my sister (who was visiting last week) called and told me she had caught it.

Then she informed me that her fiancee had also caught it.

Let’s take a look at that, shall we?

The germs from one little twenty pound baby has managed to take down one, two, three, four, FIVE otherwise healthy, full-grown adults.

All because we cannot resist smooching that ridiculously cute face.

Amazing.

(PS- Thanks for all the rockstar comments on the last two posts, kids.  It was like a never-ending stream of pats on the head.  I think I’m getting my attitude adjusted on both fronts.  Sometimes a woman just needs to vent, ya know?  Especially when she’s got mucus issues.)

We interrupt this bout of handwringing for even more handwringing

The Alias Father took the Buddha to her nine month check-up yesterday.  At 29 1/2 inches, she’s somewhere around 99th percentile for height and because we are total height snobs this makes us feel like champions.  (We’ve got the tallest baby in the world!!!  We win!!!  Take that you short people with sleeves that are long enough!)  Unfortunately, there is a leeeeetle problem with her weight.

I’ve been noticing that the Buddha is slimming down from her prior chunk-a-lunk stage.  She’s been totally anti-bottle lately, meaning that I leave her with around 6 ounces to eat while I’m gone and she’ll maybe choke down 2.  Maaayybbeee.  If the stars align and it’s Wednesday after 1:23 PM.  Otherwise, yeah, no.  Not interested.

Same thing with solids.  Some days she eats bananas and cereal and sweet potato and cottage cheese and tofu and toast and blueberries and more please! YUM!  But most days we try to feed her anchovies mixed with overcooked brussel sprouts drizzled with turpentine *gag*cough*die* and it doesn’t go so well.

She’s still nursing well but they frown on the whole baby-in-the-office-thing so there ain’t much I can do besides nurse her as much as I can when I’m with her.

Anyway, the long and short (too late!) of it is that she’s grown 1 1/4 inches in three months, but gained less than a pound.

*sigh*

It’s not five-alarm territory yet, but it’s not great either.  We have to bring her back in a month for a weight check.  Which of course has sent me flashing back to the weight checks we had to do after she was born and refused to nurse and how I always thought the nurses were judging me (because they, um, were) and how I always cried afterwards because I felt like a loser that couldn’t even feed her baby.

And here I am, nine months later, still feeling like that same loser.  But now instead of crying I kind of want to march into the doctor’s office and hold her up and say, “But look!  She’s still alive!  After nine months in my care!  DOES THAT COUNT FOR NOTHING?”

Stay at home moms, feel free to completely disabuse me of this notion

Another Monday.  Another git yer butt up, feed the kid, feed myself, feed the cat, dress the kid, dress myself, make the bed, pay some bills, go over the week’s schedule, write a menu, write a grocery list, pack a lunch, pack the pump bag, get in the car, buy some gas, drive to work, drink some coffee, check the e-mail, call some people, write some reports, settle a dispute, schedule appointments, eat some lunch, run to the bank, run to a meeting, pump in the bathroom, call to check in, fix a spreadsheet, arrange an event, write a new to-do list, clean off the desk, call to check-in, stop at the grocery store, stop at the oil change place, drive home, unpack the pump bag, feed the baby, feed the dogs, feed the self, play with the baby, give a bath, read a book, rock to sleep, clean the kitchen, prep the bottles, sterilize the pump parts, sweep the floor, fold the laundry, iron the clothes, talk to the husband, write two words, take the shower, read the book, go to bed, panic about what didn’t get done Monday.

And just for the record, Mondays are the day that the Alias Father stays home, thus reducing the work involved for all (note the lack of “pack day care bag,” “fend off overly chatty day care worker,” “cook dinner” etc).  In other words: this is one of the easiest days of the week.

Now.  Let me be clear: I do not think it is EASIER to stay home with children all day.  Can I say that one more time?  It is NOT EASIER to stay home.  But it seems to me that it might be less…hectic?  Just a smidge?

