Eleven Months

Unbelievable, little man. In a month you will have been here, making us laugh and making us insane for an entire year. Sometimes your daddy and I still look at each other in wonder and say, "I can't believe we have a kid!" I mean, in what universe were we prepared for this?! That's one thing I've learned over these past eleven months--there's no way to prepare for the maelstrom that is babyhood. I have stood in front of the wall of books at Borders and Barnes & Noble trying to make sense of how and when a baby sleeps, when "they" say babies should roll, crawl, walk, speak, bang objects together, say "mama"--all of it just sneaky ways for the experts to make a quick buck off the clueless and terrified masses of new mamas and daddies. The learning is in the experience, not in the books, little man. Shhhh...don't tell your future teachers mama (the teacher) said that.

You are quite the mover and shaker this month. You started the month picking up the pace on your crawling. At first you were only willing to crawl to the closest possible toy and screw the rest of it. Now, you set a goal, whether it's a foot away or across the room and poof! You're off! You are in uber-curious mode these days--nothing holds your attention for more than a few seconds. One toy is only a momentary diversion from the next. Fortunately I can still woo you away from the stairs by banging on the plinky plunky bongos you got from Barb & Ryan for Chrismukkah this year. You see, we have baby gates for the stairs and doorways. We just haven't installed them yet. Minor detail.

Two major developments this month--you FINALLY left your days of gummy goodness behind and you have two teeth! Of course, they are taking eons to come in. We noticed the bumps and the split in the gums two Saturdays ago. And then the joys of hardcore teething kicked in--the fussiness, the "don't put me down; don't leave the room; HOLD ME! HOLD ME! HOLD ME!" of it all. Good times, my friends. Let me say these three magic words--Hyland's Teething Tablets, or as we refer to them in our house, Baby Ambien. Two of three of these under the tongue and 20 minutes later---limp, sleeping baby. It's my favorite recipe right now, folks. It wears off pretty fast, but by then the edge is taken off, he's groggy, and it's easier to convince him not to start freaking out again. That way he is able to get a little of sleep before the ache in his gums comes a'knocking again.

As happy as I am that you have some teeth, I have to say they aren't doing anything for our nursing relationship. Let me say this--my boob is NOT a chew toy, little man--stop treating it like one! Perhaps if you didn't find my saying, "No! Don't bite mommy!" so amusing maybe we could fix it, but you just giggle when you inflict pain on me. Not one of your most endearing qualities, I have to say. Not endearing at all. So we will see; I hadn't planned on closing down the boob cafe for awhile, but when you bite the boob that feeds, you make a strong argument for weaning.

It's okay, though, as you've started a new love affair with organic whole milk. You are now taking 2-3 ounces of it with each meal and a couple in between. I guess you are never going to be one of those 8-ounce bottles, 4 times a day babies. This may account for the fact that at 11 months you are just tipping the scale at 17lbs. But I am relieved that if indeed I have to shut down my little breastfeeding operation, you will be well taken care of by the cows.

Onto our other big development. Cruisin'! Well, technically you just cruised once today, consisting of two steps, from the little blue IKEA stool to your Fisher Price work bench, but it was cruising. And that means, walking can't be that far behind, can it? I shudder to think. You started by rocking back and forth as though you might actually be able to get from one spot to the next by sheer force of will. That didn't work. So then you were up and down on your tip toes for a few minutes, like you were desperately trying to remember what movement you've seen me use to get from one place to another. Then finally, one foot came up, slid over and came back down. I thought you might fall into a split for a second, but the other leg came up and moved closer to the first. A STEP! Followed by another and then a very graceful butt flop ended your first cruise. Very impressive, little man.

Now, I've had something on my mind and I want to get rid of it before your first birthday so I can just revel in the joy that is being your mommy from here on in. The first few months of being a mom were really tough for me and I'm so sorry that I wasn't always as good of a mommy as I wanted to be. You have a magnificent daddy and he really did so much when you were a newborn; I didn't really participate as much as I could have when you were first with us. I was overwhelmed and terrified of how tiny and helpless you were. I was lost in my new identity and afraid to ask for help. I cried a lot. I hid a lot. In my lowest moments, I wished this all away and for my old life to come back. Ugh. I hope you never read this. But if you do, I hope you realize that it wasn't YOU that I was hiding from or afraid of, or wishing away. It was my own feeling of unworthiness, of inadequacy.

I am so sorry that I missed out on those times. I am so sad that I can't get those hours and days with you back. I look at pictures of you as a newborn and my heart aches. I wish I had gotten help for my post partum depression earlier so I could have been more a part of those first months when you were so fragile and new.

Ahhhhhh, it feels good to get that off my chest.

So what does the next month hold in store for us? And the months after that? I can only imagine. I imagine that you will continue to amaze me with your charming personality and the new things you learn how to do. Every day is an adventure, little man.

Last swim class--check out my form! All I need is a float and a margarita.
Baby, you can drive my car.

These rings MUST go! They are ruining the entire feng shui of the table. Seriously.

Ethan's first trip to the tidal basin during the Cherry Blossom season (and opening day--Go Sox!)

See you next month, internet!

Hi from E!

Yeah, it's the cop-out post. The "I'll upload a cute picture of Ethan and they'll never realize I have nothing interesting to say" post.

Actually, I have TONS to tell you about & the pictures to go with, but right now they are all sideways and for some reason, my computer won't let me save them when they are rotated to the correct view. A.n.n.o.y.i.n.g. I will figure it out, though and then I will be back to dazzle with stories AND pictures....

Until then...do enjoy the little man's mug!

The Cow Fairy Came Early to our House...

All right. You probably remember the post where I mentioned my pediatrician suggested I starve my child to get him to drink formula right? I waffled between having the determination to go cold-turkey on the breastfeeding and whimpering in a corner that I couldn't deprive my baby of what he wanted.

I begged, pleaded, cried, hopped up and down on one foot (all fairly useless tactics when dealing with an infant), but this child was not going to take formula, no matter how much $$ mommy spent on fancy sippy cups with biteable spouts or bottles with nipples just like his pacifier. The joy of the paci, apparently, is that nothing comes out of it when he sucks on it. The paci is Zen for him--it just is. No formula allowed. And so, we acquiesced. He now gets formula in his oatmeal daily (along with a big old pat of butter and a DHA supplement), but we don't try to get him to drink it on its own.

We assumed the issue was with the mode of delivery--sippy or bottle. I began to have nightmares of introducing cow's milk at a year. If he wouldn't take a sippy of formula, how would I convince him to take a sippy of milk? What, we wondered, is this child actually going to drink? Is he waiting until he can go straight to Corona?? Because if so, he's going to have some thirsty years ahead of him.

So a couple of weeks ago, on a whim, I thought, "I'll just put some milk in a sippy & see what he does with it." Okay, it wasn't really that much of a whim, considering I had to go out and purchase the milk--we don't have full-fat whole milk just lying around in our home (although it would explain my lack of weight loss if we did). I plopped the sippy down in front of him at one of his meals and what do you know? The stinker drank it. I had to help him (he's still working on how to hold it since he never held a bottle, what with the direct line he had to the good stuff). But now he's getting to the point where he can pick it up and drink it on his own. Just a couple ounces at a time, but we're getting there.

Now, my dilemma is, you're not really supposed to start whole milk until a year. Allergies and all that. Harder to digest than breastmilk and formula, and all that. But he likes it. And it doesn't seem to be causing him any harm. Now rashes, eczema, tummy issues---nada. But I still feel like I have to keep it on the down-low in front of other mommies (clearly, internet mommies are the exception to ALL my rules) because it is just one of those things...

And when my pedi gives me the green light to start whole milk at the one-year visit, I will be a good girl and have all kinds of "nervous new mommy" questions about how to start milk and what to look for in the way of bad reactions. Then no one has to know that I've been sneaking my kid the cow-stuff since he was 10 months old.

Shhhhhh, don't tell!

Red, Red Wine...

Tonight, "play date" took on a whole new meaning. That's because the mommies went out, without the babies, to a place where they serve adult beverages. This group of women I've known since September, normally seen in yoga pants or jeans and t-shirts or sweaters, often wearing part or all of their child's most recent meal, and toting gigantic bags full of diapers, binkies and baggies of cheerios, cleaned up into a quite an attractive bunch of gals in dressy jeans, silky tops and in some cases, necklaces that would make their babies' fingers itch to grab and yank.

