Things are busy here. Gone are the days where you can just plop the little man in a bouncy chair and gurgle at him.
They say that babies either walk or talk first... and I know where Howie's placed his money.
Stairs from Kari Hay on Vimeo.
It involves a lot of following him around like his personal valet.
Showing posts with label Bringing up baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bringing up baby. Show all posts
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Single Parenting
How do you do it?
How do single parents do it?
My hat off to every single one of them who has managed to bring up a happy, well-adjusted child without (a) devolving into bankruptcy (b) becoming hopelessly addicted to something or (c) running stark naked through the streets. Actually, check that: my hats off to any single parent who managed to bring up a happy, well-adjusted child. Period full stop. Because DAYUM this shit is HARD, and I've only done it for two days!
Andrew let me know about six weeks ago he'd have to go to New York for a couple days for business. Mmmm, errr, fine, I mean, what am I going to say? no? Seriously. But then suddenly the couple of days was FOUR days and then it was FIVE days and those five days? were from Saturday crack-of-my-butt early to Wednesday-might-as-well-be-Thursday late.
And now here I am, two days in, and I'm beat. I'm sitting here with a great honking glass of Smoking Loon after listening to the monitor for Way Too Long (why don't babies just know they're tired and give it up already????) and there's still the garbage to take out and the dishes to... dish and can I tell you I'm terrified about tomorrow morning?
I've never done the morning routine. That's been Andrew's bailiwick since the little man started going. I nurse at 5, because I have to be at school by 7; Andrew needs to be at work some time. By nineish. Mostly. So he gets the morning after I nurse, I get the afternoon. And going by the little daily report cards we get, Andrew rolls in to daycare any time between 7 and 8:30. Which is great. That means they have the mornings together and if some of that is planning and packing, then that's what it is.
But now I have to do it. And I don't have much time to do it. So many mornings Howie and I both fall back asleep while nursing, with the soothing tones of Steve Innskeep in the background--there's been mornings when it's only been the Morning Marketplace (comes on at 5:50) or the voice of the new OPB dude Geoff something telling me that it's 6:19 that has me tossing a sleeping infant back in his crib so that I can rush into my room to put clothes on and go. When I invariably forget something critical like MY LUNCH or MY PUMP or MY SHOES or something. And for the next three days, I don't have that luxury. Of the sleeping. I suppose I can forget something for myself (insert common family joke about HOW FORGETFUL KARI IS AND HOW FUNNY THAT IS HA HA HA! here because it is always so funny) but I don't want to forget Howie's stuff. He didn't ask for this, you know?
But also, I want to prove--to myself, to Andrew, to my family--that I can do this. I may not like it, but I can do it. So far this weekend, while exhausting--so little downtime!--has been doable, if a little lonely. We only have a faintly crazy Costco bill to show for it, and we spent some good time with Bectastic.
It's the next three days that'll really decide it.
Wish us luck.
How do single parents do it?
My hat off to every single one of them who has managed to bring up a happy, well-adjusted child without (a) devolving into bankruptcy (b) becoming hopelessly addicted to something or (c) running stark naked through the streets. Actually, check that: my hats off to any single parent who managed to bring up a happy, well-adjusted child. Period full stop. Because DAYUM this shit is HARD, and I've only done it for two days!
Andrew let me know about six weeks ago he'd have to go to New York for a couple days for business. Mmmm, errr, fine, I mean, what am I going to say? no? Seriously. But then suddenly the couple of days was FOUR days and then it was FIVE days and those five days? were from Saturday crack-of-my-butt early to Wednesday-might-as-well-be-Thursday late.
And now here I am, two days in, and I'm beat. I'm sitting here with a great honking glass of Smoking Loon after listening to the monitor for Way Too Long (why don't babies just know they're tired and give it up already????) and there's still the garbage to take out and the dishes to... dish and can I tell you I'm terrified about tomorrow morning?
I've never done the morning routine. That's been Andrew's bailiwick since the little man started going. I nurse at 5, because I have to be at school by 7; Andrew needs to be at work some time. By nineish. Mostly. So he gets the morning after I nurse, I get the afternoon. And going by the little daily report cards we get, Andrew rolls in to daycare any time between 7 and 8:30. Which is great. That means they have the mornings together and if some of that is planning and packing, then that's what it is.
But now I have to do it. And I don't have much time to do it. So many mornings Howie and I both fall back asleep while nursing, with the soothing tones of Steve Innskeep in the background--there's been mornings when it's only been the Morning Marketplace (comes on at 5:50) or the voice of the new OPB dude Geoff something telling me that it's 6:19 that has me tossing a sleeping infant back in his crib so that I can rush into my room to put clothes on and go. When I invariably forget something critical like MY LUNCH or MY PUMP or MY SHOES or something. And for the next three days, I don't have that luxury. Of the sleeping. I suppose I can forget something for myself (insert common family joke about HOW FORGETFUL KARI IS AND HOW FUNNY THAT IS HA HA HA! here because it is always so funny) but I don't want to forget Howie's stuff. He didn't ask for this, you know?
But also, I want to prove--to myself, to Andrew, to my family--that I can do this. I may not like it, but I can do it. So far this weekend, while exhausting--so little downtime!--has been doable, if a little lonely. We only have a faintly crazy Costco bill to show for it, and we spent some good time with Bectastic.
It's the next three days that'll really decide it.
Wish us luck.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Six months
Dear Little Man H,
I've been composing this letter to you in my head for weeks, but wouldn't you know it? I sit down to write it, and everything flies out of my head. Maybe there's something going on today...
Nah. That can't be it.
This past month has been the best so far. I realize I only have six of them to choose from in the running for The Best Month Ever, but seriously, I think that this one would win.
Last month you've discovered your feet with a flair that can only be described as gleeful. Now it's been a foot-fest (not to be confused with a foot fetish. That comes later, young man.) You can hold them! pull them! put them in your mouth! When sitting up, you can bend over and hit yourself in the head with them!
Okay, that last one you didn't enjoy so much.
