Nuggets of Gold!

TAKE THIS JOB AND SHOVE IT

One consequence of being friends with a lot of teachers (besides their ability to scare the bejeezus out of you with the teacher glare) is that you hear a whole lot of bellyaching this time of year about going back to school. Who knew teachers hated to go back just as much as (more than?) students do? And here I thought teachers lived for school. And at school. With little cots under their desks and cafeteria lunches for every meal.

Also 'tis the season, it seems, for a lot of my new-mom friends to head back to their old jobs, reclaiming some semblance of their old lives even as something very, very new has been added.

Me? I'm not heading back to anything, because there's nothing for me to head back to. Last January -- when I was seven months' pregnant -- I was laid off from my newspaper job. At the time, I was just starting to seriously contemplate how I was going to manage working and being a mom at the same time. It seemed pretty doable -- my job was a 4 p.m. to midnight shift, most days, and I worked weekends. Pretty much the direct opposite of Geoffrey's teacher's hours, so our child care needs would have been minimal. Sweet deal! Until it wasn't on the table anymore. Suddenly, the decision about how to juggle the conflicting needs of working and mothering, and whether to bother juggling them at all, was made for me. Which normally would be great, as I hate making decisions.

But in this case, letting the universe do my decision-making dirty work for me wasn't such a big help. Making the decision to be a stay-at-home mom (hereafter referred to as SAHM, which is an acronym I abhor to the depths of my soul) is wrenching. It requires a lot of thought, a lot of dedication, and a leap of faith about the strength of one's own sanity. Having SAHMitude forced upon you, though? It's wrenching with a heaping helping of resentment on the side.

To be honest, I'm not sure it's the decision I would have made. Why? Because being a SAHM is friggin' hard. And sometimes I tend to go for easy. Also, I loved my job, and my old life, and talking to grownups about grownup stuff (and, OK, sometimes fart jokes), and sometimes I tend to get a little cracky around the edges when understimulated. I would have loved to have added parenthood to all that, even if it would have meant even less sleep than I get now and pumping breastmilk in some sad bathroom somewhere, but I didn't have the option. Which means I get all the suck of the SAHM routine, with none of the rights to self-congratulation that comes with making the choice and sacrifice one feels is best for the baby.

I know there are folks -- probably some of you reading this -- who would give anything to be in my shoes. All day at home with your adorable baby? Not having to worry about someone else caring for your little one and possibly doing it all wrong? Not having to wear pantyhose ever or even pants, technically, if you don't feel like it? Those things are great, I get that. And I don't envy the adjustment to separation that working moms have to make. And -- just to reiterate -- I love Nora and am grateful that I can be with her and watch her thrive. But sometimes I wish all the folks who gush about how lucky I am to be a SAHM could know how much, sometimes, I would give to be in their shoes. 

FOUR MONTHS

Dear Nora,

It's hard to believe that 17 weeks ago, I was probably sitting in exactly the same chair I'm sitting in now, hugely pregnant and wondering when you were going to get here. The house was probably silent, and there was significantly less pink in it then. Now, a tiny sliver of a year later, here you are. Beautiful, perfect, whip-smart and starting to show one wicked sense of humor. It's hard to imagine life any other way.

Over the past month, your personality has kicked in big time. The grins keep on coming, and just last week you rolled over for the first time, clearly pleased that you had done so. We've made up so many games with you -- the object always being to make your face crack open with laughter. There's "Hide from Mommy" (video under link on upper right side of this page), wherein you smile at mommy while dad holds you, then turn your head away. Dad then turns around so you face mommy again, and the grin and turn-away process begins anew. Other popular games include Slalom and S.S. Minnow, both of which involve you sitting on our legs and giggling as we jostle you around. And then there's the perennial favorite: What the Hell is Murray Doing Now?

 

Now that your feeding issues have gotten a little more under control, we've been more mobile as a family, leaving the house and even the county for longer stretches of time now that we're brave enough to feed you on the go. You've attended three parties -- one for a co-worker/friend who was on "Jeopardy!" (your favorite show!), one for my former boss who's moving away, and another for a one-year-old's birthday. All were strikingly similar. Food was eaten sloppily, things got loud, and you were remarkably OK with being passed around among strangers. We're happy that you seem to like new people right off the bat, and we're also happy to see that if you start to feel a little nervous, you look around for us and are reassured as long as we're nearby. What can I say? It's nice to be needed.

