No, I'm NOT talking to myself, thank you....

One of the perks of having a baby (besides the baby smell and the unconditional love stuff) is that when I am out in public, I can talk to myself ALL. DAY. LONG. and no one looks at me like I'm a crazy homeless person.

I'm an only child. One of the fabulous quirks of being an only child is that I have, from an early age, talked to myself. Muttering, cracking myself up, full-on conversations. SOLO. If I forget where I am and start doing this in public, I can definitely make people avert their eyes like, "Don't look at the crazy person. Don't look at the crazy person. Don't look at the crazy person."
So I have learned that perhaps I will spend less time in psych ward if I learn NOT to talk to myself when I am anywhere others might witness it. My car. Fair game. The shower. Fair game. But Starbucks, the grocery store, the mall---all off-limits.

Until I had Ethan. Carting Ethan around, in the bjorn or the stroller gives me an open invitation to prattle away, all under the guise that I am in fact, chattering lovingly to my son. And, don't get me wrong, often I am. I shower him with baby talk and air kisses plenty. But I also ramble on about what type of apple I should buy to make the sausage and apple stuffing for Thanksgiving. At great length. In front of people. It's so liberating.

Of course, my fear is that I will become so accustomed to this license to be a crazy person in public that a.) one day Ethan's going to be old enough to talk back and he's going to be like, "Ma, you're a loon." and b.) one day he's not going to be out in public with me every single time I'm out and what if I start talking to myself then??? I'll be the crazy lady who roams the aisles of Target chattering to herself about cat litter. God. Help. Me.

And, yes, I know I took the weekend off from the whole blogging thing. I have failed at the whole 30 entries in 30 days. I won't beat myself up, though. This month has definitely jumpstarted my blogging and that's good enough for me. A girl's gotta rest sometime, you know.

Tis the Season....

So, being Jewish (or as we joke considering how lax we are at this point in our lives, "Jew-ish"), and the parents of an infant, we are faced with the dilemma of how to integrate the secular components of Xmas (that how the non-Christians write it, right?) into a celebration of Hannukah.

As a child, a Hannukah bush decorated in bright primary colors adorned the top of our TV (one of those big 1970's television consoles). Lights & tinsel in non-Xmas colors pop into my memory and can be found in the pages of my childhood photo albums. My mom's side of the family celebrated Xmas and my Dad's celebrated Hannukah. It never confused me as a child; I knew which one went with my religion and which one was just for fun. Even still, I loved Xmas carols and everything about the Xmas season. I wonder now if my parents ever feared I was going to come home from school one day (oh yeah, I went to Catholic schools--that's a whole other post) and declare that I loved Jesus.

As an aside, I did for a very brief time in the third or fourth grade consider becoming a nun. Something about it appealed to me (I'll wait for you to stop laughing before I go on). But then Laurel told me I had to be Christian to be a nun. Well, that put an end to that career path. Because, again, I was never confused as to what my religion was.

But for some reason, as a parent, I don't know where/how to draw the line. Is Ethan going to want to believe in Santa? Should we get a Xmas tree and just decorate it with blue and silver? In this day and age, these decisions shouldn't be brain surgery, but to new parents trying to make the right choices for their child (good lord people, one wrong move and he's scarred for life, don't you know that??!!! yikes!!!) , it feels huge. It feels MASSIVE. It feels like Mama needs a glass of wine. Or two.

We did decide that we were going to send holiday cards. With a picture of Ethan on it. Husband & I both agreed that this year, neither of us are "family portrait quality". Our goal is to be freaking hotties for next year's family holiday card. We will light up the mailboxes and mantlepieces of friends and family with our thin, perfectly in shape gorgeousness

So today I took pictures to use for the card. Please enjoy, Internet. And happy whatever holiday you celebrate.

Fuggetaboudit....

My son. He is a good fella.

At least, that is the consensus of my new group of mom friends. We were sitting around Starbucks this afternoon and it must have been the velour track suit he was sporting (zipper down a bit because it was freaking hot! People, it is November--it's supposed to be cold!) and the curly-q magic of his hair. He flashed a smirk at one of the girls and as if it was a revelation from above she said, "He could be a Soprano!"

And she was right. He just needed a cigar.

How you doin'?

In the blink of an eye...

So tonight I gave a pregnant friend of mine Ethan's 0-3 month clothes. Sigh. Pieces of fabric that are too tiny for him to wear now. It's wonderful, really. I love helping my friend out; she was so sweet and thoughtful when I was pregnant, on bedrest, in the hospital last March and after I delivered Ethan. She and her husband brought us food and were the first to babysit Ethan when Husband and I were finally willing to be apart from him for more than ten minutes at a time (it is, however, still on record as the most speedily consumed meal EVER). So it's a great thing, and I feel good to have helped out in some way, since I'm usually so busy with Ethan and spinning in circles, I don't really feel like I'm doing a lot for other people these days.

At the same time, as Husband helped her carry the three bags of clothes out to her car and I went upstairs to nurse Ethan to sleep, I had a moment of such intense sadness. Like I was losing a tiny little piece of my baby. While my sweet little man, who is growing so much every day, drowsed while he nursed, I wanted nothing more than to freeze time and just keep him where he is now. It was all-consuming and I had to talk myself out of crying.

One of my favorite books ever is The Catcher in the Rye. In one of the final scenes Holden Caufield watches his little sister Phoebe on the merry-go-round and wishes he could put her in a glass case in the museum because nothing in those glass cases ever changes, even though the world around them changes all the time. My teacher's mind always thought that was such a poignant way to look at youth and innocence and the desire to protect someone you love from the changes that growing up forces one to go through. My mother's mind is just a puddle on the floor thinking of that passage and how quickly my little baby is growing.

He was fussing earlier today and I heard myself say, "I swear, I can't wait until you can just TELL me what is wrong." But I can; I can wait, little man. Take your time. Please don't go too fast.

Not so lovey....

Yeah. About two posts back I was all bragging and shit about that stupid lovey. Lovey, my ass.

It would seem as though Mr. E has become immune to the lovey. I'm sure over the past week or so he's been building up sleep antibodies to use as a defense against the power of the lovey. And thus, today the lovey had zero impact on my little napper. Irony of all ironies, this immunity seems to have coincided nicely with the day that I rushed out to Target to buy two more identical lovies in case this one should become worn beyond all recognition or god forbid, lost somewhere.

Today--no naps. Well, none to speak of. There was a 20 minute stretch in the car between Target and Babies R Us and another 20 minute teaser which followed an hour of "pleeeeeeeeeeease sleep" from mommy. That was it. Then there hours of crying and blowing raspberries and crying and giggling and crying and...well, you get the general idea.

This nap strike comes on the same day that we are transitioning Little E to his crib. Yeah, delightful. In his exhausted state, the first attempt was super easy. Two hours later, however, he's been up twice, each time increasingly pissed off that he is not in our bed.

Good times...

Life's a beach

It may be the middle of November, but it was sunny and warm in South Carolina this weekend, so we took the opportunity to introduce Mr. E to the surf and sand. He seems to have taken to it like a natural. There was even a face-plant into the sand that illicited no tears or fretting of any kind. It got more of a "hmmmm...sand is tasty" reaction than anything else. Sure kid, spit out the fancy organic cereal mommy buys for you, but savor that mouthful of dirt. Ah well, I guess that sort of counts towards his introduction to solids.

So the sand in the toes, in the fingers, in the hair, in the diapers, in the carseat, in the butt...that was all fun stuff! There's nothing quite like watching him discover something for the first time, especially when it is something like the beach, a place I grew up loving and have such warm and fuzzy memories about.

It's all about the lovey...

I haven't spent a lot of time kvetching about it because usually I have a hard time finding the humor in it, but little E is not the greatest sleeper in the world. Perhaps it was the seven nights he spent in an isolette in the NICU, perhaps it's just the way he's wired, but this kid NEEDS to be on people. Not near, not next to....on.

And so for the past six months, in addition to being "Mommy, the food", two or three or four times a day, I become "Mommy, the bed". You can watch a lot of TV being "Mommy, the bed", but you can't really accomplish a lot. Thus, "Mommy, the keeper of the house" is in dire need of the ability to physically telaport herself through time and space to get the laundry done and cook a meal. I will just say that Martha Stewart would consider my house uninhabitable (and that woman has done time in prison!)

Don't get me wrong, there's almost nothing sweeter in this world than a sleeping Ethan. And being "Mommy, the bed" gives me a front row seat to all his almost irresistibly edible cuteness. Many times I have found myself staring adoringly at his little snoozing face wanting to reach down and swallow him up in one bite. But cute only goes so far when you realize that your arm is falling asleep AGAIN, you really have to pee and you're dying of thirst. I still believe that the joy that was my July kidney infection/hospital stay was a result of not having enough water to drink while Ethan was a newborn because I was stuck on the couch for literally hours and hours at a stretch without a drop of water to drink as my poor kidneys tried to make do with the drops they could squeeze from whatever food I happened to be able to eat in between naps and the incessant scream-fests that were the early days.

"Well, Sarah, put him down, go pee, get a drink and come back, silly!" Ha Ha Ha, I say. Even in the deepest of sleeps, this little stinker would know when his head met with anything other than the crook of mom's arm and the wailing would begin. I tried this over and over again until I realized it was simply not worth the trouble it took to soothe him back down. And so I sat with him. For hours. For months.

