26 Minutes

It's 4:07. I nurse a newly awakened baby, helping him bridge the gap between Asleep and Awake. We talk quietly and smile. I change him, and when he protests, I point out a picture of a fish on the wall. We sing and blow raspberries and laugh.

It's 4:18. I spoon applesauce into the baby's mouth. It is promptly spit back out. Pudgy, dimpled hands smear it across the highchair tray--his first work of art. Illogically, I consider hanging it on the fridge even as I attack it with a wet rag.

It's 4:23. We chase the Dog until he escapes, hiding under the bed. We chase Yellow Cat until he unsheathes his claws, threatening to inflict yet another wound on the baby's overeager, but not overly gentle hands. We play patty cake. We sing a song about ducks that went swimming and never came back. (Why are children's songs so morbid?)

It's 4:28. We have a small battle of wills about whether the DVDs are appropriate playthings. It ends in tears of frustration, which are soothed by another song, this one about monkeys that get eaten by an alligator.

It's 4:31. The baby finds a shoe. The shoe is removed. The baby finds a wood chip. The wood chip is removed. The baby finds a cat toy. The cat toy is removed. The baby finds a remote. The remote is removed.

It's 4:32. It's 4:32? I get up, find my cell phone, and check the time again. Yes, it's 4:32. Either we're moving around the apartment at the speed of light or time has slowed down. It's 4:33.

(It occurs to me 2 hours later to send the universe a retroactive "Thank you" for allowing this applesauce-and-song filled afternoon to be my Everyday.)

Dadaism

For the past couple of weeks, Luke has gone crazy trying to imitate every noise that he hears. McMoose has very shrewdly decided to use this for his benefit by spending every waking moment saying "Dada" to the child. As a result, Luke now says Dada to McMoose and to me and to the Dog and to the cats and to the other babies in our water aerobics class. Since we had a couple of hours this afternoon when we weren't particularly busy, I decided that I would try to balance the scales a little bit.

Me: Luke, can you say Mama?
Luke: Dada.
Me: No, Mama.
Luke: Dada.
Me: Mmmmmmmmaaammmmmaaaa.
Luke: Daaaaadaaaaa.
Me: Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma.
Luke: Da-da-da-da-da-da.
Me, whispering: Mama.
Luke, whispering: Dada.

Touche, McMoose. (But as the person who fills out the kid's baby book, I'm so NOT counting this as his first word.)

Dr. T

Luke had his 9-month well baby visit earlier this week, and since we got in to see the "good" doctor at our pediatrician's office, all went well. (Other than the horrible, awful, no-good, very bad stick-needle-in-finger-and-then-squeeze-out-droplets-of-blood-for-5-whole-minutes test. Which indicated that the kid is anemic. But that's a whole different issue.) So imagine my surprise when I was at a Mom's group today and I mentioned the name of my "good" doctor (who will hereafter be called Dr. T), only to be met with multiple exclamations of "Oh, my goodness, I HATE that doctor!!!"

Of course, at the first chance I got, I brought the conversation back to the doctor subject and asked why the most vocal of the bunch hated the doctor. Turns out she thinks that my Dr. T is (a) vain, (b) preoccupied with her own child, and (c) not good at giving medical opinions about parenting practices. It occurred to me that reason (a) aside, (b) and (c)? Those...are kind of why I like this doctor so much.

I like that she's "preoccupied" with her own child because her child is 5 months older than Luke, which means that she has very recent experience in all these stages that we're now going through. Furthermore, she has researched every aspect of baby care TO DEATH, so when I ask her about whether my kid should get the flu vaccine, I don't just get the party line. Instead, I get an actual conversation discussing his risk factors, his protective factors, and the potential risks of the vaccine versus the strain(s) of the flu in the vaccine.

As for the whole "not good at giving (medical) opinions about parenting practices" thing? I think that's why I ask for her at every well visit. Because really, I don't go in to talk about what Luke eats or how he sleeps. I don't really need to hear about TV viewing or sock wearing or discipline or how often he should be bathed. I go in to measure his height and his weight and to get him his shots and to get a general physical check.

Of course, the conversation today DID help me realize that the one time I went in for a sick visit, I totally didn't ask for Dr. T because I had no desire to be standing there with a feverish baby, listening to her talk about the last time her baby had a cold.

Lost. Found.