In fact, this whole Sitting Up thing, while kind of cool, ends in tears on a regular basis. In fact, it's pretty much guaranteed that after some absolutely fabulous arm-jerking and giggling and tag-wrangling and perhaps towel-waving, you will at one point want to look up, or sideways, or, gods forbid, BACKWARDS, at which time you will perilously begin to lose the battle with gravity. You do it slowly, oh-so-slowly, and often with a "What the FUCK?" look to me, until you pass the Point of No Return and gravity really does take hold and you weeble, you wobble, and you do indeed fall backwards. If I happened to be a caring mama at that point, you hit a boppy, but on a couple of occasions it must be said that we were overconfident and decided that we didn't need the big pillow. At those occasions, you hit the rug with a resounding thud. And after a couple seconds of shock, proceeded to let me know just how displeased you were.
Unless of course, you fall forwards, in which case you always hit with the thud-silence-scream combination. But that is happening more and more rarely.
You're starting to interact with your cousins, which is entertaining in the extreme; the Paci-pass you and your cousin Eleanor do is hilarious until one of you ends up with both paci's, somehow thinking that there is a way that if one paci is awesome, two must be AWESOMER. You do that, by the way, all the time. Paci? Awesome. Paci and fingers? AWESOMER. Nursing? awesome. Nursing AND sucking on my thumb? AWESOMER. Except it doesn't quite work that way. But whatever, we're working on it.
Speaking of nursing. You hit the big six months now, dude. You know what that means? FOOD. So far your dad and I are WAY more excited about this than you are. Not that you mind the attention, but so far, avocado and rice cereal get the tomato splat from you. Butternut squash doesn't suck, but you're still kind of meh on the whole thing.
Don't worry. I know that'll change--one day you'll be a teenage boy and I'll think back to when I couldn't get you to eat. You probably won't want to use utensils then either, but I bet you'll manage to swallow.
So today's kind of a big day here. It'll be interesting what today will be like seen ten years from now. Hopefully you'll grow up knowing a better world than you were born into. Hopefully one day you'll be in a history class and today, this date, this will be the beginning of a new chapter, like the Star Wars IV prologue but in a history book and therefore boring. Hopefully.
Hope.
If there's nothing else you deserve at six months of age, little man H, it's a big ol' barrel of hope. Well, that, and a pillow permanently behind you.
Love you,
Mama
I've been composing this letter to you in my head for weeks, but wouldn't you know it? I sit down to write it, and everything flies out of my head. Maybe there's something going on today...
Nah. That can't be it.
This past month has been the best so far. I realize I only have six of them to choose from in the running for The Best Month Ever, but seriously, I think that this one would win.
Last month you've discovered your feet with a flair that can only be described as gleeful. Now it's been a foot-fest (not to be confused with a foot fetish. That comes later, young man.) You can hold them! pull them! put them in your mouth! When sitting up, you can bend over and hit yourself in the head with them!
Okay, that last one you didn't enjoy so much.
In fact, this whole Sitting Up thing, while kind of cool, ends in tears on a regular basis. In fact, it's pretty much guaranteed that after some absolutely fabulous arm-jerking and giggling and tag-wrangling and perhaps towel-waving, you will at one point want to look up, or sideways, or, gods forbid, BACKWARDS, at which time you will perilously begin to lose the battle with gravity. You do it slowly, oh-so-slowly, and often with a "What the FUCK?" look to me, until you pass the Point of No Return and gravity really does take hold and you weeble, you wobble, and you do indeed fall backwards. If I happened to be a caring mama at that point, you hit a boppy, but on a couple of occasions it must be said that we were overconfident and decided that we didn't need the big pillow. At those occasions, you hit the rug with a resounding thud. And after a couple seconds of shock, proceeded to let me know just how displeased you were.Unless of course, you fall forwards, in which case you always hit with the thud-silence-scream combination. But that is happening more and more rarely.
You're starting to interact with your cousins, which is entertaining in the extreme; the Paci-pass you and your cousin Eleanor do is hilarious until one of you ends up with both paci's, somehow thinking that there is a way that if one paci is awesome, two must be AWESOMER. You do that, by the way, all the time. Paci? Awesome. Paci and fingers? AWESOMER. Nursing? awesome. Nursing AND sucking on my thumb? AWESOMER. Except it doesn't quite work that way. But whatever, we're working on it. 
Speaking of nursing. You hit the big six months now, dude. You know what that means? FOOD. So far your dad and I are WAY more excited about this than you are. Not that you mind the attention, but so far, avocado and rice cereal get the tomato splat from you. Butternut squash doesn't suck, but you're still kind of meh on the whole thing.Don't worry. I know that'll change--one day you'll be a teenage boy and I'll think back to when I couldn't get you to eat. You probably won't want to use utensils then either, but I bet you'll manage to swallow.
So today's kind of a big day here. It'll be interesting what today will be like seen ten years from now. Hopefully you'll grow up knowing a better world than you were born into. Hopefully one day you'll be in a history class and today, this date, this will be the beginning of a new chapter, like the Star Wars IV prologue but in a history book and therefore boring. Hopefully.
Hope.
If there's nothing else you deserve at six months of age, little man H, it's a big ol' barrel of hope. Well, that, and a pillow permanently behind you.
Love you,
Mama
Friday, September 19, 2008
Asking for ideas
So, I'm thinking of setting up a blog just for the H man. Not to say I wouldn't write about him here if I wanted, but someplace to post a picture that's all, look at me! I'm sitting up!
What do you think? Should I do it? If so, do you have any ideas, O internet, for a good name?
I keep coming up with cute captions in my head, like "Tasting toes is less fun than I thought it would be"
but if they're going to be in Howie's voice, it should really be in Howie's blog, don't you think?
What do you think? Should I do it? If so, do you have any ideas, O internet, for a good name?
I keep coming up with cute captions in my head, like "Tasting toes is less fun than I thought it would be"
but if they're going to be in Howie's voice, it should really be in Howie's blog, don't you think?
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
4 months. A few days late.
Yeah, kid, your birthday (is it a birthday if it isn't your annual birthday? can I still call it a birthday? there's nothing inherent in the word "birthday" implying annual celebration, right? so I can call four months from the day you were born your birthday as well, right? but then where would it end? could I celebrate every tuesday as your birthday? Every day at 8:22?)
Ahem. Howie, if you're reading this, you're probably used to that geekout tangent right there, and you're probably rolling your eyes if you're a teenager, or smiling fondly if this is, like, 2057--or pointing accusingly if this is court (or therapy)--but I do apologize. On with the four-month-letter.
