For the first 6.8 months of his life, we thought our new baby boy, whom we shall refer to lovingly as "The Edge," might actually be a rooster. He crowed. He grabbed things with his claws and threw them. He was messy. He flapped his wings.
But yesterday, completely out of nowhere, he spoke to me like a little baby human. Just like that. Not actual words, mind you. He's still much to young for that. But it was that sweet baby babble where we had previously only heard screeches, grunts and howls.
The morning started just like every other morning: I went into his room and lifted him out of his crib, greeting him with a cheerful "Good Morning!" and "How was your sleep?" I engaged in what has become diaper-changing jiu jitsu. We settled into the rocker for his morning bottle.
After he'd gotten a few ounces into him, I propped him up onto my shoulder for a burp. Then I held him out in front of me to get a good look at his sweet baby face. And that's when it happened. He just started talking!
"Gaa gaa daat daat daat. Yeah I had a pretty good sleep but I have some boogers stuck in my nose as you can see and maybe you should change my crib sheet. Gaa ga daat."
I stared at him in amazement then hugged him so hard that I foooshed all the air out of his little body.
Since then I have been dropping pots and rushing to his side every time he does it, just so I can hear what he might say next. And I changed his crib sheet.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Hang On...
There is a picture, among my parents’ zilliondy pictures of our family, that I have a crystal clear memory of being taken. My Dad took it of my Mom and me. We are in the driveway of our house, with our backs up against the car. My hands are stuffed into my pockets, and I am leaning slightly away from my Mom, stifling a grin.
If you looked carefully at the photo, which I am describing now from memory, you’d notice that the car is packed to the ceiling with all my belongings. We are about to drive to my college campus, where they will drop me off, for good. And if you looked carefully again, you’d see that my Mom’s arms are wrapped tightly around me and that she seems to be hanging on for dear life.
Peapod’s first day of preschool is tomorrow. And now I know for sure that in that photo, my Mom was in fact, hanging on to me for dear life.
If you looked carefully at the photo, which I am describing now from memory, you’d notice that the car is packed to the ceiling with all my belongings. We are about to drive to my college campus, where they will drop me off, for good. And if you looked carefully again, you’d see that my Mom’s arms are wrapped tightly around me and that she seems to be hanging on for dear life.
Peapod’s first day of preschool is tomorrow. And now I know for sure that in that photo, my Mom was in fact, hanging on to me for dear life.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Pregnancy Sucks
There, I said it.
Yes, I know we are lucky to have a second child on the way, especially given my Advanced Maternal Age. And yes it will all be worth it when I hold the little bugger in my hands a month from now. But at 35 weeks along, I swear I am ready to scrub up and perform the c-section myself.
I am aware that there are plenty of women out there who just loved being pregnant and sailed right through with no more than an amused shrug toward their Flintstone Feet, saggy pants and gas. I just happen to think that they are all either incredibly lucky to have had minimal symptoms, or they are clinically insane. Either way, I take my hat off to them. Which, by the way, is the only garment that still fits.
Again, for those who may rush to judge a blog entry by its title, let me repeat that I know I’m lucky to be pregnant and I know it will all be worth it and quickly forgotten in the end. My first pregnancy also sucked, but it was worth every second and unquestionably the most important and wonderful thing I’ve ever done. I get all that. It’s just that the physical symptoms of pregnancy suck enough to merit some venting, no?
Ok then, here we go.
1: My stomach is so painfully distended that it feels like I might literally rip open at any moment.
2: My ugly, over-priced maternity clothes don’t even cover my belly anymore.
3: I grow weary of watching everyone else savor sushi, mojitos, ceviche and that fancy cheese over there, while I sip my fizzy water and feign happiness.
4: My pants won’t stay up.
5: I cannot tie my own shoes.
6: Every time I attempt to fall asleep at night, my baby boy (whom shall now be given the pseudonym “The Edge”) insists on moving around so spastically that I’ve begun to suspect he has somehow gotten hold of an ice cream scoop and is plotting to scrape his way out. Then when I do fall asleep (often more than an hour later), I wake up because I have to pee and the whole charade begins again.
7: My feet are stinky. Ok, my feet have always been stinky, but as long as we’re venting…
8: I still get bouts of nausea, which at this point just seems a tad ridiculous.