Also this month, you had your first follow-up appointment at Duke Hospital's Special Infant Care Clinic -- standard procedure for any kid who did time in the ICU. The neurologist who saw you then and now pronounced you "amazing." Also, "so adorable" -- that part's actually in your paperwork, which means it's fact. She saw nothing to be concerned about, and even suggested we cancel our next follow-up appointment if we didn't have any problems come up. Fine by us -- just walking into the hospital brought on sweaty hands and racing hearts, the product of some pretty scary memories for your mom and dad. But walking out was exhilarating, considering there was a time when we weren't entirely sure we'd ever be able to do that with you.

But you're home now, and we're focused on the here and now -- and the here and soon-to-be. We're told this rolling over business is, ahem, "life-changing." So we're bracing for more mobility. And you've been eyeballing our food big time, so an introduction to solid food may be in the near future. Certainly, there will be more games invented, especially as daddy goes back to work and mommy has to find ways to entertain you by herself all day. Would you consider a rousing game of "Fold the Laundry"? How's about "Bring Mommy a Lemonade, Be a Dear"? If you've taught me anything these last four months, it's that anything is worth a try.

Love,
Mommy and Daddy

 

THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT

When we found out we were going to be parents, we made a general pledge to ourselves and our child-to-be that we would be the very best parents we could be and love her unconditionally, but we didn't make a whole lot of firm promises beyond that. Because there's nothing firm about parenting, we sensed then and know now, so why make rules you're just going to have to bend or break?

Of course, we do want to emphasize certain things in Nora's life above others. Quality above quantity. Happiness above money. Coke above Pepsi. And many, many things above watching TV. We knew we weren't going to be those parents, admirable though they may be, who promise they'll never, ever let their kid watch TV. I mean, sure, that'd be best. But those TV virgins inevitably go to college and spend their first two years of freedom ... watching TV. So balance seems best. We sometimes watch TV while Nora is in the room, but we try to keep the volume low and keep her turned away from it. Which we thought was working. She was just ignoring the TV altogether. Until recently, when she noticed ... IT GLOWS! 

So now our little daughter is a total TV booger. We catch her sneaking peeks in that direction when we're feeding her in the next room, and she swivels her head to watch it when we're pacing around the living room. But we've found it can be a useful tool. On the advice of her physical therapist, we use its mesmerizing light to bribe her to lift her head up during tummy time. And, siiiiiigh, it works. So now we'll have to be more careful about what we're watching. And by "careful" I mean "Geoffrey is no longer allowed to watch crappy, gory sci-fi movies when our daughter is in the room." But my viewings of "Project Runway" are totally fine. 

The physical therapist who visits -- mainly to tell us Nora is developing right on schedule and is generally all-around awesome -- is full of good ideas. She said we could shell out $30 for a Bumbo seat to help train Nora to sit up ... or we could stick her in a cardboard box. Guess which we picked?

I realize she looks a little indifferent in this shot, but trust me, the kid LOVES her box. And we love telling her "Hey, get in your box, you."  Isn't that, as they say, one of the great joys of parenting? 

FAT BABIES HAVE NO PRIDE*

Our kid is little, which should surprise no one who has ever laid eyes on her mom and dad. We're, you know ... little, too. (But full of moxie! Who you callin' small???) 

At today's weight check, Nora came in at 10 lbs, 11 oz. We know some babies who were that size at birth (and boy, do we feel sorry for their moms). At 13ish weeks -- a tad over three months, for those of you who don't speak baby-age and who don't want to do the math -- that puts her in the 10th percentile for weight. Which means 90 percent of human girl babies her age are bigger than her. Which means ... she's a shrimp. And there go our dreams of putting her on the sumo wrestling circuit.