Things I have lost today:

1. My keys. They were later found on top of a plate of pancakes in the fridge.
2. The baby. He was later found under an end table behind the couch, tormenting a cat (as usual).
3. The bag of sugar. It was later found in the fridge as well.
4. My shoes. They were later found OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT (????)
5. The baby again. He was later found pulling down clothes in his closet.
6. The Dog. He was later found aiding and abetting the baby in the closet.
7. My cell phone. It was later found in the sink (????)
8. My keys again. They were later found in the dog cage.
9. The baby AGAIN. He was later found licking the bookshelves in his room.
10. Um...my mind?

P.S. Reading back from that list, it kind of looks like I'm a neglectful mother, considering the fact that I lost the baby three times. If it helps you imagine the scenario(s) any better, the first time, I was putting cheerios on his tray and took my eyes off him for all of 10 seconds, the second time, I went into the kitchen to warm up a pancake for lunch (and took my eyes off him for maybe 15 seconds), and the third time, I was looking for my keys. That time, I'll admit it was a little bit longer...maybe 45 seconds? The kid has an insane ability to know EXACTLY when I'm distracted and chooses that moment to very quietly sneak off and do something weird. (This, by the way, is the only time he is quiet. Ever.)

Adjusting Expectations

I was nervous about being the stay-at-home mom of a newborn. I thought he'd sleep all day and I'd be bored. I thought he'd cry all day and I'd be frazzled. I thought we'd turn into shut-ins and never see the light of day and both end up with severe Vitamin D deficiencies, not to mention social disorders. Being the stay-at-home mom of a newborn, as it happened, was terrific. I got to nap with him, I got to eat at random times of day and night, in short, I got to be as flexible as he needed me to be back then.

I fully expected that being a stay-at-home mom of a 9-month-old would be awesome. After all, the 6-12 month room at the daycare was by far my favorite. I loved the crawling babies--their emerging personalities, their newly found mastery of their environment, their sweet (if somewhat slobbery) kisses.

But after the intense, 24-7 neediness of a newborn, I'm having trouble adjusting to this new reality. The reality in which Luke entertains himself and feeds himself and given half a chance, would probably prefer to change himself. After months of never being able to fold a single load of laundry from start to finish without having to take a break to nurse or play with a baby, I folded four loads the other day and then read a chapter of my book.

In theory, all this extra time is a great thing. Except...I kind of miss feeling needed all the time. And also? I remember now how much I hate folding laundry.

Nine!

Here it is, the official nine month post...three days late, incidentally, but McMoose has been working from home all week and he and Luke have somehow worked it out so that every time Luke naps, McMoose has a phone meeting, which means that I NEVER, EVER get to use the computer.

It kind of blows my mind that Luke has been on the outside now for just as long as he was on the inside. I mentioned this to McMoose and he was all "Uh-huh" in a very unimpressed manner, so maybe this is the kind of thing that only matters to the person whose inside actually housed the baby for the first nine months, but I find it completely insane that it has been THAT long since I was pregnant. And also, I'd like someone to explain to me how come the nine months of pregnancy felt like they took an ETERNITY and the nine months since have felt like a blink of an eye.

So Luke crawls. I don't mean that in a "Hey, he finally figured out how to crawl" kind of way because I already wrote that in his eight month post. No, I mean it in a "Luke crawls. Every minute of every day, he crawls. In the middle of the night, he crawls around his crib, hits his head on the bars, and wakes up grouchy as a result. When I'm trying to nurse him, he crawls off my lap. When I'm trying to change him, he tries to crawl off the table" kind of way. He gets himself into some weird situations as a result--under the end tables, behind the clothes in the closet--basically, places where I would expect to find a Dog or Cat, but not a Baby.

Earlier this month, we had to take all the door stoppers off our walls because he got into the habit of pulling the white tips off and collecting them in his mouth. One morning, I noticed that he had been entertaining himself quietly for about 15 minutes, so I followed him around and realized that he had three of them in his mouth already and was going after a fourth. (He has now figured out which drawer we were keeping them in, so we'll probably have to move them soon.)