Until last week. I decided that the "on mommy" naps had to end.

Now before you "tsk tsk" me and throw the "bad mommy" award my way, I made this decision not for my own sake, but because I was noticing that Ethan was no longer the deep, peaceful sleeper he used to be when he was on me. The slightest movement from me would stir him and his naps, well, they sucked. (But while I am so busy explaining myself to the internet about why I won't let my son nap on me anymore, I'll throw this out there---why shouldn't I be allowed to take my own feelings into account when I decide what parenting choices to make? I am bombarded with so much stuff about how I have to do everything just perfectly and selflessly for his benefit or I will be messing him up for life and only have myself to blame when he starts beating kids up on the playground and smoking in the boy's room. I happen to think there's got to be a balance of what works for baby and what works for mom, or mom's going to end up being the one beating kids up in the playground and smoking...anywhere).

Anyway, I digress. Ethan was not napping well on me and we needed to make a switch. If that means that I get some time during the day to wash a dish or make a shopping list, more power to me.

And so the quest to find the perfect nap setting began. Husband has been putting Ethan to sleep at night in our bed. Thus, the bed seemed logical. But the end goal is the crib. The thing cost a small fortune and so far has only served as a place to pile laundry, to dry the little man after a bath and the occassional session of tummy time. So I tried the crib. And I tried letting him "cry it out".

Um, no. That lasted about 45 minutes. Yes, I know I did it wrong; I went in to his room every 5 minutes and cuddled and loved him because I just don't have it in me to let him scream. If it were simply a fussing or a little cry, I could cope. No, no, no. All out "I'm on fire"!!!! screaming is more Ethan's cup of tea when he's left alone in his crib. One afternoon was enough for me to realize that that method wasn't going to work for us.

It occurred to me that what was missing in the crib was me. Or something to remind him of me. And so a drive to Target solved that problem. Yes, mommy is best, but a plush little lovey that's half teddy bear, half blanket aint' half bad.

I am telling you, somehow this little piece of fabric and bizarrely disembodied teddy head has revolutionized sleep in our house. I held it three or four times while he nursed and now, all one has to do is give Ethan his paci, his lovey, tap him bum a few times while whispering sweet nothings and the little man is off to dreamland. Okay, sometimes there are some tears, but they are few and far between and they smack of "boo hoo, I don't want to nap", not "someone save me! I'm on fire!!!" And the naps....they are in the bed. Not on mommy. Next week we will attempt to revisit the crib and see how that goes.

And now I can start finding other ways to procrastinate instead of cleaning my house...it's not like Martha Stewart is planning on visiting anytime soon.

Java for Jesus....

Did you know there are actually places in this country where you CAN'T find a Starbucks? I know, it is a sad thought. Coming from a city where on certain street corners you can actually take your choice between the three Starbucks within eye-shot, this dearth of Starbucks is more of a shock to the system than a triple shot espresso.

Here we are in relatively rural South Carolina visiting my parents. We have grown accustomed to the latte withdrawal over the years and we just make sure that we savor that last grande on our way out of town to start the 8 hour drive. I figure, they gave me life, kept a roof over my head and paid for my education; the least I can do is go grande-soy-chai-tea-latte-less for 48 hours or so in order to see them a couple times a year. It's not easy, but hey, I love them, right?

So imagine my glee when my father told me there was "Starbucks-type" coffee place just down the road from their house on the golf course. After Ethan was down for a nap, I grabbed my keys and scooted down the road. I turned right at the Fish House, a restaurant that has a gigantic fiber glass shark busting through the roof of the building. It's quite the landmark.

And so I arrived at the latte place. Thus began my religious experience for the day. I should have been clued in by the shop's logo--a coffee cup with steam in the shape of a halo. I opened the door and immediately saw that they had two cushy couches, a la Central Perk and cute little lamps and coffee tables. The couches were upholstered in denim, but I guess it is rural South Carolina after all, so its' not like they furnished the place at Crate & Barrel or Pottery Barn.

At the counter, I read the menu--the blakcboard with the perfectly penned list of drinks and options. What is it about that perfect hand-writing you always see on coffee shop blackboards? Is penmanship part of the interview process? What happens if the person with the impeccable handwriting is sick on the day that the specials change? Can they even open the shop?? I swear, only first-grade teachers and coffee-shop employees have this ability to write their letters in perfectly straight lines and such impossible neatness. Not to mention the little curlique embellishments on the sides.

After placing my order (I cringed saying, "medium" instead of "grande", but I didn't want to seem like a big city snob, you know?), I looked around waiting for her to see if they still have any soy milk.

This is when I saw it....the stone tablet replica of the Ten Commandments on the wall. I thought "oh, I bet those are cute coffee shop commandments, like "Thou Shalt Not Spill" and squinted to get a better look at them, hoping for a laugh. Nope. "Thou Shalt Not Kill" was right there as #6. Eek. Pretty heavy reading while just standing around waiting for the milk to steam for your latte. I am much more accustomed the the little bulletin board poster at my local Starbucks that says, "Unattended children will be given an espresso and a free puppy". See, there's a commandment in there, but it's subtle. And perhaps way more appropriate for a public place that's taking my money in exchange for something as secular as coffee.

Then I started scanning the room. On the coffee table were no fewer than 3 different books with "Jesus" somewhere in the title. On one of the far walls was a shelf with statues of Mary and Jesus and wire doves adorning the all behind them. Above the door was a wooden cross. Suddenly the halo over the mug in the logo made sense---here I was, good little Jewish girl, in a Christian coffee shop. Mkay. Thankfully, answering "Have you accepted Christ as your personal savior?" was not part of the ordering process.

I had no problem with this--I guess whoever is paying the rent on the shop has the right to decorate it as they choose and honestly, 99.999% of people going into that shop are probably going to the same church together every Sunday morning anyway. I'm just a Jew passing through. No need to keep me in mind when they decorate, I guess. But it did remind me why I live in a more diverse place--if the coffee shops in DC had posters of Jesus on the wall, they'd probably also have a basket of yalmulkas at the door and a pile of prayers carpets next to the couch.

My problem with them was that their Chai sucked. Seriously, people. If you're going to open a coffee shop and offer something besides plain old coffee, learn how to make something besides plain old coffee. It's what Jesus would do....

My Name is Sarah & I'm Ethan's Mom...

Now you say, "Hi, Sarah, Ethan's mom".

This is sort of what starting up a mom's group feels like---Moms Anonymous. My "Baby & Me" Yoga and Baby Massage classes have morphed into an informal mom's group. Last week three of us met at Starbucks and today seven of us met at a local coffee shop, babies in tow. We came equipped with bjorns, pacis, strollers, pacis, burp clothes, sun hats, pacis, toys, our horror stories and, oh...yeah, pacis.

I really enjoy meeting with these women. They are women I would have been friends with if I'd met them in a regular non-baby yoga class or if they were co-workers. But that's not how I met them. I met them because we all signed up for a class without knowing each other and because we were trying to make some sense of our new identities as moms; in particular moms who are staying at home, either permanently or for some undetermined stretch of time. We haven't really gotten into it yet, but I wonder if any of them feel like they are floating out in some unfamiliar space, grasping to make sense of it all. I think that's probably too *deep* for our second cup of coffee.

But there's lots of talk about breast pumps and labor and sleep habits and reflux, which I suppose is just as good as spilling your guts about how hard being a mother is and how exhausting and how you feel like your identity has slipped away and you feel like you're rebuilding from square one.....

Did I say that???

Anyway, what I mean is--I find it interesting that this group of women, we don't know each other at all, really. I only know their last names because of our email address list. I dont' know what they all did for a living before having kids. I don't know their husbands' names or what type of music they listen to, where they stand politically, or where they are from originally (well, I know where a couple of them are from). All I know is that they are other moms of other adorable babies and I enjoy their company. And I realize that that's all they know about me, too. I am Ethan's Mom. They are the first people I have known socially who see that as my primary identity.

I have to say, it's kind of cool.

A little game in lieu of real blogging...

Stupid 30 posts in 30 days. I have nothing interesting to talk about tonight, but I feel compelled to post just because I said I would. Writer's block and sleep deprivation are ugly things, especially together.

So instead of trying to come up with anything witty (cuz it ain't gonna happen, people), let's play a game of "Does he look like me?"


Ethan, 2006














me, 1971

A Flock of Ethans...

So, this is what happens to my son's hair when it is not properly combed after his bath.

This bizarre curly-q mohawk is a spontaneous example of the unruliness that is my son's hair, unless of course he is sneaking out of the house, stealing the car and joy-riding into the city under cover of darkness to get his hair styled at some after-hours baby salon that his father & I are unaware of.

If that is the case, he should be a real treat as a teenager.

Oatmeal and barley and rice...oh my

I posted a picture yesterday of Ethan's reaction at starting rice cereal a week ago. In case you missed it, it looks something vaguely like Edvard Munch's "The Scream" (please google it if you are unfamiliar). This week we decided, since rice cereal was such a bust, perhaps oatmeal would be more palate pleasing.