Sometimes it feels like the workweek is an exercise in survival.  Like my little family is hanging on by our fingernails, fighting to keep ourselves in the middle of the centrifuge instead of getting flung off the edge.  Every weekday is choreographed to the point of pain, every minute has a purpose and should that purpose be ignored the wrath of hell and all its demons shall descend.  Or at least the pump parts won’t get sterilized and then I won’t be able to pump the next day and then the Buddha won’t be able to eat the day after and…yeah.  Wrath.  Demons.  Hell.

When I first started back at work, people would ask me how I was holding up.  “Okay, I’m okay,” I’d say brightly, “It’s a little hectic but we’re managing.”  And it was totally true.  I forgot then, as I often do, that there are two kinds of tiredness in my world.  There’s the one-time tiredness, which is when I have to work long hours on a project or stay up all night with a sick baby or, I dunno, give birth.  That kind of tiredness hits like a big ol’ truck but I just power through and then I recover and everything is fine.

Then there’s the other kind of tiredness, which is when I get worn down just a little bit every day.  The bits are so little that I don’t even notice; it’s just a gentle grinding down of my resources until suddenly I realize that I am resourced out.  But it doesn’t matter, because I still need to get up and walk into the grindstone again.  And again.  And again.  And again.

There are many, many good reasons why both of us work, including the cold, hard fact that having one of us stay home was simply not a financial option.  And generally I don’t mind.  But some days I see mothers or fathers running around the park with their kids, or taking them out to lunch, or just swinging them around in the front yard, and I am just overwhelmed with jealousy that they have the time to do that.  And that they have the energy.

Because I am just so very, very tired down to the marrow of every bone in my body.

And so it’s not that I think it’s easier to stay home.  It’s just that sometimes it seems like a better way of working.

Because apparently my chronic procrastination does not discriminate

Waltz in Exile, whose daughter is quite possibly the best redhead in the history of redheads and oh yeah, her blog is good too, has tagged me for a meme. Actually, she tagged me a few days ago. Which is super-duper, because I already am WAAAAY behind on putting up Auds’ dinner party post so why not add one more thing to my overloaded guilt wagon, eh?

Seriously, I can’t believe I’m even a slacker here. On my blog. My little stress-free hobby. I mean, sure, I’ve got stuff on my work to-do list that has been hanging around for months. And I’ve got half-done home projects that I’ve been working on for years (doesn’t everyone have insulation hanging out of their ceiling?). My knitting UFO pile (that’s UnFinished Objects for you non-knitters)(*cough*losers*cough*) is so large that I couldn’t start anything new if I wanted to because all my needles are in use. But HERE? How did I fall behind HERE?

Oh who knows. Auds, you are still going to have to wait because this is easier.

Okay, this originally came from from Steph or so the cool kids say. The rules (why are there always rules? Your rules are holding me down, man! Just once, why can’t someone say, “Here’s a meme. Do something”? Of course then “Do Something” would be come the rule. Drat! Foiled again!):

“Tell us/me/the world 10 interesting/random/quirky/normal/silly things about yourself … things you’re looking forward to, things about you personally, whatever you want.”

This is the part where you find out I’m really boring. Which is why I tend to steer clear from these “about me” kind of posts but whatever.

1) My father came from a huge family. I’ve got 40 first cousins. Unfortunately (or fortunately, if I consider some of these people), we’re not a close family, so of these 40 cousins I might know 12 of them if I ran them over. (Again, considering some of these people that might not be a bad idea.)

2) I am completely addicted to salt. I put way too much salt on everything. I get this from my grandfather, who used to keep rock salt on the table because regular ol’ table salt wasn’t nearly salty enough. I myself just use kosher salt. A lot of it.

3) My blood pressure is very low, so don’t worry about the salt thing. In fact, I am prone to occasional dizzy spells when it suddenly bottoms out of me. Yes, I am delicate flower. *swoon*

4) I own three pairs of red shoes, but only one pair of brown shoes. I have a total thing for red shoes, and if I had the money I’d probably own a closetful. They go with more outfits than you’d think. Occasionally someone will mention that they thought about buying red shoes but didn’t because they were “too daring” and I’m all “Whaaaa?”