He also stands and cruises around the furniture and pulls Yellow Cat's tail, and then when Yellow Cat emits an annoyed "Mmmrrrr," Luke grins and replies, "Mmmm." (And then, he does it again, and again, and again. Earlier this month, Yellow Cat let us know that his patience with the baby had come to an end by scratching Luke's hand because Luke was following him around with a blanket in a misguided attempt to interest him in a game of peek-a-boo.) He goes after dog and cat toys every chance he gets, he pulls all the books out of his bookshelf, he tries to jump to reach things that are (purposely placed) out of his reach. He devours cheese and yogurt, but feeds his veggies to the Dog. He licks the walls (and laughs). He growls at the Dog (and laughs). He goes towards something he knows he isn't supposed to touch--the DVDs, a computer cord, my shoes--and then turns back to look at me, waits until I notice him and tell him "No," then grins, tucks his head down, and crawls as fast as he can towards the forbidden object. Oh, yeah, this kid is going to make a GREAT toddler in a few months.

Here he is, with a blanket draped over his head. This, incidentally, was the same blanket that was used later that day in the Yellow-Cat-peek-a-boo incident.

His winter coat, which he finally got to use during our blizzard...

Boxes are fun, Part 1:

Boxes are fun, Part 2:

Playing with a dog toy. A dog toy that dispenses dog food. Which he then tried to eat.

All dressed up and waiting to go to brunch to celebrate his Paati's (my mom's) 50th birthday.

Great Balls Of Fire

Technically, Luke is now 9 months old and this should be a 9 month post...but the last post had pictures in it and my obsessive-compulsive nature will not allow me to put up two picture posts back to back, so instead, let's talk about microwaves for a minute, shall we?

Those of you who have been following this blog for a while might remember the time I set my Arby's sandwich on fire and then proceeded to eat it anyway. And at the time, I blamed it on my pregnancy because (a) it made a convenient scapegoat and (b) I genuinely believed that under normal circumstances, I would never do something quite so...vile.

As it turns out, I was wrong. This morning, Luke and I went to a water aerobics class, which we do every Monday and which always leaves him exhausted and me ravenous. So he was napping and I was looking forward to a lunch of leftover pizza and chicken wings. This past weekend was my mom's birthday, so she and my step-dad had come to celebrate with us and we had bought paper party plates which were all shiny and very cool.

But my stomach was grumbling and the food looked delicious and the regular plates were so high in the cabinets that I decided to use the (shiny) paper plate instead. As it turns out, the only reason that paper plates are ever shiny is IF THEY HAVE FOIL IN THEM.

So I put the shiny plate into the microwave and 30 seconds later, smelled something very suspicious. And the first (highly illogical) thought in my head was "Huh. When did we get a fireplace?" Because apparently, in my head, it makes more sense that a fireplace would have morphed out of NOTHING than to imagine that I might have put something in the microwave that did not belong there.

Now, remember how I mentioned that Luke was napping? Yeah, even in the midst of looking at the FIRE in my microwave, my top priority was to NOT WAKE THE BABY, so there I was in a blind panic, very quietly saying "Fire! McMoose! Fire!"

McMoose, who was working from home, apparently has exceptional hearing, not to mention lightning fast reflexes because in the time that it took me to fill up a glass with water to throw on the flame, he had dashed into the kitchen, prepared to offer aid. Of course, the only "aid" he actually offered was to (a) point out that the plate shouldn't have gone in the microwave (duh), (b) laugh at me for failing to notice the FOIL on the plate, and (c) dump the cup of water ALL OVER MY LUNCH.

Which I then proceeded to eat.

It was good. In a soggy kind of way.

The Great Snow of 2010

We had a snow storm on Saturday, and for once, I'm not snickering as I say "snow storm." This was, by far, the most snow I've seen in the 4 winters I've been in North Carolina, which is to say that there was no grass visible through the snow. And now, a good 3 days later, there's STILL snow--okay, ice--on the ground.

As a northerner, I always scoffed at North Carolinian's penchant to drive off the road in half an inch of snow, but this time? I finally got it. It isn't the SNOW, per se, that causes the aforementioned driving off the road, but the fact that there's maybe one snow plow in the entire Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area and much of the time, the driver of that snow plow seems to be on break. Which is to say that maybe, if we're lucky, one lane on the big roads might get cleared off, but small roads and parking lots stay winter-wonderlandy for days. And then, because the temperatures go up during the day and back down at night, the snow melts and then re-freezes until you're left with what is essentially a giant ice skating rink.

In any case, this was Luke's first snow and of course, we had to go out and get lots of pictures...

Gotta love the jester hat: