"Tick or cheat!"

Happy Halloween! This video shows Isaac and Laurel rehearsing their lines prior to trick-or-treating tonight. Our whole family went out together this year, which was fun. We left a bowl of candy on our front porch for anyone who happened to come by during our absence. We left our house at 7:00 p.m. and returned about half an hour later, and there was still a lot left. Our neighborhood was full of trick-or-treaters, but not many made it out to our house, which involves going up a hill and almost to the end of an unlit cul-de-sac.

We went to about ten houses on our street tonight. Last year (when Isaac was four and Laurel was ten months) Craig took both kids to seven houses, and the year before that (when Isaac was three and Laurel was unborn) Craig and Isaac went to three houses. Our scope is increasing. Next year we may have to do the entire neighborhood.

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Isaac dressed up as a Dream Machine, a character of his own invention. It is sort of a dream delivery service. At night while you sleep, tiny winged vehicles fly into your room and whisper good thoughts in your ears; these thoughts cause your dreams. If you wake up and try to find the Dream Machines, they quickly hide under your pillow or behind the ceiling light fixture.

He has been telling stories about Dream Machines for three or four months now, and imagine the challenge I faced when he told me he wanted to dress as one for Halloween this year! How could he be a tiny flying vehicle? Anyway, we pulled it off with a tiny truck glued to a spring fastened to a headband, glittery angel wings, and glittery letters across his chest announcing "Dream Machine." Nobody understood it, but Isaac didn't seem to care. Is he iconoclastic or oblivious? Or both?

And does Laurel's elephant costume look familiar? Ah, hand-me-downs. Here is a picture of Isaac wearing it when he was 14 months old.

Army green cargo pants

My son recently grew into the second infant clothing size -- that's the "3 to 6 month" range -- so I had to re-assess his wardrobe. Time to put the teeny-tiny 0 to 3 month stuff away (feeling a little sad), and time to try the bigger stuff on.

I'm constantly surprised by Izzy's wardrobe, because so many items were gifts. How, for instance, did he end up with two pairs of Army green cargo pants, both of which fit him right now? Two different pairs of pants, given to him by two different well-wishers who had the same thought: "Hey, there's a brand-new baby boy in the world. I bet he needs Army green cargo pants." I guess I shouldn't think too much about what the proliferation of Army green cargo pants might mean -- restrictive gender stereotypes, idealization of the military, pushing a child to grow up too fast by dressing him in adult clothes -- and I should just appreciate that he looks really cute in them.

I forgot my mantra

Isaac is only 16 weeks old, and his sleep patterns are constantly changing. To comfort us through the especially bad times, we developed a mantra: every day is different.

A night where it took two hours of crying and bouncing for Isaac to fall asleep? Hey, no problem, every day is different, so tomorrow night will have to be an improvement. A night where Ike wakes up and wants to eat every two hours? No problem, every day is different. A night where he falls asleep readily in my arms, but awakens screaming the instant he is set down? Every day is different. But Isaac's sleep has been easy and regular for the past month, and I grew complacent: I forgot my mantra. More than that, I forgot my mantra cuts both ways.

Instead of expecting things to continue going well, I should have been reminding myself that it couldn't last.

As you might have gathered, last night was a hard one. But I have high hopes for tonight...

A whole new year, a whole new person

So far this New Year's Day has been less life-changingly dramatic than last year's. Last year on the morning of January 1st, I woke up and found out I was pregnant.

Nothing like taking a home pregnancy test to start the year out with a bang! (Well, really that came 12 days earlier, heh heh.) We had hoped and suspected that I was pregnant, but seeing verification was still mindblowing. So one year ago today I was very excited -- but also very nervous, since at a mere 12 days gestation I figured I had at least a 25% chance of miscarrying. Out of fear of loss, I tried to keep my enthusiasm in check. (Story of my life...)

It's a little strange to think now that the little ball of cells pumping out all those hormones was Isaac! We just didn't know him yet.

(Well, it was going to become Isaac -- at the size of an apple seed there wasn't much to know about him yet.)

That's the story of the grey goose

Like many modern children, Isaac has an Amazon wish list. So I listed an old album of Burl Ives singing children's songs that I remember fondly from my childhood, and my mother bought it for Izzy -- not because she remembers me enjoying it, but because she and her sisters loved it when they were kids.

I have to say I'm a sucker for this -- the nostalgia of two generations at work, reaching into the future to create a memory for the next generation. I wonder in what format Isaac will someday buy this album for his kids? In the 1950s my mom and aunts had a 78 of the album, when I was a kid in the 1970s we still had an old 78 (from a yard sale), and now Isaac has a CD that was ordered on the Internet. It seems like things aren't really that different 50 years later. Don't talk to me about the iPod, though, because my kid is only four months old and he's too young for music that only exists in a virtual format.

"I love books; I simply devour them"

Now we have a confluence of two trends: Isaac's continuing enjoyment of looking at picture books, and his increasing desire to grab everything and jam it in his mouth. It can be quite funny, as when he tries to pick up the animals off the pages of Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? with his sincere small fingers -- you just know he wants to give that Yellow Duck a good toothless chew. On the other hand, it was easier to read to him when he just sat and looked at the pictures. When he doesn't succeed in getting the illustrations off the page, he decides he'll settle for gumming the page itself, so I have to detach his eagerly clutching hands upon each page turn.