Nothing, my friend, could be farther from the truth. There was a lot of crying and flailing involved. Husband and I have, in the past, considered taking a baby sign language class, but even without training, today I could clearly tell this was, "Ma! Get that shit away from me!!! Where the hell is your boob??!!" A mother just knows...

So today, after a third failed attemp at oatmeal, I thought perhaps barley cereal would be the magic ticket. You know, third time's the charm and all that. Besides, I'm a fan of barley--they use it to make beer, right? It had to work. Who ever heard of a baby who didn't like cereal? Well, if there's a list of "babies who hate cereal", please put Mr. E on that list, right at the top. After the first tentative bite, the message that seemed to be shooting through the synapses in my son's brain was not "Open your mouth for the next bite of cereal." It seemed instead to be, "The spoon's on fire!! The spoon's on fire! Warn mommy with a blood curdling scream and kick all appendages at full speed!!!"

It seems that thus far, whether mixed with breast milk, water or formula, cereal is not going to make it's way into my son's belly after that first bite. Actually, now that he's tried all three, I don't think I'd be able to trick him again. I have to admit, I can't blame him. It's not like I'm offering him Fruity Pebbles or Apple Jacks (because no one can resist those). I am trying to convince him that after six months of the perfectly concocted milkshake meal after meal, that this goo is actually food. Each bowl is more cardboard-y than the other. I can understand why he'd be horribly offended by this turn of events. I just hope that some solid food catches his fancy soon. As much as I love breastfeeding, I will not be sending a thermos of breastmilk to kindergarten with this boy.

Now, I had a fabulous picture of the bowls of barley and oatmeal cereals AND a witty caption that had something to do with the children's version of Dante's Inferno and the various circles of cereal hell....BUT the memory card is jammed into the camera and I fear I am simply breaking it bit by bit as I try to eject it with increasing aggression at each attempt. (I'm taking deep breaths and trying not to panic). So I am picture-less today.

But I am 6 for 6 on the whole NaMoBloPo thing.... (did I get that right?)

Six Months...

Seriously? Half a year come and gone? It hardly seems possible, little man! And yet, it is the 5th of the month and that means you are another month older, having had another month's worth of experiences, trials, tribulations, adventures and hugs & kisses.

I can hardly figure out where to begin. You've changed so much. Your personality, in all it's strength and determination, shows itself more and more with every passing day. You have started to grace us with the fabulous smiles of pure joy at simply seeing mommy or daddy come into a room. The most precious part of my day is when I open my eyes in the morning and there you are, eyes wide open and looking at me. When I say, "Hi, bud!" your face lights up and the smile just takes my breath away--it's a sucker punch of happiness. When daddy comes downstairs from work at the end of the day, you wiggle in my arms or flap your arms and smile, your tongue blowing raspberries as daddy reaches out to take you. It is so wonderful to feel your love begin to find a way to express itself.

The smile that lights up the world and the hair that defies explanation


It's been a busy couple of months. We took yoga & infant massage classes together and I think it was such an important step for both of us. The first few yoga classes were tough--you were super fussy and I spent the second hour of yoga rocking you in the hallway and crying, wondering why I spent $100 on seven hours worth of holding and rocking you while you cried, when I could essentially do that at home, minus the other women doing yoga while their babies peacefully slept and the tibetan monk chant CD. But by the third class, you seemed to know where we were, what we were doing and you even began to dig it. You still fuss every once in awhile, but you realize now, perhaps, that mommy reeeeeeeeally needs that hour to do sun and moon salutations--you are pretty happy now to lay at the top of the mat, shaking your blue bee and watching mommy mellow out in triangle pose.

This month's biggest stressor was your weight. You are a skinny little man, darling. Are you sure you belong to daddy and me?! During September and early October, I noticed you nursing less and less. Still every couple of hours, but only for a minute or two at a time. Hmmmmm...is there something wrong with the milk factory? Nope. That's good quality stuff. So why no weight gain? You actually only put on about 6oz in three weeks and the doctor wasn't too thrilled (and we like making the doctor happy!). So we decided that perhaps, even though you aren't complaining about it, you might still have some reflux and we started you on Prevacid. Voila!!!! The magic potion!!! Now, you are Mr. Nurse-aholic again and you have finally tipped the scale at 13lbs, 2oz, according to the digital scale at the breastfeeding group we go to. You are finally fitting into the 3-6 month clothes, as you hit 6 months. That's okay--you can keep wearing them for awhile; mommy has a shopping issue she needs to deal with and she spent wayyyy too much $$ on your 3-6 month clothes, so don't feel like you need to suddenly weight 16 lbs or anything.

This tummy time stuff is so last week, Mom.

You are also a flurry of learning this month. I noticed back in September that when I talked or made noises at you, you were staring intently at my mouth, watching to see how I formed the words and sounds I was making. I experimented sticking my tongue out at you. Over and over and over and over. You stuck your tongue out at me. I blew a raspberry at you. Again and again and again and again. You blew a raspberry at me. I said, "Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious" to you.....nothing. Oh well. Maybe next month.

So there is the sound of constant babbling coming from you now. If it is any indication of your future chattiness, I expect to get many "too social in class" comments on your report cards. You "talk" to your toys; you "talk" to your hands; you "talk" to my boobs. You've got a lot to say, my friend. And sometimes you are happily rambling and sometimes I think you're trying to tell me that Timmy has fallen down the well or something, considering the passion and emphasis you seem to be putting on some of your "syllables". I can't wait to see what comes out of your mouth when things start making sense.

Then there's mobility. Let's just say, you're trying. You've long since mastered the belly to back roll. Please. That is SO three months. You seem to be totally uninterested in getting from your back to you belly, however. You do seem to give it a shot every once in awhile, but it's half-hearted at best, as if you're already jaded by the whole rolling thing.

Trying to crawl is where it's at now. I noticed a few weeks ago that you've decided to try to get places by getting up onto your arms and pushing of with your hands. This would be an ideal means of transport, if you always wanted to get to what is 3 feet behind you, because all you do is ending up sliding backwards. However, if you are trying to get to Larry Lion who is 3 feet in FRONT of you, well, then you have a dilemma. So you've learned the way of the inchworm. I cannot tell you how funny it is to watch you curl up your legs so that your butt is in the air, you chest is on the ground and your arms are completely out of the game. Where you should be propelling yourself forward by pushing off with your feet, you're simply just trying to throw your weight ahead of you, willing yourself to move. Unless the force is with you, my friend, that's never going to get you there. But it's cute to watch. What you need to do is realize that both the top and bottom halves of your body are required to work together and at the same time for this elusive crawl to materialize. Perhaps this month....

Let's talk sleep, little man. It's a concept you've yet to really grasp a hold of. Sleep makes the world go round, pumpkin. Sleep makes people happy. Sleep makes mommy happy. You like happy mommy. Let her sleep. Since day one (okay, day 7, when you came home from the NICU) you have been napping on or right next to me. I love you, sweet thing, but jeez. Six months, two or three naps a day---that's a lot of "sit on the couch" time for mommy. She's used to being able to pee when she feels the urge or, oh, I don't know, get up and walk around the room without worrying about waking the giant (that's you). I do love the bonding time with you, but we're basically living in squalor because the time I should be spending perhaps cleaning the bathroom and making a meal for your father and me, I am fighting off the need to sneeze lest I wake you, my arm is falling asleep or I am dying to scratch an itch on my nose that I can't reach because of how you fell asleep on me. This means that tomorrow, Operation Nap In Crib begins. I am going to have to toughen up. I am going to have to draw the line in the sand and see what I can get away with. I am going to have to really decide what is "fussing" and what is "crying" because I can't bring myself to let you "Cry it Out" a la Ferber, but I also can't be your own personal sleep-number bed until you're 10.

Nighttime has gotten a lot easier. Because now you just sleep with us. Daddy bathes you, gets you ready for bed, then I nurse you and he reads you a story and lays with you until you fall asleep. When we come to bed later on, you're snug as a bug (a la safe co-sleeping rules per Dr. Sears) between us. You wake up still. Sometimes once. Sometimes twice. Sometimes 800 times a night. There's no real rhyme or reason. Can we work on the rhyme and reason this month, please? Hmmmmm? Pretty please. I do love, though, how you reach out in your sleep with your little hand, just to touch my arm, to make sure of my presence.

Your favorite new toy is your Baby Einstein activity center/jumperoo. I got it a few weeks ago because I just could not hold you up in a standing positon all day. Yes, you don't roll from back to belly and you don't crawl or sit upright, but you LOVE the world from a standing position. You just can't do it yourself. So the jumperoo is the answer. You bounce, you play music, you spin the frog. It's fabulous.

Must. Make. Frog. Spin!!!! Must make frog spin!!!

We also started solids this month. Rice cereal was first. You were far from thrilled. Even mixed with breastmilk, you were having none of it. "What is this cardboard-tasting crap?" your face seemed to protest as more of it ended up on your chin, bib, and cheeks than in your belly. Now we are working on oatmeal, but not really finding much success with that, either. The box says you might need to try it up to 15 times before you like it, but I think that's just Gerber trying to sell me more cardboard..I mean, cereal.

This is not the look of a man who is happy with his cereal...


We took you apple-picking this year. Big let down. Not that you weren't fabulous company, but I think I expected you to enjoy yourself more than you did. I thought you might be mesmerized by the trees and the pumpkins in the pumpkin patch. But really, you just wanted to nap. No biggie, little man. There's always next year.