Yeah, I know your birthday was Friday. And I thought about writing this on Friday--I did! I had it planned! But then we went to the cabin and that involved lots of chores, lots of cabin-planning chores and... and did you know that lately you've decided that you don't need naps? Not so much, really? You just... napping has apparently become some form of esoteric torture that is somewhat akin to bamboo under the nails. And, according to the Republicans, makes you a worthy candidate for president--because that gives you character. So when you're doing that, that not-napping thing, I'm not so productive on the to-do list in my head. So while, in a way, it is my fault for not getting the letter written (and talk to your Aunt Lee, she's used to me letting important dates like birthdays slip--call it an eccentric quirk, please?) it's not like you made it easy.
Which is weird because in so many ways, you are the easiest kid in the everest of evers. This past month your smile has graduated to full-on beam, and even given way to the occasional belly laugh. We had a whole photo shoot the day before your birthday wherein the phrase "Oooga Booga!" delighted you to no end (how we discovered that was the Open Sesame of hilarity, I have no idea, but once we did, it was thoroughly exploited). You came to work with me, and after a short period of contemplation, gave a wide and toothless grin to every coworker who paused to admire your complete adorableness (except one, one particular coworker, but that just shows that you are a supremely good judge of character).
Your grandparents came for a visit, with your aunt and uncle and your cousin, and they adored you too.
You had a special bond with your grandma, telling her secrets all weekend long. She had you figured out before she left, too. So if I were you, I wouldn't plan on being let alone much when we go there for Christmas. Don't worry, you'll find out what Christmas is. I have a sneaking suspicion you'll like it.
You've started daycare this month, too. I can't tell whether you like it or hate it, but the lovely ladies there having nothing but lovely things to say about you. I can never tell whether they are saying you're beautiful and smart because that's what they say to all the mamas (and papas) that come through the door (speaking of which, I am pleasantly surprised at the number of fathers I have seen picking up and dropping off at this facility, making me all the more pleased with our choice--I don't know if it's the residential location of the daycare, or what, but lots of parents walk their children in, and lots of those parents are fathers, which makes me really happy. Of course, I have no idea if this is the norm for daycare, this being our only daycare experience. But, I digress. Obviously.) And! tomorrow will be the second! time you've stayed at your grandparents' house (the other grandparents, the ones who live here now) all day while your parents were at work. The first time was a rousing success, what with you taking a nap on your grandma in the rocking chair on the front porch for a significant length of time. Who could hate that?
I will miss our naps in the recliner, you and I. Even now, when you fall asleep nursing, I have to force myself to put you to bed, (knowing that if I don't, you'll wake up if I cough or have to pee and what should be a long nap or even an overnight sleep will turn into a catnap) but I hate it, every time, giving up your sleepy body and your fists that rest lightly on my ribs. Each time I try to soak it in and memorize every sensory input because that will end soon.
So it's on to month five, Buster Brown. You're holding things now (mostly) and soooo ready to roll over. You've developed this habit of holding your legs up at a right angle, waiting, maybe contemplating those odd shaped things at the end of them (we call them feet, I keep telling you) and then WHAM! slamming them down to the ground. 
Occasionally that has given you an unfortunate surprise as you are not in your crib or a nice carpet, but mostly you just use it to rotate yourself like the hand on a clock. I figure that's only until you learn the magic of rolling over, and then it's Log Roll 24/7, yeah! I did capture one roll on film, but that was more shock and surprise (and then tears) than intent to move, I think.
Please, just roll over for us at home, will you? If you roll over first at daycare, will you lie about it to us and make us feel like we saw it first? I'd appreciate it. You're growing too fast as it is, anyway.
So, happy birthday, or whatever this is (or rather, whatever Friday was), my Ooga Booga baby.
Love, me.
Ahem. Howie, if you're reading this, you're probably used to that geekout tangent right there, and you're probably rolling your eyes if you're a teenager, or smiling fondly if this is, like, 2057--or pointing accusingly if this is court (or therapy)--but I do apologize. On with the four-month-letter.
Yeah, I know your birthday was Friday. And I thought about writing this on Friday--I did! I had it planned! But then we went to the cabin and that involved lots of chores, lots of cabin-planning chores and... and did you know that lately you've decided that you don't need naps? Not so much, really? You just... napping has apparently become some form of esoteric torture that is somewhat akin to bamboo under the nails. And, according to the Republicans, makes you a worthy candidate for president--because that gives you character. So when you're doing that, that not-napping thing, I'm not so productive on the to-do list in my head. So while, in a way, it is my fault for not getting the letter written (and talk to your Aunt Lee, she's used to me letting important dates like birthdays slip--call it an eccentric quirk, please?) it's not like you made it easy.
Your grandparents came for a visit, with your aunt and uncle and your cousin, and they adored you too.
You've started daycare this month, too. I can't tell whether you like it or hate it, but the lovely ladies there having nothing but lovely things to say about you. I can never tell whether they are saying you're beautiful and smart because that's what they say to all the mamas (and papas) that come through the door (speaking of which, I am pleasantly surprised at the number of fathers I have seen picking up and dropping off at this facility, making me all the more pleased with our choice--I don't know if it's the residential location of the daycare, or what, but lots of parents walk their children in, and lots of those parents are fathers, which makes me really happy. Of course, I have no idea if this is the norm for daycare, this being our only daycare experience. But, I digress. Obviously.) And! tomorrow will be the second! time you've stayed at your grandparents' house (the other grandparents, the ones who live here now) all day while your parents were at work. The first time was a rousing success, what with you taking a nap on your grandma in the rocking chair on the front porch for a significant length of time. Who could hate that?
I will miss our naps in the recliner, you and I. Even now, when you fall asleep nursing, I have to force myself to put you to bed, (knowing that if I don't, you'll wake up if I cough or have to pee and what should be a long nap or even an overnight sleep will turn into a catnap) but I hate it, every time, giving up your sleepy body and your fists that rest lightly on my ribs. Each time I try to soak it in and memorize every sensory input because that will end soon.
So it's on to month five, Buster Brown. You're holding things now (mostly) and soooo ready to roll over. You've developed this habit of holding your legs up at a right angle, waiting, maybe contemplating those odd shaped things at the end of them (we call them feet, I keep telling you) and then WHAM! slamming them down to the ground.
Please, just roll over for us at home, will you? If you roll over first at daycare, will you lie about it to us and make us feel like we saw it first? I'd appreciate it. You're growing too fast as it is, anyway.
So, happy birthday, or whatever this is (or rather, whatever Friday was), my Ooga Booga baby.
Love, me.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Night Air
I went to the library last week to check out the "How to Raise a Baby" section.
It's pretty freaking big.
This was bourne of the fact that Andrew and I are having a disagreement. Specifically, it is about windows and Night Air and how those two elements do (or do not) affect our son.
I don't know if you've noticed, but it's summer? And we're having a pretty hot summer here. But the really nice thing about the Pacific Northwest is that at night, it gets nice and cool. It may have been 90 during the day, but it'll still get to 60 or lower at night.
It's awesomeness. I hate hate hate heat. I hate hot sticky muggy August heat. And I hate. HATE. Waking up coated in my own sweat. Which I noticed I was doing because someone kept shutting the windows at night. It'd be 3 a.m. and none of the upstairs windows were open any longer.
So, thinking it wasn't Matilda (silly dog, you don't have opposable thumbs!) and Howie really wasn't ever out of my sight so it probably wasn't him, I turned on Andrew.
And he told me that he didn't think Howie should be surrounded by Night Air.
And I told him that Night Air was fine.
Both of us, actually, were completely talking out of our asses. I personally think my ass is correct, of course, because Night Air doesn't seem particularly threatening to me. And if it was, that would lead to a whole host of questions. Such as, which air specifically is Night Air? Does it start at twilight? Or does it have to be dark out? Is later Night Air worse than early Night Air? And how exactly is Night Air bad? Is it just bad for babies? Does it hunt them out? And is it worse than Indoor Air Conditioned Air?
Because dude, I'm so tired of waking up in a pool of my own sweat.
I have to admit, we've been parenting mostly by instinct. We never took a class, and really, neither of us has read an entire one of the ubiquitous What to Expect When You're A Parent Now Doofus Idiot's Guide to Dummy Parenting books. So we're going half on instinct, half on what we remember from our parents, and half on what we see from our friends and family.
But then we get to these Night Air conversations, and... Okay, I still think there's no defense for Night Air is Bad, but maybe it is. And I just don't know!
It's pretty freaking big.
I don't know if you've noticed, but it's summer? And we're having a pretty hot summer here. But the really nice thing about the Pacific Northwest is that at night, it gets nice and cool. It may have been 90 during the day, but it'll still get to 60 or lower at night.
It's awesomeness. I hate hate hate heat. I hate hot sticky muggy August heat. And I hate. HATE. Waking up coated in my own sweat. Which I noticed I was doing because someone kept shutting the windows at night. It'd be 3 a.m. and none of the upstairs windows were open any longer.
So, thinking it wasn't Matilda (silly dog, you don't have opposable thumbs!) and Howie really wasn't ever out of my sight so it probably wasn't him, I turned on Andrew.
And he told me that he didn't think Howie should be surrounded by Night Air.
And I told him that Night Air was fine.
Both of us, actually, were completely talking out of our asses. I personally think my ass is correct, of course, because Night Air doesn't seem particularly threatening to me. And if it was, that would lead to a whole host of questions. Such as, which air specifically is Night Air? Does it start at twilight? Or does it have to be dark out? Is later Night Air worse than early Night Air? And how exactly is Night Air bad? Is it just bad for babies? Does it hunt them out? And is it worse than Indoor Air Conditioned Air?
Because dude, I'm so tired of waking up in a pool of my own sweat.
I have to admit, we've been parenting mostly by instinct. We never took a class, and really, neither of us has read an entire one of the ubiquitous What to Expect When You're A Parent Now Doofus Idiot's Guide to Dummy Parenting books. So we're going half on instinct, half on what we remember from our parents, and half on what we see from our friends and family.
But then we get to these Night Air conversations, and... Okay, I still think there's no defense for Night Air is Bad, but maybe it is. And I just don't know!
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
The one about the daycare.
I fell awake an hour and a half ago.
Just... I was asleep, then I was awake. And suddenly my brain went all fritzy and it's too hot and my head itches and I can't believe I ate all that ice cream tonight or should it be last night now I mean does this count as today or as tomorrow yet fuck me it's three a.m..
So after an hour of that and wasn't that fun I decided to come downstairs and at least surf the web until Howie needed to eat.
He's going to daycare today/tomorrow. Well, now it's 4:30, which starts to count as really fucking early today and not as really crazy late yesterday, so I guess he's going to daycare today. That has nothing to do with why I can't go back to sleep.
Shut up.
We're paying for August, we figured, so let's make sure we've got this whole routine figured out before I have to go back to school, so that if I have to I can get him in the middle of the day or at least bring him something or whatever baby daycare emergency might pop up for someone who can't even roll over yet much less will still grin for anyone who holds him, the flirt. Anyway, so, yeah, we're taking him to daycare tomorrow. I mean today.
The whole daycare thing has been a weird convoluted saga. We started looking for daycare when I was four and a half months pregnant, and we were getting on waiting lists all over the city. And getting on waiting lists with the Waiting List Guardians sucking their teeth and saying that we should be sure to register at another daycare somewhere because... they couldn't promise anything but they were pretty sure we'd never get into that daycare in time. Jesus McPeet, people, I barely know that this fetus has arms and legs, and I'm not early enough for getting on the daycare lists? And apparently at a corporate daycare that rhymes with Blikey they had to institute a rule that you couldn't get on the waiting list unless and until you were actually pregnant which inspires two thoughts: a.) no wonder I was on waiting lists across Portland and 2.)who are these crazy bitches who think "I'm going to get on a daycare waiting list because I will not only get pregnant when I mean to but will give birth to a healthy child and then I need to have Blikey daycare just in case!!"???? Okay, maybe it's not such a shock that a company whose name rhymes with Blikey might employ a Type A personality or three.
So anyway, waiting lists, yeah. We got into one (1) daycare in all of Portland, and it was the least favorite, most expensive, corporate child kennel. But it was worth the $100 deposit to have a peace of mind that at least someone would feed my child and maybe change his diaper if he pooped. We got on the waiting list of the all organic spelt-feeding no-plastic-toy-having hemp-sling-wearing hippie haven that I thought was my first choice. We got on the waiting list of the daycare that awesome people already went to (but knew we'd have no chance of getting into for various reasons, that mostly involved the fact that this daycare was subsidized by her husband's employer and that said employer was neither my nor my husband's employer). We got on the waiting list of the oldest daycare in Portland, that has operated since 1908. Who knew that there were daycares in 1908?