I haven't let him actually chew on a book yet -- he is remarkably damp-mouthed and would rapidly saturate even a board book. It must be the librarian in me.

The purple socks leapt to mind

As a baby shower present I received an egg carton full of socks -- 12 tiny pairs of socks, each pair rolled up and nestled into the space where an egg would have sat. It was amazingly cute; somehow no baby clothes are smaller or sweeter than socks. Each pair is a different color, all with white stripes: red, yellow, orange, chartreuse, green, turquoise, blue, Prussian blue, black ... and pink and purple.

For a while I deluded myself, and I kept the pink and purple socks handy with the others. Well, why shouldn't my son wear pink socks? I could think of no reason that wasn't uncomfortably sexist. But as months passed and I never put the socks on him, I finally moved them to an out-of-the-way shelf in the closet. I told myself this was not gender stereotyping, I was not limiting my son -- it was simply that he owned no pink or purple clothing with which the socks would match. (This was technically true, but it isn't like he owns a lot of chartreuse clothes, either.)

For Christmas, however, Izzy received a tie-dyed t-shirt. Most of it is blue-toned, but today as I put it on him, I noticed it also has purple. The purple socks leapt to mind. It was time for me to ante up, or to admit I was scared to dress my son in purple socks. I fetched the socks from the closet. They were more lavender than I remembered. I put the socks on him anyway.

Counting (on) cousins

I have two siblings, and neither has any children, nor is showing signs of having children any time soon. My husband has two siblings, same deal. So how will Isaac get any cousins his age? I don't wish premature parenthood on anyone -- it's challenging enough when you planned it -- but I find myself dropping little hints. Hints like "Why don't you have a baby? Soon."

See, I was counting on Isaac having cousins close in age, but if everyone waits until after he's three years old, it will be too late.

I loved growing up with cousins my age. We were as close as siblings, minus the rivalry. When I was a kid I used to have a good number of cousins -- I think 11 -- but then there was a baby boom among my mother's siblings and now I have 18. Or are there 19? Wait, maybe 20. This is turning out to be a side benefit to having an abundance of cousins: I can count them. Literally; when I'm having trouble falling asleep I count them like counting sheep. I try to count them in reverse chronological birth order, but by the time I count four or five I'm confused, and then I'm asleep.

"Look, it's Teri Hatcher! You like Teri Hatcher!"

Ten things that entertained Isaac while on the airplane (at least some of the time); you'll have to imagine the underlying tone of tense desperation:

1) nursing (duh)
2) drinking milk from a bottle (a novel experience for him)
3) smiling at the other passengers (turns out he loves to hear Southern accents)
4) playing with toys (especially ones he hasn't seen lately)
5) playing with non-toys (such as a Ziplock baggie full of ice)
6) playing with us (gnawing on our fingers, pulling our lips, etc.)
7) listening to us sing (especially his favorite, "Young MacIsaac" -- better known as "Old MacDonald")
8) reading his books ("Brown Bear, Brown Bear" is still a favorite)
9) reading celebrity magazines (he enjoyed looking at pictures of busty actresses in dark low-cut dresses)
10) ripping celebrity magazines (something he's not allowed to do at home)

"What do you mean, it isn't my farm?"

Maybe you've been wondering why anyone would sing a version of "Old MacDonald" with their child's name inserted (see my reference to a little ditty I call "Young MacIsaac" in my last entry). Isn't a classic American folk song good enough for little Isaac? What will this indulgent revisionism teach him? Do these upper middle class children have to be the center of everything? Will Isaac feel foolish when he gets to preschool and learns that it isn't his farm after all?

Once upon a time I might have defended the integrity of our nation's traditional music, but now it really is all about Isaac. But it's also about pragmatism. A month or so ago, my mother asked my brother if Isaac had a favorite song, and without delay (or indication that he felt he was saying anything unusual) he replied, "Young MacIsaac." It's true. We've tried them all, and it's the one song that stops the crying and brings a smile. For some reason he loves it -- I don't know if it's his name, the animal noises, or something else, but since it works I'm sticking with it.

Other household favorites:

• "Ike's Been Working on the Railroad" ('Someone's in the kitchen with Isaac...')
• "Skip to My Lou, My Isaac"
• "Bicycle Built for Two" ('Isaac, Isaac, give me your answer do...')
• "W-A-L-T" ('There was a baby had a dog, and Walt was his name-o...')

Garden-variety cows

The other day Walt looked out of the living room window and began this out-of-control barking. Despite his level of insistence, I figured it was one of the usual suspects -- usually a cat, raccoon, rabbit, or squirrel, but sometimes a deer. The living room windows look out on a small patio at the foot of a steep hill covered with wild grasses and trees. Craig looked out the window too and announced matter-of-factly: "There are cows in our yard."