Seriously, Mom, I'm trying to nap. Do we have to climb trees right now?

What is up with these giant orange things? What is up with this cold ground? What is up with my hair??!!


We're waiting on teeth. We are praying for teeth. On the days when your teeth are trying to work their way up through your gums, you are not a happy little man. You drool, you cry, you get a fever, you don't sleep. AT. ALL. I took you to the doctor last week to see if you actually had an ear infection, but alas, no..."just" teething. I asked the doctor if you were going to be "like this" until you popped this tooth. She explained that you could be like this until ALL your teeth were in. There was an unpleasant silence as I mentally digested that tidbit of doom and gloom. Then I said, "If that's the case, Mama's going to have start drinking at the crack of dawn!" The doctor was not amused. Perhaps making joking references to alcohol abuse to your child's pediatrician isn't the smartest idea. Oh well, live and learn.

I cannot believe that you've been for half a year. I cannot believe every day when I look at you that you are the same little being that grew and wriggled in my belly for eight months and that you will continue to grow and learn and change with every moment that passes. I am obsessed with taking pictures of you (258 in October alone), but I cannot bear the idea of forgetting a second of this and I need pictures to remind me because it goes so fast. I am torn between my anticipation for the future and my longing to slam on the breaks and keep you from going any further. As your hair grows, as you put on ounces, as you get closer to independent mobility daily, I realize that I am simply your guide through this adventure and that the seconds slip away so fast. Sometimes I think I might squeeze you a smidge too tight or smother your face with too many kisses, but I can't help myself. I am trying to memorize the way you are right now, the baby soft skin and tiny fingers and rosy cheeks, so that some day, when you don't want me kissing and hugging you (because, ugh! Mom, how embarrassing!!!) I can think back on these days and remind myself that you will always be my baby.

You then...

You now....

Working out the kinks...

It's tough being a baby. There's the sleeping and the constant nursing to contend with, not to mention all the shiney, crinkly toys at your disposal and that mommy lady who caters to your every whim at the first sound of a cry. One can imagine the stress, right? That's why all babies need massages. You know, to ease the tension of every day baby life.

In another lifetime (okay, 5 years ago), I seriously considered leaving my teaching career to pursue the life of a massage therapist. The thought of being surrounded by aromatherapy, candle-lit rooms and the "plinky plunky" music (Phoebe's words, not mine) of new-age artists piping through the sound system appealed to me beyond words. I imagined the sense of peace and well-being I have after a massage and figured that giving a massage must be almost as good as that. I was *this* close to drop-kicking my teaching certification out the window and enrolling in the local massage institute---I even went on an interview at the massage school, looked into buying the anatomy text books and gave my notice at the snooty private school I was working at. For any number of reasons, the switch never happened and now here I am.

Enter "Infant Massage"--yes, the class where I get to live out, in some tiny little way, my dream of being a massage therapist AND my poor little overworked, stressed out baby gets the much needed deep tissue massage his hectic life demands.

E and I took a 3-week massage course taught by my yoga instructor, Jennifer, who I LOVE. Her favorite little mantra is "I honor farts, poops and belches in my class." This is a woman who understands babies, people! Far more than the old ladies in the cereal aisle at my local grocery store, who fail to find amusement in my son's colossal adult-sized gaseous emanations while Mama selects her Special K Red Berries. Jennifer also makes up fabulous little nonsense phrases that I find myself repeating to Ethan when he is fussy....example, "ooohka linka lakka shinka, that feels good! (after a yoga pose or a massage).

Aside from the fabulous bonding time with Ethan and the miniature dream fulfillment, I also met, interacted with and established budding friendships with other new mommies. I find myself almost giddy at the prospect of having people over the age of 6 months to actually do things with on week days. And at the thought that perhaps Ethan will have other children to socialize with, lest he become that weird, socially awkward kid in kindgarten who is way too smart and grown up, thus making him the most likely to be picked on until college.

There has been talk of going to matinees, and there has been one bona fide Starbucks *date* between me and two of the yoga/massage mommies. If all goes well, we MIGHT even invite a few couples over to our house for a dinner or game night. But wait, I'm really getting ahead of myself--we've only had one date. Maybe we're not ready for that kind of commitment yet.

So infant massage really worked out quite a few kinks; my son's muscles, aching from all that sleeping, eating and rolling; and my own fear of throwing myself out there into a social world again, as opposed to hiding at home and wallowing in my own sense of "otherness" now that my life has changed so dramatically.

And here we are, "graduating" from massage class: Massager & massagee



















namaste!

A Room of One's Own...at the Raddison

So while on my blogging hiatus, Old Man Time snuck up behind me & beat me severely with the "YOU'RE 35 NOW!!!" stick. It was not pretty. I am not someone who generally minds a birthday. I loved turning 30--I felt all strong & powerful & centered in my life. Not so much with 35...it's tipping the scale each day closer to 40. FORTY. Four. Zero. Forty. yikes....

Having survived nearly six months of motherhood, I deemed myself deserving of a day "off" and informed Husband that I was going to take a day of obscene indulgence; this included ahhhhhhh, a facial (and is there anything sweeter than a facial that starts with a foot massage...ahhhhhh), a leisurely stroll through Barnes & Noble sans ginormous stroller and screaming child secured in ginormous stroller, 2 hours sitting in a dark movie theater, popcorn and soda all to myself (even if the movie sucked), and, the icing on the cake---I checked into a hotel downtown, took myself out to dinner and ice cream (Stone Cold Creamery is proof of God's existance, if you ask me) and then slept for....wait for it....11 hours. Un. Interrupted.

Happy. Birthday. To. Me.

Now, yes, I experienced major pangs of guilt during the course of my ME day. I thought of rushing home to hug and squeeze my baby and beg his forgiveness for leaving him for a whole day and night. I called home probably more than I needed to. I missed Husband and the E man. But I'm an only child and I think only children thrive on some amount of solitude. And that was some sweet solitude, my friend. Besides, I considered the case of engorgement I woke up with after not pumping for 12 hours to be my punishment. Nothing like carrying around almost 10oz of breastmilk IN your breasts to start your morning off right.

I started writing this post in my head last night as I laid in bed, unable to sleep. It was way wittier then and once again, I should have gotten off my lazy ass, come downstairs and written it as it was first popping into my head. But alas I did not, so what we have is just mediocre at best. But you know what? Three days, three entries. :-) And besides, I'm gearing up for the big SIX MONTH recap in 2 days...

Baby's First Halloween...sort of.

May this offering of the little peapod appease the blog-gods whom I have offended with my absence. :-)

Yes, Husband and I (okay, I) decided that since we called little E "pea pod" when he was in mah belly that he should be a "pea pod" for his first Halloween. You know, for old time's sake. Well, that and it's so freaking cute.

Halloween for us was actually just dressing Ethan up the day before Halloween and snapping about a hundred pictures. When the actual day arrived, we attempted to do the "dress up" again, and wound up with a very pissy pea pod. Please note exhibit A...

Clearly, Ethan was unaware of his own irresistable cuteness in this outfit, because he was having none of it. Also note the mellow and lovely leopard, Miss Chloe, chilling with Ethan as he melts the hell down. Trick or freaking treat, mom.

So after about a nano-second of that, we stripped him down out of his peapod-ness and he seemed content-ish again.

I guess the first Halloween isn't really for the kids, is it? I mean, without teeth, what's the point? And really, no one's handing out my breastmilk but me, so going door to door really isn't an issue yet. Maybe next year...

All right, Amy...I'm back! :-)

At the urging of my bloggosphere BFF, I have rejoined the world o' the blog. I have much to share. But not tonight. Must go to sleep. Tomorrow I will read up on everyone else's blogs and then dust off this poor neglected blog and get started again....if anyone's still reading! :-)

Oh, the Guilt...

Yes, I know. I know. I've neglected you. I've been ignoring you. I didn't get a chance to write the 5 month update on October 5th and since then I have felt too guilty to come back. What kind of mother doesn't find time to recount in writing a recap of her son's 4th month, when she's already done the first four? Sigh...tsk, tsk. Bad mommy.

So I considered letting the whole thing drop by the wayside and forgetting that I blogged. I mean, I am taking yoga now and baby massage classes and getting out of the house more. Maybe I don't need to blog anymore....

Nah. I dig mah blog. I miss mah blog.

And so here I am, internet, hoping that someone still reads this. But then I guess, even if no one does, I do. And maybe someday Ethan will. So that's good enough for me.

OH! Update--I'm semi-famous (in my own mind...) As I bowed my head and uttered "Namaste" at my last yoga class, I couldn't help but notice one of the other girls in the class was looking at me funny. I am very self-conscious in yoga, so immediately I assumed that a boob had popped out of my nursing tank top. But the tank was intact and the boobs were concealed (although that's no longer a given in my world), so I let it go. As I was rolling up my mat, she said, "You're Sarah, right?" Ummmmm...indeed. "I recognize you from your blog. Forty-five degrees something, right?"

F.r.e.a.k.y. But very cool. I have never been recognized by a stranger for any reason whatsoever in my life, so that was fabulous. And then she said nice things about the blog, which was way better than if she had said, "Yeah, you suck." So I was happy.

