What if I . . .

This week, the Bug has been his usual complex, young self with all of the ups and downs that  naturally accompany being a self in this world.  Included in that complex, young self is a budding yet keen desire to test limits.  And lately, the moment before he tests those limits, he looks at me, smiles a sneaky smile, and his eyes actually sparkle a little -- all as if to say:

The Boss of Me

We have been brushing Baby's teeth in the evening after the bath for many months now.  At first my husband and I would hold Baby up so that he could see the mirror and sing a song (a singable song for the very young) while one of us brushed the two or three teeth to Baby's name.  Eventually, the song got old, and Baby asserted some independence - taking the toothbrush and doing the work on his own.  Nowadays, the routine has morphed into an occasional mini-battle that ends with the toothbrush thrown on the floor to let us know exactly who is the Boss Baby around here.  

This evening, before the mini-battle could begin, I thought I would try letting Baby brush his own teeth while standing on his own - which is how he brushes his teeth in the mornings with a high success rate.  I brought the toothbrush down to him while he stood in his yellow duck towel.  He spent the next minute or two using the wrong end of the toothbrush in his mouth in what seems to be his budding comedy career.

So, I thought it might help if I brushed my teeth while he brushed his - which is how the morning routine works with that aforementioned "high success rate."  I grabbed my own toothbrush and started brushing. He kept reaching for my brush.  I kept saying, "this is Momma's toothbrush - that is [Baby's] toothbrush."  Baby still grabbed for my toothbrush.  Eventually, I acquiesced . . . which led to Baby brushing my teeth with my toothbrush while I brushed his with his toothbrush.  Just in case I was wondering exactly who is the Boss Baby around here.

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.") 

With kids, the days are long, but the years are short.

Yesterday was Baby's first birthday, and it was a long day.  

At 8:00 a.m., Baby was standing on the changing table (yes, standing), naked as the day he was born (ha!), and refusing to slow down for a clean diaper or any day time clothes.  

At 8:01 a.m., Baby peed.  Still standing, still naked.  

By 8:20 a.m., Baby was dressed in a very cute birthday outfit (thanks to my grandmother for the awesome striped onesie... Baby looked like an adorable baby bumblebee, which completely made up for my pee-soaked shirt).

By 10:30 a.m., I was leading a conference call.  Perhaps "leading" is too strong... I was trudging through the mud of the call and waving my arms frantically at the other participants as if to say, "Over here, guys!  Oh hey...  I'm over here!!"

Then it was 6 p.m., and I was in my office crying because I did not think I was going to make it out in time to see Baby before he went to sleep.  About fifteen minutes later, I had the following internal monologue:

Even if I left now, I would only get to see Baby for his sleepiest five minutes, and he will not care one way or another if he sees me for those five minutes.

What am I thinking?

Seeking The Joy

When my husband was growing up, he went to summer camp and then became a leader at that camp.  One of the traditions at Camp Belknap is lighting the lamp of love.  One of the rays from this lamp of love is the instruction to be joyful - specifically, to seek the joy of being alive.

At our wedding, we lit the lamp of love (of course).  Later, one of our favorite wedding presents came from a former Belknap leader: two hammers, one for each of us, with handles that were engraved with the reminder to "Seek the Joy."  

It is not always easy to remember to seek the joy of being alive.  In fact, it is often much easier to feel as if joys and sorrows come to each of us regardless of whether or not we seek them.  But, as he often does, Baby recently reminded me that seeking the joy is a much better way to live.

Baby learned to wave a little while ago, and when he did it was his favorite activity for the next few days.  He would wave to us at dinner.  He would wave to us in the bath.  He would wave to himself while he rode in his stroller.  And, one night, on his way to sleep, eyes closed, fully relaxed, he waved to nothing in particular.  He was - very simply - seeking the joy.  

Sand in the Place Where You Are

On July 1, we picked up my husband's youngest brother on the corner of Flatbush and Myrtle at 8:05 a.m..  Nearly eight hours later, we arrived at Camp, my husband's family's cottage on a lake in Maine.  

My husband and his three brothers spent their summers at Camp as boys  (yes - he is one of four boys - this might be a good time to raise your glass to his parents and their tireless efforts at parenting).  During those summers, they spent most of their days catching frogs and snakes and getting into all sorts of secret mischief with the other kids around the lake.  Every Fifth of July, they would scour the lake for the remains of the fireworks from the night before.  They would compete to see who could find not only the most but also the best dead fireworks (apparently, multi-shot cakes were the "best" and Roman Candles were a close second).  The winner's prize was a simple but very real pleasure - pride.

It is probably fair to write that both my husband and I expected that Baby would love Camp and the beach and the lake and the general relief of being out of the city (at least temporarily).  Baby corrected us - yet again.

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.  

Big Day - Part Three: I Always Take 718 Calls

I am trying to get to the subway, and I am being thwarted by the slowest group of tourists ever to walk past Ground Zero.  I have said, "Excuse me," to try to get past them at least three times.  

I repeat, "Excuse me."  

"Excuse me!"  

"Are you kidding me?" as I move past them (and by "move," I might mean push).

Five minutes ago, I was in my office pumping when I saw that my cell phone, sitting on top of my printer, was buzzing.  I looked at the incoming call ID, and it was a "718" number.  I always take "718" calls at work because Day Care is in Brooklyn, and because my husband works in Brooklyn.  I turn off the pump.

"Hello?"

"Hello, [Momma-In-Training]?"

"Yes?"

"This is [one of the directors at Day Care].  [Baby] is fine, but . . ."

Pause.  Probably just half of a second?  A terrifying length of time.

" . . . but he has had three diapers that were filled with diarrhea today, and we call when there are three because there is a risk of dehydration.  You may want to call your doctor for some [hydrating potion] . . ."

"I understand.  I will be there in . . . "

"If you can get here within an hour, that will be just fine.  [Baby] is in good spirits, but he should probably see a doctor."

"I will be there in half an hour, forty-five minutes at the most."

I am on the train heading to Brooklyn.  That kid's headphones are so loud.  Why is he listening to such crap music?  Is techno even music?  I hope the woman standing next to me, humming her way through the subway ride, is getting off at this stop.  I think I know which stop I am going to . . . I have never ridden to Day Care, only from Day Care.  Am I right that this is the stop?  I think that this is the stop.

"Hi!"

"Oh, hi.  He is so tired this afternoon."

I look over and see Baby reclining in a portable baby seat, thumb in mouth, bottle under his other arm, gazing off into space.  Baby sees me and smiles a dazed, toothless smile.  I plop him in the stroller and pack up the million and two things (including several soiled outfits) we need to go.   After we leave and turn the corner, I pull over on the sidewalk to check in on Baby.  He is, indeed, in good spirits, and so mine lift as well.

   

Epilogue

Baby was fine and got the all-clear from his doctor.  He did have a little bug, though, which brought on a fever, a cough, and an extraordinary amount of snot.  Today he seems better.

Big Day - Part Two: Routines

What do babies need (aside from food, shelter, clothing, and cuddles)?  I have been informed - through myriad sources - that babies need routines.  Routines purportedly provide our little ones with a sense of security in a complex world, which they are only just beginning to explore.

I am the first to admit that I am not prone to routines.  Nevertheless, this past week was Baby's first week at Day Care, and the time seemed ripe for developing a morning routine for both of us.  I imagined a routine that involved a lot of night-before organization followed by an easy morning of putting Baby in the carrier, grabbing my bag(s), and taking the bus to Day Care.

By Thursday morning, however, no routine had materialized.  I woke up feeling groggy and with a bit of a sore throat.  Baby and I played for a little while, and then I made some oatmeal for my breakfast.  As I was enjoying my own food, I looked at Baby and thought, "Maybe now would be a good time to introduce [Baby] to bananas..."  (I do not know why.)  I put Baby in the high chair, mashed up some banana, and gave it a try.  It did not go well.  Baby started to fuss, which I interpreted as, "Mom, why did you think I wanted a banana when what I really need is a nap?"

I responded by hatching a plan to leave in fifteen minutes, put Baby in the stroller, walk slowly to Day Care, and give Baby a chance to nap in the stroller.  After a whirlwind of bottles, back-up onesies, business casual dressing, sun hat grabbing, and general Momma-In-Training hijinx, Baby and I headed out the door.

I took what can only be described as a meandering path to Day Care.  I thought that Carlton Avenue cut straight through the neighborhood to within a block of Day Care.  So, I walked to where I thought I would find Carlton, which is where I found Clermont.  I decided to try my luck with Clermont.  (Baby napping yet?  No.)  Soon, I saw a construction crew in the block ahead of me ostensibly preparing for a wild rumpus of noise and road dust.  I got off of Clermont and took Adelphi instead.  (Baby napping yet?  No.)  Within a couple of blocks, Adelphi ended, forcing me to go right, which was where I finally did find Carlton Avenue.  (Baby napping yet?  No.)

One block later, I was standing on Carlton and Atlantic.  I needed to cross Atlantic to get to Day Care, but the pedestrian bridge was closed thanks to the highly controversial Atlantic Yards construction.  There are plenty of reasons to rally against Atlantic Yards, but on this day, my reason was pragmatic.  Atlantic Yards closed my bridge, which meant that I had to walk Baby down Atlantic Avenue to the next available bridge.  Atlantic Avenue is a loud, gravelly, no-trees kind of nastiness.  (Baby napping yet?  Ummmm, no.)  I started feeling pretty guilty for having created this haphazard, nonsensical, no-routine life for Baby.  I felt like I was failing to give Baby what he needs, and that is the worst feeling for a Momma-In-Training.

Just before I turned the corner to Day Care, I looked down at Baby.  Fast asleep.  We pulled over on the sidewalk, and I let him sleep in the shade while I checked work emails.  A young family walked by.  The mom and dad were walking their toddler in a stroller while the dad sang to his son.  The dad sang, "All you need is . . . "  The kid responded, "love."  The dad sang, "All you need is . . ."  The kid responded, "love, love, love."  The dad sang, "Love is all you need."