5) Of course, I also own a pair of lavender shoes. So clearly I am not worried about what others think of my footwear.

6) While I was in college I dated a man who was an inch shorter than me. I swore I didn’t care, but secretly it drove me insane the whole time. I married a guy who is almost a foot taller than me AND I LOVE IT.

7) I kill plants. I’ve killed every kind of plant out there, including a cactus that someone gave me while saying, “There’s no way you can kill a cactus.” Yes, I killed the cactus.

8) I am completely incapable of keeping my bedroom clean. The rest of my house is usually okay, but my bedroom looks like it belongs to a 14-year-old boy. Recently I’ve been on a kick to make the bed every day and I’ve managed it for about a month straight. I assure you that this is a record.

9) I always root for the underdog. Always. Except for in the last Super Bowl when I really wanted New England to win because I hate the Manning brothers and also the Miami Dolphins and I wanted to see both cry like little babies. And if you got lost somewhere in that last sentence, I’m sorry, we can’t be friends. Go watch some football and then come back.

10) Despite occasionally making fun of the South, I really kind of wish I were Southern. Southern women are so ridiculously lovely and odd. Basically, I want to be adopted by Paula Dean, okay? Is that so wrong?

And that’s that. I’m not tagging anyone, because if I were going to go to that effort I could just do Auds dinner party and what on earth would I panic about if I were all caught up?

The kind of mind-blowing, thought -provoking, soul-searching questioning you’ve come to expect here

At one of my baby showers, someone gave me one of these Comfort Silkie things and I know, right?  Couldn’t they have worked on that name a little longer?  And I was all, yeah, whatever, that’s nice.  Next!  (I kid!  I was properly grateful.  On the surface.)

We didn’t use it for the first few months because the Buddha just wasn’t interested.  Somewhere around month five, though, we noticed that whenever she was put down for a nap with a blanket, she cuddled it like crazy and usually ended up with it covering her face, because a corpse-like infant is just what you want to see when you pop in to check on your precious, precious baby.  We figured that this little doohickey was at least lightweight and small and therefore unlikely to result in smothering and strangulation.  Into the crib it went.

Fast forward: she now loves this thing.  It clearly is on its way to being her security blanket.  Which is totally cool with me, yo.  It’s cuddly, it’s washable, it’s far more portable than a giant comforter with Elmo or Dora on it.  All’s well.  But, but, but…what do we CALL this thing?

I’m not one to use diminutives.  I don’t call a cat a “kitty.”  I don’t call…um…

Huh.

*scritches head*

I don’t…uuuhhhh…

*taps keyboard*

Hmmmmm…

People!  I can’t even think of another example of a diminutive because I use them so rarely.  Clearly, I cannot see myself referring to this as her “blankie.”  Or even “lovey,” which I hear some people use.  I mean, it’s cute and all but…just not me.  I never had a security blanket (that sound you hear is the arm-chair psychologists scribbling away like mad), so it’s not like I can pass down my preference.  Currently we refer to it as “that little blanket thingy-ma-bobber” but that, while accurate, is neither catchy nor nickname-y.

This is becoming a bit of a household crisis.  I need to know.  What should we call this thing?

Seriously.  Name the blankie.

Aaaannndddd…go!

Olympics-watching, Alias Family style

Him: Look at all the tall women playing basketball, baby.  You could do that, too.  You’ll be tall.
Me: But basketball is so hard on the body.  Look what it did to your ankle.
Him: It’s true.  And the competition is really fierce.
Me: Let’s find something else for her.

******************************

Me: Here we go!  Swimming!  Swimming is also very good for tall people.
Him: Oh, yeah.  Swimming.  That’s much easier on the joints.
Me: Of course, I remember talking to a woman on the swimming team at college, and she said there were a lot of eating disorders in swimming.
Him: Really? 
Me: I dunno.  It’s just what she said.  Because of the need to stay as streamlined as possible.
Him: Huh.  Well, we don’t want that.
Me: Plus we’d have to smell chlorine for the rest of our lives.
Him:  Right.  No swimming.