You don't expect cows in the suburbs, so naturally I was surprised. Not as surprised as I would have been when I lived "in town" (despite the line about farms in Berkeley), but surprised enough to step out the door to take a look myself. Sure enough: four cows. Three black, one red and white, about 20 feet up the hill, peacefully eating grass.

Craig announced his intentions to climb up the hill to show Isaac the cows. I thought that was nuts. The cows were eyeing us suspiciously by now, or maybe they were just objecting to Walt's continued barking. Then Craig remembered that Isaac had already met a cow -- a huge Texas longhorn steer on the sidewalk in San Antonio -- and he hadn't been impressed, so thankfully there was no need to risk life and limb to show him garden-variety cows.

For closure: I called the sheriff (seriously, that's who you call for loose livestock), but by the time they got here the cows had wandered off to parts unknown.

Time on my hands

At my New Moms' Group meeting last week, we were discussing the indulgences for which we no longer have time. People mentioned going out drinking, going to shows, exercising, and so on. But several women said they missed having their nails done, which surprised me. I've had exactly two manicures in my life: once for my sister's wedding, and once for my own wedding -- when I also got a pedicure that gave me a disgusting skin infection on my leg.

So if finding time to take care of my hands isn't a problem, then what do I lack time for? That's an awfully predictable question, and the answers are easy to imagine. I prefer to point out that there are a number of things that I have time for. In fact, having an infant has actually given me more time to do some things! However, all of them involve my sitting here in this chair, typing with one hand. What with Isaac's nursing and napping, every day I have hours and hours to kill -- because he spends most of his naps snuggled up in one of my arms, sharing my lap with my computer. So I have time on one hand, I guess.

Just wait until Isaac learns to nap in his crib. Then maybe I'll get a manicure to celebrate.

Attachment-promoting behaviors

Right now my dog is smarter than my son. At some point I expect this to reverse itself, but not for many months.

Walt, while not the world's smartest dog, has a good vocabulary -- that is, he understands things we say to him. Sometimes I wonder whether his understanding is contextual rather than linguistic, and whether he understands tone of voice rather than actual words. But sometimes he disproves my Clever Hans doubts. For example, he understands that "Close the door" means to jump up and slam the door to the patio. He does that all the time; no big deal. Recently I left the patio door open for him while he was outside, so when he joined me in the bedroom I told him to "Close the door." Instead of heading back down the hall to close the patio door, he jumped up and closed the bedroom door. So he knows what "Close the door" means in more than one context, and he understands that a painted wooden interior door is the same as a glass-and-aluminum-frame exterior door. That's pretty smart.

Both Isaac and Walt are smart in non-verbal ways, however. They've both experts at what the psychologists call "attachment-promoting behaviors" -- behaviors that make you want to love them, to take care of them, and to feed them. That's those big eyes gazing raptly into your own, those gentle nuzzles and snuggles, those tender pats (from paw or little hand), and their clearly-communicated desire to spend all their time by your side. Who could resist?

Trio of breaths

Visualize the new parents lying awake at night listening to their baby breathing, anxiously leaning over the bassinet if for a moment they can't hear it. Is the baby okay? Maybe they place their hands delicately on the tiny chest to feel it rise and fall, maybe they lower their heads to catch the gentle puff of exhalation.

This is one of those new-parent cliches that turned out to be true. Our bassinet attaches to my side of the bed, and I spent the first few days of Isaac's life sleeping with my head in the bassinet. It seemed so improbable that this elfin creature, so recently arrived from a watery world, could handle such a serious responsibility as breathing for himself on a consistent basis. I was actually relieved when he would wake up and cry.

This habit was bad for my sleep, so Craig and I soon decided to switch sides of the bed, since he had more confidence in Isaac's ability to continue existing. These days I still lie awake and listen to Isaac breathe -- but instead of obsessively focusing on just his breathing, I hear it as part of the whole. In the darkness I listen to a trio of unique breaths -- Walt, Craig, and Isaac -- each steady and dependable.

"Proud parent"?

My brother asked, when he saw I had selected "Proud parent" from the list of MySpace profile options that indicate one's parenthood status, if "Ashamed parent" was among the other choices. It is not. These are your options:

• I don't want kids
• Someday
• Undecided
• Love kids, but not for me
• Proud parent
• No Answer

I find it telling that there are four ways, each with its own unique connotation, to say that you are not a parent, while the only way to say that you are a parent is positive in tone. Joel's joke was about someone who wasn't proud of his kids, but what about someone who is unhappy about parenthood? Or where's the option for those deadbeat dads? I guess they would select "No Answer."

But mostly this is another one of those cliches about parenthood that turned out to be true: I am embarrassingly proud of my son, and he doesn't even sit up yet.

The Nine Dollar Nap

For the last week and a half I've been experimenting with Isaac's naps. It seems kind of expensive!

Despite my breezy blog about enjoying all the free time I have while he naps in my lap, it isn't that convenient. My first tactic was to expand Izzy's nap horizons by finding alternate ways to encourage him to fall asleep -- previously he had only been nursed to sleep, or sometimes he would fall asleep in the sling or front pack. Both ways involve close personal contact, so I figured I'd subtract the human element and try the all-American strategy of driving around until he fell asleep in the back seat.

