A Morning in the Life

We are currently at the mid-point in the morning, and this morning has involved almost the entire spectrum of Baby's moods and feelings.  The morning kicked off with some good, old-fashioned Floor Time during which Baby enjoyed rolling, scooching, and inching . . . until he didn't.  Then, Baby and I made ourselves half-way presentable for the outside world and headed out to the corner coffee shop.  Baby was calm and happy.  He sucked his thumb while he carefully studied everyone he saw.  

We came home.  I asked a woman who had just lit her cigarette in the hallway on the ground floor to wait to do that until she gets outside next time.  (How did that go over?  Well . . . hmmm . . . not great.    But before she could tell me what she really thought about my request, I got on the elevator up to our apartment.  Unfriendly Neighbor Crisis averted.)

Back in the comfort of our apartment, Baby enjoyed some pureed squash for breakfast.  He even smiled while he was eating it, which is his rarest (and therefore highest) form of praise for solid food.  He drank three drops of juice, which is par for the course.  He seemed sleepy, so we started the morning nap ritual.  He fell asleep while I was nursing him, which is also par for the course.  

Then he fussed and seemed to be protesting the nap when I left the room.  I tried to let him soothe himself until his cry became a serious, all-out, get-in-here-momma-right-NOW-cry.  Baby kept crying as I held him.  He was dealing with what has become a not infrequent predicament.  (I do not want to completely embarrass my almost eight-month old, so I will just note that this predicament started soon after solid foods, I tend to blame oatmeal and/or bananas and/or cooked carrots, and I have started giving him little bottles of diluted prune juice as an antidote.)  After some major cuddling and a little back rub, he calmed down and his predicament had passed.  (Try not to judge me for making poop puns... this is a mommy blog, not an issue of Harper's.)  

Five minutes later, Baby was changed and playing his favorite game as if nothing had happened.  He put a washcloth over his face while I repeated variations of, "Oh hey... where's my baby?  Anyone seen [Baby]?!?"  He squirmed and kicked with delight until he pulled the washcloth off of his face in triumph.  And I mean triumph.

Soon, Baby and I were back in the living room where he decided he would, in fact, love some prune juice, "thankyouverymuch, Momma," and he drank an entire ounce of the good stuff.  Then I read Corduroy while he ate the pages.  

When it was time to try the morning nap again, I placed Baby in his crib with his monkey.  For the next fifteen minutes, I could hear Baby telling monkey all sorts of wild sounding things.  Now, all is quiet.  Baby sleeps, and I feel like we have lived ten days in four hours.  

Happy Mother's Day

To all the Mommas In Training, may the smiles be big, the naps be long, the diapers change themselves, and may you be reminded all day that you are the best moms for your babies.

(Baby woke up at 4:45 this morning.  I normally walk the cry-it-out-line before 6 a.m., but for whatever "reason" (a term I use loosely) I thought that Baby had had a bad dream  - so in I went, and so the day began.  May the naps be long today, people.  May they be long!)

Night And Day Care

Baby spent a month with Nanny because I went back to work one month before Baby was eligible to start Day Care.  I am the first to admit that that month was peppered with challenges, most of which centered around my slow (and reluctant?) recognition that Baby and I could spend some of our days apart and he would still recognize me, enjoy my company, and not feel abandoned.  I never worried about the quality of Baby's care, I was just jealous that I was not the one providing it.  

Then Baby spent about four weeks at Day Care.  I could go on and on about why Day Care was a bad fit for us.  Instead, I will simply note, for the record, that it was a bad fit.  During those four weeks, my insecurity about whether, as a family, we were happy with Day Care was rivaled only by the guilt associated with having chosen the wrong child care option.  I felt like an idiot.  Apparently, I was more likely to cross examine a cab driver about traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge than I was to discern what my baby's days would be like at Day Care.  Had I been careless (careless!) about this decision?  

Last week, we asked Nanny to come back permanently, and she agreed.  When I opened the door to greet her on the first morning of her return, Baby smiled immediately and looked very happy to see her.

On the third morning after Nanny's return, Baby was suddenly a confident, easy little eater of solid foods.  On the third full day of Day Care, I got a call to come retrieve my little dearheart because Day Care thought he had had too many big poops.

Now seems like a very good time to publicly acknowledge how thankful I am that we are in a position to work with a woman who is so kind, capable, and all around amazing.  The woman who referred Nanny confided in me that she believes that Nanny is an angel.  Nanny definitely manifests goodness, purity, and selflessness - and, perhaps even more importantly, she loves Baby and makes him happy.  So... angel it is.  

BOOK REVIEW - Jeremy Draws a Monster

Jeremy Draws a Monster, by Peter McCarty

We have two Peter McCarty books right now, and Jeremy Draws a Monster is the current favorite.  Jeremy is a little boy who stays in his room and draws - even when he can see other kids playing outside his window.  One day Jeremy draws a monster who begins to rule Jeremy's life.  The monster dictates a long list of necessities, which keep Jeremy inside drawing for him all day, and the monster even takes Jeremy's bed at night.  The monster, who has the number "3" on his belly just as Jeremy has the number "3" on his tee shirt, easily could be Jeremy's fear of making friends.  Will Jeremy let the monster rule his life forever?

