Eating to Live

I was a picky eater as a child. I mean a really, really picky eater. As in, here is a complete list of what I would eat: eggs, white rice, yogurt, idlis (an Indian breakfast food). The end. Four things. For YEARS. There were times, here and there, when I'd try something different--chicken, ground beef, fish--but for the most part, I subsisted on the above list. And clearly, I grew. I'm fine. I don't have rickets or scurvy or pica. I now eat more than four things. Heck, I even eat my veggies, as long as it's not in the form of a salad (because silly humans! Salads are for rabbits!)

As for McMoose? He claims to have eaten cleaned his plate as a child. As an adult, however, he refuses carrots, sweet potatoes, beets, spinach, salads (can't blame him there), most forms of avocado, mangoes, and although he'll eat other veggies and fruits if pressed, he doesn't generally gravitate towards them.

So of course, I was thrilled when Luke ate everything. And even better? He ENJOYED everything. Fruits, veggies, cheese, bread, whatever--he was an equal opportunity eater. And then, he turned one and realized, apparently, that he has choices. And now, he's all "Hm...I don't care for that....this has an odd flavor....I don't believe I want to eat today." Yesterday? He ate 2 bananas, a container of applesauce, 2 spoonfuls of oatmeal, 3 crackers with hummus, and some cauliflower. All day. That was it. A month ago, he would have easily eaten twice that and then tried to mooch off my plate.

I'm hoping that this is a phase that passes QUICKLY because there are few things as annoying as spending an hour cooking a meal that you THINK someone will enjoy, only to have that person inspect the food you hand them for 2 seconds and then toss it to the Dog. (The Dog, by the way, is THRILLED with this new development.)

The Search Is On...Kind Of

Ever since Thanksgiving, I've been meaning to find a baby-sitter so that McMoose and I could, at some point, have dinner conversation that didn't involve the phrase "Please don't put food in your eyes." In fact, we even had an interview scheduled with a friend of a friend (or rather, an acquaintance of an acquaintance), but she stood us up at the last minute, which led McMoose to label her Unfit To Care For His Child. Finally, last week, I got around to posting a job description on the career services website of the local university and man, those students are on task! I've already received several email from people asking if we've filled the position yet. (Um...I posted the thing on Friday...it's now Sunday...of COURSE I haven't filled the position yet.)

Except have I mentioned? McMoose is paranoid. And not just in the slightly-quirky-but-still-rational kind of way, but rather in the over-the-top-cannot-be-reasoned-with kind of way. For example:

Me: Hey, here's an email that sounds promising. She's an elementary school teacher, has lots of references, and is looking for part-time work because she and her husband are saving up to adopt a baby!
McMoose: So in other words, she's going to kidnap our baby.

And as we all know, I have some experience with ridiculous paranoia myself, so then, THEN, the thought gets implanted in MY head and in the midst of my fantasies about maybe being able to go out for ice-cream without worrying about healthy menu options for Luke, I start thinking that what if we DO end up with a psycho baby-sitter who gives us fake references and then runs off with Little Bug at the first opportunity? Or what if we leave him and he cries the entire time and thinks we've abandoned him and then grows up to be an evil dictator and blames it all on us? Or what if he chokes on something and the baby-sitter doesn't know the Heimlich? (Of course...I don't really, exactly, specifically know the Heimlich either...but that's beside the point.) And while I'm sitting here, imagining all kinds of ridiculously unlikely scenarios, McMoose has happily moved on and is playing video games.

And this is EXACTLY why we're no closer to finding a baby-sitter than we were six months ago.

Babies

Earlier this week, I went to my first movie, post-Luke. You'd think that after having spent the past 12 months constantly looking at a baby, I'd have had my fill, but what movie did I go to? Babies.

If you haven't heard about this movie, it's a kind-of documentary that follows four babies from four different countries around for their first year of life. To be perfectly honest, I expected the movie to be kind of boring. I mean, there's very little dialogue, what with the main characters being non-verbal and all and how interesting could it be to spend 90 minutes looking at short clips of strange babies? Turns out: very.