Sadly, I was not far off from my normally frazzled self as most of my girly clothes are either still 2 sizes too small for me or in the wash. But I made it. I got out of the house to socialize with my girlfriends on a Friday night! Yeah, baby!

Pathetic how exciting it was. At first I did the whole, "awwww, I don't wanna. Can't I stay home and lay on the couch?" routine of the recently socially inept. I used to be quite the go-out-and-party girl. I was all about Mojitos on a Friday night and Cosmos on a Saturday. And I could tell a story and get some pretty serious laughs (granted, drunk girls are an easy audience for laughs). Now, though, one glass of wine generally sets me a'snoring and a'blathering like an idiot. Teaching an infant to clap and sing "itsy bitsy spider" does not exactly exercise the parts of the brain that control sharp wit and conversation. So I have been a bit reticent to head back out there to the social scene.

Fortunately I did not cave to my inner Debby Downer. I went. Fabulous! It was so much fun to actually hold a glass of wine in my hand and talk, talk, talk. Yes, I tend to be a talker. Bet you couldn't tell from mah blog.

At one point, I noticed a group of attractive young men standing near us. Obviously a gaggle of pretty, dressed-up girls is going to get checked out at some point. I didn't point it out when I noticed them looking us over because I didn't want anyone to think I was trying to be flirty with them--I don't want to be the "Gabrielle " of the group (Seinfeld AND Desperate Housewives references in one post...I love me some pop culture). Anyway, there was checking out, specifically of the blondes I was chatting with. Well, there was checking out, until the guy closest to us and within earshot overheard us discussing the various qualities of our babies' diapers. Yeah, that will extinguish the fire in the loins of pretty much any being with testosterone coursing through it's system. Needless to say, that group of men left a little cartoon puff of smoke in their wake after they figured out we were a bunch of mamas.

No worries. My favorite men were at home, snoozing. After a lot of laughs and a couple glasses of wine (I was unable to convince any of the girls to have a glass of champagne & peach nectar with me--perhaps next time), I found myself happily bidding my friends adieu to head home to my men. As fun as it is to let loose with the ladies, there is nothing in the world as sweet as curling up for the night with Ethan and Husband.

Confessions of a Blog Delinquent..

Thank you, internet (specifically Amy), for poking me in the proverbial ribs to see if I'm still breathing. I am indeed. And I'm not even in the hospital with any weird illness, or curled up in my bed, in the fetal position hiding from the world, as I normally am when the blog gets cold.

Nope, just being a big old blog-deadbeat. As the Ethan who used to lay on the floor, occasionally rolling from one side to the other, playing with one toy at a time becomes the Ethan who crawls at warp-speed, going from one side of the room to the next, eying the staircase with an adventurer's lust and playing with every toy he owns in a 10 minute timespan, I find I have less and less time to sit on my fat ass to randomly post my mothering musings into the blogosphere.

I have also, praise be the change in seasons, managed to get my aforementioned fat ass out of the house and onto the jogging trail. Mama sunk a buttload of cash into a BOB Revolution jog stroller a couple of weeks ago and made a renewed vow to shrink dramatically. See, at first, I placated myself with the "9 up, 9 down!" mantra and for the first 6, went about scarfing down my grande soy chai tea lattes and blueberry muffins. Then suddenly, I was facing my 9th month post-partum and looking surprisingly....fat. Hmmmmm, I thought breastfeeding was supposed to just melt the baby fat away. I thought the weight would just fall off--it's not like I needed it for the baby anymore, right? Then as I rounded 10 months post-partum, I realized that I am hardly in any pictures with Ethan because Mama doesn't take a very good picture right now. And I thought---that's no way to be!!!

So here it is--I have 1.5 months to go until his birthday and I want to be at least 10 pounds lighter in his birthday pictures. And so, when the weather is nice, Mama and E hit the trail along the Potomac and I jog until I feel like my head is going to explode. Then I walk until I can breathe again and the searing cramp in my side goes away. Then I jog again. Good times. It had better freaking work. If anyone out there has some suggestions on how to drop the pounds (aside from 16 weeks in The Biggest Loser house), I'm open!

So that's what I've been doing--chasing after my cheeky little monkey and trying to melt my fat ass off. I promise to keep you posted on both more regularly, internet! I love ya!

Ten Months

How we started our month:

How we ended our month:

That hardly seems fair!

It's almost impossible to believe, but this time last year, I was sitting in a hospital bed, probably having just gotten a lovely steroid shot in the ass to get your lungs to hurry on up and mature, and now.....POOF! You're ten months old.

It's been a busy month, little man. I can't believe we were in Honduras a whole month ago, with your Tia Emi & Tio Pete snatching you away from us on an hourly basis, trying to teach you how to crawl; and now here you are zooming along the floor after kitties and rolling balls, and oh yeah, Daddy's blackberry, and anything that slightly resembles an electronic or electronic cord of some kind. You're becoming more of a handful daily; while I used to be able to blog or surf the web while you explored the world available to you at arm's reach, now I find myself throwing the computer aside as I throw myself between you and the power strip next to the television. Good times. Thank goodness Babies R Us has a big baby proofing section. And to think, I was *this* close to breaking the Babies R Us addiction.

Tio Pete passes right over the whole learning to crawl thing and starts thinking about Ethan's career as an Olympic swimmer...or beach bum.

Along with crawling, you've mastered the art of the "pull up". You started it last month with the whole "Look Ma, I could jump out of the pack and play!" stunt, but this month, you have taken on the coffee table, the jumperoo, the chair in the basement, the entertainment center, the built-in bookshelves in the basement and mommies legs. You are quite the puller-upper. Nothing cracks me up like watching you pull up on the coffee table while I am on the couch. I will sitting there watching you play on the floor and the suddenly you disappear from view for a moment. Next thing I know, I see two little hands on the coffee table. A second later, there's a forehead. And then the eyes...and the nose....and then the smile. It is too cute for words. You know it makes me giggle and you always laugh when you finally show your whole face.

The jumperoo is even more fun from this angle!

So I mentioned the basement--that's because this month, apparently right in the nick of time, Daddy & I got the basement carpeted so you'd have your very own little playroom. So far it's the best thing since sliced bread. You get to have your "a tornado of toys went through here" room and mommy kind of has her living room back to herself. It's lovely. The basement has a long way to go, but it's so great that you have a place that is totally safe and wide open to explore and play. I love watching you go from toy to toy, figuring out how they work, deciding which one is your favorite for the day. Yesterday you actually figured out how to steer the wheel on your English/Spanish ABC car. Very exciting stuff.

One other thing you've added to your repertoire this month is high-chair sitting. You were a pro in Honduras, in the little wooden restaurant high-chair. You've never been a fan of your big fancy Chicco high-chair, so we decided to get you a booster seat for home instead because they look more like the restaurant seats. And guess what? You dig it. So the fancy expensive high-chair sits in the corner, collecting dust. Fabulous. But at least you eat better now. And in restaurant high-chairs, which means Daddy & Mommy get to go out more often. Thank you!

Where's mah beer, wench?!

Speaking of eating, you've mastered the art of picking things up with your fingers and putting them in your mouth. Give you a tray and a handful of sweet potato puffs and there's nothing you can't do, my friend. Every time you pop one of those things into your mouth, you yell out in victory, and then "chew" it (you have no teeth and it dissolves, but still...) into oblivion. You're also enjoying a fine array of foods these days; we sneak you formula a couple times a day in the oatmeal. We ply you with yogurt and puffs and cheerios and veggie booty and shredded cheese. We put butter in your oatmeal and meats. You get two hardboiled egg yolks daily. And in the past two weeks, you've started getting little bits of everything that goes into Mommy & Daddy's mouths. In the past couple of days you've even been entertaining the idea of a sippy cup of formula with your breakfast and lunch. You don't manage to ingest more than an ounce of it, but Mama will take what Mama can get.

Sleeping is....well, didn't I say we weren't going to talk about sleep again until you were a year old? Yeah. Let's stick with that plan. I will say that this is the month we all started sleeping in a big king size bed and that, in and of itself, is very, very nice!

Today we took you to get your ten month pictures. They should have been nine month pictures, but we sort of dropped the ball on that one. You were supposed to go two weeks, but you had a cold & I didn't feel the need to immortalize your snotty nose forever with professional, expensive pictures. Then you were supposed to go last week, but Mommy was sick and didn't feel like dealing with the anxiety of picture-day while fighting the "hit by a bus" sensation of this year's rendition of the common cold. So we got to it today. Last time we went, you were just barely sitting unassisted. Today, you were all over the place, sitting, twisting, crawling, all the time totally irritated that I was trying to get you to hold still and constantly putting you back into position.




You've become an independent little boy, if you can even believe it. Between today's "Maaaaa, leave me be!!!" attitude at the photographer's, to the way you lose track of my presence while you're playing with your toys, it is clear to me that the high-needs, colicy baby of your newborn days is growing into a confident, independent little person. You still like to nap with me and you still love a good cuddle, thank G-d, but you also seem to love exploring on your own.

At play group, you are off and running, of course wanting whatever toys the girls are playing with and it's a riot to watch you all fall over each other to get the toy drum. I love watching you and thinking that these are your first friends and wondering how far we will all go together. Of course, you're almost the only boy in the group, so I expect you'll grow up either pulling on a lot of pigtails or being totally comfortable playing with dolls. Well, come to think of it, you did look lovely in pink the afternoon you borrowed Chloe's sweater because your super responsible mommy forgot to pack a change of clothes for swim class.

"How you doin'?" He's a big hit with the ladies...

In touch with his feminine side, Ethan models the latest in pink crocheted sweaters.

The thing is, little man, no matter where we are or what we're doing, you have the ability to make me smile, laugh and realize that there is nothing in this world more perfect and amazing than knowing that I get this front row seat to watching you grow up. Daddy laughs at me because I take pictures of you almost every day--he jokes that we'll need another house just for the photo albums. But I can't think of another way to capture everything you do and all the happiness you bring to us.

At least he's still a baby at heart...

Sure, he's crawling all over the place now, but given the choice between daddy's blackberry and a toy ball, the shiny toy ball still wins!

And the beat goes on...

So all that stuff about weaning and going hard-ass mommy on Ethan? Yeah. That didn't work.

There were several days of fighting and crying and nursing only limited to night time. Apparently my son is not interested in formula. Period. And it made no sense to me to starve my child to make my child eat. Call me crazy. Call me irresponsible for rejecting the advice of my pediatrician, but Mama's instinct is that the pediatrician isn't a nursing mom and knows nothing about babies but what a textbook can tell him. This is one of those things that falls under "trust your mama instincts" and I'm gonna. This of course means finding a new, more breastfeeding friendly pediatrician.

What we did do is research other ways to fatten the boy up and be sure he's getting his *brain* food. Ethan now enjoys hard boiled egg yolks, butter in his chow and fish several times a week. And how has he reacted to this new addition to his diet? In the past weeks, he has definitely put on weight; I can't tell you exactly how much, but the 3-6m stuff is finally snug on him and I can feel it when I lift him. I've toyed with the idea of purchasing one of those digital scales, but I know the obsessive compulsive in me would have him on that thing hourly and that doesn't make for a very fun mommy.

Apparently the mama-imposed nursing strike scared the bee-jeezuz out of the little man and now that my supply is on the mend, he is nursing for a full 5-10 minutes at a time. This does not bode well for the 2 RTS bottles of Similac sitting in my pantry, but that's perfectly okay with me.

So that's that update. All is well with that.

I'd love to be witty and go on to tell you about our first trip to IKEA, and how Ethan now crawls like a champ, pulls up on everything he can find, is desperately trying to say "kitty" and all that, but I am sick as a dog, in bed with a fever. This is all mama has the energy for right now.

See you in a few days for the 10 month review...it's gonna be a doozy.

Bye Bye, Boobie..

Well, at least bye bye to the boobie being the only beverage on the menu.

Ethan's 9 month "well check" didn't go, well, well. He is still, even with the copious amounts of solids we shovel in his mouth, just under 15lbs, which keeps him teetering on the edge of his already itty bitty growth curve. His head circumference is doing the same thing--growing, but not fast enough and falling off of his curve. Hrm....what to do?

Well, what to do is apparently supplement, supplement, supplement. Normally, I would "harummmmph" that advice, pump a little to get my supply back up, take a few fenugreek supplements and be lactating enough to nurse a small army of babies within a day or two, never touching a drop of formula. But this time there was a tone in the doctor's voice that led me to believe there is some urgency here. This is the first time head circumference and brain development has been mentioned. And, as sad as I am to admit it and as much as it goes against what I've always believed and been told, my breastfeeding alone just ain't cutting it for Ethan anymore. I know that from the fabulous digital baby scale my lactation consultant lent me last month; Ethan rarely gets more than 2 oz each time he nurses, regardless of how long he stays latched (which on a good day is 5 minutes at a time, even at night).

Truth is, the last few times I've done the pump and fenugreek shuffle haven't been as successful as they used to be. My supply goes up for a few days, but my only customer is too distracted by life to nurse for more than a few minutes at a time. That means, I could pump 24/7 and overdose on fenugreek and still end up with a mere trickle. Unless I start taking in other hungry babies to keep my supply up, it's going to go out of business. And as there is not much in the way of "wet nurse wanted" in the classifieds these days, it seems that my "breastaurant" (thanks for the term, Amy) is going to be going out of business earlier than expected.

Am I sad? Unspeakably. Don't even want to write about that part of it because I'll just sound like a big old drama queen (Yes, internet, I know. Please contain your snickers. I realize I almost ALWAYS sound like a drama queen).

But am I resolved to get my baby more calories even if those calories don't come from Mama? Yes. I could be stubborn and fiesty about it and refuse to supplement. I could. But I won't.

I gave breastfeeding nine months and I worked hard at it. I pumped exclusively for a month and then we worked through nipple shields and latch issues. I brought my supply back from the brink of disaster after spending a week in the hospital away from Ethan back in July. I tackled my own fears of nursing in public and have become a confident and successful breast feeder. It was harder than I ever thought it would be, but I stuck with it and I am so proud of that accomplishment. It isn't the year I had hoped for, but if exclusively breastfeeding for a year means starving my son, I don't really see the point.

The dilemma now is how to convince Ethan of this. See, he wants to nurse less and less these days, but he doesn't want to even consider adding a bottle to his day. Or a sippy cup. Or anything but the boob, on his terms. He'll hog down jars of baby food and yogurt if I let him, but he is, at this point, a one-beverage boy. So we struggle. The doctor said sometimes the only way to get a stubborn baby to take a bottle is to stop offering the boob. I know he's right; why would Ethan take that funny plastic thing with the weird tasting stuff in it when he knows he can get the *real* thing? But at the same time, the thought of becoming the boob-nazi and saying, "No! No boob for you!" is agony and spells certain absolute death to the milk machine. I'm not ready for that yet.

So our current plan is that mommy pumps a few times during the day to keep up that meager little supply she's got. Mommy & Ethan fight over which sippy cup or bottle is going to be acceptable and which formula is not too icky to swallow. Then we nurse at night. The goal is apparently 24oz in 24 hours, just as it was way back when. Yesterday I think I got about 8oz of formula in him after hours and hours of begging, cajoling and banging my head against a wall. We shall see what today brings. Wish us luck.

Tale of the cross-dressing narcoleptic...

...otherwise known as my son, Ethan.

Today was our water babies class. We were very excited because last week, instead of singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" in a cold rec center pool, we were splashing in the Caribbean. So you can see how it must have been a real thrill to get back to the pool, right?

Well, considering Ethan generally naps at 10am for at least an hour and the class starts at 11:40, that doesn't usually leave us oodles of times to dawdle between nap and class. Somehow we manage. There is a flurry of bathing suits (Ethan's, as well as Husband's and the expansive spinnaker worth of fabric required to cover my ass), swim diapers (just Ethan's), towels, changes of clothing, regular diapers (again, just for the baby) and then we all pile into the car. There's something very surreal about putting a bathing suit on your baby, then bundling him up in a hat, mittens and coat. Leave it to me to sign us up for a swim class in the dead of winter.

Today, in the midst of the activity, I forgot to pack Ethan's change of clothes. I took them off of him, put on the top of his bathing suit and then Husband took over so I could get ready. Husband finished dressing him and bundling him up. I put towels in the bag, new diapers in the bag and then said, "Okay! Let's go!" Apparently, I missed the part where I was supposed to go back into the nursery, gather up the dry clothes and put them in the bag as well. Oooops. That's a pretty big part.

