Thursday, March 31, 2005

Dad Sizes Things Up

This afternoon, I came home from work to find Daddy and Sami merrily amusing each other. And Michael was packing for a little overnighter to a conference, and was understandably a little preoccupied, I guess. But after I shed all my work gear, and Michael had disappeared elsewhere in the house, and I walked over to shmooze with the Samster, I see that he has her--and I mean this in the very literal sense of the word--crammed into a little one-piece outfit that she wore when she was about 2 months old. It is a favorite of mine that her Aunt Bec bought for her, and too adorable to be passed on to Goodwill, so I had kept it buried at the back of her closet, as one of the few clothing items I allowed myself to keep as a sentimental item.

Let me point out that Daddy doesn't concern himself much with whether or not outfits are actually buttoned or snapped as intended. If most of her is covered, he's pretty satisfied. So if the snap-closed crotch area of a one piece outfit doesn't quite get snapped up, he's mostly like what the heck, whatever.

So when he couldn't even get these close, he just kind of twaunched a couple of snaps from the right leg into the middle receptacles, and called it done. But what was so very funny looking, was that the legs hit her mid-thigh (they were supposed to be full-length, and were, when it fit her). And her little arms were smooshed into the sleeves like tightly packed sausages, with the cuffs hitting her just below the elbows. It was a size 0 to 3 months, and she's currently in the 18 month size, if that gives you a better indication? Gosh, you really had to see it to appreciate it.

I am learning to have a better sense of humor in lieu of criticizing in these types of situations, so I didn't say anything, and just hauled her upstairs and put her in, you know, an outfit that, well... fit. But you just can't help but wonder what sort of filter is produced by his eyes that had him satisfied that that was an outfit well-chosen. Did he actually stand back and admire his work when he was done wrestling her into it? Only Sami knows.

Sami Freaks Out

Poor little bean. ;-)

Since we recently moved into our newly constructed home, we're still dealing with a few warranty items with our homebuilder -- the occasional loose hardwood floorboard, or a failed caulking or your whatnot and the like. So our customer service rep is this seemingly very nice young man, Brice. And Brice is what... maybe late 20s, early 30s. Very mellow pleasant enough guy. Nothing menacing to him that meets the eye. At least that I can see.

On Monday, he stopped by to drop off some little fix-it items, and I answered the door with Sami in my arms, and as soon as he walked in, she started crying. Now, I now this sounds weird, but she really doesn't every really cry. She'll complain a little, and make some noise to instruct us when she's hungry, or tired, or in need of a diaper change. But she just doesn't ever really cry-cry. But she did this day. And I apologized all over, and explained that it was her naptime and she was just tired. Brice and I tried to discuss some other pending repairs, but Sami was having none of that--we literally could not hear each other over her crying, and so we scheduled a time that he would drop by the following day where we could run through the items in the house still needing attention.

Tuesday comes. And Brice arrives a little early, and I'm all "okay, she's well-rested this time; I'm sure it was just a quirk." Nuh uh. I open the door, and let Brice in, and set Sami on the sofa with her favorite toy so Brice and I can talk, and within about 10 seconds, her bottom lip curled up, and she started crying. Or maybe it is better described as screaming. Like I've never seen her do. I felt horrible for Brice, and I felt horrible for the frightened Sami, and I kept trying to talk some sense into her which as you can guess is fairly futile with a 7 month old. So I'm trying everything to calm her down and console her, and trying simultaneously to make the very self-conscious Baby Frightener feel like he's not a baby frightener, to no avail in either case. And I finally put Sami in her playpen, and hang blankets on the sides so she can't see him. And I give her a bottle to try to soothe her, which she wants nothing to do with. And I walk Brice into another area of the house, so we can talk quietly enough that she won't even hear him, apologizing and exclaiming to him how she never does this. Which of course only serves to make him feel worse. We had to get our business done, so I just had to keep going to Sami and trying to reassure her, and then I'd run back to Brice and try to show him a crack in the drywall by the window, and so on. It was really quite ridicuous. But also very heart-wrenching because Sami is friggin' sobbing and inconsolable. And I can tell that she is truly scared and upset.

This went on for nearly half an hour while we went all through the house and tried to have a reasonable, adult conversation all the while with this screaming little child, who is breaking my heart because I can't make her feel better.