None of this is really a problem, medically speaking. Despite her recent feeding problems, the doc says her weight is fine for her frame, and her rate of gain is back on track. But fashion-wise, oh dear. Here in Amurica, baby clothes are made for big, bruiser babies with several inches of blubber all around. We have a few onesies for Miss Thang that she'll never fit into, because -- and I'm not making this up -- they are too wide. Not that we need her clothes to be form fitting, but some are so wide she's just swimming inside them. Even narrower clothes can present a problem. She has tons of cute dresses that come with little panty-like things that go over the diaper so you can't be accused of being THOSE people who let their baby run around in just a diaper. But, while she's plenty big and long enough for the dress part, she has NO butt, so the pants just fall right off. I'm thinking we're going to need some suspenders or something. Or butt implants.

* About the title: It's a Lyle Lovett song, people, not a judgment. Though you kind of have to admit it's true.

THREE MONTHS

Dear Nora,

We've all survived another month, and I'm not going to lie. It was rocky. Your feeding problems worsened into full-blown crisis, with each feeding -- every two and a half hours or so -- ending in you and mama both in tears. We took you to the pediatrician, who was stumped, but had the good sense to recommend we see an infant feeding specialist (who knew there was such a thing?). And that woman might have saved our lives. The good news is she gave us some tips that have really turned things around, and now feeding time is fun again. The bad news is the root of your problems was, well, us. We somehow managed to do just about everything wrong. Wrong kind of nipple, wrong technique and more wrong technique. It's not like we didn't research this, but somehow we blew it. I'm going to have to place at least some blame here on the current trend of breastfeeding nazi-ism -- there's tons of info out there on how to overcome breastfeeding problems, but precious little about what to do if you're having to feed breastmilk from -- gasp! -- a bottle. Because who would use a bottle on their newborn? Crappy parents, that's who. (Sigh.) So we're enormously relieved that you're eating again, and giving us grins instead of screams. But we feel really guilty about our mistakes. We really thought we would get to wait until you were at least a tween before we started damaging your psyche. 

Speaking of grins, though: HOLY MOLEY, have you turned on the grin machine:

 

We get grins when you first wake up from a nap, and grins when we change your diaper. Grins whenever we look at you, and HUGE grins when we talk to you. They must be the real deal, because if they were just gas you would have exploded by now. Fact.

Even more recently, you've started talking. A lot. You speak fluent baby, which mom and dad are still learning, so we don't understand much, but you don't seem to care. Today you blabbed at mom all during lunch. And in the car you dished with your little snuggle blanket. You smile big and your eyes light up when you're talking, and it's so wonderful to see you interact with your world on yet another level. Pretty soon, you'll be ruling it.

Despite your best efforts to starve yourself and put the brakes on your weight gain during the Recent Feeding Unpleasantness, you've been growing. There are already some newborn-sized onesies that are getting too small for you, and you can't straighten your legs all the way in any of your PJs anymore. I get all weepy when I put those tiny clothes aside to send to your girl cousin-to-be. I guess it's the start of that whole "my little baby's all growed up" phenomenon that happens to parents. I've already resigned myself to the end of your surprised face, so I guess this is just one more thing. But if I get too nostalgic, I'll remember this month of endless anguished, unproductive feedings, and then I might actually look forward to your teen years.

Love,
Mommy and Daddy*

* Yes, I realize I've signed each of these monthly dispatches differently. We can't seem to make a firm decision on what to have you call us. So we'll just let you figure it out, because it's not like our preferences matter anymore anyhow. We all know who's in charge around here.

BATTLEGROUND

OK, Internets. It's about to get real. 

I've been trying to keep this blog -- at least in its post-Nora incarnation -- positive and upbeat and relatively free of cussing. But it doesn't feel honest, frankly. And I need to be honest. So let me disclaim, before going further, that I love my daughter boundlessly. I am grateful every second of every day that she is happy and healthy and that she fought her way through her rocky start. I feel guilty making the slightest complaint about my life with her, considering how close we once thought we were to living life without her. But I'm human, therefore I complain. Please try not to judge me too harshly -- believe me when I say I'm already judging myself and not always liking the measure.

And as long as I'm disclaiming, please be advised, before going further, that this post contains some discussion of my boobs.

ANYWAY.

There is nothing I hate more than feeding my daughter. Nothing. It's supposed to be happy bonding time, but it's not. It's a battle. It's a war. And I always lose. First, she decided that she wasn't keen on breastfeeding -- this after several weeks of blissful, easy breastfeeding. Out of nowhere, she started screaming if my nipple got anywhere near her. After a teary, freaked out couple weeks (talking about me here, mostly) and talking to some new-mom friends and lactation consultants, I figured out my milk supply had gotten low. It just took a few days to get back on track. But Nora wasn't impressed, so despite my efforts, most feedings were still met with purple-faced, prolonged screaming (talking about her now, though sometimes I thought about joining in).

So, OK, fine. I went to pumping milk and feeding it to her in a bottle. And the doc put Nora on an antacid, after suspecting that some reflux might be involved as well. For a blissful week or so, things went well, with the added advantage of allowing dad to take over some of the feedings. But pretty soon, that went all wrecky, too. First there was one or two rough feedings a day -- she'd duck and dodge the bottle at best, and scream vigorously for an hour at worst, with both scenarios not resulting in a lot of food getting in there. Then more of the feedings went wrecky, until we get to, well, now. When ALL feedings are a battle, and all the battles are lost. Eventually I get some food into her (usually), but sometimes it takes hours, and all times it saps every bit of patience I have. If I'm lucky, I end up exhausted. More often, I end up crumpled in a ball on the bathroom floor crying in frustration. It's not pretty.

All of this may sound like a bit of an overreaction -- "The baby won't starve to death!," "This too shall pass," goes some of the advice I've received. But at the last doctor's visit, Nora's previously strong weight gain was starting to wane. No weight was lost, so it's not too bad yet. But she's not gaining like she should anymore, which is worrisome for someone who hasn't yet cracked 10 pounds. The simple solution, of course, is to get more food in her. Yeah, I know. I'd like to see you try. Hence my frustration.

We have a pediatrician appointment next week to address all this, so please know I'm trying to fix this. Meanwhile, it's time to feed her again. I guess. The last feeding took two hours of trying before I could get half the necessary dose of milk into her, so I don't know what that does to any semblance of a feeding schedule. But I do know that I'm almost to the point of getting the shakes as I prepare to go into her room, so much do I dread this process and knowing I'll have to not only endure some inconvenience, but also a heavy dose of fear and worry -- and despair that the simple act of feeding a baby is apparently not going to be simple for me, which makes me wonder if anything will ever be simple again. 

TWO MONTHS

Dear Nora,

You know how they say parenting is a roller-coaster ride? Yeah, it is. With barf and everything. 

This month the high point of that roller coaster has undoubtedly been your newfound ability to smile. It doesn't matter how much you've been crying all day or how little sleep we've been able to get or how many diapers we've changed after we JUST put a new one on you. One tiny smile makes our hearts all melty and, as cliched as it sounds, makes everything worth it.

 
 

Maybe this is reading too much into it, but I can't help but think we're starting to get a glimpse into your sense of humor. You smile a little when we coo over you, or when we first wake you up from a long nap. But what really brings on the grins is when we make jokes about you, and how much you seem to hate us sometimes, and how when you ride in your stroller you ball up your fists and glare like you're going to punch the next person who comes close. You also seem to like it when mom and dad make mean jokes at each other's expense. Where you get this sick sense of humor, I surely can't say.

You've been introduced to the bottle this month, mainly because you've developed a habit of screaming in white-hot fury instead of eating when it's time to breastfeed. This was immensely frustrating and scary, but it seems we've started to figure out the problem -- not enough milk, not fast enough. So the bottle fills in the gaps while Mommy works on fixing that. Which she's been advised to do by eating more calories. So the milkshake and Big Mac diet begins this month, Nora, and Mommy is suddenly seeing this problem as not such a bad thing at all.

Other highlights this month included a good report after a checkup with your neurologist, meeting your Uncle Nick while he was home from Iraq and going to the Farmers Market restaurant (your first sit-down meal in public!) with your Aunt Liz, Uncle Josh and cousin Johnny D. I saw you eyeballing my head-sized ham biscuit, which I ate in about 20 seconds, thanks to my training in inhaling food to get a meal in between your fusses. One day you'll be big enough for your own ham biscuit, but until then, keep your mitts off mine. Cute smiles or no, mama ain't giving up her ham biscuit for anyone.

Love,

Mama and Daddy

 

NORA'S PLAYLIST

When she's not sleeping or eating, Nora likes to be on the move. We head out for walks in the park or trips to the store at least once a day, when the weather or mama's appetite for adventure allows. But sometimes we have to or want to stay inside, and then? We like to dance.