We had a daycare. I could relax, right?
Ha. So that daycare--I didn't like it. First of all, aesthetically, I didn't like it. And second of all, it was so freaking expensive! And as I made the decision to go back to work part time (oh, yeah, hey, I'm going back to work part time, y'all! more on that later) it just cut waaaay to close to the bone. So as I was nine months pregnant, I started freaking out about daycare. And I lugged my ten months pregnant self (and dragged along certain awesome people) I made a new round of daycares in the desperate hope that I would get in somewhere. Wouldn't my twelve-months-pregnant body inspire aid? Anywhere.
I went to the local-down-the-street daycare. I went to the sort-of hippie downtown daycare where they had their own jail-esque playground. And I called all of the previous daycares to see whether they were still in Teeth Sucking mode or whether me working half days or maybe if I only needed four days because my parents would take him for a day would make a huge difference on moving me up or down the waiting list.
And no and no and no and no.
So we had the babe and we named him Howie and the heavens parted and shone their great ray of Cutest Baby Ever on him, and we were happy, except that whole Daycare Sucks thing was still niggling in the back of my head because dude, why is this so hard????
And then in the past three weeks, we've had calls from three different daycares, and then we were spoiled for choice.
We could go to the downtown childcare where his cousin currently goes. Then the local down-the-street daycare called. Then what had been our first 100% grain fed soy hemp solar powered wind generated organic gardening choice called. And suddenly we were spoiled for choice.
We ended up going with the closest to home choice, because it's ridiculously close to home, which means it's equidistant from both our works and it's ridiculously close to my parents' house. And it's conveniently the cheapest--by which I mean, least expensive--choice. By a lot. It's almost half the cost of the corporate child kennel we had originally reserved a spot with. As a friend said, our daycare costs have gone from the cost of a mortgage down to the cost of a pretty cheap apartment. And that's awesome.
I still have some residual guilt at not going with the inquiry-based soothing-sounds quinoa-serving granola-fed hippie kingdom, but as certain awesome people said, "For the $370-a-month price difference, that's a lot of lentils." What is more important is that when I went into the infant room, the ladies there have always been holding the babies. They use cloth diapers (and even better, don't send them home with me: they launder). They take walks. And they hold my baby.
So yeah, we got in there, and we're paying for the whole month of August even though I only work one week of it. I had to bring in diaper covers and a sheet and his immunization records and what-all. And I dropped him off for a few hours on Friday and that went well and I didn't cry as I drove away or anything. More than anything it just felt weird to not have my day's (or in that case, my hours') plans totally controlled by wheter this two-foot-long being was awake or asleep or hungry or in a good mood.
So, yeah, daycare. He's going. We're going to try a full day today. We'll see how he does. We'll see how I do.
Maybe I'll use it to nap.
Just... I was asleep, then I was awake. And suddenly my brain went all fritzy and it's too hot and my head itches and I can't believe I ate all that ice cream tonight or should it be last night now I mean does this count as today or as tomorrow yet fuck me it's three a.m..
So after an hour of that and wasn't that fun I decided to come downstairs and at least surf the web until Howie needed to eat.
He's going to daycare today/tomorrow. Well, now it's 4:30, which starts to count as really fucking early today and not as really crazy late yesterday, so I guess he's going to daycare today. That has nothing to do with why I can't go back to sleep.
Shut up.
We're paying for August, we figured, so let's make sure we've got this whole routine figured out before I have to go back to school, so that if I have to I can get him in the middle of the day or at least bring him something or whatever baby daycare emergency might pop up for someone who can't even roll over yet much less will still grin for anyone who holds him, the flirt. Anyway, so, yeah, we're taking him to daycare tomorrow. I mean today.
The whole daycare thing has been a weird convoluted saga. We started looking for daycare when I was four and a half months pregnant, and we were getting on waiting lists all over the city. And getting on waiting lists with the Waiting List Guardians sucking their teeth and saying that we should be sure to register at another daycare somewhere because... they couldn't promise anything but they were pretty sure we'd never get into that daycare in time. Jesus McPeet, people, I barely know that this fetus has arms and legs, and I'm not early enough for getting on the daycare lists? And apparently at a corporate daycare that rhymes with Blikey they had to institute a rule that you couldn't get on the waiting list unless and until you were actually pregnant which inspires two thoughts: a.) no wonder I was on waiting lists across Portland and 2.)who are these crazy bitches who think "I'm going to get on a daycare waiting list because I will not only get pregnant when I mean to but will give birth to a healthy child and then I need to have Blikey daycare just in case!!"???? Okay, maybe it's not such a shock that a company whose name rhymes with Blikey might employ a Type A personality or three.
So anyway, waiting lists, yeah. We got into one (1) daycare in all of Portland, and it was the least favorite, most expensive, corporate child kennel. But it was worth the $100 deposit to have a peace of mind that at least someone would feed my child and maybe change his diaper if he pooped. We got on the waiting list of the all organic spelt-feeding no-plastic-toy-having hemp-sling-wearing hippie haven that I thought was my first choice. We got on the waiting list of the daycare that awesome people already went to (but knew we'd have no chance of getting into for various reasons, that mostly involved the fact that this daycare was subsidized by her husband's employer and that said employer was neither my nor my husband's employer). We got on the waiting list of the oldest daycare in Portland, that has operated since 1908. Who knew that there were daycares in 1908?
We had a daycare. I could relax, right?
Ha. So that daycare--I didn't like it. First of all, aesthetically, I didn't like it. And second of all, it was so freaking expensive! And as I made the decision to go back to work part time (oh, yeah, hey, I'm going back to work part time, y'all! more on that later) it just cut waaaay to close to the bone. So as I was nine months pregnant, I started freaking out about daycare. And I lugged my ten months pregnant self (and dragged along certain awesome people) I made a new round of daycares in the desperate hope that I would get in somewhere. Wouldn't my twelve-months-pregnant body inspire aid? Anywhere.