Finally Brice left, and I had to go get the screaming, red-faced, tear-streaked Sami out of her playpen, and show her all through the house that he was gone. And immediately the crying stopped. There were a few leftover jagged intakes of breath like they'll do when they've just cried their little heart out. But she was okay then.

Geesh. What was up with that? Is he a secret serial killer that only she could sense? I don't think so. But she's got me wondering.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

A Tooth, A Vasectomy, A Quarrel, and Time

Last Monday I did my regular-occasional, finger-in-the-mouth perusal of Sami's gums, checking for teeth, and stunningly, I found one this time. Yep, first tooth! It is her bottom left front tooth. Sharp as the edge of a serrated knife--there it was. Making absolutely no sense at all, I felt something akin to--I don't know--pride? Why pride I've no idea. I mean, all babies get teeth eventually. And she's right on schedule to get teeth. But if you're a parent, then you get it... you feel this bizarre inexplicable sense of pride as they hit these milestones. A tooth, for heaven's sake. It somehow felt so gratifying.

All their changes and developments happen in such tiny increments that it is difficult to guage them, to feel them; but give yourself something substantial like a tooth -- a hard little depiction of their advancement -- and it is so abrupt-feeling. Bam! Sami has "teeth." Okay, technically it isn't the plural... but you know what I mean.

So we've passed other of these little "growing up" milestones, but this one... I don't know why... well, in light of the entire week, I guess I do... but this one kind of kicked me in the gut.

All the moms of grown-up kids that I know warn me over and over that I'll turn around and Sami will be in high-school and I'll have missed everything in between. I beg to differ in that I think my advanced age allows me a certain perspective that younger moms don't have--allows me an appreciation for savoring moments and the sweetness therein. But nonetheless, this one made me draw back and recognize that I'll no longer experience the little tiny baby moments that are so sweet. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy each new stage of Sami's more than I could have ever imagined, but all of a sudden on this one I saw in my mind's eye these fleeting moments of her being this totally dependent infant and now I envision her eating like a big girl, then walking, then talking and on and on. And it wrenched me in a way-- her "infanthood" is gone. And I already feel this weird longing for it. You want them to grow and thrive and become a little person, and then when they start to exhibit it, it causes these heretofore unexpected pangs of longing for those pieces and moments of her curling into you and being a little baby. She isn't one anymore, and it kinda hurts a little.

Then, this week was the long-schedule V-Day for Michael. Let me pave the background... about a month ago I had this little anxiety attack wherein I thought maybe, it could be possible, what-if, Oh God, I might be pregnant. I went and bought a test kit, and I wasn't. And the relief was profound. I was so frightened of being pregnant again I can't even verbalize it. But at the same time, when it turned out negative, I felt this weird, awful, teeniest bit of sadness. Because I knew the vasectomy day was looming, and that that of course, was the end-all and be-all.

In bits and pieces, without ever coming right out and pronouncing ourselves to be talking about It, Michael and I had agreed we couldn't have another baby. Due to lots of things that make lots of sense. I feel so bad for Sami on so many levels that she won't have a sibling (I can't get into all that here), but I also knew I could not face another pregnancy at 42, birth at 43, and all the myriad horrendous things that could go wrong with a pregnancy at such an advanced age. You want stuff to worry about? Talk to high-risk pregnancy doctors when you're already pregnant past 35. Forget 41 -- the odds of bad things increases exponentially with each year and it is just unthinkable all the things they can think up to tell you that can go wrong.

So anyway, vasectomy day draws nigh, and I kept imagining that prior to it, that I would have an opportunity to talk to Michael about my self-denied longing for another baby--you know, for Sami of course--and that while he was listening I would deftly talk myself out of it. And he would feel great empathy but would intelligently agree with me on every logical point, and we would reach together the conclusion that we were doing exactly and without option, the right thing. But wouldn't you know, the night before V-Day arrives, and I've still got all these stupid feelings roiling about inside me, instead of having the opportunity to conduct the melancholy, sentimental conversation I needed in order to therapize myself out of my misgivings, we instead manage to have a spat that night. A totally unreasonable, unusual, unexplainable, horrible evening of escalating bad feelings and mean words that while we rarely have them, when we do, are of heart-sickening consequence to me.