Before Nora was born, I started working on an iTunes playlist of songs somehow related to babies, or songs I thought she might like, and I've been adding to the list as ideas strike me ever since. Now I've got a pretty long list I can turn to when it's time for me to dance her around the living room.

I won't bore you with the whole thing, but here are some highlights of the playlist -- the songs that Nora and I like best during our dance parties:

The Littlest Birds -- The Be Good Tanyas
Nashville Cats -- The Del McCoury Band
Pecan Pie -- Golden Smog
Mr. Rabbit -- Paul Westerberg
Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk -- Rufus Wainwright
For Jack Tymon -- Scott Miller
World Waits for You -- Son Volt
Must Be Love -- Stacey Earle
Heavy Metal Drummer -- Wilco
Sweet Tooth -- Dave Rawlings Machine
Buckets of Rain -- Bob Dylan (but we rock the Neko Case cover)
Give Your Mama One Smile -- Lillian "Lil" Green (covered by Madeleine Peyroux)
Murder in the City -- The Avett Brothers
I Get a Kick Out of You -- Cole Porter (as covered by Dolly Parton)
If the Stars Were Mine -- Melody Gardot

So ... yeah. These aren't your traditional kids songs. In fact, Nora will probably get to preschool having no idea what this "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" stuff is about. But she'll likely know all about "Maggie's Farm," which is far more important in my book.

GETTING THE HANG OF IT

Nora's been busy lately, entertaining visitors and keeping mom and dad on their toes. It's amazing how quickly things change with her -- which can be both frustrating and rewarding. We congratulate ourselves on finding some new trick (going outside, holding her so her tummy faces the floor, shushing in her ear) that soothes her, only to find that the trick that worked like a charm just yesterday has no effect today. We solve one problem only to encounter a new one. But some quick changes are delightful, like, after weeks of little to no response to her parents, watching her smile when she hears our voices or hearing some new cute noise she's come up with.

Most delightfully, there seems to be far less screaming lately. (Knocking heavily on wood ...). Maybe it's the antacid her doctor put her on -- certainly that has helped cut down on the barfing, which is always a good thing. Or maybe it's my efforts to cut dairy out of my diet for a while. (God, I miss ice cream.) Or maybe it's just that she's a bit older now, and mom and dad are starting to figure her out, anticipating her needs before she has to yell to express herself. Whatever the reason, life here is starting to improve, and everyone seems more relaxed. Maybe this whole baby thing wasn't such a bad idea after all? :)

NOTE: One of our recent visitors was the fabulous Kevin Keister, who came bearing delicious food AND his camera gear. He took some awesome photos of Nora and the rest of the family (even Murray!), so be sure to check them out in the photo album linked on the upper right side of this page. There's just a small sampling of those photos up now, but I'll post more in the next few days.

IT'S SCIENCE

Nora has lots of snazzy clothes -- no thanks to me. I personally have bought her exactly two articles of clothing. Two. One is this awesome T-shirt, and the other is an Auburn shirt that will come in very handy come football season. The rest of her expansive wardrobe comes courtesy of our generous friends and family, who have very good taste, fortunately for Nora.

But one of her onesies -- a hand-me-down from a friend, I believe -- leaves me troubled. It appears for all intents and purposes (PLEASE, people: It's not "all intensive purposes") to be a normal onesie. White with a print of little red apples -- simple and lovely. But apparently this onesie is cursed. Cursed, I say! Because every time I put this thing on Nora, a poo-splosion ensues. EVERY TIME. 

Today I thought I could outsmart the curse. Not that you wanted to know this, but Nora's down to about one poo a day, and since she'd just gifted that to us before it was time for a wardrobe change, I figured there was no chance of poo-splosion this time. Wrong. Soooo wrong.

Clearly, I should just stop using this onesie and move on to any one of her 200 million others. But now it's about science. Can a certain onesie really be cursed with a propensity toward poo-splosion? It seems impossible. But all I know is there has been a 100 percent incidence with this onesie. So I have to keep testing. Meanwhile, I'll be searching for the onesie that has a 100 percent incidence of making the baby stop screaming.