There are so many child-rearing conventions that are taken for granted: don't let your kids eat rocks because they will choke to death. Don't leave your baby alone near water because babies can drown in as little as an inch of standing water. Don't leash your baby to the bed because (a) they could strangle on the rope and (b) they might start believing themselves to be a dog and then, they'd start licking themselves in rude places and how are you going to explain that to the family?

But as it happens, all of these rules are cultural, as shown by the genius (seriously, genius) editing of this movie. It was funny (not necessarily ha-ha funny) to see the differences between the concerns of the parents in the two developed countries versus in the developing countries. It was funny (ha-ha funny) to see all four of the babies acting like...well...babies, regardless of whether they were wearing a loin cloth or a designer onesie. All in all, it was a great choice of a first movie AND it made me appreciate my baby all the more when I got back home.

Sweet, Little Lies

I took Luke and Other Baby to the playground today because there was a Very Gross Incident involving Other Baby and cat vomit and we just needed to get out of the apartment and get a new lease on the day. It's been raining here recently, so the sandbox was pretty pool-like and all the sensible moms must have kept their kids home today because it was just us and one other mom with her two kids. Her younger child was about Luke's age and they were completely fascinated with each other, so the mom and I started talking while Luke and her daughter "played" together (ie- the little girl would pat Luke on the face, he'd giggle and run away, then he'd pat her on the face and she'd run away, etc.)

Other Mom: How old is he? (Referring to Luke)
Me: He just turned 1 a couple of weeks ago. How old is your daughter?
OM: She just turned 1, too. She just started walking.
Me: Yeah, he did too.
OM: Is he walking yet? (Referring to Other Baby, who was in the sling because it was too wet for him to be crawling around.)
Me: Oh, no, not yet.
OM: Are they twins?
Me: No, this one is my friend's baby.
OM: Are you sure?
[Um...seriously? Am I sure that there was only one baby in my uterus? Am I sure I didn't *accidentally* give birth to two instead of one? Am I sure that I only have one baby living in my house? YES, I'M SURE!]
Me: Uh...yeeeaaahhhh...
OM: Because they look like twins.
[No. No, they don't. Except for the fact that they are both male children with brown-ish hair and blue eyes, they do not, in fact, look anything like each other.]
Me: Huh.
OM: So...they're not twins?
Me: No.
OM: Really?
Me: Okay, yeah. They're twins.
OM: They are? (With a delighted look on her face)
Me: Sure.

I'm not proud of lying. But it just made her so damn HAPPY to think that they were and who am I to deny her that (very weird) joy? And also, do these conversations happen to other people? Ever? Or am I just a magnet for Weird?

A Good Morning

Lately, Luke has been sleeping until 6 or 7 (or 8 or 9) in the morning without waking up, which has been kind of amazing. Mind you, it has made no difference whatsoever in the amount of sleep that I get because as he's gotten better at sleeping through the night, I've moved my bedtime back, so I'm still tired and grumpy all the time, it's just that I no longer get to blame it on the baby (um...the toddler?)

Last night, he threw me for a loop and woke up at 4 and then again at 5. And, um, I was kind of, sort of, secretly glad. Shh, don't tell anyone. I'm the person who ENJOYS having her sleep interrupted.

But it's just that he went from sleeping in 4-hour stretches to sleeping in 7 or 8-hour stretches practically overnight and I'm just not used to going that long without seeing him (YES, I know how ridiculous that sounds.) AND when he used to wake up in the middle of the night, we used to just bring him back to bed with us and then I got to cuddle a little, warm body for the rest of the night and now, I have no excuse to do that anymore. People, it had been DAYS since I've gotten to cuddle with a sleeping baby and that is just unacceptable, especially when there's a baby conveniently located in the apartment who sleeps fairly often. So when he woke up at 5 and I got to bring him back to bed for the next two hours, it totally made my day. (Even though he then proceeded to spend most of those two hours kicking and twisting in his sleep and generally acting like a crazy fool.)