The pool was lovely. Not "I'm jumping the waves under the tropical sunshine" lovely, but considering it is 28 degrees outside, you take what you can get. Ethan proves to us over and over again that he is indeed a water baby. My friend, whose daughter is in the class, says he always looks like he's just waiting for someone to bring him a margarita. This is especially the case when he's mellowing out on his back, resting his head on daddy's shoulder.

Perhaps, though, he took this mellow dude persona a bit too far this morning. Maybe it was because his nap was cut short by a few minutes to prepare for the class. Or maybe it was because he was resting his head on mommy as opposed to daddy (could I be the more soothing of the two? Doesn't seem likely, but I guess anything's possible). Whatever the reason, Ethan all but fell asleep during "float on your back" time in the pool.

This is the child who will not go to sleep at night. In a bed. Or a crib. Or anywhere, really, without extensive fussing and boo-hoo'ing. "Nope, no bed, thank you, Mommy. But give me a pool, crowded with other babies and cold water and an instructor shouting instructions in her loud instructor-y voice. Then I can really sink my teeth into a nap!"

Seriously? Seriously. He is proving to us over and over again that the louder and busier a place is, the better suited it is for him to fall asleep. The wedding in Honduras? 500 guests, a live band and copious cheek pinching--slept through it. Water babies class, cold water and screaming babies--slept through it.

It wasn't until I took my half-conscious baby out of the pool that I realized we were "sans" clothing. Feeling super smart, I fessed up to Husband and my friend happened to overhear. My friend with the baby girl, that is. My very prepared, well-packed, no short-cut taking, super mom of a friend with a baby girl. I *heart* her for being the organized one. She came to the rescue. See, she had actually brought her child in one outfit, changed her in the locker room into her bathing suit AND packed new, clean clothes to dress her daughter in after class. That means she had an extra set of clothes.

An extra set of pink clothes. A pretty pink crocheted sweater with a rounded collar and dainty pink buttons. Oh yeah, my son wore it home. But I don't think he minded, since he was fast asleep.

Houston, we have a crawler..

It's a wobbly crawl, a shaky crawl, an almost non-crawl, but it is a crawl.

Today around 5pm, Ethan caught a glimpse of his So Big! Elmo book just out of reach and decided he had to have it. There was much stretching and grasping until he realized finally that it just wasn't going to cut it. And seeming as he HAD to have the book right then and there (Elmo is baby crack, you know that, right?), he had only one choice. To get up on those hands and knees and get them coordinated, once and for all.

And he did. One hand came up and the corresponding knee followed. And then down again, an inch or so in front of where they started (right now you are wondering why you bother to still read my blog, if what you're going to get from me is a play by play of crawling, right? Sorry--I'm excited!) And then he did it with the other hand and knee.

He only got through 2 actual crawly movements before his back end decided it was done with milestones for the day. Thankfully he was within grasping reach of his crack pipe, I mean, book.

So, moms of those who have crawled, how long do I have before the place has to be 100% baby proofed? Because honestly, I think my entire house is a choking hazard right now. I see a serious trip to Babies R Us in our near, near future....

Six Weird Things About Me...

Okay, so after several days and a little consulting with Husband, I have come up with the six weird things about me...

1. I love to cut coupons, but I almost never use them. Seriously, I salivate at the thought of the Sunday paper because of the coupons. When we get home from Starbucks, I take out the insert, slowly leaf through the sale fliers and pull out the coupon booklets. On a good Sunday there are three booklets; on a bad one, none, which I will never understand. You horrible teasing coupon people, how could you be so mean? So I cut out the coupons, and organize them all in my little coupon organizer (oh yes...food, baby stuff, cleaning products, health & beauty and miscellaneous). Then before each grocery trip, I carefully go through and gather the coupons I might need. I have high hopes. BUT, it never fails that when I get to that product on the shelves, and I see the store brand, it is cheaper. Damn! If you went through my jeans or coat pockets, or the bottom of my diaper bag, you would find countless crumpled up coupons that I have rejected at the last minute.

2. I have to tap twice on the top of a can of soda before opening it. I don't know why. I think someone in college told me that it keeps the beer foam from spritzing out when you pop the top of the can. But really--when's the last time an undisturbed can of soda sprayed you when you opened it?

3. I count telephone poles. Fortunately, only when I am a passenger, but sometimes get totally obsessed with counting the telephone poles as we drive by them. I have since I was a little kid sitting in the backseat of the car. It made driving across country when I was 12 a real challenge.

4. I don't share food well. Yes, it's a little "Joey" of me, but I have a tough time sharing my food. I never realized it until I started eating sushi, which I am passionate about. Husband and I would go out with a big group and everyone would order tons of maki rolls. When the platters of rolls showed up, I would notice people taking pieces from the rolls I ordered. I don't get nasty about it or anything, but it causes me anxiety to watch someone else eat my food. Now don't get me wrong, I offer to share food all the time--it's only when someone takes without asking that I get a little panicky. Yes, it's very strange.

5. I am Jewish and went to Catholic schools for 11 years. The public schools in my hometown weren't of the greatest quality when I attended first grade, so from 2nd-12th grade, I attended St. Christopher, St Louis Jr High & Mt. St. Mary's High School for Young Women. I was the token Jew and was a minor celebrity. The first time I ever fainted was when Sr. DeSales asked me to come to the front of the class and recite a prayer in Hebrew. I was in 2nd grade and all I remember is opening my mouth to start the prayer and I woke up in the nurse's office. I also tried to take communion once during First Friday Mass and that ended badly, but that's a whole different post.

6. I have an extra toenail on each pinkie toe. Ick. Yes, I know. Each of my pinkie toes has this weird extra toenail on the outside of it. Always has. It can make pedicures a bit uncomfortable. I have to tell each pedicurist NOT to try to cut it off like it's some little callous. And some of them actually argue with me about it--"Oh, no, honey, I can get that off for you. You don't need it." And then they try. And it's like they are trying to peel off one of my toenails (because, duh, they are!) Generally it just takes one giant yelp of pain from me and they back off---it's not good for business to have your client screaming in pain while they're in your chair.

So there you have it--more weird stuff about me than you EVER needed to know. And now, I'd like to hear from Amy, Andrea, KMW & Becki.

Nine Months

This time last year, little man, I was lying in bed, wondering what the future would hold for us. There was a little stitch holding you in there and we were settling in for a whole lot of sitting around and waiting.

So how ironic is it that this is the month you have decided that sitting around is the last thing you want to do? I know I said it last month, but clearly you've shown me the error of my ways. You're still not crawling, but you will pull or roll yourself anywhere you want to be. You're the king of the reverse crawl; if only you knew how to situate yourself in front of whatever you wanted, you could crawl back to it in a matter of seconds. But no, instead I watch you eye your yellow and black striped ball desperately as you inch further and further away from it. I shouldn't, but I laugh. And then I try to help you scoot up to the ball, but you are already pretty independent and you don't respond well to the help. Your reaction? Your entire backside just plops to the ground in a "I'll do it myself, woman!" response. Fine. Have it your way. As a matter of fact, yesterday you rolled yourself right off the beach chair and into the sand in a mad attempt to grab your new favorite toy, the package of diaper-bag sized Huggies wipes, as they fell to the ground. You protested mightly with a mouthful of sand, but this is the price of having it your way. If I can't hold you 24/7 or help you get where you're going, you're going to take your share of diggers.

You've also ruined our best "put Ethan down when Mommy has to run to the bathroom" places, like your crib and your pack n' play because now you will pull up onto your knees and hang out the side. Fabulous. That doesnt' have "trip to the ER" written all over it, now does it? We lowered the bottom of the pack n' play, so it's a true play pen now. The crib is next, although I can still get away with putting you on your back in the crib and turning on the mobile. But that isn't going to last much longer because...

Ethan realizes there is a world beyond the pack and play...and starts planning his escape

You are also very interested in trying to sit up when you are lying down. At first you started trying to sit up when you were lying flat on your back. You might have abs of steel little man, but they aren't ready for that type of work out yet. So you've figured out that rolling to your side and then trying to pull up on mommy, or a pillow or whatever is handy that won't roll or run away from you (i.e. balls or the poor disgruntled kitties) is likely to be the way to go, but you've not yet mastered that. Usually something distracts you (i.e a ball or the disgruntled kitties) and you simply roll away onto the next adventure (and handfull of fur).