SPOILER ALERT!!!

No.  Jeremy is a crafty little guy who figures out exactly how to deal with his fear monster.      

I Am 1/4 Danish: I Am Jealous Of Denmark's Parental Leave Policy.

Today, I wore a suit, which means little more than that I finished getting dressed by having thrown on the jacket that actually matched my pants.  I wore the suit because I had a meeting in a federal judge's chambers at noon to discuss a new pro bono program in which I had the opportunity to participate.

This morning, Baby cried the entire time I changed him into his "daytime clothes."  His eyes were puffy, his nose was stuffy, his cough that will not go away was still not going away, and to top it all off, two of his teeth have been "erupting."  Yes, erupting.  Babies are born with all of their baby teeth - albeit inside their gums - so we cannot call this process an arrival.  Instead, it is an eruption, a term that sounds almost violent, but trust me, the description is apt.

Despite Baby's discomfort, the two of us proceeded on course to Day Care.  However, when we got off the bus, I realized that I could not see all of Baby at once.  Somewhere in the lower right regions of my scope of vision, there was a void.  So here it was.  After three and a half months of a migraine-free life, here was my migraine.  I decided to walk Baby to Day Care because he would be in better hands with people who could see.  My vision deteriorated, a terrible zig zag line was flashing just right of center of my field of vision.  I waited for the light to change so that I could cross Flatbush and was secretly worried about crossing a major avenue while the aura were in full effect, but I was so close to Day Care, I just wanted to hand Baby to someone who was capable.

By the time I got to Day Care and passed Baby to one of the young women who works there, I could barely see anything right of center.  This kind of vision impairment is normally upsetting, but it felt about three thousand times worse when I tried to say goodbye to Baby without really being able to see his little face.  

The aura seemed to have subsided by the time I got to the subway.  I thought I could go to work, pump, maybe have a bagel, go to the meeting with the judge, and then head home to recover from the migraine.    This thought was a foolish one.  

On the subway, I closed my eyes until I got to the Wall Street stop.  When I opened my eyes and stepped off of the train, the aura had returned.  By the time I got to my office, the nausea was hitting me in full force.  I must have looked like a nauseous little mole when I asked my secretary if I could talk to her in my office where I turned off the lights.  Even though I really wanted to go to the meeting with the judge, I asked her to email the judge for me.  I told her some phrases that could go in the email about vision impairment and sincere apologies.  I cannot really remember because the nausea had enveloped me.  Say a little prayer that my last minute cancellation was somehow professional and dignified (the chances of that are slim).  I got in a cab and headed back to Brooklyn.  The last five minutes of the ride were the worst, but I did manage to make it into my apartment before I vomited  (no small feat).  

I woke up this afternoon and saw the remnants of my crazy morning.  The purse and keys that were left just inside the door because I had to run to the bathroom to be sick.  The shoes just outside the bathroom door because apparently even when I am sick I hate to bring outside shoes all over the apartment.  The suit crumpled on the bedroom floor because it was so obviously unnecessary anymore. 

How Do U Want It

The other morning, I dropped Baby at Day Care and caught the train to work.  I stood mid-car and read my book.  A woman sitting about three people to my left was casually singing along to whatever song was on her mp3-type player.  There were long pauses between the lyrics that she knew.  She caught my attention and the attention of others around her because this was not typical morning commute behavior, but in classic city style, attention caught was quickly released.  We went back to what we were doing for several stops . . . until she started singing How Do U Want It, at which point I had to stifle a guffaw.  A white woman wearing a scrunchy was singing along with Tupac while she was on a New York City subway.  My conclusion?  She has a very free spirit, and I mean very free.

BOOK REVIEW - Applesauce Season

Applesauce Season, by Eden Ross Lipson and illustrated by Mordicai Gerstein

This book has been on high rotation since it came into our lives (thank you, generous extended family).  It is less plot driven than some of our other books.  Instead, this story is told by a little boy who lives in the city.  His family has a weekly tradition - perpetuated by his spunky grandmother, of course - of making applesauce during applesauce season.  

Three things about this book appeal to me: (1) the narrator is a cute city kid; (2) it underscores the value of family traditions; and (3) the subtext suggests eating local is eating right.  The family gets their apples at the local farmers' market, and they make their applesauce according to the apples that are available each week.

So, for the locavores out there, you will enjoy reading this book with your little one(s) as a way of instilling and reinforcing your locavoracious values.  For the rest of you, I imagine you will also enjoy reading this book simply because it is about a little boy joining a family tradition.

(N.B.  The illustration of their farmers' market bears a striking resemblance to the green market in Union Square except that there appears to be room to run in the illustration.  My experience at the Union Square Saturday Morning Food Hooplah has taught me to be patient because there is no room for turning around, let alone running.)