High and Dry

The week before Luke's birthday party, McMoose and I had a TON of work to do to (a) get the apartment presentable and (b) get all the food and supplies ready for the party. So of course, chores that didn't contribute to one of the above two goals got postponed. Chores, for example, like the laundry. Now we generate a fair bit of laundry each week, what with the baby clothes and the adult clothes and the bathroom mats that the cats often pee on and the diapers, so even under the best of circumstances, it usually results in about 4 loads per week and it can be hard to keep up with it. So last Monday, after all our guests had left, I was so looking forward to spending a good two days taking care of all the laundry for the past week, as well as the sheets and towels that the guests had used and the new clothes that Luke had gotten for his birthday. I started, as usual, with a load of diapers.

I should mention here that when we got our washer and dryer, we picked out the cheapest ones that money could buy because I was in grad school, working at a daycare, and routinely neglecting to buy groceries in favor of paying the electric bill and McMoose had JUST started working at IBM full time. And at the time, we weren't living together so we were paying rent and utilities on TWO apartments (one of which was used largely as a storage area) and McMoose had to pretty much feed himself, me, the Dog and both cats.

As it turns out, the cheapest dryer that money can buy usually isn't so great at actually drying clothes, so it usually took a good two hours to do the diapers and at least three to do everything else. So I put in the diapers. One hour later, they were still soaked. Two hours later, they were still soaked. Three hours later, they were not quite soaked, but still really, really damp. Four hours later...are you getting the idea here? Apparently, the heating element had decided that it hated its job and it no longer wished to heat things up. You can imagine my sheer panic when we figured out that this wasn't going to be a quick or easy fix because dude! We had AN ENTIRE CLOSET full of dirty clothes! Dirty clothes were TAKING OVER THE WHOLE WORLD! Pretty soon, they would BLOCK OUT THE SUN and then, human civilization WOULD BE OVER! All because I had put off the laundry for a week.

Luckily, we were able to manage for a week because (a) we used the apartment complex laundromat for one load of must-haves, (b) we re-used a lot of pants, (c) I don't even want to TALK about underwear, and (d) we hung up a load of diapers on every hang-able surface in the apartment. And bright and early this morning, our NEW DRYER got here. *Insert joyous celebration here!* People, our new dryer has lights and music and a bazillion different settings and a sensor that stops it if the clothes are dry so you don't waste energy and the thing that I'm most excited about: a CHILD LOCK. So Luke can push all the buttons he wants without messing with the settings. Is it possible to be in love with an appliance? Because I totally think I'm falling for this dryer. (I shall call him Moe.)

Twelve Month Pictures

Pushing his car around at a park. Hard to believe that just a few short weeks ago, he couldn't walk outside without holding onto something.

Luke-in-a-box:

(Very) early college prep:

I think it's pretty safe to say he has blue eyes...

Don't Come Preachin'

Every couple of months, Mormons come to our door to try to witness to us. It annoys me ENDLESSLY.

The first few times, I just told them I didn't have the time to listen because I was always rushing off to school just as they knocked on the door. But since having Luke, I've actually come to enjoy their visits. Not because I like being preached to by random people at my doorstep, but because it provides some unexpected entertainment in the middle of the day.

The last time they came, I told them that I had a personal belief in Jesus Christ and that he talked to me frequently, but that he told me that I wasn't supposed to tell anyone else what he said to me. They looked confused. Then, they tried to tell me about their prophet. I told them that if talking to God makes on a prophet, then I'm sure there are lots of prophets since prayer is a way of talking to God, right? They left.

They came back again yesterday. I told them I was Hindu. And to my chagrin, they started asking questions about Hinduism. So I dug down to all the things I remember from the stories my grandmother used to tell me and I told them about Hanuman (a giant monkey) and the blue baby Krishna who swallowed the entire world. Again, they left.

Next time, I might tell them I'm wicca. I'd better start researching...

Twelve!

Here it is, the very last monthly post for Luke...and four days late, to boot. He had his 1-year doctor's visit yesterday, which went startlingly well (but then, I'm always startled by doctors who have any level of common sense). He weighed in at 23 lbs and 12 oz, so he has tripled his birth weight and he's 31 inches tall, which means he's 10.5 inches taller than when he was born. It doesn't seem like a lot, it's less than a foot, but the difference is amazing.

