Down the hatch

Our third attempt with rice cereal has proven to be the charm. Today I mixed up a half batch (maybe a half a shot glass?) and fed it to my little bird. I couldn’t spoon it in fast enough. This kid can eat.

He’s a sloppy little chowhound– by the end he had a cereal fu-man-chu but he likes it. He really likes it. We made a second half batch that he ate just as greedily.

Today a shot glass portion of rice cereal tomorrow… well. Probably the same. But someday, kiddo, I’ll take you to a real restaurant.

Life needs a pause button

Jack learns so much every day that it’s almost too much for his old mother to take. It’s amazing how quickly he takes things in. And it’s fun when he sees someone that he doesn’t see as often because they notice things that we miss.

I’d kill to learn as much as he does in a day.

And it’s going by too fast. I wish we could hit some kind of celestial Pause Button that would let us catch our breaths for a minute. As it is we just have to marvel that this week it’s been Cracking Up 101: The Dog’s Antics, Hey! My Feet Tast Like Feet, and Pulling Mommy’s Hair: Calistenics or Play?

Harvard should be so lucky.

To the Momma Go the Spoils

My mother has never been “Grandmother” or “Grandma.” From Miss Madelyn “First Grandchild” on my mom’s been “Momma.” It was fun when the girls were really small and we’d be someplace with them turning between my sister, “Mommy!” and my mother, “Momma!” while strangers tried to figure out just who was who and what was what. (I, being “AunT” created no such confusion.)

I’m not even sure now how it started. My Dad was “Bompa” because that’s what Maddie called him. Mom became Momma. There was never a second of confusion or disorientation. Mommy was one thing. Momma another.

Momma came home today. She’d been in France for a long two weeks. Jack and I missed her. With my sister working (stupid thing, that. I still have half a mind to “anonymously” tip off her boss that she’s got a terrible drinking problem that really exacerbates her embezzlement tendencies.) we tend to gravitate towards my Mom’s when we’re bored or in need of a little excitement. She and Jack have a goofy little thing going.

She missed a good two weeks, too, let me remind you. Two weeks of Jack possibly teething or in the stages of preteething or imagining what teething must be like… (who knows? Maybe he’s composing heavy metal ballads?) The boy can literally go from completely happy go lucky baby to something out of the portal to Hell in 7.2 seconds flat. (Top that Pontiac G8 Stupid Oprah Car!) And then, as quickly and mysteriously as it comes, it vanishes leaving my little man a weeping, shuddering baby that clings to my neck then falls asleep.

Unless you happen to be his AunT. She babysat for him this week so that his Dad and I (okay, that’s Robby. It sounded more exotic to imply that it wasn’t.) could go to the Chenille Sisters concert. Within minutes of us leaving he started to scream and kept it up, on and off, till shortly before we returned. Luckily his AunT has an unconditional love thing going for him or he’d have been set out near the dryer vent so that our car didn’t swipe him when we returned. Normally he grins at AunT. The grin that says, “Yes, I know you’ll be the one I can call when I’m in college and my roommate and I are in the ER for having taking a keg spout in the eye and I can’t quite bring myself to call Mom.” For him to scream at her means there are some serious dental eruptions on the horizon. (Or that she made him watch Yentl– his cousin Maddie treated me to a night of screeching when I tried to watch it while sitting for her. I thought about sitting on her before that night was over. Of course, now, with the wisdom and patience that only labor bring, I understand. Barbara Streisand shouldn’t star in movies.)

So tonight, while we sat at my Mom’s, and Jack sat at Momma’s feet, the little black dog refused to sit. Over and over I said, “Philbin! Sit! Sit puppy! SIT! Sit!” to no avail which struck the Jack Rabbit as being very, very funny. He erupted into a giggling fit. His first real sustained one. Where he laughed and laughed at the absurdity of his world.

Or maybe he’s just happy to have his Momma home.

Pretend it’s a tent, kiddo

Well. Jack is five months old today. Five months. I don’t think any five months has flown by so quickly. It seems like we blink and he doubles his age. I’m afraid to take a long nap or sleep in– I might wake to find myself the mother of an adult son.

Meanwhile. I’ve been thinking about nursing. Not the profession– I’m far too selfish and squeamish to have ever imagined myself as Florence Nightingale (the closest I came was Cherry Ames, Student Nurse, but even then it wasn’t the nursing profession that held the allure but her accessories. Kind of like Barbie.) By nursing I mean breastfeeding. (And half the readers just stopped.)