So he goes to the doctor's office the next day, and we're barely speaking, and I'm feeling just sick that we're not talking, and he has the "procedure" and we're on our way home, and for 3 days I'm taking care of him, and all along I'm feeling this idiotic stuff.

In deference to Michael, at some point, and I don't even know when it happened in this whole mixed up week, I did weakly attempt to verbalize all these conflicting feelings to him, in a very abbreviated fashion, and God love him, he made this thoughtful reply when asked by me, "Do you know what I mean?"... he goes, "No. But then I'm not a woman." A more insightful statement never made.

We made up and made things right between us, but there remains this finality to it, and this realization that now, no matter anything else, I'm not having another baby (which, don't get me wrong here--I by no means in my head wanted to have another baby) . But aren't I allowed to feel sad about it anyway?

I'm such a goober.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Sami "Sings"

Sami turned 6 months old at the end of February. And just let me say, she could not be more engaging. We absolutely delight in her--day in and day out. It takes so little to thrill us endlessly as we watch her development.

She's eating solid foods (vegetables, cereal and fruits) like mad. She's still a great sleeper and napper. She can sit up on her own. But mostly she's just so... involved with her dad and I now. She sees things she wants and reaches for them. She concentrates so hard on objects she's holding. If we're in the room with her, she wants--no, expects--all the attention to be on her. Well, she's had it no other way, so who can blame her?

And in that vein, she of course has been learning to make sounds. The raspberry was first, and her dad and I were just so pathetically thrilled to have her communicating with us on purpose that it didn't matter that it wasn't perhaps the prettiest or most dainty of noises. That lasted for weeks.

Then, she learned to, and I don't know how else to put this, she learned to bark, in a way. It is/was wildly adorable and comical to watch. I swear you could see the idea pop into her head that she was fixing to muster up some noise, and then she would make a very determined face that involved thinning out her lips and kind of pooching them out, and then she'd squeeze her eyes shut while simultaneously throwing up her arms, and out would come any one of varied--but I'm talking LOUD noises; most of which sounded like an abrupt bark of sorts. Well, blinded by the cuteness of the delivery of it, I made it a point to react with great amusement and exaggerated attention to her every time she did it, and so of course, reinforced it immediately and she added it to her repertoire.

Then, the fake cough made its appearance. Now, she's never even been sick with a cough, but occasionally she'll be yankin' on a bottle too fast and choke herself a little, and I always would run over (oops, this forces me to admit that since she can hold her own bottle now, that I sometimes take advantage of it and let her lie down and feed herself) and while she'd smile up through the milk with her little eyes watering a bit, I'd go, "Geez! Are you awright?" All cheerily, because she never has really choked. Well duh. Of course she caught on in no time that bottle or none, if she faked a cough, she'd be rewarded with me "checking" on her (read: giving her some face time). So that joined the barking.

Now, she's so beautiful and sweet, but the barking and fake coughing weren't exactly the sounds I might have chosen for her to finally learn to make to communicate within the family. Or worse yet, during our first outing to a neighborhood "Moms and Babies" outing where I'm sure the other mothers were secretly horrified that I'd brought my baby to sit with their babies when she was so clearly suffering from a severe bout of whooping cough, or some equally noxious disease involving uncontrollable coughing.

Anyway, just starting around yesterdayish, sweet relief...

She's now saying, "Dah-dah-dah-dah...". Without yet relating her to her dear father; but we're reinforcing the connection constantly, so I don't think it will be long now. But to dah-dah-dah, just yesterday, she started saying "Deet-deet-deet-deet." It isn't the syllables that are so sweet, but the delivery of them in a soft, high, sing-song voice. It just melts my heart. She mostly started doing it when she was playing and concentrating on her own, unaware of me watching her. And she'd just be like she was singing a little tune to herself to accompany whatever she was doing.

So I'm trying to train myself to ignore the barking and the coughing in an attempt to stop reinforcing those noises, and trying to "reward" her singing with lavish attention whenever she does it.

Why didn't anyone ever tell me during my 41 years with no baby, that babies are just so damn sweet? Geez. Who knew?