He had to have his iron levels checked again because he was anemic last time and they're going (slowly) up: yay! Last Friday, he woke up with a fever and he was grouchy on Friday and Saturday and pulled on his ears a lot, so I suspected an ear infection. As it turns out, his ears are fine and all the discomfort was caused by the new TOOTH that came in yesterday morning. The first tooth must have lulled me into a false state of security because man, this second one was rough! And now, there's a third one lurking in his gums, probably waiting for an inopportune moment to poke on out.

Over the past two weeks, his walking skills have advanced by leaps and bounds. In fact, he's pretty much given up crawling now and is trying to master running (Gulp. Yikes.) His favorite game is putting things into boxes/buckets/anything with a hole and then pulling them back out. And of course, riling up the animals. And of course, climbing on Other Baby. And because he now knows how to walk, we've been trying to let him walk instead of riding the cart when we go to the store, which has been...trying. He seems to feel that he should be allowed to grab every. single. item off the shelves and when we don't let him indulge that particular desire, he lies down in the middle of the aisle and throws a kicking, screaming fit. Needless to say, we're trying to go at non-peak hours so as to expose as few people to the ridiculous tantrums as possible.

He had a great time at his birthday party, even though he wasn't feeling so great. A few of his baby friends came with their parents and his Paati (my mom) and Grandpa Ron (my stepdad) came from D.C. and his Papa (McMoose's dad) and KayKay (Papa's fiancee) came from Mississippi and brought his great-grandmother, Mimi with them. Luke loved being the center of attention, both during the party and for the rest of the weekend. I'm so grateful that our family members were able to travel to come to the party!

We didn't take any pictures of the party on our camera, so I won't be able to post any of those, but I'll post other pictures from this past month later this week.

Looking forward

I saw a blog recently in which the woman was trying to put together 500 pieces of advice for her baby daughter. I don't have the slightest desire (or the patience) to think of five. hundred. things. to tell Luke, but I did think it was a cool idea, so here are 25 things instead.

1. Get a library card. Every time you move to a new place, put this on your to-do list. You might stay away for months and years, but libraries are awesome places and there is always a reason to have a card, whether you just want to read a book you don't want to buy or you're on your way to a job interview and you forgot to print something out and you're all the way across town from your house.
2. Tip the waitstaff. Even if they get your order wrong. There's no reason to punish the kitchen staff and busboys and hosts/hostesses just because your waiter or waitress was having a bad day.
3. Take pride in what you do. You don't have to love your job, but do it well. With that said, if you experience more than a passing unhappiness with what you're doing and you're able to change it, do.
4. Smile at strangers. They'll probably smile back and it'll add some light to both your days.
5. Be true to your beliefs. If you don't believe in a certain practice, don't do it. By faking it, you're short-changing yourself, as well as those who genuinely believe in the practice.
6. Follow your destiny and find your path, but don't stay away from the people who love you for too long.
7. Act with purpose.
8. Wear socks. But not with sandals.
9. Try new foods, even if you don't think you'll like them. You might surprise yourself.
10. Try to avoid the middle seat on an airplane.
11. Be nice to children and animals. The way we treat those who cannot "tell" on us reflects who we really are.
12. Take every chance you can to watch the ocean, the stars, and lightning storms.
13. Speak on the issues that are dear to your heart. Speak on the issues that you know a lot about. On all others, ask questions and then be silent so that others have a chance to speak.
14. Being judgmental is not always a bad thing. Use your judgment to discern what is right or wrong for you. Allow others the same privilege.
15. Take vacations. They're fun, they broaden your horizons, and they give you something to talk about when you get back to your real life on Monday.
16. It's good to eat things that make you happy sometimes, but make sure you make an effort to also eat things that make you healthy. (And if they happen to be one and the same? Bonus!)
17. Always own multiple copies of car keys. If you're anything like me, you'll lock yourself out of your car frequently. It makes life so much easier if all you have to do is go inside and get the spare.
18. Open your windows when it's warm.
19. Always have someone that you know you can call if you're stranded by the side of the road. Conversely, if a friend calls from the side of the road, go and help, even if it's inconvenient.
20. Pay attention in fourth grade English class. That's when you'll learn when to use "me" and when to use "I" and when to use "good" and when to use "well," as well as the difference between "you're" and "your" and "they're" and "there" and "their" and "too" and "two" and "to." These are important things to know and they don't take that long to learn.
21. Try to be on time, but call if you're going to be late.
22. Once you've accepted an apology, don't continue to dwell on the offense.
23. If you're hungry and you don't think there's anything in the house, check the back of the pantry. It's usually a treasure trove of forgotten yumminess.
24. Don't eat finger foods with a fork and knife. It looks pretentious and is far less fun.
25. If you call someone and they don't pick up the phone, leave a message. It's always fun to get voicemail.