******************************

Me and Him: GYMNASTICS!
*we look over at our 95th percentile in height daughter*
Him: Moving on….

******************************

Him: Hey…volleyball.  Much easier on the body than basketball but still good for tall people.
Me: I like it.  And look at those tough women.  They look strong.
Him: Totally.
Me: How much money is in volleyball?
Him: Not much once you get past the college scholarship.
Me: I mean, there’s no professional volleyball league or anything.  After the Olympics, she’d sort of be done, right?
Him: Yeah, I think so.
Me: Huh.  There must be something better.

******************************

Me: Ooooh, wait.  I’ve got it.  Beach volleyball.
Him: I like it!  All the benefits of regular volleyball, plus the possibility of actually making some money on the tour circuit.
Me: I mean, sure, she’d have to wear a pretty revealing bikini and put fake tattoos of sponsorship logos on herself, but that could be our retirement right there.
Him: And we’d get to go to the beach a lot.
Me: Ding, ding, ding!  I think we’ve found our winner!
Him: We’re rich!

******************************

Me: Hey, baby, when are you going to start crawling anyway?
Him: Yeah.  Seriously.

Currently I’m handcuffed to my couch SO I NEVER HAVE TO LEAVE MY HOUSE AGAIN

The Set-up:

Me: I have to go to Town X overnight for work.
Him: It’s supposed to be pretty there.
Me: Oh, yeah.  It’s beautiful.
Him: I have a few days with no work.  Maybe the baby and I should go with you.
Me: You think?
Him: Yeah!  It will be fun.
Me: You’re right.  What could go wrong?

The Punchlines:

1) The torrential rain that slowed down our drive and caused us to arrive at the B & B well past the Buddha’s bedtime.

2) The refusal of the Buddha to fall asleep or do anything but scream, really, for over two hours after arriving at the B & B.

3) The Buddha’s finally falling asleep, getting successfully transferred to the portacrib, and lulling us into a sense of relaxation, only to burst out into another screamfest the second we turned out the light.

4) The ongoing screaming awakening that occurred approximately every 45 minutes all night long.

5) Me giving up on the portacrib and bringing the Buddha to bed.

6) Me remembering that one of the reasons why we don’t do the whole family bed thing is my inability to sleep when wedged between two people who won’t stop touching me oh my god STOP TOUCHING ME.

7) Scream.  Scream.  SCREEEEAAAAAAM.

8) Good morning, Momma!  It’s 6 AM!  Let me claw your face!

9) The Alias Father getting up and taking her to the other side of the room to play so I could try to get another smidge of sleep, given that I’m the one who has to be working in two hours.

10) The unbelievably loud THUNK of her head hitting the wood floor of a two hundred-year-old house as she tips over.  Oh, and yes, the screaming.

11) The baleful glares of every other guest in the B & B as we enter the dining room.

12) A day spent trying to be friendly and outgoing when all I want to do is climb under the table and die.

13) The two-and-a-half hour drive home with a baby that is still, somehow, against all logic, screaming.

14) Walking in the door to find a kitchen full of dog puke.

15) Oh, yes!  I had a head cold!

The Ironic Conclusion:

She’s happy now!

Notes on the Buddha: The Sea Change Edition

I’ve been working on this piece for almost three weeks now.  I started it the weekend the Buddha turned eight months old, and by now she’s staring down the barrel of nine months.  But I kept plugging away at it because I know that I need to mark this moment in her life.  Ten years from now, I need to be able to put my finger down, to point at this time in her life and say, “This.  This was when I got my first real look at this kid.”  Because I feel like I am witnessing a, as the mariners say, sea change in the life of the little Buddha darlin’.  She’s losing that vague, universal babyness that she’s had and is taking on distinct personality.  She’s developing preferences, quirks, strong opinions, and a sense of humor.  She’s becoming, for lack of a better descriptor, more like herself.