Thursday, March 10, 2005


Pretty Sami Posted by Hello

Family portrait Posted by Hello

Aunt Bec & Grandma Grace visit... Posted by Hello

Happy Sami :-) Posted by Hello

Sami with friends... Posted by Hello

Delicious and nutritious! Posted by Hello

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Sick Baby + Working Mom = Way Messy House

Really, my messy house is quite the least of my worries. But I just walked downstairs and viewed the chaos and couldn't help but make note of it. My two days to work from home are Mondays and Tuesdays, while simultaneously taking care of Sami. It usually works so well because her dad is here until 11am mostly taking care of her, and then she's such a good napper during the day, and when she's awake, she's very easily self-entertained. But this week...geesh.

Anyway, finally it happened. Sami has gotten sick. It started yesterday. She ate her breakfast oatmeal willingly enough, with the usual happiness. And then about 20 minutes after she ate, a little came up. And luckily I had her at the sink cleaning her up, when the whole damn mess came up. I swear more came out than went in. Poor little bug. It startled her, and it probably hurt her a little, and she just looked very surprised then started crying. She's never thrown up like that before. So we cleaned her up, and I took her upstairs and changed all her clothes. But that was just the beginning. It resulted in two days (so far) of her not wanting to eat or drink much at all, and when she did, you could see it hurt her when it hit her tummy -- she'd whimper and whatnot. And she is never whiny and whimpery like that. Then the diarrhea started. Poor, poor girl. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that at one point, with the diaper off, I was cleaning up anything within 4 feet of her--directionally speaking. And I'm not kidding.

Anyway, my happy, smiling good-natured baby has not been so for two days. I feel so terrible for her. She doesn't understand why she doesn't feel good, she has no way of knowing it isn't going to be this way forever, and I just hurt for her. On top of how her tummy must feel, her bottom is all red and rashy from (I'm assuming) the acidity of her diarrhea. I'm greasing her up good at every half hour diaper change, and it is improving, but the poor little thing.

She has a doctor appointment (her 6 month) tomorrow, so I didn't want to overreact and take her in, but I finally did feel the need to call them and just find out if what I was instincitively doing was correct. And it was. Except they said give her Pedialite. Well, whatever. I went and bought some. And I warned the nurse that she'd never even so much as tasted fruit juice, so I wasn't sure she'd take it. Cripes. Have you tasted that stuff? It is the most sickeningly sweet thing. It is disgusting. She got one taste of it from her beloved but now deceitful bottle, and that was it. She clamped up her little trap and refused any more. I didn't blame her one bit. We just went back to formula. It is staying down, so I know she's getting fluids, and that is what is important. I had to squirt a little formula into her mouth forcefully to convince her I wasn't pulling any more fast ones on her after that whole Pediacrap incident.

Anyway, last night she woke up when her dad got home and we went in together to check on her in bed. So we got her up and fed her a couple ounces of formula. And then I took her back to her room, and we sat in the rocker in her room, and I sang to her and rocked her. And then she nestled in and let me tickle her face, and she fell asleep in my arms. Well, I'm watching as her face relaxes and she settles asleep, and I feel so bad for her--for not feeling good. And for some morbid reason, I get to thinking about the parents of babies, say, in the Children's Hospital, and how some of them are so, so sick. And maybe in pain, and even worse... and I'm thankful that in 6 months this is the first time she's ever, ever been even the least bit sick. But I think of them, and I can't even bear the thought. How do parents even begin to cope with that? How on Earth do they bear such a thing? Anyway, I get all bawly and emotional. After I moved her to her crib, I went back downstairs to see Michael, and I was all sniffly and teary, and had to try to explain my thoughts. This baby thing can just turn you right into an emotional goofball without you even realizing it is happening.

I hate to capitalize on her illness, but we did have a little first that still makes me a bit emotional when I think of it. Late last night, her dad was holding her on his lap and trying to soothe her, and when I walked over to give her a little kiss myself, she actually reached for me. That's the first time that has happened, that she's reached for either of us to pick her up. Her dad noticed it and was very gracious about it, and goes (like it would be any other way), "That's okay. When I was little and sick, I remember all I wanted was to be with my mom, too." But I think he might have had a slight pang of jealousy. That's okay, though, because he gets the part where she just gazes, like she's just completely smitten with him (I know... she is), into his face when she sees him. I won't fault him that one -- I love seeing how much she adores her daddy.

Anyway, here's hoping Sami feels all better in the morning.