Yes, I am trying to teach you to be gentle with the kitties. And Abby is the peaceful little girl and joins us for our naps. She is of the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" camp and jumps up on the bed at naptime with us. She waits at the foot of the bed until your "I don't want to nap!" drama is done and then she curls up next to your sleepy little body and purrs. Penny is the glutton for punishment who wants to spend time with you when you're awake. Why, I don't know. It doesn't get her much but a few less clumps of fur by day's end. Sometimes you pat, sometimes you grab hold and pull like fur collecting was one of your milestones. "Let's see...rolling, check; pincer grasp, check; ripping kitty's fur out, one pudgy fistful at a time, check."

Speaking of pudgy fingers, you are a foodaholic these days. And I mean that in the best possible and least "you've got childhood obesity in your future" type of way. Last month I was having daily panic attacks because you seemed to be weight-gain challenged. We upped your solids to three meals a day, started mainlining yogurt into you and voila!!! You gained almost an entire pound in a little over 2 weeks. So the upside, you can totally gain weight without a problem. The downside? Mommy getting the "Bad Mom of the year" award because she didn't realize she was starving you with only two meals a day and all the boob milkshakes you can drink. I guess there was a part of me that didn't want to give up being your primary source of nutrition and then there was the part of me that was just plain dumb new mom and didn't realize that it was time for you to start eating more solids.

So we've tried a variety of chow this month. Big thumbs up to all the jarred foods you can get your hands on. Yeah, the stuff that one of your doctors says he wouldn't feed to his daughter's dog? You love the shit. Oh well. Vegetable beef puree, it is. In an attempt to give you protein, I flaked up some baked tilapia and put it on your high chair tray. Yeah, clearly fish isn't food to you. Neither are avocado or real bananas (again, Gerbers bananas rock your world, but the real stuff is shite). You are working on picking up your own food and putting it in your mouth, but unfortunately everything seems to stick to your fingers and it ends up being an exercise in frustration for you. You'll get there, babycakes. No rush.

And also to be filed under "getting there" is your sleep. Last month I sort of decided I would commit myself to not talking about your sleep and/or lack thereof because everyone's got an opinion and sleep seems to be one of those topics that really riles people up. Some of my best friends swear by Ferber, others by Sears. We have read all the books. And we know you inside and out when it comes to how you do or don't like to sleep. But still, somehow you seem to amaze us when you do something like lie down at night, smile at daddy, close your eyes and drift to sleep all on your own. It doesn't happen often, but it happened tonight and it is amazing. And now you're sleeping several hours at a time, waking up to nurse and then poof, right back to sleep. You sleep until somewhere between 7-8 am everyday, so it's hard to justify letting you cry it out when we're no longer technically sleep deprived and you're so happy during the day. We'll deal with the next sleep hurdle when we get to it, but for now, we're all pretty well-rested and content.

And what did we do with all this energy we have from being so well-rested? Well, we went to the zoo. Still, more for Mommy & Daddy than for you, but at least you didn't sleep through the entire trip this time, like you did in September when Grammy & Grampy came to visit.

I'm the cutest baby animal in the whole zoo...

We also went outside and played in our first snow! And by "played", I mean Mommy held you in your snow suit while you cried. Good times!

It's freaking cold, woman! Stop kissing me and get me indoors to a warm boob!

We also started our water babies class and made the leap from Mommies meeting at Starbucks once a week with their babies in strollers to a real, live play group. You got to roll around on the floor and swap toys with Katherine, Chloe, Kate and Lily. We went home with a Whoozit and a Lamaze fabric shape sorter that may or may not have originally been yours, but it's all good. After the first week of water babies class we realized that you were a smidge chilly in the water so we got you a skin suit

dude, surf's up, I am, like, so there...

and a wet suit to keep you toasty warm.



You are so cool now, it's ridiculous.

And this week we are in sunny Honduras, visiting family and soaking in the sunshine. You're having a blast sprawling out in the king size bed with mommy and daddy and jumping waves in the warm ocean and lying underneath palm trees. Life doesn't get much sweeter, little man.

mmmm, sandy fingers...

contemplating life as a beach bum...

More water! More waves! More sand! Bring it on!

Okay, nevermind. No more water, waves and sand. I need a nap...

Ethan & Tia Emi enjoy the big wedding, moments before Ethan falls asleep amidst all the merengue music and cheek pinching associated with a 500 guest Honduran wedding. Who needs Ferber?!

Oh, and another thing...

Lorena tagged me for a "6 weird things about me" MeMe. I am working on it, Lorena! I'm trying to narrow it down because really, I could go on forever.... ;-)

Flashback

Today, more proof that I am indeed old. First, one of the girls on my Attachment Parenting message board posted a "prom picture photo challenge" and I had to go digging through all of the pictures on my hard drive to locate one or two pictures of me in all my 1980's permed glory. I only have those gems on my computer because Husband made a lovely "through the years" slide show montage of our lives apart and together for our wedding rehearsal dinner. Believe me, if I had half a braincell in my head, I would have burned the pictures year ago. I mean, the hair, the make up, the dress. The hair. Yeah, yeah, I know you're dying to see it...go ahead. Laugh. Laugh out loud, internet. You know you want to. It's good stuff. But you know what? If you go back in your own photo albums, you're going to find something just as bad, admit it.



This is my sophomore semi-formal. Yes, that's only "semi" formal to a teenage drama queen. Dig the perm. Dig the rad gloves. And what voltage battery did that dress run on, exactly? It was very, very shiny. At the time, I remember feeling quite glam. Now, it's a bit more circus side-show than fashionista, but the 80's were not the height of good taste and style, now were they?

(My prom pics are off limits as I am posing with my then best bud, and considering I haven't spoken to her in almost half my lifetime, it's probably not cool for me to be splashing her picture all over the internet.)

Then, after that reminder of my former hair-challenged bliss, as I drove to a friend's house this afternoon, a Bon Jovi song came on the radio. I was, in my day, what you might call a bit of a metalhead. Well, a glam-rock metalhead. I couldn't name one Black Sabbath or AC/DC song for you, but ask me about Poison, Skid Row or Bon Jovi and I can tell you, sadly at great lengths, about their albums, their videos (this is back when MTV actually played music videos) and how many times I used entire cans of AquaNet to adequately shelac my hair for their concerts. And about the boys I dated who had long hair and played in bands and shared earrings with me. And, don't tell Mom & Dad, the mini-skirts and questionable tops I shoved into my bags before leaving the house and changed into almost as soon as I got out of the door. Yes, I didn't drink, smoke or do drugs in my teens, but I certainly did dress like a hooker. Well, Madonna was our fashion icon and after wearing a school uniform for 5 days a week, we were all dying to look potentially promiscuous, regardless of how chaste we actually were (and sadly, we were).

So anyway, the song comes on the radio and my first impulse is to turn it up, start shaking my hair and belt out the song full-blast. But one quick peek in my rear view mirror and I see, Ethan is snoozing ever so peacefully in his car seat. Who would have thought fifteen (okay, twenty) years ago that the girl with the B.A.D. perm and the fringe-armed jean jacket and miniskirt would be driving around in her Nissan Murano, a soccer-mom in training, whispering the words to "Runaway" because...shhhh, the baby's sleeping.

Are you freaking kidding me?

No tooth.

A tooth, a tooth, my kingdom for a tooth!!

The screaming. The drooling. The screaming. The bright red cheeks. The screaming. The entire contents of our house going into his mouth. Have I mentioned the screaming?

Our son has no teeth. Well, we're convinced they're in there somewhere, because they torment him daily. But just where they are in there, who can say? Ethan started "pre-teething" (pediatrician code for months of fussiness with no explanation, have fun with that!) back at about four months. We are closing in on nine months. That's 5 months of intermittent unexplanable fussiness, folks. A whole lot of fuss.

Husband & I have cleaned Target out of Baby Orajel. We have tossed the regular strength kind and only give him the "overnight" orajel, which by it's name you'd think contained some sort of baby unisom, but it doesn't. It just has 5% more of it's numbing agent. We have the q-tips filled with orajel that you snap and then rub on his gums. Husband has to do it because I am a useless sissy when it comes to grabbing Ethan and shoving my fingers in his mouth. The orajel seems to take the edge off, like an aspirin or two might take the edge off if you chopped your finger while slicing a bagel. Yeah, it's that good.