The Buddha was mostly named the Buddha for her cheeks, but also partly because of her personality.  She’s always been an easy baby.  Easy.  As in, she sleeps, she eats, she only screams when provoked.  When we have her around other babies, it becomes clear just how easy she is.  She doesn’t bounce endlessly up and down in our laps until our arms want to fall off.  She doesn’t roll around on the floor until she gets stuck under a couch.  She doesn’t lunge forward for a toy and end up on her head.  But these are all negative descriptors.  They don’t tell us anything about what the Buddha is, only what she is not.  Such is the problem with these easy babies.  What they aren’t (difficult) is easier to define than what they are (easy).  And it isn’t until recently that what the Buddha is has begun to rise above what she is not.

So this is who the Buddha is.

She is a baby who cheers.  She claps, for herself, for us, for the dogs, and for no one at all.  She’s does this hysterical thing where she let outs a big, gutteral “Huuuuh!” like a weightlifter while thrusting both arms straight in the air, fists clenched, big grin.  She’s Rocky Balboa in a onesie.  The Alias Father took her along to a volleyball game a while ago and she sat happily on a blanket, Rocky-ing everytime something exciting happened.  It’s a good thing to have around the house, this cheerleader.  I never knew I was missing my own personal cheering section until I had one.

She is a baby who loves balls.  Balls are her life.  Her LIFE.  Little plastic balls, big rubber balls, soft fabric balls… If it can be rolled, or thrown, or bounced, she’s all over it.  Nothing else will make her as happy.

She is a baby who is cautious.  She hasn’t shown much interest in moving, and the occasional backward crawl is purely accidental.  She will only lean as far forward as she can get while bracing one hand against the floor.  If that isn’t far enough, she decides she doesn’t need the toy that badly.    The other day she was sitting on my lap on the floor and leaned over to put her hands on the ground.  As she did, she slipped off my legs and onto her knees.  She instantly froze in crawling position, balanced perfectly, not daring to move a muscle.  I leaned down to see her face and she had a frozen smile with both eyes darting back and forth.  She moved her eyes to my face without turning her head an inch and gave a nervous, “Heh heh.  Heh.”  When she fell on her face, she seemed almost relieved to be back in a familiar position.  And she refuses to try the whole thing again.

She is a baby who does things at her own pace.  She will not be rushed to crawling, or playing, or eating.  If she’s not ready, she’s not ready.  Period.  End of story.  She’ll get there when her comfort level gets there.

She is a baby who loves affection, and most especially to kiss.  She’ll wave her face back and forth in front of mine and then suddenly headbutt forward for a big, sloppy kiss.  We’re likely to end up with a bloody nose or missing teeth one of these days, but until then it’s pretty funny.

She is a baby of subtle manipulation and easily hurt feelings.  If she’s nursing, she’ll wait until the moment that I am distracted before chomping down, all the while watching me from the corner of her eye.  When I reprimand her and take her off, she weeps like she just lost her pony.  Ditto for pulling the dog’s ear.  Ditto for touching forbidden objects.

She is a baby who figures things out.  She’ll work on a problem until she finds an answer.  She watches other babies move around, taking mental notes.  She tunes in to every conversation, every interaction, every environment.  She’ll get it all figured out sooner or later.  You just wait.

She is a baby who wrinkles her nose when she laughs, which is so cute it practically makes my heart stop.  It’s the kind of wrinkled-nose laugh that says, “This world is pretty funny, isn’t it?  Here, want to share my juice?”  If she were big enough and knew that women do this sort of thing, she’d lean forward and put her hand on my arm while she laughed.  And, frankly, I look for that in a friend.  So finding it in my daughter is pretty awesome.

My middle name really should be “fickle”

Him: So, we’ve decided then.  She’ll go to day care full-time.
Me: I guess…
Him: This doesn’t mean she has to go every day.  But I think this will really work out the best.
Me: I suppose…
Him: You don’t sound convinced.
Me: I can’t help but wish the situation were different so that I could just stay home with her.
Him: I know.

*moment of silence*

Me: But you know what?
Him: What?
Me: If I did stay home with her, I probably would be worried that was messing her up, too.
Him: Well, at least you’re honest.