I am also nearing the end of my quest for a tolerable Mom's group, the holy grail of the stay-at-home-mom. Like Amy, I fret and stress when I am going to be in contact with other moms, potentially cool new mommy friends. It is, in some ways, worse than preparing for a blind date, because you REALLY can't look like you're trying too hard the way you kind of can on a date. So you dress nice, but not too nice; you put on makeup, but just a little for that *natural* look (god forbid they think you're a frump OR a tramp--it's a delicate balance!) And then you don't want to talk too much or share too much.

So sitting cross-legged on my massage instructor's livingroom floor, in between two moms and their adorable little ones, I commiserate, but not enough to let on there's PPD lurking in here; I offer advice, but not enough that they might think I'm a *know it all* just because Ethan is older than the rest of the babies; I laugh at jokes, but not enough to sound seem totally desperate for company and adult interaction. When one of the other moms suggests the group exchanges emails/phone numbers and starts meeting outside of class, I try not to run across the room and hug her in relief that someone has stepped up and made the first move.

So I have Zoloft and I have new mommy friends, but I still need mah blog.

What was once two blue lines...

...is now babbling away contentedly in his swing, chewing on the ends of his crinkly fabric book "Fluffy Chick and Friends".

Yes, it was a year ago today that I stood in the bathroom looking down at the pregnancy test as the second line ever-so-quietly appeared in the first window, sort of a "psssst, hey you. Yeah, you. You're pregnant," in the form of two blue lines. It hardly seemed possible. It was only the second month we'd even considered it and it never occurred to us it could happen so fast (um, hello, 8th grade health class, dumbasses...)

*****excuse me, please--it's bed time for the little man. I'll return to finish when and if he decides to grant me the peace and quiet of sleeping tonight******

It was the first night of Rosh Hoshannah and instead of attending services like good Jews, we were simply being "Jew-ish" and celebrating the new year with a culinary feast from Whole Foods---turkey, potato laktes, noodle kugel, tzimmis (potatoes, noodles and honey in one meal--no wonder I packed on 40 pounds...). While Pedro heated up our feast, I casually announced I was going upstairs to "pee on a stick". It never occurred to me that the next time I walked down the stairs I would be someone's mother.

But here it is, a year later and I just came down those same stairs after rocking the little man to sleep---for the third time tonight (it is 8:24pm...God help me). I marvel at how life has changed in the past 365 days. What a journey it has been that has brought me to this day....

Follow the boucing ball...

How did I finally come to accept that I have a fabulous case of post partum depression?

Could it have been the fact that I am still wearing clothes two sizes bigger than I should be and have no motivation in my gut to lose the gut? No.

Could it be the fact that I have all but forgotten how to put make up on? No.

Could it have been going out to dinner with two of my pregnant friends recently and realizing as I sat across from them that I was struggling to say something positive about being a mother that day? No.

Could it have been the fact that poor Husband has become a master of walking on eggshells in my presence, never knowing what combination of words is the one that will set me off on a "you don't think I'm a good mother" tirade. No.

Want to know what made me realize and finally accept that I needed to address this new gloom residing in me?

I wasn't blogging and I wasn't reading other peoples' blogs.

Strange that realizing I had essentially stopped blogging would be my *lightbulb* moment, but it was. Blogging is something I started doing for myself when I was first on bedrest--it saved my sanity from the clutches of boredom, and while I am no Shakespeare, it was fun to tap into my creative energy and occassionally, my sense of humor (let's face it, every English teacher is a frustrated novelist). It became a part of my identity and my sense of self; it was a record of my life.

But I stopped. I haven't been too busy. No, I still have a baby sleeping on one of my arms most afternoons for at least an hour (yeah, the independent napping thing pooped the bed as soon as Ethan got his first cold--then it was right back on Mommy). I have plenty of time to blog. I just don't. I sit and watch TV. Ugh.

And I stopped reading other peoples' blogs, with a few exceptions. Amy, Becki and KMW still got my daily attention, because we all went through similar pregnancies and because Becki and KMW just had their little miracles (congrats, girls!). But the blogs I usually read simply for a laugh--"eh, why bother??" is how I've been feeling. Seriously. Why bother clicking on that link and running my eyes over the words on the page that pops up? Why bother laughing? Sigh....

So I dragged my sorry butt to the doctors, said, "PPD" and walked out with Zoloft. Husband & I used to laugh at the gloomy little bouncing ball in the commercial, bouncing his way over to the other, happier balls. Now I am that mopey little bouncing ball. Depression isn't new to me, so I think deep down I've known it's been gnawing it's way back into my life for the past few months. But how do you admit, when you are supposed to be at your very happiest, that there is a part of you that feels so utterly alone and lost?

Yes, poor me. It's all so melodramatic. I just wanted to explain where I've been and why I've been neglecting the blog. Hopefully now I will be able to kick my butt in gear and write more regularly. I have no intention of turning this into my PPD blog; that sadness is something that feels totally separate from my relationship with Ethan (ironic, isn't it?) and this blog is about him and how wonderful watching him grow has been and continues to be. And to prove it, check this one out...

One Year Ago Today...*

We made this:
















I think it was a pretty good year...

*thanks to Amy S for the idea

Ommmmmmm...

Years ago, after a devestating breakup, I dragged my weepy ass to a therapist and began the uphill climb out of a mind-numbing depression. Among other things the therapist did to help me untangle the mess that had become my life, she gave me the assignment of joining a yoga class. I was so utterly disconnected from myself and wrapped in a blanket of self-loathing (if he didn't love me, how could I possibly be of any worth??), she thought enrolling in yoga would, at the very least, force me to concentrate for one hour on something other than the emptiness that consumed me the other 23 hours of the day.

I half-heartedly attended a class at my gym. I spent much of the class just hoping I could get into the postures and not fart while I was in them. I definitely rolled my eyes at a lot of the soothing "oommms" and whatnot during the class. I was distracted by the sound of the racquet ball cout adjacent to our "studio". I certainly didn't focus on my breathing.

Until the end. The last pose, Savasana, the "corpse pose", isn't really a pose at all; it is "simply" lying still on your mat and allowing all your stress to drain away through your breathing. The instructor takes you on a tour of your body, from toes to head, telling you to release the stress from each part of your being. Something inside me broke open in those few minutes of listening to myself breathe. I found myself sobbing as silently as possible as, for the first time in months, maybe even years, I felt, for a moment, a fleeting sense of ME, of who I was. The instructor read a short piece at the front of the room about self-acceptance and I felt the cool tears slide down the sides of my face and into my ears.

I went to yoga two times a week for the next four years. I broke free of the depression, eventually I started to feel whole again and got on with my life.

****
Today I took my son to a Mommy & Me yoga class for the first time. I had signed up for the instructor's prenatal yoga class and irony of all ironies, was put on bedrest the very day I was to attend the first class. So much for that. But I always dreamed of being the cool, hip, yoga mat-toting mother who zens-out with her peaceful, placid infant.

Of course, some of you may know that my son is anything but peaceful and placid. I may have mentioned here in one of any numer of posts and some of you have witnessed the famous melt-downs in person. Others still don't believe in the demon-child that resides in my son and comes out when he's not being held to his satisfaction or when he is otherwise miffed at the unfairness of the life of a baby ( I mean, all that breast-feeding and napping--what a raw deal). Anyway, suffice it to say that I spent much of the day leading up to the class in fear that my child would be the only child screaming and wailing in a mad attempt to ruin everyone's zen-buzz.

But something amazing happened. My drop-of-a-hat freaker-outter turned into uber-mellow buddha baby. The class was hardly yoga as those unfettered by little humans know it. There was crying, baby farts and stopping mid-sun salutation to drop onto the floor, whip out the boob and nurse. But Ethan was all smiles, all curiosity and all "whatcha doing?" as I stretched and breathed my way to some vague sense of peacefulness. He was mesmerized by the other babies, and the yoga instructor's voice, always soothing and sing-songy at times, captured his attention to the point that he forgot that I wasn't holding him every. single. second.

At the end, in Savasana, I laid next to Ethan on the mat, closed my eyes and tried to relax. He spent most of the deep relaxation time playing with my face. I took a moment to drink in the feeling of his little breath on my face and his curious fingers getting to know mommy's features. I thought for a moment about my body's recent struggles and "incompetence". I thought about how I have beaten myself up for months that I couldn't have a normal pregnancy like normal women and how I will never carry another baby. I haven't talked a lot about it, but it's been on my mind.

I realized--I have let myself get caught up in so much negativity in my own sense of my body and self--not nearly as badly as I have in the past, but enough for the lightbulb to go off. Enough for me to realize that I have to let those sad feelings go and appreciate what my body did accomplish and how amazing it is to have that accomplishment lying next to me, breathing with me and zen'ing out. I can't wait 'til next Wednesday...

And so here he is, showing that he can do yoga in his crib, even without a class--in a perfect "child's pose"....Zen Master E

"Mommy, look! Ommmmmmmm....."

Choosing My Battles...

And by that, I mean, coming to the realization that I am indeed, Ethan's bitch.