I went to the local-down-the-street daycare. I went to the sort-of hippie downtown daycare where they had their own jail-esque playground. And I called all of the previous daycares to see whether they were still in Teeth Sucking mode or whether me working half days or maybe if I only needed four days because my parents would take him for a day would make a huge difference on moving me up or down the waiting list.
And no and no and no and no.
So we had the babe and we named him Howie and the heavens parted and shone their great ray of Cutest Baby Ever on him, and we were happy, except that whole Daycare Sucks thing was still niggling in the back of my head because dude, why is this so hard????
And then in the past three weeks, we've had calls from three different daycares, and then we were spoiled for choice.
We could go to the downtown childcare where his cousin currently goes. Then the local down-the-street daycare called. Then what had been our first 100% grain fed soy hemp solar powered wind generated organic gardening choice called. And suddenly we were spoiled for choice.
We ended up going with the closest to home choice, because it's ridiculously close to home, which means it's equidistant from both our works and it's ridiculously close to my parents' house. And it's conveniently the cheapest--by which I mean, least expensive--choice. By a lot. It's almost half the cost of the corporate child kennel we had originally reserved a spot with. As a friend said, our daycare costs have gone from the cost of a mortgage down to the cost of a pretty cheap apartment. And that's awesome.
I still have some residual guilt at not going with the inquiry-based soothing-sounds quinoa-serving granola-fed hippie kingdom, but as certain awesome people said, "For the $370-a-month price difference, that's a lot of lentils." What is more important is that when I went into the infant room, the ladies there have always been holding the babies. They use cloth diapers (and even better, don't send them home with me: they launder). They take walks. And they hold my baby.
So yeah, we got in there, and we're paying for the whole month of August even though I only work one week of it. I had to bring in diaper covers and a sheet and his immunization records and what-all. And I dropped him off for a few hours on Friday and that went well and I didn't cry as I drove away or anything. More than anything it just felt weird to not have my day's (or in that case, my hours') plans totally controlled by wheter this two-foot-long being was awake or asleep or hungry or in a good mood.
So, yeah, daycare. He's going. We're going to try a full day today. We'll see how he does. We'll see how I do.
Maybe I'll use it to nap.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Pity party
The first really nice weekend--seriously, storybook gorgeous, slight breeze, no clouds--and I'm running a fever. At last measure (about 45 minutes ago) my temperature is up to 102.2. My whole body aches like it's been used for batting practice. Muscles I haven't used in a year hurt like I had an intense workout. My toes ache.
Yay, mastitis!
So basically not only am I homebound, alternately sweating or shaking with chills (I asked Andrew to turn the temperature up, he said it's 73), but my boob hurts like the alien is going to pop out of that insteaed of my stomach. And guess which boob it is? That's right, the one that didn't hurt!
This breastfeeding thing really chaps my ass. The politics of it (SIX MONTHS! you MUST GO SIX MONTHS!) and the looks you get when you use a bottle (so much that I feel compelled to mutter about pumping while giving it to him in public) to you should be ashamed if you DO nurse in public, and you should be ashamed if you DON'T nurse in public (I am of the latter, mostly because it's a very messy affair, what with the spraying and all). Why do we, women and mothers, do this to ourselves? Why are we so judgy, without knowing all the details? So much so that I am breastfeeding in electric-shock pain, and I still feel guilty about thinking of quitting. I have this mammoth supply that other mothers would kill for, I tell myself, don't let it go to waste.
So instead, I dread the feedings. Bonding? Ha. Aside from when he curls up on my chest as I burp him, I can't say I feel particularly bondful while breastfeeding. Probably because I am gritting my teeth until the pain recedes.
Feeding had just started getting better before this happens, so this is probably the fever talking. I'll get through this course of antibiotics (yay, emergency room on a weekend!) and reevaluate. But today? Today has just sucked.
Yay, mastitis!
So basically not only am I homebound, alternately sweating or shaking with chills (I asked Andrew to turn the temperature up, he said it's 73), but my boob hurts like the alien is going to pop out of that insteaed of my stomach. And guess which boob it is? That's right, the one that didn't hurt!
This breastfeeding thing really chaps my ass. The politics of it (SIX MONTHS! you MUST GO SIX MONTHS!) and the looks you get when you use a bottle (so much that I feel compelled to mutter about pumping while giving it to him in public) to you should be ashamed if you DO nurse in public, and you should be ashamed if you DON'T nurse in public (I am of the latter, mostly because it's a very messy affair, what with the spraying and all). Why do we, women and mothers, do this to ourselves? Why are we so judgy, without knowing all the details? So much so that I am breastfeeding in electric-shock pain, and I still feel guilty about thinking of quitting. I have this mammoth supply that other mothers would kill for, I tell myself, don't let it go to waste.
So instead, I dread the feedings. Bonding? Ha. Aside from when he curls up on my chest as I burp him, I can't say I feel particularly bondful while breastfeeding. Probably because I am gritting my teeth until the pain recedes.
Feeding had just started getting better before this happens, so this is probably the fever talking. I'll get through this course of antibiotics (yay, emergency room on a weekend!) and reevaluate. But today? Today has just sucked.
Monday, June 02, 2008
One month after.
I want to blog about something non-Howie, merely to show I can. Instead, my days (and nights) are filled with the sounds and images of the little man. Don't let anyone tell you different--staying at home with the kid is a test of your willpower (will I get anything at all done today?) and your sanity (will I talk to anyone who answers back?). And yet, given the opportunity to be separated from him I get cranky and uncertain and control-freaky.
We're navigating our way around each other right now, learning each others' likes and dislikes. Him: likes the mei-tai baby carrier, sleeping, and boobs, dislikes being put down, any delay in getting boob, and poopy diapers (a LOT). Me: likes are the mei-tai baby carrier, napping with a sleeping baby, and those little sounds he makes when he giggles in his sleep, dislikes are that "ehhhh ehhhhh" he makes that isn't quite crying when he's not being held, breastfeeding (yes, it still sucks--ha. ha. ha.) and poopy diapers (a LOT).
I feel pathetically grateful when there is a social event outside of my house, and at the same time I feel pathetically unentertaining when I'm there. I have nothing to contribute to conversations beyond what Howie's done recently and what I saw on "John and Kate Plus 8" yesterday (OMG did you see the episode where they flew to Utah?), but I want to see other people and maybe have a beer and it's so FUN when I do. Even when it's grey and drizzley.