Well, it worked -- but once he's asleep, what do you do? I didn't want to stop in case he woke up, so I just drove around for an hour. About 60 minutes on the freeway equals 60 miles, gas costs $3 per gallon, and the gas mileage of my car is 20 mpg. That's a $9 nap. And it was a lot more boring than holding him in my lap while he slept -- which is what I'm doing right now.

One-track mind

"So, that Nicole," you may be thinking as you sit in front of your computer. "Doesn't she think about anything but her kid? And how often will she write about one little baby?"

Come on, now. Give me some credit. What I have here is a blog with a topic. It's a theme. It's my leitmotif, if I remember my literature class jargon correctly. Plus, think of the challenge involved in writing about a single topic -- the narrow focus is part of the formal structure, like in haiku.

But to answer your questions: no, not often. And very often.

That's what toys are for

I used to be surprised when I saw a mother letting her little kid play with stuff out of her purse -- sure, it occupies the baby, but that's your stuff! Who wants their personal possessions to be chewed or drooled on? I'm not that particular about keeping my stuff nice, but I still felt like the contents of my purse were private, and that I wouldn't let my child play with them just for fun. That's what toys are for.

Of course I was wrong, wrong, wrong. It turns out that keeping the baby occupied is a substantial motivator. And no toy is as interesting as real stuff -- somehow even a six-month-old baby wants to imitate adults. I started out by giving Isaac my credit card to chew while waiting at the cash register. He couldn't hurt it, after all -- he has no teeth. But now I've advanced to giving him my cell phone. It has a nice rubber-tipped antenna that he likes to chew. And it's a flip phone, so he can't reach the buttons. But his drool can seep into the charging mechanism, which confuses the phone.

I hear it repeatedly bleeping to itself as Izzy plays with it. Blee-deep? -- it thinks it's in the charger. Blee-deet! -- it thinks it's been removed from the charger. Blee-deep? Blee-deet! This can't be good for the phone, but I only take it away from Izzy when it occurs to me that he might get shocked by sucking on it.

"Is it a little girl?"

I was out for a walk yesterday with the dog and the baby, and we paused when we passed an elderly woman who wanted to talk to us. I was curious to see which of my companions interested her. Generally those who are enthusiastic about the dog pretend they don't even see the baby. This gets especially strange at the dog park, where I can have a ten-minute conversation about Walt with someone who never acknowledges Isaac, grinning away in the baby carrier strapped to my chest. The reverse isn't quite as extreme, but there isn't much overlap -- few people are equally enthusiastic about both species of small mammal.

Anyway, it turned out she was interested in Isaac. "Oh," she exclaimed, "what a beautiful baby! Is it a little girl?" Isaac was looking pretty grunge in a plaid flannel workshirt and denim overalls, so I thought this assumption was impressively un-sexist of the old woman. But it turned out she wasn't considering his outfit, because she went on to say, "I thought that any baby so beautiful must be a girl." Not exactly gender-neutral after all.

But is that true? Can you tell the difference between six month old girls and boys? Or was this just some crazy form of compliment?

Press "1" if you're a bigot

Last night I answered the phone and it was a recorded message asking me to press "1" if I agreed that marriage should only be allowed between a man and a woman. We got this recording left on our answering machine once before; it's a long message that makes a lot of different political statements and asks you to press "1" if you agree with them. As I recall, it's mostly opposed to gay marriage, but there might have been other conservative right-wing statements as well.

But I never got to have my memory refreshed, because I didn't press "1." It hadn't occurred to me when I heard the message on the answering machine, but there was no option for disagreement! I stared dumbfoundedly at the phone's keypad for five seconds or so, trying to figure out what button I could press to express my lack of agreement. In the end, I pressed "0," which immediately curtailed the bigoted litany with a rapid "Please call 1-800-blah-blah for more information on blah blah initiative. Good-bye."

I felt cheated. I know it wasn't a poll, and they don't care that I'm in favor of marriage for anybody who wants it. But I wanted to be able to tell those ghastly bigots that while I won't mind if my son turns out to be gay, either way I want him to get married and provide me with grandchildren. What button do I press for that?

Apron strings

My son is the only kid in his playgroup who still sleeps in his parents' room. He is also the only one who still sleeps swaddled like a newborn. And finally, he is the only one who hasn't had any 'solid' food yet. He is one of the younger kids in playgroup, but he's six months old and officially ready to join the others ... but his parents aren't ready. There's no reason to change our sleep habits, but I know that soon we really should give him something in addition to breastmilk. Why am I hesitating?

I'm not afraid of the mess, or the diapers, or potential allergies, or the extra work involved in actually having to prepare food for him. I'm sure he would find food interesting -- he likes to watch us eat. And I'm not planning on weaning him for ages and ages, so it's not like I'd be immediately replaced by mashed banana and rice cereal.

This came up as we were discussing development in playgroup. When queried, I said, "He hasn't had solid food, he doesn't know how to sit up, he doesn't have any teeth, and he'll be a baby forever!" This was met with amusement, but I was sort of serious. Is this wrong?