It just so turns out that unless you want to deal with a red-faced, silently screaming infant, you pretty much have to let them sleep when they want to and where they are comfortable. Huh, go figure. You would have thought that considering babies are so tiny and all that, they'd be pretty easy to convince, "Hey, it's nap time. Close those eyes and take a little nappy-poo in the crib that Daddy and I spent a crapload of money on. Enjoy those cushy bumpers and crib sheet that cost Mommy a freaking arm and leg."

But no. Babies have an idea of where they want to sleep and I'll give you one guess....it's on their mom. Not next to their mom or near their mom. Nope. ON their mom. And I'm the Mom. That means I am the crib. ku-ku-ka-choo...

Since day 1 (really, since day 7 when he was evicted from his tanning bed in the NICU), Ethan has preferred to nap in the crook of my right arm. Swaddled, unswaddled, naked, or onesied-up, this child insists that a good nap can only be had during the day if he can be sure his mother is completely incapable of doing anything but typing one-handed and watching TV. This is stay-at-home-momness at it very finest.

I haven't really minded it. It means I get a front-row seat for one of my very favorite things in life--my baby's yawn. I cannot describe how adorable it is to see a baby open that little tiny mouth, throw his head back and then exhale the yawn out in a little puff of baby-breath air. The best is when he grumbles after it, like a crotchety old man. It's the freakin' BEST.


the fabulous baby yawn...

However, now he's four months old and I am starting to realize that if I don't make some changes, and soon, I am going to be lugging around twenty pounds worth of clingy baby before I can say, "My right arm has been asleep for a year...."

So for the past few days, I have been attempting a "transition" with Ethan. It's called the "I'll make you think I'm letting you nap on me and then....switcheroo, sucker!!" Fans of "Friends" will realize it is something akin to the move Chandler tries to teach Ross so that Ross can lead Rachel to believe they are cuddling at night when really, they're not. On the show, it is the "hug for her, roll for you" technique and consists of hugging the girl realllllly tightly once she's asleep and then, rolling her over to her side of the bed and slowly slipping your arm away.

Yes, there is a mother/baby version of this and it consists of rocking, cuddling and the like until little E is drowsy to the point of no return. This is a good point to put the plan in action. It involves moving to a big blanket in the middle of the room and lying down together, still all cuddly. Once we've been lying down for a few minutes, I have, four times now, been able to, slide my way sloooooooowly away from the little man and give my arm a much needed opportunity to, well, move.

I feel almost guilty that I have deceived him into thinking he will be spending the duration of his nap all snug in mommy's arm, but then I dare to imagine the freedom of two entirely free arms for an hour, or...or two!! Ah, to dream the impossible dream.

Sadly, my arms have only remained free for about twenty minutes at a stretch because the little man is on to me. He will lie there, as peaceful as can be and oh-so-cute and then, just as I am letting my guard down, maybe daring to pick up a book, as if by baby radar he senses that I am not, in fact, holding him. Then there is some crying and a bit of Mommy running to the rescue, to start the whole process again at the next nap. Dammmmmmmmmmmn. I am his bitch.

So, I will leave you with a couple images of my commander in chief.


shhhhhhh, don't wake the baby, or my right arm...


Ethan's first solo nap...

September 5th--Four Months...

Dear Baby Boy,

Has it really been four months already? I cannot believe how the days blur together and have brought us here to this point. At this moment you are downstairs cuddling with Daddy. You’ve had a very sleepy day because you are smack dab in the middle of some kind of superhuman growth spurt. We took you to the National Zoo today and you slept through the entire thing. Grampy Schuster says when you wake up tomorrow you’ll be walking and doing your own laundry. And while Mommy would love the extra help with the housework, I can’t help but be happy that tomorrow you will still be my little baby boy, because I am starting to realize just how fast the time is flying.



Man, are you two shopping again? I'm just going to kick back and snooze.

This month it is all about the mouth. Yours, that is. It’s been busy, that’s for sure. It has been making a lot more noise and has been mighty curious about everything around it. You are showing all the classic signs of the first stages of teething—drool that will not quit (if baby drool was of value in any way, we would be rich, I tell you, rich!!), an intense, almost desperate need to suck and “chew” on your fingers, or mine if they are available, and an ability to be soothed at times only by something coooooold on your gums. It blows me away that at some point, a little white tooth is going to pop out of those perfectly pink little gums of yours!


Daddy, you're funny...looking!

You have also been experimenting with sounds this month—you’re making a lot of them. Coo’ing sounds, a-coo’ing sounds (apparently that “a” sound at the beginning is very important, so thank goodness you’re making it!) and chuckling throaty giggles compete for “airtime” and you’ve developed one particular cry that Daddy and I can’t help but smile at. When you are not really hurting or in need of anything, but are Mr. McGrumpstein, for no apparent reason, you pout your lip and literally say “wah” at us in the snootiest little tone. Just once. As if to say, “Really, people. I’m pissed. You’d better fix it. Now.” All that accomplished with just one, “Wah” and a pouty bottom lip. I could eat you up.


How you doin'?

Your hands are another area of great development this month. You’ve decided that when they aren’t in your mouth, or gripping my hands to shove them in your mouth, they should be exploring the world around them. This has led you to finally grasping at objects—particularly rings on your play mat. I loved the look of “what the hell did I just do??!!” the first time you actually got your fingers closed around the ring. After mastering the ring-grab, you decided to move on to your crinkly fabric books. You can’t get enough of those and apparently they taste pretty good, too.


Hello, you delectable, crinkly book. I will look at your shiny parts; then I will eat.

Aside from Mommy and Daddy, the one true love of your life right now is the lamb-y mobile above your crib. I know, without fail, I can put you in your crib for 5-10 minutes, crank that sucker up and you will watch the fluffy little guys dance round and round and play their tinkling little song and you will babble away happily until they stop spinning. There really isn’t anything else you own that makes you as happy as that mobile at this point. I love to watch your smile when it comes into view—it’s like you’re recognizing friends.


Penny is starting to realize that you're not going away. She's not too thrilled.

You’ve been around a lot more people this month, too! Mommy and Daddy went out to celebrate their first anniversary at a real restaurant, wearing real clothes and ordering real wine! This means you got to hang out for the evening with your first babysitters, our friends Chrisanne and Jason. Fortunately for them you were feeling mellow and sleepy that evening and didn’t give them a hard time at all. We also spent time with our friends Jamie and Veronica and their little girl, Chloe—you two have shared Chloe’s pack and play, and this month you shared play mats as well, with great success. Mommy and Daddy have taken you out to dinner with them several times now and each time you give us a little bit of time to relax and eat before you NEEEEEEED to be held.


Ethan and Chloe digging the play mat scene...

Last week I went to a mother’s group at the hospital where you were born. You were the oldest baby there and you were such a champ! It was the first time you were around so many people and you were just fascinated to look at all the other faces and listen to all the other sounds in the room. Seeing the other moms with their teeny tiny newborns made me realize just how far we’ve come.

Daddy went away on his first business trip this month, so you and I got to spend some serious quality time together. We generally spend our days together, but when 6pm rolls around and Daddy comes down the stairs from his office, it’s “Daddy time!!” from then until bed. But for 48 hours this month, it was all Mommy, all the time. I have to admit, I was a little nervous about doing the whole parenting thing all on my own for 2 days straight, but you picked those 2 days to be the best little boy in the world and we got through it without any stress at all. Thanks for looking out for your mom. I owe you one.


Hey, who's that handsome guy in the mirror?!

You did, however, give me quite a bit of grief just this past weekend when you decided for 24 hours that the boob just wasn’t your thang. Yes, my dear boy, you pulled a good old-fashioned nursing strike and threw your mother into a tizzy the likes of which few have ever seen. From 5am Saturday until 5am Sunday, almost exactly 24 hours, you acted like my boobs were kryptonite to your Superbaby super powers. There was screaming. There was twisting and arching. There were all KINDS of protestations at the mere indication that a boob might be within nursing range. Fortunately this inexplicable phenomenon only lasted 24 hours and by 5am Sunday morning, you were once again a milkshake lovin’ fool. Thank god. Don’t do that again. Mommy doesn’t need more grey hair. When you’re older she’s going to want people to believe that she had you at a very young age, and all that grey ain’t going to help…

You still look so much like Daddy, but some people are finally starting to say they see me in there somewhere as well. We were shopping for clothes the other day and a woman stopped us just to tell us how beautiful you are. We know. J Your eye lashes are still a mile long and your eyes have parked at this beautiful grey color. Your smile is to die for; even when you are sucking on your pacifier, your smile is so clear through your eyes. It’s just too much! We’re still waiting for your hair to fill in beyond the patches that you were born with. Of course, those patches continue to grow, so you have some serious bangs going right now, but not a lot on the sides. I wonder if the cute, too-young-to-practice-medicine doctor will spike your hair back up again at your appointment next week. .


Just try to resist me. You can't.

Today we got you a new play mat, complete with brighter colors and more hanging, squeaking things. You managed to be fascinated for an entire 30 minutes while we ate dinner with Grammy and Grampy Schuster. This was after the deep naps you take with your growth spurts and I couldn’t wait to see what you would be trying to do once you woke up. Sure enough, aside from more pronounced giggles and grabbing at objects, you have decided to start trying to roll again. There have been no rolls since the first one mentioned last month, but this evening you rolled from belly to back without even really trying and then you set to work at trying to roll from back to belly. So far you are only getting up on your side, but I can’t wait until tomorrow to see what kind of progress you make. I love watching the concentration on your face as you try to figure out which arm moves with which leg to make things work.