So eventually I'll have something to write about that isn't centered around a pre-verbal ten pound grunting being, but today ain't that day.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Firsts
We gave Howie his first bath. He didn't hate it (he hates dirty diapers a whole lot more--and I can't say I disagree with him) but he did have a "what the hell?" look on his face for most of it. Which was pretty funny in and of itself.
What he doesn't know yet is that his grandparents just bought a house. Fifteen blocks from here. They came to visit their newest grandchild and left with a new house. That is, the house is still here, but by the time they left, ten days after they'd arrived, they had made an offer, and had it accepted, for a house that is literally down the street.
I don't know why this should surprise me. I learned to say, "A kitchen gut remodel six weeks before I'm due? Sure! Let's start tomorrow!" from somewhere.
Plus, my parents have a history of calling up their children and saying, "Guess what? we've bought/sold/remodeled a house!" So really, the only thing different is that this time I saw it happen. And I was still amazed.
So now, in the space of a spring, my sister and nephew moved here, my son was born, and my parents are moving here. One more addition to Portland's tax base and the city is going to give me a set of china.
I'm excited. I'm excited for the cousins to know each other as more than once-a-year relatives. I'm excited for my son to have a relationship with his grandparents that doesn't involve only special occasions.
I'm also nervous. This time last year, this family was spread out over nine time zones. It may be a lot to ask to have us not just in the same state, but literally within a half-mile radius of each other.
It is a little backwards, what we're doing. Most families end up dispersing. Our little family, with no real home town to return to, is--what is the opposite of dispersing? Persing? Finding some reason and some way to come together. Not at all something I would have predicted five years ago.
What he doesn't know yet is that his grandparents just bought a house. Fifteen blocks from here. They came to visit their newest grandchild and left with a new house. That is, the house is still here, but by the time they left, ten days after they'd arrived, they had made an offer, and had it accepted, for a house that is literally down the street.
I don't know why this should surprise me. I learned to say, "A kitchen gut remodel six weeks before I'm due? Sure! Let's start tomorrow!" from somewhere.
Plus, my parents have a history of calling up their children and saying, "Guess what? we've bought/sold/remodeled a house!" So really, the only thing different is that this time I saw it happen. And I was still amazed.
So now, in the space of a spring, my sister and nephew moved here, my son was born, and my parents are moving here. One more addition to Portland's tax base and the city is going to give me a set of china.
I'm excited. I'm excited for the cousins to know each other as more than once-a-year relatives. I'm excited for my son to have a relationship with his grandparents that doesn't involve only special occasions.
I'm also nervous. This time last year, this family was spread out over nine time zones. It may be a lot to ask to have us not just in the same state, but literally within a half-mile radius of each other.
It is a little backwards, what we're doing. Most families end up dispersing. Our little family, with no real home town to return to, is--what is the opposite of dispersing? Persing? Finding some reason and some way to come together. Not at all something I would have predicted five years ago.
Monday, May 19, 2008
It's all about the boobs
You know what else? Breastfeeding makes me feel myself up a lot more often.
"Does Howie need to eat yet? Let me check... mmm... no, probably not. Let's check back in about half an hour, 'kay?"
"Does Howie need to eat yet? Let me check... mmm... no, probably not. Let's check back in about half an hour, 'kay?"
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Lactation Tsunami
It used to be I couldn't see my feet because of my belly. Now I can't see them because of my boobs.
This whole breastfeeding thing? It apparently doesn't come naturally to me. Why this should be a surprise when I could neither get pregnant nor give birth without modern medicine, I don't know. But there it is. That's my big struggle right now.
It's not the milk production. Trust me, that is not the problem. It takes one look at all the milk stains all over whatever shirt I'm wearing these past two weeks to put that theory to rest. Gah, no one ever tells you in all this Breast is Best madness what an absolute mess you're going to make. Maybe not everyone. Maybe just me. But dude, just, everywhere. I can't hold my son without, say, Rightie saying, "Now? We're doing this now????" very clearly and wetly--through whatever kind of nursing pads, layers of tank tops, and maybe a jacket. And then Leftie joins in--such a follower. Wannabe. And there I am, with a sleeping son that I half pray sleeps longer and half pray wakes up soon so my poor rock hard boobs can finally get some relief, and two giant wet rorsarch tests blooming down the front of my shirt that smell faintly of sour milk.
I'm hot like that.
I'm told this is a blessing, and really, I'm sure it is, this over-abundance of milk. And I'll believe it, as soon as I can channel these powers for good. In the meantime, I can only leave the house in short fifteen minute bursts but only if I bring a spare shirt in case I suddenly need to put on an extra (dry) layer while in the middle of Target.
Hypothetically speaking.
So, yeah, it's not the production. It's more the pain. I don't know if I have an extremely low pain tolerance (possible) or Howie has the power to suck dimples of a golf ball (possible) or both or something else entirely. All I know is that I don't feel comfortable breastfeeding in front of anyone because the grimaces I make and the whimpering that comes out of my throat while trying to line the whole thing up are mildly embarassing.
It's interesting, how breastfeeding is treated. Portland is a rough town for those who don't come to it like ducks to water. It's the town with the highest percentage of breast feeders, and it also hold the record for the longest average length of breastfeeding. There's a huge unspoken--and sometimes spoken--pressure to be part of the majority here. Don't get me wrong, I agree that breast milk is the best for my son, and I want him to have the best, but how many lactation consultants do I need to see before I am allowed to say the pain is too much? What if things don't get better after a month, as everyone has promised me (well, hoped for me)?
Things have started getting better on the pain front. Today was a good day. Yesterday, though--not so much. So we'll take it as it comes, and see what happens. I'd like to start not leaking through my breast pads, for a start--leaving the house for extended periods might help my sanity.
This whole breastfeeding thing? It apparently doesn't come naturally to me. Why this should be a surprise when I could neither get pregnant nor give birth without modern medicine, I don't know. But there it is. That's my big struggle right now.