"That's Ms. Isaac's Mama to you"

In playgroup, we call each other by our first names. I mean, of course, that the adults do. The babies don't talk -- no one even says "mama" -- so they don't call us anything yet.

But the babies are listening and learning all the time, and they will learn to address us by the names they overhear. Pretty soon we're going to have to consciously decide by what names we will be known. With a new baby you have the chance to set policy, to give them the words that will define their world -- for example, in my family we decided we'd be "Mama" and "Dad," "Oma" and "Opa," and "Aunt Erica" and "Uncle Joel." The same decisions need to be made at playgroup.

In fact, we already did decide -- we want to be old-school about it and have the kids address us by an honorific and our last names -- but it feels funny to get started. It's one thing for a child to do it, but it's totally bizarre to be hanging out with a friend and have her call me "Ms. Last Name."

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Note: As I write this five months later, this formality hasn't actually appeared -- it seems like we're going to be California casual about it after all.

Language acquisition

Isaac is starting to babble these days. He still mostly coos and crows, or makes other single-letter noises, so it's exciting to hear him start to combine two letters.

He's produced the classic baby babbling -- like "ba-ba-ba" -- but other combinations are his favorites. "Who-uh, who-uh" is a big one. Sometimes when he's chewing on something, he says "Aii-yii, aii-yii" like a mariachi singer. My favorite, though, is when we're reading a book and he sees a picture he especially likes -- he pauses, studies it intently, and utters a single "Huh" under his breath, like an art critic.

Of course I've been prompting him to say "mama," but unfortunately he makes the "mmm" sound (as he sucks in his lips like a moray eel) when he's unhappy. It's heartwrenching to hear him crying out "mmma! mmma!" when he's in distress, even though I know he's not actually calling for me.

In which I judge someone else's birth story

A recurring topic at my New Parents' group is birth stories. I've been going to this group long enough that the topic has come around several times, so the group leader knows my story well. In fact, the most recent time that birth stories was the topic, the group leader suggested that I go last. She explained to the group that I had had a remarkably positive birth experience, and she didn't want it to put a damper on anyone who wanted to express negative emotions. (With parenting you can often feel compelled to put on a false happy face.)



A newcomer to the group spoke up: "Oh, I had a really positive experience too!" I smiled at her across the circle and looked forward to hearing her story. I would estimate that 90 % of the people I've met recently didn't have natural births (a large majority of those had an induction or a C-section), so I assumed I was going to hear the story of someone else who was lucky enough to have success with a natural birth.



But my assumptions were wrong, and her story made me sad. This woman had had an epidural very early so she was completely numb throughout labor, and she was so detached from the physical experience that she had to be told when to push, as she felt no natural urge. Since she found the whole thing embarassing, she sent her husband out of the room so he missed seeing his daughter born. Finally, she was so out-of-it that when they set her daughter on her chest, she was surprised and scared -- she said, "I kind of wondered where she had come from." It took her several days to accept motherhood and to bond with her daughter. This was a positive experience? Some things are worse than a few hours of physical pain.

From one mammal to another

Historically I have not been a sentimental person. I never had a heart of stone, but I just wasn't that emotionally vulnerable. (Okay, one exception: tears were guaranteed if I was reading a book and the dog died.) But motherhood has me undone. You can easily imagine the topics that make me cry now, because they are all such cliches: stuff like child abuse, starving kids in Africa, abandoned babies, and (most effective of all) parents whose children die. (I read a story a few months ago in the New York Times written by a woman whose 5-year-old daughter died of an infection, and it made me weep for weeks afterward.)

And apparently I am extending my emotional sympathies to other species. When Isaac was a few days old, I was crushed when my father told me that a bat had gotten trapped in their house and had made its way to an open window up in their loft, where it died pressed up against the screen. I still feel sad when I imagine the poor creature able to smell the fresh night air through the screen as it starved to death. And recently I overheard Craig and Joel talking about a new culinary delicacy, lamb so young that its intestines still hold the undigested milk of its mother -- and that makes me sad as well.

It reminded me that animals have mothers, too, and even if the ewe doesn't exactly love the lamb, she nurtures it with her own body and certainly doesn't want it to die. We have something in common. When I think of it that way, eating animals seems so heartless. I wonder if I'm becoming a vegetarian ...

'Apron strings' update

Just in case you were wondering, I thought I'd announce that I am no longer oppressing my son with the expectations and accessories of infancy -- yeah, right. But he is now seven months old and there have been some changes.

We stopped swaddling him at night -- cold turkey, just set him down unwrapped. And after I actually tried it a few times, I discovered that in fact he can sit up on his own very well -- sorry Izzy, should have tried it sooner! And -- here's a biggie -- we've given him solid food. He was wary of his first food, mashed avocado, but he's enthusiastic about the mashed banana. (You can see photos of first contact in his photo album.)

So is he on the road to adulthood already? Thankfully, no. He's still sleeping in our room, because even unswaddled he cries out at night and needs a reassuring pat or two from his dad. (I don't think he sleeps any better unswaddled, but at least we don't have to re-swaddle him several times a night after he breaks his bonds.) And he still has no teeth! Nothing like bare naked gums to signify baby. I'm glad he's not growing up too fast after all.