Mr. Tummy Time--he drools, he rolls, he looks too cute to be real!


Little man, you are the love of my life. Sometimes just looking at you takes my breath away completely and I cannot remember a world in which you didn’t exist. Each day brings some new experience or discovery. The month ahead of us holds all kinds of adventures—your 4 month check up, our Mommy and Me yoga class, more outdoor time as the weather starts to cool down enough to be outside without melting into little puddles of ick. I can’t wait to see what I have to say about September when our next monthly check in comes along. I love you to itty bitty pieces, my prince.

Love, Mommy

More Incompetent than a Cervix...

Sometimes I wonder how people get the jobs they do. I wonder what they said or did in the interview that gave the employer the confidence that this person could indeed do they job they claim they can do. Once, at the private school at which I taught, an English teacher was fired because she claimed on her resume to have been published in Time Magazine and to have held some professorship somewhere. One would think the decision-makers would have checked these "facts" prior to hiring her, but somehow in Education, that doesn't always happen. It wasn't until a student's parent who actually did teach at the college the teacher claimed to have been on staff at, outted her as a liar, that she was escorted from the building and out of our lives. Why don't employers check more carefully before handing over a job to a moron?

Yesterday I was out to lunch with my friend Amy. I fed Ethan, crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. Ethan behaved like a pro. The waiter, however, seemed to be under the influence of something that made him very, very stupid. Whether he was sneaking out back to smoke up or he was naturally just that vacuous, we'll never know. But believe me when I say that he rivalled the dumbest of the dumb.

I am no one to complain about bad restaurant service; being a waitress would have to be one of my biggest nightmares. I doubt I would last through one night, what with the keeping track of who ordered what, remembering to smile, carrying giant plates of food without dropping stuff and let's not forget the math involved in settling checks. BUT...

He seemed utterly confused that we wanted food at all in the first place. "Can't you people just sit here quietly for awhile, then get up and leave?" Taking our orders seemed to confuse and pain him, even though it was as simple as "I'll have spaghetti and meatballs." Amy ordered spaghetti and meatballs. He asked if she wanted Alfredo sauce on it. Alfredo on meatballs?? i.c.k. He returned to our table no fewer than three times to reassure himself that he had our orders correct. Seriously...spaghetti and meatballs, people. And he wrote it down...this was not a fancy, "I'm so skilled I can recall your 5 course order off the top of my head. Go ahead make substitutions, I can handle it" sort of place. It was Bertucci's.

We were at a "bottomless salad bowl" place--he brought us two separate salads that had definite bottoms to them. Huh??? We longingly watched the table-sized bowls go by on other waiters' trays and cursed the lucky patrons who got that waiter. When Amy asked for more salad, our waiter seemed offended that we didn't appreciate what he clearly saw as the "individualized attention" he was giving us by deciding for us how much salad we were allowed to have. Finally, he caved (seriously, we had to put our collective foot down about the more salad thing), and brought us the "to be shared" bowl of salad.

When our entrees arrived, he stood at the table, holding each bowl up, hesitating, clearly unable to remember which one of us got what. Even after the whole "do you want alfredo sauce on your spaghetti and meatballs?" query to Amy, he didn't remember it was her who got the spaghetti and meatballs---with tomato sauce. We had to remind him. Please keep in mind, he had only taken the order moments earlier. It was lunchtime; you know there was no chef out back preparing each meal individually and taking 30 minutes to do so. All he had to do was reach into the big vat of spaghetti, put it in the bowl and bring it to the table.

By the time we had finished eating, Little E decided he was no longer content to nap quietly in his stroller and needed to hang out in mom's arms. That's fine, right? No problem to have a 3 month old lounging in mom's arms at a restaurant after a meal, right?

Well...unless your waiter decides to come over to the table and clears it by attempting to balance every plate, glass and utensil in one hand, creating a potential scenario in which plates, glasses and knives fly everywhere within inches of said 3 month old. Amy and I sat there, unable to see eachother through the "leaning tower of tablewear", but when the waiter walked away, our expressions said the same thing..."I cannot even believe this guy is for real!"

I left the restaurant irritated at the lousy service, but on the other hand, relieved to find that there really is something out there more incompetent than my cervix...

Sleep Blogging...

Two quick notes before I begin:

1. CONGRATS to blogger KMW, of www.mycerclage.com, and her husband. After months of anticipation and cerclage-y fun, they welcomed their baby boy into the world this week. Welcome, baby boy KMW!!

2. On a far less significant note, the slab of beef I threw into the crockpot yesterday turned out to be edible, and depending on the morsel of meat on your fork at any given minute, pretty tasty indeed. Some bites were like a mouthful of sand and I'm definitely not getting my own Food Network cooking show anytime soon, but at least it kept the pizza delivery guy from darkening our doorstep.

Now, onto my intended rant for the day...

Last night after getting up for the 4am feeding, I lay back down, my brain all abuzz with something that I apparently thought would be an excellent blog topic. I distinctly recall writing and revising said post in my head, in expansive detail, cracking myself up all the while. I remember thinking, "I should really get up, go downstairs and write this up now, so I don't forget it all." Then I thought, "How would I ever forget this gem? It's the best blog entry I've ever written!!" and drifted contentedly to sleep.

This is called "sleep blogging", because, internet, you know damn well I woke up this morning with absolutely NO idea what my greatest blog entry ever was actually about. I have only the vaguest memory that there was an idea, it was fantastic, and nearly completely written inside my head and now, alas, it is gone...lost somewhere in the recesses of the unused 90% of my human brain, never to be heard from again.

so instead, here--have a picture of the little man practicing his tummy time....

What a Crock

So when Husband and I got engaged, we partook in the time-honored tradition of gift-grubbing, I mean, registering for a variety of house-hold goods, the vast majority of which, we neither needed nor had the space for. (By the way, could I have more hyphenated words in that sentence?)

Something came over me when as we walked through the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond. Maybe it was the heady power of toting the sku-gun (another hyphen!) or the shiney, shiney small appliances, but something akin to a really out of control sugar rush, or a dose of terbutaline (remember those??!) came over me and I suddenly needed one of everything, and it all needed to be stainless steel. Mini-food processor, cooking utensils and holder, measuring cups. I became a simple, simple girl who just wanted shiney stuff. And shiney stuff I got.

One of the shiney gifts Husband and I received was a crock pot. Neither of us knew a thing about cooking in a crock pot--is it called 'crock pottery'? I don't know. I'd never used one. I have no idea why I registered for one. The combination of the glinting stainless steel finish and the desire to channel a "short cut" version of June Cleaver in my new identity as wife? Who knows. There was something intriguing about throwing a bunch of ingredients into a pot, pressing a button and then coming back 12 hours later to...a meal. Isn't that just one step away from putting a little pill on a plate, wetting it with three drops of water and having an entire meal just sprout up before your eyes? That only happens in cartoons, but a crock pot! That's real life!

So after countless trips to the "pre-prepared meal" and sushi sections of our local Whole Foods, I decided enough was enough. I was never going to channel June Cleaver with these yuppy urban habits of mine. Something had to change.

Out comes the crock pot...and in goes a big chunk of meat. Meat and potatoes and carrots and mushrooms and celery and onion. There was some confusion about the whole "coat the meat in flour and brown it" segment of the directions...a giant pot roast looks pretty stupid in a frying pan; and then there's the issue of how do you turn a big old slab of meat like that without spattering fat all over the place? Spatulas seem inadequate.

And how do you coat a big old hunk of meat with flour? I think I might have channelled Lucille Ball more than June Cleaver. I realize now that perhaps I should have taken the roast out of the frying pan and rolled it around in the flour, but instead I sort of tossed flour on the roast as it sat in the pan, then rolled it over a little with the aforementioned inadequate spatula and tossed more flour on it. There was a lot of flour flying in my kitchen this morning at 8:30. And I noticed that flour and beef juice makes a glue that is really hard to dig out from under your fingernails. Good times...

And so we wait. For pot roast or the pizza delivery guy...

Eat here, Get gas....

Aside from the fact that people are still trying to blow up planes, and this time with such materials as will necessitate my tasting my own breastmilk going through security to prove it's not an incendiary device, I have found yet more reasons to avoid contact with the outside world.

1. Bug bites. Before Ethan was a little peapod in my belly, I had some sort of anti-bug force field surrounding me which prevented me from being bitten by mosquitos or bugs of any kind. I swear, I had citronella coursing through my veins or something. It was fabulous--while those around me were swatting unsuccessfully at the hungry little buzzers and welting up under the onslaught, I sat undisturbed in the summer twilights, sipping my beer, not a blood-sucker in sight.

Fast-forward to this past weekend, where I spent both Saturday and Sunday evenings outside with friends. Apparently pregnancy does something to one's body chemistry (go figure--as if the horrifyingly expanding butt isn't enough of a slap in the face); if my body were a mosquito restaurant, it would have been sporting a neon sign, flasing the words, "Under New Management". Whatever went on in my body during pregnancy turned me into an irresistible culinary temptation for those disgusting little pests. I am awash in little red itchy welts.