We've tried Hyland's teething tablets, which are a homeopathic treat that melts in his mouth and tastes like pure sugar. It seems to calm him down momentarily which is lovely if he wakes up from a dead sleep, screaming. The drawback of Hylands is that it contains the herb belladonna, which after a brief visit with my friend Google, I find is...oh, deadly. Yup. Deadly. So that's a good herb to put in an infant's teething remedy, no?! Well, to be fair, we'd have to give Ethan the equivalent of about 12 bottles of the pills to actually do him any harm, but still. I do give them to him on occassion, but I always stay with him after I do because hey, I'm neurotic.

Today there was much fussing. Today for the first time I was able to entice Monseiur Fussy with a mesh feeder of ice AND his Nuby icy keyring. He is starting to look for cold things to put in his mouth. His father has an addiction to popcicles and a few nights ago introduced Ethan to them. Yes, now that we've broken the seal on the world of solid foods, there's nothing we won't shove in his face in an attempt to fatten him up. But if it's cold, Ethan wants it in his mouth now until the heat from his own gums warms it up-then it's got to go. I got quite a bit of mileage today out of a spoon I stuck in the fridge for 10 minutes.

His cheeks are pink and he leaves a path of drool everywhere he goes. He has woken up 5 times tonight (he went down at 7:30 and it's 10:30--yes, 5 times), each time like he has been lit on fire. Only a mega slathering of Nighttime Orajel will stop the hysterics.

So all this means the popping of a tooth is imminent, right? I mean, it haaaaas to be. There are only so many screaming wake ups and puddles of drool a mommy and a daddy can take before they start ripping out tufts of their own hair.

And besides, I cannot fathom anything more precious than his smile with a tooth sticking out of it. Give me strength, I might have to eat him up!

time for some re-arranging...

At least for our living room. See, our house isn't what I would call spacious. When we were looking for homes, we saw and bid on several cathedral-ceiling'ed, ginormous family room'ed abodes, but smarty-pants that we are, we bought our house during the height of the seller's market. Those spacious mansions went to people who sold their souls or bent over the barrell just a smidge farther than Husband's and my pride would let us.

Seriously, we lost one drool-inducing townhome to bidders who were willing to give the current owners FIVE MONTHS of free rent back while they awaited the completion of their new home, which I can only imagine had gold-plated toilet seats and a full compliment of live-in help. That means those buyers were willing to pay their own mortgage or rent while they also paid the current mortgage on the townhome. Who has that kind of money?? Who, in good conscience, asks other people to pay their way for them for five months??!! Wherever they are now, I hope they have lousy plumbing and a butler who steals.

We lost another bid to someone with a blank escalation clause--this means that the other bidder was willing to pay 2K above whatever the highest bid was. How do you beat that??? duh. You don't. You take your sorry ass home in a sling after it's been handed to you buy Money-Bags Magee. Freaking show-off.

So our first home is modest. Only 2 miles outside of Georgetown and a short walk from a lovely shopping center we call the Yuppie Trifecta (Pottery Barn, Crate & Barrel and Whole Foods--with a little Starbucks thrown in for good measure). The location could not be more prime and that's what it's all about, right? Location, location, location!! But like I said, it's modest.

And as our family grows, we need more, umm, space. Well, Husband and I don't need space. We have all the space we require. We're simple folk. It seems, however, that our son is amassing quite a collection of stuff. It's not like I can blame him, really, what with me being the one doing the actual selecting and purchasing of baby gear and goodies. But he doesn't try to stop me, so he's partially responsible, right? A simple, "hey, mom; don't sweat it! Just give me your water bottle and I'll be happy for hours!" would suffice to keep me from buying yet another Fisher Price stacking toy or Lamaze shape sorter. But no....he just squeals and babbles and mommy interprets that as, "I want! I need!"

So to accomodate this bunch o goodies, Husband & I have decided to finish our basement and turn it into a lovely haven for all the little purple turtles and green hippos and Dr Seuss books and jumperoos and Whoozits that my son calls friends. We have made two trips to Lowes to investigate the types of carpet and padding available to us (apparently the options are seemingly endless) and to set up estimates, installation and a partridge in a pear tree.

I'm beyond words excited to have the basement finished. You should see the state of my livingroom right now. As I gaze around the room I see a pack n' play filled with toys, a giant bag of laundry just waiting patiently for me to fold it, a car seat complete with jjcole bundle me and blue bumble bee flair, a stepping stool that says "Ethan" on it, a bumpo seat that we've never used (want one?), a baby Einstein jumperoo with the seat pulled up from the last time I lifted our Olympic jumper out of it, a coffee table scattered with the aforementioned multicolored zoo animals (purple turtle and green hippo), and on the floor--a big old electrical breast pump. And people wonder why we don't have dinner parties anymore.

Today my play group met at one of the girl's church playrooms and it was all carpetted and brightly lit and toys were everywhere and babies were happy. There was much crawling and rolling and squealing and drooling without a coffeetable or a hardwood floor in sight. It was fabulous.

The drawback? In spite of the mess that is my livingroom, the basement is one of Dante's circles of hell. It is where we throw things when people are coming over, or the hallway closet is full, or...it's Tuesday. it's a mess. Basically there is a path from the stairs to the laundry machine and back again. On either side of the pathway---it's really anyone's guess what's living there. And sometime in the next two weeks, Husband and I have to clean that disaster. I am so not looking forward to that. I would love to hire someone to clean it, go get a manicure and pedicure, and return to find a spotless and beautifully organized basement ready to be carpetted. Sadly, I don't think Martha Stewart hires herself out for weekend basement projects. That bitch is so uppity since she got out of prison.

I guess that means it will be Husband & me, up to our knees is who knows what that we threw down there god knows when. Should be a blast. I'll keep you posted.

Confessions from an Incompetent Cervix Mama...

I want another baby. Not right this minute. But I do.

I should preface this by saying that little E is the light of my life; there is not a minute that goes by that I am not insanely grateful to be his mama. Even when he's screaming after a 20 minute nap or spitting carrots in my face (of course, he lurved the carrots the last half dozen times I've given them to him, but whatever) or snubbing my breast like it was a flaming pile of poo, I am grateful through my frustration. Who could ever believe that I could have had a part in making this strong-willed little cheeky monkey? I find myself wondering, "what would the next one look like? Act like?" But right now, our hands are so full and our brains are so tired, it's just not something we would even think about before Ethan can at least sleep through the night (that alone might take me all the way to menopause, I am well aware).

And I realize how lucky I am to even have Ethan. So many women with IC lose their babies before they even know there is danger. And some women are cursed by the universe never to even know the joy of the two pink lines on a pregnancy test and the feeling of a baby moving inside them. I am the luckiest woman alive. I know that.

But I want more. And I can't have that. Husband and I don't get the giddy joy of sitting down to say, "When you want to start trying again?" and the anticipation of trying. Again, I realize for some that anticipation is agony because it always leads to disappointment. I, on the other hand, am cursed with the knowledge that I am Fertile Myrtle and could probably say, "I want a November baby!" and get one. I am very sad when I think that I will never feel another baby dancing a jig on my bladder, or trying to burrow his way out of me through my back or my ribs.

I suppose I shouldn't have titled this "confessions from an IC Mama" because if it were just the IC, perhaps we'd take the leap and see what the next time would bring. Worse case scenario for IC for us would be a scheduled cerclage and complete bedrest. Honestly, bedrest was harder on Husband than it was on me. Especially now, I relish the idea of lounging all day and snuggling with Ethan. It's almost what I do each day anyway, right? But the idea of asking Husband to go through all that again, especially if there's hospital time---eh, that's just not right.

But it isn't just the IC. It's the gestational diabetes that gets worse with each pregnancy and makes Type II diabetes more likely in the future and for the rest of my life. It is the uterus with the integrity of tissue paper that would necessitate a super early c-section delivery and make NICU time an inevitability. It is, joyfully heaped onto these already compelling reasons to make an appointment for a tubal ligation, the fact that any pregnancy from here on in would get slapped with the label, "high risk due to advanced maternal age." That's the obstetrical world's way of saying, "Hey, you too old to be havin' babies, lady." And with my elderly ovaries blasting out eggs who knows what I'd get. Ugh.