A return, and more updates

So many new things!

Number of days since my last blog entry: 53

Number of days Isaac has been eating solid food: 60 (since April 2)
Number of different foods he has eaten in that time: 10

Number of days Isaac has had teeth: 43 (since April 19)
Number of teeth he's produced in that time: 5 (poor thing)

Number of nights Isaac has been sleeping unswaddled by himself in his crib in his room: 34 (since April 28)
Number of times he's slept through the night in that time: 0

I guess some things remain the same.

Teeth and hair

I mentioned in my last post that Isaac had five teeth. In fact he has gotten six teeth in less than six weeks. They are in various stages of fractional presentation from the gumline: the bottom two showing more or less fully, and then on top (from left to right) a half, an eighth, a quarter, and a mere sliver.

And I think sliver must be an appropriate word for small, sharp, hard objects forcing their way through one's skin. Teething must hurt, even though we don't hear too much complaining from Izzy, who is not that sensitive to physical discomforts (but he seems to be emotionally sensitive -- try using a rough voice with him and you'll get "the sad face" and perhaps even tears).

He has also grown a lot more hair, and, combined with teeth, the result is that he looks less babyish. Sometimes I get a real glimpse of what he will look like as a little boy. To my surprise, I find this exciting rather than a trigger for my usual obsessive nostalgia for the present.

(P.S. He shows a great interest in other people's teeth and hair -- give him a chance and he'll stick his fingers in your mouth to investigate its contents.)

Interesting things interest babies!

A few months ago I read an article about a scientific study that showed that babies' first words reflect their interests. What a news flash: human beings pay more attention when they're learning about topics that interest them!

I was also surprised to read that the co-author of the study said, "The exciting thing is that a lot of people weren't even sure that 10-month-olds were paying attention." It's been clear to me that Isaac (who is only nine months old) has been paying attention to words for a long time; he watches our lips intently when we speak and sometimes moves his lips silently as if trying the sounds on for size.

He doesn't talk yet but from context we deduce he understands a few words; I think they reflect his interests. He turns his head in the appropriate direction when he hears his name, Walt's name, and the word "outside." (We often ask Walt, "You wanna go outside?" before letting him into the yard, so Isaac hears the word frequently.)

He also seems to know the word "chicken," although not from any interest in poultry: he has a chicken mobile hanging in his room. I suspect he also knows "banana."

"Here, Mama, now you try it!"

Isaac has never been a big one for copying us. This used to worry me in the beginning (everything used to worry me in the beginning). The baby books say stuff like, stick out your tongue or raise your eyebrows, and even a mere weeks-old baby can imitate you! Or, make a series of babbling sounds and listen as your baby copies you! Isaac never did anything like that. I even asked the pediatrician about it when Isaac was about six months old. He sat down on a little stool in front of Isaac, looked him right in the eye, and said, "Hi, Isaac!" Isaac watched him sit, looked right back at him, and smiled. The pediatrician said, "He's fine. He's completely tuned in to other people."

As time has passed, Isaac seems more influenced by our behaviors than he had been: he sometimes pretends to chew when he sees me eating, for example, and he's been known to drum on the table after observing Joel doing so. Tonight, however, he performed a bit of imitative play that surprised me. I found it touching.

Isaac was chewing on the corner of his blankie as we sat down to nurse before bed, and he pulled it out of his mouth and offered it to me. I opened my mouth and he stuck the blanket right in. I gave it a few exaggerated chomps and he laughed. He put it back in his mouth, chewed it briefly, and then crammed it into my mouth. Again he laughed. I could see the excitement on his face as his brain made the connection: Isaac's mouth, Mama's mouth ... separate but the same ... wow!

Repeat about ten times, except that as Isaac got more and more worked up he lost dexterity, so all too soon he was missing my mouth and pressing a damp blanket against my cheek, and at the end he dropped the blanket and was just shoving his fingers in my mouth and giggling.

Things Isaac doesn't like ...

... not much, really. He's a good-natured kid and tolerates a lot of potentially distressing things. Yes, sometimes in the early evening he grows unhappy when set down, and he'll crawl miserably around the kitchen after me, plucking at my shoes or hauling himself upright to clutch at my knees -- but he cheers up when I pick him up. And of course he cries when he's hungry or tired.

But so far three things regularly make his happy little face crumple with sadness and stress: a sharp rebuke, the vacuum cleaner, and the lights-and-music feature on his Jumperoo.

I totally understand his being upset by mama's disapproval, so I'm trying to be more gentle when telling him "no." He used to be soothed by the sound of the vacuum when he was a wee baby, so his current terror of it must mean that he's growing more aware of his surroundings -- it is a pretty scary machine, all noisy and moving about (and he doesn't even know yet about the sucking!). The fear of the music and lights of the Jumperoo is more puzzling, as babies are supposed to like it -- they jump, it lights up and plays a truly irritating song. True, he hasn't had much exposure to it -- it bugs me, so for most of the four months he's had the Jumperoo I've kept that feature turned off. He likes other electronic toys, though, so I was surprised when this one made him cry. I guess I should count my blessings!

