It's What's For Dinner

For the first few months of Baby's adventures in solid foods, he refused bananas consistently until my husband and I finally decided that Baby, unlike most babies, did not like bananas.  In the last few weeks, as if to make up for lost time, when Baby sees a banana in the fruit basket, he points at it with an unparalleled  adamancy. 

Two nights ago, I came home to see my husband feeding Baby dinner.  Baby had not wanted soup.  He had not been interested in turkey, sweet potatoes, peas, or carrots.  He had, instead, chosen a banana for dinner.  When I sat down to join Baby and my husband, Baby had already eaten an entire banana.  

But there was still one banana left in the fruit basket.  He pointed.  I peeled.  And that was dinner.  Two bananas.

Resilience

I swear I have been trying to come up with at least one potentially fun and witty post . . . but then . . .

Baby got sick on Tuesday night.  He called out for us, I went in, and as soon as I got to him, the poor thing puked.  Repeat twice.  We ran out of sheets and crib liners, at which point I said I would just sleep with Baby on the couch in his room.  But sleeping with Baby is, to coin a phrase, like sleeping with a baby elephant, and that couch is small.  So I put Baby on a blanket on the floor, hoping he would not puke again, while I got rid of the couch cushions, pulled out the sofa bed, and got us some covers.  Baby and I snuggled down.  He proceeded to flop around like a confused baby elephant, and an hour later he finally fell asleep.   Baby woke up, flopped, then puked around 7 a.m..  He did it again after half of his oatmeal breakfast.  Then, all was clear through his toast and apple juice lunch and after his nap.  Around 4 p.m., the worst of an awful, gusty, rainy day was over, and we both needed some fresh air.  I took Baby down to a coffee shop where I had some tea and a cookie while he pointed at everything in sight.  I was almost done with my cookie when he puked again.  I jumped up, grabbed a stack of napkins about four inches thick, and tried to clean up Baby, his shirt, and the sleeping-bag-type-thing that keeps him warm in his stroller.  I did my best, but I still felt embarrassed in the elevator up to our apartment with a nice couple who must have smelled a not very nice smell coming from the afore-mentioned sleeping-bag-type-thing.

I should note that Baby (perhaps like all babies) is resilient in a way that puts me to shame.  His expression is so small and sad when he gets sick, but within minutes he is pointing at something else and smiling.  Seriously - smiling. 

Over the next couple of days, Baby slowly but surely stopped puking and started taking more substantive food than toast.  

My husband got sick on Friday night.  He had a fever and felt sick to his stomach.  Then he came to the bathroom just as Baby finished his bath routine, and he puked.  He has not been feeling well since then (though he is better than he was on Friday and Saturday).

I have no kernel of wisdom from this experience to share here.  I am, very simply, very tired (and wondering if - or when - I will get sick, too).  

Just when you thought . . .

Recently, I was thinking about the state of my mommahood and noticed that the challenges have changed as Baby makes his way to The Great State of Toddlerhood.  I even had the nerve to say out loud to my husband, "I think that my biggest challenge right now is walking the line between giving [Baby] gentle nudges to try new things and making sure I do not push him too far out of his comfort zone." Implicit in this statement is my ridiculous assumption that the earlier challenges of spit up catastrophes, poop explosions, and sleepless (days and) nights were all distant "memories" (i.e., "blog posts" because Mother Nature has been kind enough to give me amnesia about the early wilds of living with a newborn).  Baby - again - proved me wrong.  

It was a weekday morning.  All was well.  We were in the middle of the routine.  Oatmeal, apple sauce, a scrambled egg.  Done.  Then a little fuss and cranky-face I like to call, "Get me out of this high chair before I come at you like a spider monkey."  Down you go, Baby.  Then his morning constitutional, and it's off to the changing table.  I open the diaper and am on wipe number forty-two when Baby decides he is done with this part of the morning.  He starts to kick his legs.  One of his legs gets right into the good stuff and then smears it everywhere.  As I try to use wipes to mitigate the situation, Baby's legs continue to smear while he reaches down to see what all the fuss is about.  Casualties: changing pad cover, changing pad liner, PJs, Baby's hands and legs and belly, my own hands.  A morning bath never seemed more appropriate.

Lesson learned, Baby.  I promise not to get ahead of myself (or you) next time I think about the state of our momma/baby-hood.  

Calling All Mommas!

Do you have a Mother's Day tradition that you are carrying on with your own Babies?


If so, please share your stories. Tricia Romano is writing a piece on these traditions for a major women's mag and wants to hear from you!


Send your traditions/stories to tricia @ triciaromano dot com.

The Tickle Monster: part book review, part regular old post

Baby received a very nice birthday present today: a book (The Tickle Monster), which comes with a pair of tickle gloves.  The gloves are shaped like big, furry, cartoon hands with holes for your fingers (for ease of tickling, of course).  I read the book to Baby while my husband wore the gloves and tickled Baby at the appropriate moments in the storytelling.  

Baby loved it.  He loved it so much that as soon as I finished the story and closed the book, he demanded a second read - immediately.  

(Many thanks to our pals in Oregon who provided the vehicle for the joy tonight.)

Sleeping With A Baby Elephant

A few weeks ago, two nights before his birthday, Baby started waking up at night and crying, and he has continued to do so off and on since then.  We have gone to him almost every time.  One night, after about a week of his new (old) routine, we let Baby cry it out.  It felt about as awesome as it did the first time we "sleep trained" him (i.e., he and I both cried it out that night).  Every other time he has cried in the night, we have gone to him, and he ends up sleeping on one of our chests or between us in our bed.  (One morning, my husband looked across a sprawled-out Baby and said, "Sleeping with him is like sleeping with a baby elephant.") 

Post-Bedtime Glass of Wine Demographic

In an article I read about the woman who started net a porter.com, she noted that there was an obvious uptick in sales around 8 - 9 p.m. in time zones around the world.  Her explanation?  The post-bedtime glass of wine.

Just now, I put Baby to bed and walked into the kitchen where my husband was making dinner.  Exhausted, I asked if I could just veg out on the couch while he continued without me.  No problem, of course.  I turned on E! for the comfort of meaningless babble and a little fashion schadenfreude.  What were the first two commercials I saw within five minutes of turning on the television? 

One: Weebles for preschoolers.

Two: microwaveable brownies.

Apparently the woman at net a porter is not the only one who knows about the post-bedtime glass of wine demographic.