There are just too many reasons for us not to even think about conceiving again. There are NO good reasons for us to even have a discussion about it. But there is something about knowing I'll never carry and give birth to another baby that makes my heart ache. Hopefully that ache will fade with time.

Until then, I have this to enjoy, so that really puts it all in perspective in so many ways, right? :

Gerber's Garden Vegetable, yes. Hummus, not so much, Mama...

Water Baby

Today we started our Water Babies class and introduced Ethan to the wild wet world that exists outside of his aquarium bathtub. Actually, it was very much like his bath time, but in a really, really big tub. And instead of being naked, he was in swim diaper that are too big and swim trunks that are too big. This is the joy of having a small baby; nothing fits. And with the fear that the pool people would oust us from the facility due to the gaping space between our son's bathing suit and his body, we raced to CVS to find safety pins. And we safety pinned up his suit. Quality.
Husband spared me the horror of cramming my ass into a bathing suit and took one for the team. Hence, I had the awesome responsibility of capturing the future Olympic swimmer's first foray into the shallow end. I have no doubt that I was super annoying to the dad in the bleachers with the camcorder; I'm pretty sure I am forever a part of their family movies as I was bouncing back and forth along the edge of the pool taking pictures. He was trying to capture his son in the pool as well, but you know what? You park your ass on the bleachers, you must not want it badly enough; get up and walk around, fool! That's your kid splashing around in there! I feel a little badly about it (mostly because my ass must be gigantic in their film), but oh well. Snooze, lose.

Ethan flirted with INSTRUCTOR (whose name I actually think is Jenny) just like he flirts with everyone from the smelly lady behind us in the grocery line to the nurse in the pediatrician's office right before she betrays him with a big giant needle o' immunization. His flirting really knows no bounds. I'm pretty sure I've caught him making eyes at his Mr. Whoozit when he thinks I'm not looking. He's shame. less.
There was much playing with toy boats and singing "The people on the bus" & "Itsy bitsy spider." There was copious splashing & kicking. There was water swallowing. Lots of it. Ethan's insides are adequately chlorinated until this time next week, so that's good news, right?

Ethan loved the water (unlike the girl next to him who spent the entire. freaking. time. screaming her head off like she was on fire (also probably went over really well in the bleacher dad's epic film). He never once complained and was often smiling and really enjoying himself. This was until his lips started to turn blue and I could see his...I want to say teeth, but he has none...chattering and his arms shaking. I then went into neurotic psycho mom mode and decided that he was moments away from hypothermia and needed to get out of the pool NOW! Husband thought I was silly. Husband usually thinks I am silly. He is right 95% of the time. This was one of those times. On the way home I recalled my own childhood fixation with the ocean and how I could only be hauled out of the waves on pain of death, regardless of my blue chattering lips and my horrifically pruney fingers.

An unexpected perk of the "swim class" was that after all the splashing and kicking and water swallowing and toy boat chasing, Ethan was practically falling asleep as we changed him out of his swim trunks. If only we could bottle this and take it out at 7pm each night. That's it; we're putting in a pool in our basement.

Memories of the 'bad news room'

This time last year, I had my "big ultrasound". The "fun, watch your baby bounce around inside you and check to see that all is right with the world" ultrasound. I can so clearly remember how excited we were to see our little pea pod doing his thing & as my cervix had been behaving up until that point, I had no reason to think we were in for any surprises of the negative kind in those 45 minutes.

Instead, we ended up in the quiet, dimly lit, kleenex-box laden "waiting room". Just Husband, me and a phone. Waiting for my OB to call and tell me that my cervix was funnelling and that I was going to go in for surgery in 3 days to sew it shut in hopes of saving my pregnancy. That ultrasound was pretty much the last time I left the house except to go to a doctor appointment or the hospital for the next sixteen weeks.

So tonight as I was laying down with Ethan, trying yet again to get him to fall asleep before midnight, I didn't find myself frustrated or angry or wondering what the hell I was thinking when I thought, "Babies are so cute! I have to get me one of those!" I simply thought, good God, do I love you, little man. And hugged him tight.

Images on a theme...

Here are some things my son will put in his mouth besides yogurt...

mmmm--plastic toy. Good for digestion.

Funny, this doesn't taste like a blackberry...

This would be tastier if it were covered in yogurt...

This is what I think of your "mixed vegetable dinner", ma. Bleugh. Give me the freakin' yogurt and no one gets hurt, mkay?

No bottles or sippies for me, please. I prefer the more sophisticated water bottle. Cap on, please.

I don't know where they've been, but they're tas-tee

De-lurk, you lurkers! Let me feel the love!

It's De-Lurking week, internet. I didn't realize it until today when I started reading other blogs discussing this little tidbit. So I expect a lot of internet validation on this post, people. Say something to me!

Today's topic: trying to convince my son that food is...well, food.

We started solids quite awhile ago. There was the great cereal boycott of November '06. And who can forget the terrible butt-stoppage of the holiday season? Then miraculously, cereal became palatable to the little man. This was of course, after I made up some pretty silly songs and dances about how yummy cereal is and ate approximately my son's body weight in single grain rice cereal to prove that it is indeed food. Well, baby food. Because let me tell you, that shit ain't meant for consumption by people who know any better.

Then, feeling bold and audacious, Husband & I decided to add fruit and veggies to the repertoire. Really, how tough can it be? I mean at least the pears taste like something remotely identifiable as pears, unlike the cereal, which really should be labeled "mushy cardboard--your child's first food". Well, one the first day, pears were a success. Again, there was much song singing about the scrumptuous pear and perhaps a dance or two while noshing on a plastic multicolored spoon full of that pear-y goodness. Ethan ate the pears with delight; his mouth open and waiting for each bite---very exciting!

But then, the next day--pears were spit out at me like they were a day old tuna casserole that had been left out in the sun. Yeah, that good. What the hell, little man?!! If you like it one day, you have to like it the next day, too. Those are the rules. Can you imagine if one day sushi was your favorite food of all time and the next day it was vile to you?! How does that happen?

And so it goes. With pears. And applesauce. And peas. And greenbeans. And plums. and prunes. And carrots. And sweet potatoes. There is no way to know from one day to the next if yesterday's tasty treat will be today's tantrum.

There are two exceptions to this Ethan rule. Puffs and yogurt.

Puffs are those little melt-in-your-mouth finger foods with the faintest hint of flavor. Again, they are only deemed worthy if Mama eats two or three first. Then, I will break them up into a million pieces because even if they dissolve on contact (or within seconds), my son would be the only one in the history of the world to choke on a puff. The only problem with puffs is that their dissolvability makes them a sticky little mess and more of them end up stuck to Ethan's hand than his tongue. But, if this doesn't sound too mean, it's pretty funny watching him try to get the sticky puff piece off of his fist and into his mouth. It's rarely successful, but it makes me giggle. And don't worry, I help him get a few in his mouth before we move on to the yogurt.

Yogurt is the mother of all foods to this little man. If my breasts could somehow churn out blueberry yobaby, this child would be in heeeeeeeeaven. Alas, I am a one trick pony and so we go to the dairy section of the grocery store for the food of the baby gods. The anticipation of yogurt gets feet kicking and fists flailing. There are protestations if Mama isn't fast enough with the next spoonful.

I am tempted to give this child nothing but yogurt because it is easiest and he luuuuuurves it so much. And because I don't have to dance around like a fool, making up songs about yummy nummy yogurt...

Eight Months...

You are eight months old today, monkey. Is it wrong that I'm already imagining your 1st birthday? Believe me, I'm not wishing the time away or anything like that--every day with you is more amazing than the day before (unless of course, you are being a Grumpy Gus, then I'll take the day before, please). But you are so silly, giggly and happy these days, and so fascinated by everything going on around you, I can only imagine how fun it will be to give you balloons and noise makers and cake.

This month was a bit of a whirlwind. We started the month by getting our first "holiday shrubbery". You were less than impressed. Daddy and I fretted and fussed over balsam and douglass and this one being too high, that one being too scrawny. Nothing like a couple of Jews trying to bridge the cultural gap into secular Xmas. You simply hung out in your bjorn, checking out the scene. No big whoop. And when we got the tree home, and decorated it? Still--no big whoop. Maybe next year?