Welcome to the new old blog

I've been blogging (such as it is) over at MySpace since January, but it seemed like the time to move to a new venue. All posts prior to this one are the old MySpace content -- but don't they look freshly fascinating here at their new home? (Or is it like finally moving to a nicer house and having your ratty old furniture stand out?)

Anyway, I hope my ten readers make the transition to the new site. Mom? You with me?

A change in routine

For many months Isaac and I have had a fixed going-to-bed routine, both for naps and at night. In the evenings Craig gets it started with pyjamas and stories, but the final part of the routine is always mine:

• look out the window, wave, say "Bye-bye yard, we'll see you after the nap," and pull down the blinds
• stop by the fish mobile, wave, and say, "Bye-bye fish, we'll see you after the nap"
• move to the crib and say, "Now we're going to set you down in your cozy crib and zip you into your cozy sleep sack, and we'll sing"
• sing "Skip to My Lou" as peacefully as I can while I wrestle him into the sleep sack
  
• sit down in the armchair and nurse
  
• look at celebrity gossip sites on the laptop
  
• set him down in the crib after he is soundly asleep
  

I am a happy creature of habit and I almost never deviate from this. However, four days ago Craig went out of town. As I was already improvising on his part of the evening routine, I mixed it up further by throwing in an extra stop after the fish: a framed photo of Craig holding a six-day-old Isaac. I said, "Bye-bye Dad, we'll see you after -- well, not after the nap, but we'll see you after." Isaac grinned and reached out eagerly for the photo, so I considered it a success, if perhaps overstimulating. (Isn't a bedtime routine supposed to be a little boring, the better to be soporific?)

And the very next time Isaac was heading to bed, he remembered the change. When we got to the fish, instead of looking at it he whipped his head around and looked for the photo of his dad.

- - - - -

Furthermore, this has sparked an interest in the photo, which for many months has been sitting uneventfully on a bookcase near his crib. Yesterday he was staring up at it and saying, "Da! Da!" I consider this his second fake word. His first fake word was "na-nuh," said with much prompting in the presence of a banana.

The thrill of comprehension

The last three days have provided me with some incredible thrills: Isaac has been responding to language in a real and consistent way. I have known all along that he's paying attention, but this sudden leap in understanding is amazing. It's a totally different feeling, talking to him and having him understand the words that I'm saying, not just my tone of voice or intentions. I can tell that he finds his new comprehension thrilling as well, because his eyes shine with joy.

We were looking at a photo of a baby on the cover of Baby! Talk!, and I asked, "Where's the baby's nose?" I was prepared to point it out, but Izzy turned around in my lap and jabbed a confident finger against my nose. (Close enough.) Later, when we were reading Goodnight Moon and I read, "Good night light," he turned to stare meaningfully at the lamp.

That may not astound, but there's more! The first two pages of Baby! Talk! (a most worthy book) feature photos of various items of interest to babies: ball, spoon, cat, blanket, and so forth. I usually ask him where certain things are, then point them out. Tonight I asked, "Where's the dog?" and his finger went unerringly to the photo of the Bichon Frise (which looks pretty darn different from our dog). I asked him, "Where's the baby?" and "Where's the truck?" and he got both those right, too.

Later in the same book (I'm telling you, it's a good one) there are photos of babies raising their arms above their heads in response to the query "How big is baby?" We haven't played that game since Isaac was tiny, so he isn't familiar with it, but by the third time we read the book he was raising his own arms above his head when we got to that page. He also covered his face with my hand for the "Peek-a-boo" page, which features photos of babies covering their faces, and he clapped his hands for the "Patty-cake" page.

I could have cried. I felt like Anne Sullivan with Helen Keller.

Ah, summer!

Back in the old days I relished summer weather, but I've lost my ability to withstand the heat. I guess my thermostat was reset last summer during my pregnancy -- Isaac was born in early September, which is our hottest month here in the Bay Area. Oh, I was miserably hot. Around here, when you go out on a summer evening you have to carry a sweater (or heck, even a coat) to protect against the chill fog. Last summer I never needed a sweater. I was so overheated, I felt like I would never feel cold again. (I was genuinely surprised when I finally did, sometime in November.)

Anyway, this wretched heat wave was giving me flashbacks, but luckily it seems to be over and it's finally safe to go outside. It was a glorious weekend, if somewhat boring to read about. Yesterday we took our lunch to the park and had a picnic on the grass, and Isaac got to swing. There were cavorting toddlers for him to watch, and a big yellow toy truck to admire. Later that afternoon we played in our yard: I blew bubbles, Walt leapt to snap at them like a dog gone mad, and Izzy laughed so hard that he fell over backwards, still laughing. Today we went to the farmers' market and loaded up the stroller with farm-fresh bounty; tonight Craig made grilled wild salmon and corn on the cob. Isaac used the lounge chair on our lawn as a jungle gym; he's learned to throw a leg onto it and clamber up. It's funny to watch him play outside on the grass, since it's the only time he truly crawls -- inside the house he doesn't have to get up on his hands and knees, since his belly slides easily along our smooth concrete floor.