Before Jack was born, when Robby and I had the luxury of long discussions (now we speak in a tiny snippets and only use important, root words and ideas. No time for adverbs, adjectives, or unnecessary punctuation.) we agreed that “we” should try to breastfeed the baby. (I love the “we.” Occasionally Robby’s still dumb enough to use it in a sentence. For example, “Do you think we should feed him?” And, after I’ve asked him to whip out HIS boobie so that I can lay on the sofa with my box of bonbons he remembers and corrects himself.) There is a “we” in it though. We made the decision together, and, I must say, Robby’s been extremely supportive of the endeavor. Especially in the early days. He’d make sure I was plied with a beverage or snack. (He’s still supportive but more in a “Did you need anything?” past tense kind of way. Sigh.)

So, along came Jack and “our” attempts at breastfeeding and, by the grace of God surely, all went well and somewhat easily. I’m not a militant breastfeeder, mind you. At home Jack and I do just fine… in public we try to seek out a good corner. In the back of my head is the fear that someone will be offended by my boobie and Jack’s greedy slurping to the point of an angry confrontation. Consequently we’ve sought out places to feed/eat that are away from crowds and mobs. And, consequently (again), we’ve had some luck and some bad karma. We’re grateful when we can duck into a dressing room or far end of the parking lot. We’re waiting for the boils to break out when we have to resort to an elaborately veiled me using a recieving blanket or public bathroom. Ick. The gold star, so far, goes to IKEA where their “Nursing Station” is outfitted in floor lamps, olive colored walls, throw rugs, leather easy chairs and sofas, and thick pillows. Unbelievable. As though it’s okay for your baby to be hungry while you shop. Maternity stores are also kind though their hard benches and flourescent lights aren’t nearly so nice after the IKEA experience. A museum we went to had a stall in the restroom devoted to “Nursing Moms”– a padded bench, a Koala changing station, a waste tin, and a door that swung the wrong way. At first Jack and I were delighted with having such a private area but then we realized that we were still in a bathroom listening to the usual Museum Restroom noises– school groups and seniors. Ugh. Both of them rude and loud and apparently full of digestive issues.

A more confrontational nurser (not me. Not me.) might have just plopped down in the middle of the Museum and hauled out a boobie right then and there. Not me. I also shave my legs. And drink caffeine. And read Marie Claire magazine. I’m letting my kid rot his brain by watching the Ellen Degeneres and Oprah Winfrey shows with me. You won’t see me storming the capitol for a Nurse In or marching on the makers of Similac. I nurse Jack because I think it’s the best thing for him. Because I have a doctor, a husband, and a sister that encourage us at every step. I’m too conservative/right winged to make any big political gestures. Jack’s doing well. That’s enough for me. Other people make other choices. For us this is working well.

I won’t nurse Jack forever. Our obstetrician was ecstatic that I was still nursing at four months… our pediatrician will have us adding in cereal and other foods soon. Over time Jack will take to cups and mugs and the World of Yummy Solid Foods and I’ll be able to think of wearing a brassiere that is in any (please God, please) color but white for a while. At some point I’ll be able to leave him for more than a few hours at a time. Besides, little kids nursing really, really creep me out. Babies okay. Little kids not so much.

I won’t miss the breast pump. (And there go the other half of the readers…) The really sad thing about breast feeding in general, for me, is how very cow like it all is. Yeah, yeah, yeah it’s natural and all that but NOTHING makes you feel more like a big old cow then the sound of a breast pump attached to your boobie wheezing away while you struggle to be nonchalant. whheee uuhww. whheeee uuhwww. (Turn up the speed) whee uhw whee uhw whee uhw. I’m not a pretty girl– I rarely feel attractive but I tell you that thing makes you feel really, really unattractive. Ugh. Still, the end result is worth it. A bottle of Mommy To Go. Much nicer to whip out a bottle in church or a restaurant or the ballet then me. Think about that. The funny thing is that when we first started thinking about breastfeeding we got all sorts of unsolicited opinions about it. Not everyone was initally supportive. Then, you are breastfeeding and you bring along a pumped bottle of breastmilk and you get a whole other reaction from people who hiss things like, “I thought you were breastfeeding.” You can’t win. (What I want to say is something along the lines of, “Well we were but then my heroin habit kind of broke up the whole experience so now we’re just letting the kid drink unpasteurized apple cider.”)

We saw a baby onsie that, if I had more guts I’d have put on Jack. It said simply, “Formula is for pu****s.” Utterly (udderly?) wrong, I know. Completely inappropriate. But there are days that it makes me laugh out loud when I think about it. Today’s one.

Happy five months of life, Little Man. We’re glad you’re growing even if it kind of kills us at the same time. Cheers. (And watch those teeth.)

Waiting to exhale…

Trying not to breathe on baby. I have a horrible head cold. So far the little man is okay– just a few coughs and sneezes but nothing out of the ordinary. So I hold him over one shoulder and breathe over the other and keep hoping he’ll stay healthy. Keep a good thought, Reader Friend?

Because this cold sucks.