Most of these are things I'm still working on. The ones I've mastered (see number 17), I've learned the (very) hard way. Here's hoping Luke can learn from my mistakes, as well as his own.

Looking Back

This time last year, I was falling asleep on the couch. This time last year, I was hot and itchy and grumpy that the baby was STILL not here. This time last year, I was convinced that I would be pregnant FOREVER and that I’d spend the REST OF MY LIFE with Braxton-Hicks contractions that mocked me with their frequency. This time last year, I had no idea that I’d wake up two hours later in labor.

I never posted my birth story here because for a long time, I wasn’t ready to write coherently about it. It was too long and involved too many words like “cervix” and knowing my audience, I didn’t think that would be at all pleasant for anyone. But for the past couple of months, this post has written and re-written itself in my mind as I’m falling asleep, as I’m taking a shower, as I’m sitting at a red light, so here it is. If birth stories ook you out as they did me a couple of years ago, I suggest you close this browser and go on about your day. (And I’ll try to limit the number of ooky things I say.)

I woke up at 11 pm with contractions that felt real from the get go. Unwilling to share my experience (and risk looking like a fool), I did my level best to convince McMoose that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. And by “level best,” I mean that when he went to bed an hour later, I went to bed with him and then lay there in the dark, counting contractions and giggling internally at my sneakiness. (By the way? This is how you know that you’re not in hard labor yet. If you can still be (a) sneaky and (b) proud of your sneakiness, you know you’ve got a ways to go.)

After McMoose fell asleep, I snuck out of the bedroom and spent the next five hours laboring (sneakily) in the living room, until finally I thought that maybe the very next contraction might cause a tear in the time-space continuum and I might fall through it (yes, I ACTUALLY REMEMBER having that exact thought), so I woke McMoose, who sat straight up in bed and then launched himself into a flurry of activity.

I think I ate some jello. Maybe some honey. I know I drank a lot of water. I know I knitted. I know I called my mom, who told me that she had woken up in the middle of the night and had been unable to go back to sleep because she had been thinking about me. I know I showered. McMoose left to take the Dog to the kennel. When he got back, he convinced me that my plan of going to my regularly scheduled doctor’s appointment that morning was probably not the best idea, so we called the midwife, who seconded his recommendation that we go to the hospital. Turns out that was a good thing too, because had we waited the extra hour, McMoose would have had to CARRY me down the two flights of stairs from our apartment to the car. (The third floor apartment seemed like a good idea right up until I got pregnant.)

My time at the hospital is blurry. I know I ate another jello cup. I know I spent a lot of time in the bathtub. I knitted some more. Someone came and took my blood. Nurses came, nurses went. I was 5 centimeters dilated when I got there…7 while I was in the bathtub…7 while I was in the bed…7 while I was in the chair. I became convinced that the world would end and I would still be at a 7. I asked for drugs. McMoose reminded me that I didn’t want them. I tried to impress upon him that maybe the world was ending and that the drugs might stop that from happening. He continued to remind me that I didn’t want them. We scared off my first nurse. A second (much more helpful) one came along. I asked for an IV with fluids so that I could delay the decision about whether or not I wanted drugs. I went back to the rocking chair. I focused every fiber of my being on the IZOD symbol on McMoose’s shirt. (Luke still looks intently at that symbol every time McMoose wears that shirt, as if it looks somehow familiar and he’s trying to place it.)