I cannot adequately explain what a shock to the system bug bites are to a person unaccustomed to being an all-you-can-eat buffet to mosquitos. There isn't enough hydrocortizone cream or calomine lotion to take away the urge to scratch. There are about four bites on my left foot and at least ten times a day I am tempted to chew off my own foot at the ankle to get some relief.

And on top of my own agony, yesterday as I was admiring my napping little E, I noticed a tell-tale red bump on his otherwise perfectly soft and kissable forehead. A BUGBITE ON MY BABY???!! OH NO, THEY DIDN'T!! My poor little man, accosted by those heartless blood-sucking fiends!!! He, of course, shows no sign of even being aware of its existence and he certainly isn't Itchy McScratcherson like me, but STILL! A BUGBITE ON MY BABY, PEOPLE!!

When I'm done over-reacting, I'm sure I'll notice the vampire-like speed with which his skin bounces back and is once again bite-free. I am amazed by how quickly babies heal from scratches, acne and bug bites. Ethan can wake up with a patch of acne that on a teenager would require two weeks and an entire bottle of pro-activ to combat it; by lunchtime that patch of skin is again as smooth as....well, as smooth as his butt.

Speaking of his butt....I come to reason #2 why I should just stay home....

2. It wasn't me; it was the kid! My son has quite the talent. He passes gas like it was his job. He could enter a fraternity sponsered farting contest and put the beer-guzzling meat-heads to shame. He is good. In both volume and duration, it is a marvel; I had no idea babies were capable of such adult sounding bodily functions. It reminds me of that adorable one-toothed, diapered baby in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit", who looks so cute and cuddly when the camera is rolling and the second they shout, "Cut!", he is swearing like a sailor and smoking a cigar. That's my boy.

It's funny, but not so funny when you are, oh, I don't know, say, in Target, pushing the baby through the photo album aisle when he decides to let one rip. Especially when that aisle is full of people. People who couldn't possibly believe that the raging fart just ripped could come from that adorable little baby boy in the cart. People who believe it came from that vile. disgusting. shameless woman pushing the cart. Even when you smile at baby and say, "Goodness, little man! Excuse you!", they look at you like they aren't quite sure they believe you; like you might be the type of person who would pass loud, rambling gas in public and then blame it on an innocent, sweet infant. For shame....

So, to avoid the swarming mosquitos and the giant Scarlet "F", I think it's probably best if I stay inside until bug season is over and the bulk of winter clothing muffles my son's butt music...

You'll Be Hungry Again in an Hour...

Scene: I am changing Squirmy E at the wrong time. One can never tell when the surprise poop attack will sneak up on you. As I reach for the wipes, I hear the explosion. Then I see the results of it on the changing table. The following dialogue takes place...

Me: "Husband, you have to come see this! It looks like...like hot & sour soup!"

Husband walks casually into the room. Surveys the hot & sour soup like poo.

Husband: "We haven't had Chinese for a long time. We should order in Chinese tonight"

Husband casually walks out of nursery and back up to his office.

Clearly we need to get out more...

Three Months & Some Change...

Dear Ethan,

So I couldn't do my little monthly musing on the actual day you turned 3 months; forgive Mommy, she's been a little under the weather & on that day, a nap, rather than blogging, seemed essential to her very survival. But I am here now...

This month, as the other two, has flown by at an unbelievable pace. Partly I think it's because I was sick for almost half of the month, but also because I am realizing that when you fall madly in love with someone and want to squeeze the most out of every second together, the time/space continuum plays a dirty trick on you and speeds things up, so everything seems to whisk by before you've even noticed it.

Your Daddy and I are amazed at how much you are changing every day these days. Yesterday I decided to start packing up some of your preemie clothing, which stopped fitting you about 5 lbs ago. Being the big old sap that I am, I held up my favorite preemie outfit against you as you lay in your crib--it's neck came up to the middle of your chest--it was just so tiny. I can hardly believe you were ever that itty bitty, now that you are tipping the scales at about 10 lbs and turning into a pudgy little baby.

Your hair, which when you were born reminded us of a middle-aged comb over, continues to grow and fill in, leaving us wondering just what color it is going to be when it decides to settle down. It is dark, seemingly brown, but in certain lights it has mahogany red highlights in it that leave us wondering if a couple days in the sun might not turn you into the elusive redhead that hides within our families' genepools. It also has quite the mind of its own in terms of its daily style. Your pediatrician likes to take the hair on the top of your head and spike it up while he examines you (we LOVE him). Yesterday you had a bit of a "flock of seagulls" thing going on--a baby pompadour, if you will....you are stylin', my little man.

Your eyes are doing their slow change from deep blue to whatever color they are going to be. In some lights, they are already a honey brown. In others they are grey, greenish or still clinging to the blue they have no hope of retaining. Regardless of their color, they have been so attentive the past several weeks, watching Mommy and Daddy (particularly Daddy) so carefully. You make eye contact like never before and you watch our mouths as we talk to you. You have also developed a love of the TV; I hope it is the bright lights and primary colors that attract your infant eyes as opposed to the initial signs of a couch potato in the making. Please rebel against mommy and daddy in the future by watching way less TV than we do; if it weren't for TiVo, we might leave the house more often. Or maybe not. We try not to let you watch it, but sometimes when we are holding you, you manage to sneak a peak. I see years of "Don't sit so close to the TV; you'll hurt your eyes!!" in my future.

A couple weeks ago you did something amazing. You insisted on nursing basically every hour during the day for almost two days straight. Then you slept almost an entire day. When you woke up the next day, you were a new little boy, with smiles and half-giggles and an entirely new awareness of and interest in your toys. Rather than crying yourself awake in the morning, I got a real smile as you woke for the day and saw me coming to get you. Instead of 3-4 minutes on your play mat before melting down and needing to be rocked for hours on end, you now enjoy 10-15 minutes of kicking and exploring on the mat, bouncy seat or swing before needing to be rocked for hours on end (that hasn't changed so much). It's so much fun to watch you explore and imagine what is going on in that little baby brain of yours.

Then Mommy got sick and went to the hospital; those were the hardest days of parenthood so far for me. Mainly because I practically stopped being a parent. The day we went to the ER, my fever was 104 and I thought I MIGHT stay overnight one night. If I had known that I was going to be dragged into a blackhole of medicinal incompetence that would take me from you for six days and render my boobs virtually useless, I would have just packed myself in ice and taken the antibiotics I'd been given by my OB.

Since being home, we've had to readjust to eachother. Daddy did such a good job taking care of you while I was away that we really had to find our rhythm again and it took a little time. Of course, that's mainly because the milk-machine was on the fritz. Pumping and nursing weren't very compatible with a raging fever and short daily visits, so the boobs just about completely forgot that they have a job to do. We're working on getting the factory going again, ramping up production and working overtime. We have good days where everything is going to be fine and bad days that remind me of the very first times we tried to nurse. We are only at three months; I hope we get to the six month exclusive mark; the last week or so has really challenged that goal, but we're sticking with it.

Speaking of sticking with it, this is sort of a 3 month and 3 day thing, but your tummy time paid off earlier this week and you ROLLED OVER!!! Of course, I screamed at your daddy to come see, but not only was it all over by the time he got there, but your daddy nearly killed himself running down the stairs because he didn't know what I was carrying on about. Ooops. It was so exciting, though, to see you set your mind to something and accomplish it! Once you got over, you just sort of laid there, relieved it was over and happy to stare at your lamby mobile going round and round---you love that thing!

No pictures this time around, just because I want to get this published already and blogger's been a bitch about pictures lately. You know there are already albums filled with pictures of you! Next month I promise I'll be more on the ball and get your monthly update done before you head off to college...

Mommy and Daddy love you more and more everyday. I can't wait to see what the next month has in store for us!

i'm home...

Have been since tuesday when I basiclly begged and insulted the doctor "caring" for me. I'm not sure I adequately described these quacks to you, internet. My main doctor was a ditsy soft-spoken woman who told me she wasn't used to dealing with patients under 60. This put me about 25 years outside her comfort zone. She seemed truly disconcerted by my c-section scar and she was totally antsy everytime she came in when Ethan was there with Husband.

The other main doctor I saw, I couldn't pick out of a line-up. You see, he did his rounds after midnight. Yes, that's right. 12:30 am & my overhead flourescent lights burst on and there he is. I know he has a big head and is exceedingly pale (what with the vampiric hours he keeps), but that's really it. I haven't a clue what he did for me in the 5-6 days I was there. I just know he is the infectious disease guy.

So on Tuesday, when I started truly panicking that my son was forgetting he has a mother, I basically told the doctor of 60 year olds that she wasn't doing anytghing for me in the hospital that I couldn't do for myself at home. Truly, how hard is it to give myself tylenol every six hours and an antibiotic twice a day??? Granted, we are lacking MRI anf ultrasound machines at our house (space issues, you know...), but how many of those little amusemrnt park rides can you go through in one hospital visit? With an ultasound, MRI and chest xray, I really felt like that was enough superfluous medical gadgetry for one stay.

And here I am; at home. With my baby and Husband, away from the creepy vampire doctors and the med students who don't wash their hands or wipe down their stethescopes (did I mention that I got a cold while in the protective care of these professionals?)

I still feel like all kinds of crap, it's good to be home.