Sing it, Maria VonTrapp: A few of MY favorite things

Five of my favorite things about Jack this week…

1. Baby Smell. I had a friend once that was obsessed with the idea of phernomes. (haven’t even a clue as to how to spell it… but you know what I mean. The sciencey thing about our scent and attraction and all that.) It’s very cliche to wax on the intoxicating smell of a baby– but there’s a reason it’s cliche. He’s delicious. I get dizzy smelling the back of his soft, little neck. It kills me to think that he’ll grow up to be a smelly, little boy and then a smelly man… but for now I could bottle him and make a million.

2. His funny little giggle. It’s purely his own. He owns that laugh. I’ve always loved the individuality of laughter– and there are certain laughs that are sweeter than other’s… Hearing my son’s laughter is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever heard. And that includes the piano encore of Miss Natalie Merchant back in college AND the wistful moan of train whistles in the middle of the night. Glorious sounds those…

3. Jack’s toes. He has his father’s feet. Where mine are long and slender Robby’s are akin to Mr. Barney Rubble’s blockish feet. Completely flat. Jack loves to “stand” these days. He’ll grab hold of your fingers and strain his little arm and back and neck muscles to hold up his big, round head while he pulls himself up to a stand. His toes, unaccustomed to this feat, still point automatically. So, with his long toes at the end of his blocky little feet, he grips your tummy or your leg or whatever he happens to stand on. Like a wobbling, drunken sailor. It’s the look he gives you while doing that really kills. Conspiring, gleeful, and drooly all at once. Again, like Popeye after three too many.

4. Waking up to baby. Those of you that know me even semi-well, know that I am not, and never have been, a morning person. I’m okay once I get going but it takes a while of quiet transition in the early hours and cold orange juice thick with pulp or a glass bottled coke to make for an easy adjustment to daylight. Jack changed all that. Not to say that I’m pulling a Snow White– trust me, no woodland animals are flitting about my bed in a cheerful manner… but the day has a different onset when I wake to the funny little birdy noises of my Jack cooing and “talking” in his jibbery way. (I’m terrified that he’s actually speaking Klingon or Czchech or something and I’m just too stupid to be picking up on it…) There’s such a sense of not wanting to miss a moment of the little monkey’s discoveries. So waking up isn’t nearly as hard to do. (Waking up at 2:30 a.m. however is still never fun. Unless it’s friends calling from Ireland where they are already drunk despite the fact that there it is only 7:30 a.m. because that’s always fun. Hearing from drunken friends abroad, I mean. Not the early morning inebriation.)

5. Jack’s discussions. He has long ones. With the little black dog. With his rattle. With the chicken feet dangling from his Baby Gymnini mat. But especially with anyone who sits and listens. It’s the surest way to get a grin out of him. To sit nearby, facing him, and giving him your whole attention. He’ll babble away as though he’s recounting the most detailed tale. Today, in just such a recitation he babbled, “ma-ma-mha-mma.” I know it was just a huge coincidence. Like a little monkey typing out my name if given time. But it was such a hint of all that is to come. He has more possibilities ahead of him than I have left. Overwhelming that thought.

I don’t reccomend that everyone have a baby. I know too many friends that have too many logical reasons not to. But oh, I am so glad we did. I’m so very glad that my Jack is here.

Checking out of Hotel Rwanda

Trish and I went up to the “good theater” (a 30 minute drive north) to see Hotel Rwanda this week. The good theater has stadium seating, bouncy seats, the snack bar of our dreams, and excellent popcorn. All very important when settling in for a nice movie about genocide.

Who knew a bloody civil war could make for such a date movie? We were the only noncouple in a very crowded theater. I realize I’m not one to talk here– my first date with Robby was to see Schindler’s List. (And no, Mrs. Seinfeld, we didn’t make out during it.) Still. We were surprised. Didn’t expect to find a crowded theater. Thought we’d kind of have the place to ourselves. As it was then we had to whisper our comments. Like our utter ignorance in all things Hutu and Tutsi. (Which are which? Who is Huto? Et Tutsi Brutus?) Luckily the filmmakers had an ignorant cameraman to provide that information for– thank you Joaquin Pheonix in your very quiet little turn as the ignorant cameraman for asking.

As the lights came up we sat a little stunned at the overwhelming cruelty of 1994. What the heck were we doing that we didn’t know about this? we asked each other… then remembered that Trish was making Keegan and I was planning a wedding. Huh. (Speaking of relationships– the one in front of us was clearly ended as the neandrathal of a date stood by while his girlfriend sobbed inconsolably. Sorry buddy. Maybe next time you can take a girl to a Nora Ephron film?)

Our review? Excellent movie. Fantastic performances from Mr. Don Cheadle and his on-screen wife Sophie in particular.

Go see it.
Take a date.