My contractions started doubling up, then tripling, then quadrupling, until I lost track of how many came in a row with no break. But between sets, I’d have long breaks—sometimes 3 minutes, sometimes 10. (The birth books lie when they say that you ALWAYS get breaks between contractions. You don’t. They also lie when they say that labor isn’t “real” until your contractions are coming at regular intervals. Mine never did.) So I spent the breaks napping. (It’s weird what a tired, sleep-deprived body will do.) By the time the IV was finished, I was riding high on whatever hormones were coursing through my system and was confident in my refusal of the drugs.

At some point, I started pushing, even though the nurse told me not to and even though I told her that I wasn’t. By that point, my body was TOTALLY not listening to my head and my head was TOTALLY not listening to the nurse. So I pushed. Slightly. Covertly. Sneakily. Until finally, she decided that I was “allowed” to push. Then, I had to stop again while the midwife came. Then, I was allowed to again. I mean, do they really expect people to listen to all these ridiculous instructions?

I think I pushed for about an hour? Best. Hour. Ever. Don’t get me wrong, it hurt. Kind of a lot. But finally, I was DOING something and people kept saying they could see the head and then somebody said he had blond hair and then I got to (ick, ick, ick, ick, ick) TOUCH the head and then the midwife was telling me that the people from the special nursery would be there because the baby might have aspirated meconium and might therefore not be able to breathe (wait, what?) and then the head was out and the body was still in and the midwife said something about not going crazy with pushing but did you hear what I just said the head was OUT and the body was IN and that’s some crazy stuff right there so OF COURSE I went crazy with the pushing.

And then, there was Luke. Breathing. Crying. Showing that he did not need any help from any people from any special nursery. 7 pounds, 11 oz. 20.5 inches. Looking like an exact replica of McMoose. And then, there was Luke.

My Day So Far

Who needs a bullet post? (Me.)

• I spent 15 minutes looking for my glasses today. They were ON MY FACE. Because apparently, the whole being-able-to-see thing didn't tip me off.
• I should really stop making predictions about Luke's napping habits. Today, I was SURE that he'd fall asleep really easily because he was just so tired. Barely made it through breakfast, in fact. And yet, it took a good 25 minutes of back-patting to get him to quit. twirling. around. in the crib. Oh, the endless twirling.
• We had strawberries for breakfast. I think I've mentioned before that Yellow Cat loves strawberries. So I finally got both babies down for their naps and came back out to the living room, planning to collapse in a heap on the floor, and realized that Yellow Cat had GONE THROUGH THE TRASH, pulled out several cut up strawberry pieces and dragged them through the carpet. The WHITE carpet.
• The strawberries seem to have acted as some kind of hallucinogen because since I've been out here in the living room, Yellow Cat has been tearing around, pouncing at the walls, and hissing at Luke's toys.
  

Ever Elusive

I knew that having a kid would interrupt my sleep for a few months, but dude. The more I listen to people of older kids talk about the issue, the more I'm starting to realize that I am NEVER going to get a full night's sleep, EVER again.

I mean, last night, for example? I woke the baby to feed him at midnight before I went to bed and then? He slept until 7 am. People, that's seven hours. In a row. Without needing any food or patting or snuggles or bribing. Seven. Hours. And yet, did I sleep seven hours? Um, no. I slept about 2 hours, woke up, looked around, listened for the baby, tossed, turned, woke up again an hour later, got a drink, peeked into the baby's room, tossed, turned, woke up again an hour later, went to the bathroom, had a fight with Yellow Cat, tossed, turned, etc.

AND IT'S NOT JUST ME! McMoose woke up at about 7, sat straight up in bed, checked to make sure I wasn't lying on top of Luke (this is McMoose's constant fear, by the way. I think he fully expects that one of these mornings, he's going to wake up and I'm going to be lying on the baby. Even though the baby is now a toddler who would no sooner let himself be lain upon than he'd let someone wipe his nose) and then informed me that it was seven and the baby was still asleep and was I sure that the monitor was working?

I've been afraid to jinx it, but this whole sleeping in the crib all night and not waking up until morning thing? This is becoming somewhat of a regular occurrence around here. I feel pretty confident in saying that the (almost) one-year-old is (finally) sleeping through the night. So...when do I start?