It's not the milk production. Trust me, that is not the problem. It takes one look at all the milk stains all over whatever shirt I'm wearing these past two weeks to put that theory to rest. Gah, no one ever tells you in all this Breast is Best madness what an absolute mess you're going to make. Maybe not everyone. Maybe just me. But dude, just, everywhere. I can't hold my son without, say, Rightie saying, "Now? We're doing this now????" very clearly and wetly--through whatever kind of nursing pads, layers of tank tops, and maybe a jacket. And then Leftie joins in--such a follower. Wannabe. And there I am, with a sleeping son that I half pray sleeps longer and half pray wakes up soon so my poor rock hard boobs can finally get some relief, and two giant wet rorsarch tests blooming down the front of my shirt that smell faintly of sour milk.
I'm hot like that.
I'm told this is a blessing, and really, I'm sure it is, this over-abundance of milk. And I'll believe it, as soon as I can channel these powers for good. In the meantime, I can only leave the house in short fifteen minute bursts but only if I bring a spare shirt in case I suddenly need to put on an extra (dry) layer while in the middle of Target.
Hypothetically speaking.
So, yeah, it's not the production. It's more the pain. I don't know if I have an extremely low pain tolerance (possible) or Howie has the power to suck dimples of a golf ball (possible) or both or something else entirely. All I know is that I don't feel comfortable breastfeeding in front of anyone because the grimaces I make and the whimpering that comes out of my throat while trying to line the whole thing up are mildly embarassing.
It's interesting, how breastfeeding is treated. Portland is a rough town for those who don't come to it like ducks to water. It's the town with the highest percentage of breast feeders, and it also hold the record for the longest average length of breastfeeding. There's a huge unspoken--and sometimes spoken--pressure to be part of the majority here. Don't get me wrong, I agree that breast milk is the best for my son, and I want him to have the best, but how many lactation consultants do I need to see before I am allowed to say the pain is too much? What if things don't get better after a month, as everyone has promised me (well, hoped for me)?
Things have started getting better on the pain front. Today was a good day. Yesterday, though--not so much. So we'll take it as it comes, and see what happens. I'd like to start not leaking through my breast pads, for a start--leaving the house for extended periods might help my sanity.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
And yesterday, everything changed.
So... yeah.
It took 52 minutes, from walking into the OR--yes, I walked my own self into the OR--to hearing a wee little cry, and everything changed.
Howie is in the house, y'all!
I haven't slept for more than about an hour and a half since 5 yesterday morning, and I'm currently waiting for my next dose of dilaudid so you'll have to excuse my sort of jagged piecing together of events. We went through a C-section, and after talking to several friends and family members who had an emergency C-section, apparently the planned one is the way to go. I mean, my incision is smaller and more convenient (ha!), for one thing, but we also had two hours before the actual event where we leisurely filled in the social security application, birth certificates, vaccination forms, vacation plans, etc etc etc. We've now applied for college and decided his major.
And the spinal block? That is some funky shit. Imagine being able to feel your feet, know they're there, feel the temperature, the breeze, the covering, but when you go to move them... nothing. Or being able to feel people tugging and pushing and pulling (and then eventually, apparently, sitting on your chest and hanging out, maybe having a cup of tea) but not feeling any cutting of any type--and definitely not feeling whatever is causing that burning smell. That makes it sound scary, and it was--but only in retrospect. At the time, the doctors were friendly, relaxed, and telling me what was going on as they went, even complementing my previous surgical team. I was so relaxed that when I heard one of the doctors accidentally drop some metal surgical implement, I asked, "Shouldn't you shout 'OPA!' when that happens?"
My OB laughed.
"You know you're going to miss me," I said to her.
She peeked over the barrier and said she would, but I bet she says that to all the girls.
When I first heard that baby cry--oh, that cliched moment!--I became a cliche myself and broke down. I'm even crying now as I relive that moment, easily the most intense of my life. The casualness of the hours leading up to that moment in no way prepared me for the semitruck that flattened me when I heard Howie cry for the first time. I couldn't even see him past the little curtain (a blue sheet clipped to two IV thingies) and I was gasping for air between wracking sobs, clutching Andrew's hand as he stood up to get a better view. Our little boy was here. This boy--whatever he was, whatever we went through, whatever, had just fallen away as this boy let us know that he was cold and he was not happy. And in that moment, everything changed.
I want to write more, but I can't right now. The heart, it can be so full.
It took 52 minutes, from walking into the OR--yes, I walked my own self into the OR--to hearing a wee little cry, and everything changed.
Howie is in the house, y'all!
I haven't slept for more than about an hour and a half since 5 yesterday morning, and I'm currently waiting for my next dose of dilaudid so you'll have to excuse my sort of jagged piecing together of events. We went through a C-section, and after talking to several friends and family members who had an emergency C-section, apparently the planned one is the way to go. I mean, my incision is smaller and more convenient (ha!), for one thing, but we also had two hours before the actual event where we leisurely filled in the social security application, birth certificates, vaccination forms, vacation plans, etc etc etc. We've now applied for college and decided his major.
And the spinal block? That is some funky shit. Imagine being able to feel your feet, know they're there, feel the temperature, the breeze, the covering, but when you go to move them... nothing. Or being able to feel people tugging and pushing and pulling (and then eventually, apparently, sitting on your chest and hanging out, maybe having a cup of tea) but not feeling any cutting of any type--and definitely not feeling whatever is causing that burning smell. That makes it sound scary, and it was--but only in retrospect. At the time, the doctors were friendly, relaxed, and telling me what was going on as they went, even complementing my previous surgical team. I was so relaxed that when I heard one of the doctors accidentally drop some metal surgical implement, I asked, "Shouldn't you shout 'OPA!' when that happens?"
My OB laughed.
"You know you're going to miss me," I said to her.
She peeked over the barrier and said she would, but I bet she says that to all the girls.
When I first heard that baby cry--oh, that cliched moment!--I became a cliche myself and broke down. I'm even crying now as I relive that moment, easily the most intense of my life. The casualness of the hours leading up to that moment in no way prepared me for the semitruck that flattened me when I heard Howie cry for the first time. I couldn't even see him past the little curtain (a blue sheet clipped to two IV thingies) and I was gasping for air between wracking sobs, clutching Andrew's hand as he stood up to get a better view. Our little boy was here. This boy--whatever he was, whatever we went through, whatever, had just fallen away as this boy let us know that he was cold and he was not happy. And in that moment, everything changed.
I want to write more, but I can't right now. The heart, it can be so full.
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