9: Carrying a basket of laundry wears me out. Put this in the context that I used to be athletic enough to walk across the end zone at Michigan Stadium on my hands and you’ll maybe understand why this is particularly insulting.
10: I am gigantic.
There. Now that that’s out of the way, I hereby vow not to vent again about pregnancy symptoms on this blog.
Stay tuned for future venting about baby poop.
Yes, I know we are lucky to have a second child on the way, especially given my Advanced Maternal Age. And yes it will all be worth it when I hold the little bugger in my hands a month from now. But at 35 weeks along, I swear I am ready to scrub up and perform the c-section myself.
I am aware that there are plenty of women out there who just loved being pregnant and sailed right through with no more than an amused shrug toward their Flintstone Feet, saggy pants and gas. I just happen to think that they are all either incredibly lucky to have had minimal symptoms, or they are clinically insane. Either way, I take my hat off to them. Which, by the way, is the only garment that still fits.
Again, for those who may rush to judge a blog entry by its title, let me repeat that I know I’m lucky to be pregnant and I know it will all be worth it and quickly forgotten in the end. My first pregnancy also sucked, but it was worth every second and unquestionably the most important and wonderful thing I’ve ever done. I get all that. It’s just that the physical symptoms of pregnancy suck enough to merit some venting, no?
Ok then, here we go.
1: My stomach is so painfully distended that it feels like I might literally rip open at any moment.
2: My ugly, over-priced maternity clothes don’t even cover my belly anymore.
3: I grow weary of watching everyone else savor sushi, mojitos, ceviche and that fancy cheese over there, while I sip my fizzy water and feign happiness.
4: My pants won’t stay up.
5: I cannot tie my own shoes.
6: Every time I attempt to fall asleep at night, my baby boy (whom shall now be given the pseudonym “The Edge”) insists on moving around so spastically that I’ve begun to suspect he has somehow gotten hold of an ice cream scoop and is plotting to scrape his way out. Then when I do fall asleep (often more than an hour later), I wake up because I have to pee and the whole charade begins again.
7: My feet are stinky. Ok, my feet have always been stinky, but as long as we’re venting…
8: I still get bouts of nausea, which at this point just seems a tad ridiculous.
9: Carrying a basket of laundry wears me out. Put this in the context that I used to be athletic enough to walk across the end zone at Michigan Stadium on my hands and you’ll maybe understand why this is particularly insulting.
10: I am gigantic.
There. Now that that’s out of the way, I hereby vow not to vent again about pregnancy symptoms on this blog.
Stay tuned for future venting about baby poop.
Friday, March 13, 2009
The Big, Fat Envelope
Rare is the occasion I get giddy about the mail. But among this week’s delivery of bank statements, Pavillion’s circulars, and duplicate Restoration Hardware catalogs, there was a big fat envelope from our top-choice preschool for Peapod! And for no reason at all, I attributed the enclosed acceptance letter to her sheer fabulousness.
Never mind that no one at the preschool has ever actually met Peapod. And never mind that she, herself, has never even set foot on campus. Her karma must just be so good that it seeped onto the application form and tumbled out for everyone in the school’s admission office to behold.
Ok, maybe not.
But when I skimmed those magical opening five words “It is with great pleasure…” my level of happiness was on par with that of the day I got my own fat envelope from Go Blue U.
Of course we immediately shared the happy news with Peapod. We explained to her about all the fun things she would do in preschool – Finger paints! Tricycles! Story time! -- and that classes would start in the fall. But because she has no sense of time and has been known to confuse “after your nap” with “the 4th of July,” she has taken to repeatedly asking “Can we go to preschool now?” and “Is this preschool?” when in fact it is the Target parking lot. But regardless of her confusion about the time-space continuum, she does seem genuinely enthused about the idea.
Let’s just hope that when the big first day of preschool arrives, we can be equally as excited then as we are now. And that I can actually let go of her hand and watch her walk in the door by her bad little self.
Never mind that no one at the preschool has ever actually met Peapod. And never mind that she, herself, has never even set foot on campus. Her karma must just be so good that it seeped onto the application form and tumbled out for everyone in the school’s admission office to behold.
Ok, maybe not.
But when I skimmed those magical opening five words “It is with great pleasure…” my level of happiness was on par with that of the day I got my own fat envelope from Go Blue U.