Daddy & I got to go out on three dates this month--pretty impressive! So you got to spend time with Auntie V, Uncle Jamie and Miss Chloe, Chrisanne & Jason and Grandma Judy & Grandpa Harry. You didn't sleep a whole lot for any of them, but you were happy and you didn't scare anyone away! I love how good you are with others; you are completely content with the world as long as someone's holding you--for the most part. I, on the other hand, find that I spend most of my date time fretting about how you're doing. Mommy is a cliche...

We started hearing more of your voice this month. You are saying "mamamama" and "dadadada", but you have no clue what they mean. I am certain of this because often you will unlatch from nursing, look thoughtfully at my breast and declare, "Dada". We find ourselves so eager to hear you speak and communicate with us. But I also feel a sense of nostalgia for the noises of the past--the freaky teradactyle sound you made as a preemie/newborn; the sneeze-scream from the early days when you freaked yourself out with the sound of your own sneeze. Even the irritating whine you started with last month which seems to have gone the way of the dodo is locked away in my "weren't those cute little noises?" vault for safe keeping. Now, when I hear a new born cry in the grocery store or at the mall, I am amazed at how far you've come. Your cry is now that of a little boy's, not a tiny baby's. It is staggering. When did that happen?

You're still a little munchkin of a thing. At a weight check the other day, you had fallen off the weight chart. But our friend Vergie let us borrow a really good digital scale and we are weighing you obsessively. We're now doing three meals a day of solids and let me tell you, if you could eat yogurt all day, you would. I gave you your first taste of it today and unless there was yogurt IN your mouth, you were not happy. You went through almost an entire cup of it. That is fine with me, little man. I am this far from mixing lard into your food to get you beefed up, so if it's yogurt you want, it's yogurt you'll get. Let's just go into this knowing that you won't be getting a Twinkie in your lunchbox when you're older, okay? The high-sugar and high-fat foods are just for now because if you don't pork up before you start crawling and walking, you're going to waste away to nothing. Can't have that, little man. Eat up!

Speaking of crawling, walking and the like--you are in perpetual motion. I'm not kidding. If you aren't unconscious, you are moving. There's no such thing as sitting still in your world. Peaceful repose is for sissies. Your big thing right now is getting up on your hands and knees and rocking, rocking, rocking. You''ve figured out how to scoot your bottom half forward on your knees, but you don't know how to get your arms moving to actually get forward. End result? Your knees get too close to your hands, totally throw off your center of gravity and you face plant mere centimeters away from where you started. By next month's check in, I'm sure I'll have another half dozen grey hairs from trying to keep up with you. Just this evening, you got up on your knees in the pack and play in the living room and draped your arms over the side...

You went on your first airplane ride this month, too. What a champ. I was a way bigger wimp than you because of my head cold and bursting ears and all. You just nursed and napped and flirted and watched the world below glide by. it was lovely and I hope you remember this for the trip to Honduras next month. This flight was only 1 hour. That one will be almost 6. Daddy had some sort of revelation and booked us first class to Honduras, thinking that would make you more comfortable (because mommy's lap is cushier in 1st class, I guess), so let's try not to irritate the snobby rich folk, okay? Actually, on second thought, feel free to scream it up.

You met a lot of your cousins and many of mommy's friends this month, too. You won't remember them from this meeting, but I really hope you get to spend lots of time with them as you grow up. It was so amazing for me to see the house filled with babies and small children and to actually be a part of it. You give me such a sense of wholeness, little man. Like I am finally who I was alwasy meant to be.

Let's talk a bit about sleep, shall we? I have to tell you, if I could stay at a hotel with you every night, I would. You sleep like, well, a baby in a hotel. We can't figure it out. Five, six hour stretches without waking up. Are you THAT sensitive to how firm or soft a mattress is? Really? Can you think of more area of life to be finicky about? Anyway, you apparently loved our mattress at that hotel and tricked us into thinking you had turned a sleep corner. Ha. Ha. You're pretty funny. No such luck. Why, why, why do you hate sleeping so much?! We are on the edge of having to go through Cry-it-out, even though both of us would rather chew off our own arms than do it. Beleive me, if gnawing off one of our own limbs would help you sleep, it would probably be on the table before CIO. This is how much we don't want to hear you cry; but you know what? You cry anyway. So what can we do? ugh. I promise you and the readers, if and when we do CIO, there will be no posts about it. I can't even bear to think about it. Please sleep, little man!

The evolution of your gestures is endlessly fascinating to me (how's that for an abrupt transition?). Last month you started rubbing your hands on everything to feel it's texture. You'd touch with your fingers and then close your hand on top of the object, running your fingers over it. It looked like, you guessed it, you were waving. Now, you make that same motion in the air--a real wave. Alas, just like calling my boob "dada", though, you have no idea what you're doing. You wave at yourself while you nurse. You wave at the air while you are lying down. I am trying to wave at you a lot and say "hi!" and "bye bye!", so you'll figure out what that motion actually means. Until then, you can just keep waving backwards at me while you're nursing.

I will close this month's check in by describing my two favorite things you do. One is the gigantic open-mouthed slobber kiss. Especially when you are tired, you grab my face by the cheeks, the ears, my hair--whatever is available--and you smash your big wet mouth onto my face. Sometimes you get my mouth, sometimes you get my nose (on more than one occassion I have thought I might drown in your drool). It is the sweetest, most loving thing and while I can't wait for you to give real kisses, I hate that this will stop (although I concede it would look odd and people would stare if you did this when you were 15). The other thing is the laughing when Daddy or I wrestle with you. You LOVE to be thrown around and nuzzled and raspberried. Your little body can't contain the giggle and it comes out sometimes as a real belly laugh and sometimes as a caught breath and then an Ernie laugh (yes, as in Bert & Ernie). I love it. I love you.

Smooches, Mommy

Have I talked about my son's butt?

And it's inability to poop?

Well then I think I will now.

As mommies, we tend to obsess about poopy diapers. Before I had Ethan, I found those Hallmark cards about changing diapers and the jokes about how fascinating poops were about to become so....silly. Not me, I thought. A poop's a poop. And who's going to inspect a diaper for poop analysis anyway??? Hell, I'm going to take a deep breath, rip that sucker off, throw some powder in the general direction of my baby's butt and get that new diaper on PRONTO!

Nice plan. However, I soon realized that understanding baby's poop is a vital component of understanding baby's health. Damn it.

So Husband & I oooh'ed and ahhh'ed the poopy diapers our son produced like it was his job. Early on, it was 4-5 times a day. The boy was a machine. Then, maybe once a day; and later still, once every 2-3 days. All totally "text book". Fabulous. A perfectly functioning butt.

And then came the solid foods--the cereal, the veggies, the fruit. And as soon as those foods went in, the poop stopped coming out. For days. For a week. There was much grunting and straining.

So as much as he wanted to eat (not a fan of cereal, but bring on those pears, mama!), we stopped the solids. Because when prunes and prune juice dont' make you poop, there's something wrong with yer butt.

We went back to the good ol' days of the boobilicious milkshake as the solitary source of food. It took 2-3 days, but we finally hit the jackpot--a poop the size of Lake Michigan. Unless you've checked diaper after diaper and gotten zip, zilch, nada, zero, you can't really "get" the thrill (yes, I said "thrill" people--someone come rescue me!) of seeing the business end of a serious poop in your baby's diaper. Finally!

slowly we went back to solids. We reintroduced cereal and, true to his "keep you guessing" nature, this time cereal is the caviar of all baby foods. He can't get enough of the stuff. We're sloooooowly adding fruit back into the mixture in the form of juice. Yes, I know---*gasp*---all that sugar!!! Well, let's talk about how my kid is still in the 3rd percentile for weight. I'd mix pure lard into his cereal if I thought he'd eat it.

Woulnd't you know it? Poops are once again a rarity. There is much straining and grunting. My son's butt doesn't work.

Tomorrow I am taking him to the pedi for a weight check (yes, call me obsessive. I can take it). It just seems as thought nothing adds meat to his kid's bones. Boobs, rice cereal, oatmeal, peaches, pears, juice, carrots, peas. He's still itsy bitsy. I can't help but wonder if there is some connection between his seeming inability to gain weight and his butt's refusal to work properly when he's given anything other than breastmilk.

I am sure the pedi is simply going to pat me on the head and send me on my merry way, clucking under his breath that I'm a loon. I am starting to hate him.