Of course we immediately shared the happy news with Peapod. We explained to her about all the fun things she would do in preschool – Finger paints! Tricycles! Story time! -- and that classes would start in the fall. But because she has no sense of time and has been known to confuse “after your nap” with “the 4th of July,” she has taken to repeatedly asking “Can we go to preschool now?” and “Is this preschool?” when in fact it is the Target parking lot. But regardless of her confusion about the time-space continuum, she does seem genuinely enthused about the idea.
Let’s just hope that when the big first day of preschool arrives, we can be equally as excited then as we are now. And that I can actually let go of her hand and watch her walk in the door by her bad little self.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Yes, I Know
... It's been a long time.
So here's the long story, short.
In August, while on a family vacation in Quebec City, Peapod had a horrible accident that resulted in her crushing and severing 3 fingers on her right hand. We were transported to Montreal via ambulance where a gifted surgeon worked 10 hours overnight to re-attach the fingers. After a grueling 3-week hospital stay that involved 2 infections, blood draining by leeches, more than 20 blood draws, throwing up her feeding tube -- twice, forced bed rest, and a second surgery, we were cleared to fly back home. Ahh, but not before I learned that I was pregnant -- in the bathroom of our Ronald McDonald House accommodations, no less. Oh, and my Dad died suddenly of a heart attack.
Yes, for real.
It was a rough time, to say the least. But I can report with gratitude and humility that we received an incredible outpouring of concern, love and support from an enormous group of friends and family. We never felt alone for a minute.
I'm sure you can guess who came through it best of all. Yes, the incredible, unstoppable, patient and wise-beyond-her-years Peapod.
Fast forward to today. Peapod seems to have forgotten all about the hideous event itself. An improbable two out of three of her fingers survived the re-attachment and continue to improve in functionality and growth. Only the tip of her index finger was lost to the ordeal. About this she cares not one bit. She refers to her shortened index finger and remaining scars as her boo-boo fingers and patiently obliges us and her Occupational Therapist in all that we ask of her in her continued recovery. She is truly an inspiration to the Esposo and me.
I wasn't quite as resilliant. However, with some professional help, I have recovered from some symptoms that were diagnosed as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But I miss my Dad every day. And as my belly swells with the growing bulk of Baby Brother, I wish I could share the news of his new grandson with him in person.
But enough of the sad part.
The real thing to focus on here is the sheer lunacy of the whole situation. I am 40 and knocked up, for god sakes. And just barely no longer insane.
What more could you ask for in a blog? I mean, really.
So hence the lack of postings. But I'm BACK, baby, I'm back!
So here's the long story, short.
In August, while on a family vacation in Quebec City, Peapod had a horrible accident that resulted in her crushing and severing 3 fingers on her right hand. We were transported to Montreal via ambulance where a gifted surgeon worked 10 hours overnight to re-attach the fingers. After a grueling 3-week hospital stay that involved 2 infections, blood draining by leeches, more than 20 blood draws, throwing up her feeding tube -- twice, forced bed rest, and a second surgery, we were cleared to fly back home. Ahh, but not before I learned that I was pregnant -- in the bathroom of our Ronald McDonald House accommodations, no less. Oh, and my Dad died suddenly of a heart attack.
Yes, for real.
It was a rough time, to say the least. But I can report with gratitude and humility that we received an incredible outpouring of concern, love and support from an enormous group of friends and family. We never felt alone for a minute.
I'm sure you can guess who came through it best of all. Yes, the incredible, unstoppable, patient and wise-beyond-her-years Peapod.
Fast forward to today. Peapod seems to have forgotten all about the hideous event itself. An improbable two out of three of her fingers survived the re-attachment and continue to improve in functionality and growth. Only the tip of her index finger was lost to the ordeal. About this she cares not one bit. She refers to her shortened index finger and remaining scars as her boo-boo fingers and patiently obliges us and her Occupational Therapist in all that we ask of her in her continued recovery. She is truly an inspiration to the Esposo and me.
I wasn't quite as resilliant. However, with some professional help, I have recovered from some symptoms that were diagnosed as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But I miss my Dad every day. And as my belly swells with the growing bulk of Baby Brother, I wish I could share the news of his new grandson with him in person.
But enough of the sad part.
The real thing to focus on here is the sheer lunacy of the whole situation. I am 40 and knocked up, for god sakes. And just barely no longer insane.
What more could you ask for in a blog? I mean, really.
So hence the lack of postings. But I'm BACK, baby, I'm back!
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