Ah, summer! This is Isaac's first summer, and I know he is much too young to remember it. But I hope that I will remember at least some part of it -- something other than the heat, that is.

Black beans

Yesterday we gave Izzy black beans for the first time. (No, I didn't cook them up myself -- they're canned, but at least they're organic.) He enjoys them, and I enjoy watching him pick up the little beans with his careful pincer grasp. He pops them in his mouth in a way that strikes me as very cute. It's also developmentally exciting.

Just three weeks ago he wasn't very good at picking up food with his thumb and forefinger. When he did get ahold of a chunk of banana or whatever, it would slip past his pincer grasp into the palm of his hand, sometimes reappearing between his knuckles like he was performing a magic trick. And some foods he wouldn't put in his mouth even if he did get a good grasp on them, mostly hard foods like Cheerios or crackers. Oh, he picked up other tiny objects and put them in his mouth with no problem. Pine needles, yes. A single hair yanked from Mama's head, sure. Blades of grass, lint, leaves ... just not food.

He still drops a lot, of course. Often when a bean slips from his grasp he will seek it out in his lap, and he'll pluck it up again. But tonight he was wearing overalls, and this gave him some trouble -- beans kept falling down the front of the overalls, and he couldn't figure out where they were going. He looked in his lap and on the seat of his chair, but the beans had simply vanished. (No reappearing between the knuckles here.) I don't think he spent a lot of time worrying about it, but he did notice that they were gone.

When Craig took him out of the high chair after dinner he gave Isaac a little shake, and at least three beans fell out of his pants legs.

World Breastfeeding Week

This is World Breastfeeding Week, and even though I'm absolutely and totally in favor of breastfeeding, I can see something a little bit funny about this. After all, it isn't an activity anyone can take up just for the week, which makes this unlike Bike to Work Day or Take Your Daughter to Work Day. And for those of us who are already breastfeeding, the "week" part of it also seems funny. For me, this has been a breastfeeding year, not just a week -- although at first the frequency was such that it did feel like I had been nursing for an entire week straight.

Okay, I'm done making weak jokes at the expense of something I actually support. I guess breastfeeding does need good publicity, or at least some people just need to hear that it's a normal thing that normal women do. No big deal, folks. So I want to mention that the Celebrity Baby Blog, one of my favorites, has put up a photo gallery of nursing mothers in support of breastfeeding.

- - - - - -

Bonus unrelated observation:

Today as I was changing Izzy's diaper after lunch I noticed he had something in his mouth. He was rolling it around on his tongue toward the front. I figured it was a piece of food he'd cached for later, or maybe a bit of lint. As I peered down for a closer look, I noticed it was white ... and hard ... and pearlescent ... and as I fished it out of his mouth, I thought, "Oh my God, it's one of his teeth knocked loose!" It did look like a tiny tooth, but after a second or two I realized it was one of the dog's toenails. I clipped them yesterday, and although I thought I had cleaned them all up, I guess I left one on the floor of the family room. Gross, yes, but quite a relief.

An era of naptime transition

I fear we're entering an era of naptime transition. When do babies give up two naps for just one? Izzy will be 11 months old this week. He has had dependable morning and afternoon naps for the last three months -- two discrete naps ranging from 45 to 90 minutes each -- and I have come to count on this. Of course I liked having his naptimes to get things done, but almost more than that I liked knowing what to expect from my day. I could plan ahead, I knew when I could expect a break, and I had some sense of being in control. (You can laugh at this. Go ahead. I don't mind.)

I never scheduled him -- the nap timetable came entirely from him. And if he needs things to change, then I'll respect those needs as we figure it out together. But I hear that the transition from two naps to one nap can be rocky. Maybe I'm already on those rocks. Looking at his 30-day sleep chart, I can see that over the past two weeks, nine days have had what I consider to be atypical naps. That means that the atypical is now typical!

Well, he's been sick this week, so that explains part of the trouble. And his grandmother babysat him during the day for the very first time, which might have thrown things off. Plus he's sleeping now, so perhaps I can fool myself that things have gotten back to normal. Although I do hear a little murmur through the baby monitor. He's not waking up, though, right? He's just rolling over, right? Right?

Get started on those 32 million extra words

I recently read this article in the New York Times Magazine on genes, environment, and intelligence -- ol' nature vs. nurture continues. The article begins by reminding us of the many studies of adopted children which find "changing a child’s life circumstances won’t alter the hard facts of nature." But it goes on to cite a new study that suggests that the adopting family's socioeconomic status does make a big difference in their adopted child's I.Q. Go ahead and guess what type of difference. Yep, affluent parents ended up raising smarter kids.

I read on with interest, and I came upon this finding: "By the time they are 4 years old, children growing up in poor families have typically heard a total of 32 million fewer spoken words than those whose parents are professionals."

I read this at the breakfast table. As I fed my son his breakfast. In total silence.

Okay, I might have said, "Do you want some more oatmeal?" from time to time. But 8 million extra words per year, or nearly 22,000 extra words per day, is a heck of a lot of oatmeal.

What kind of "professionals" are these talkative parents, anyway? Auctioneers? That's more than 1,800 words spoken during each of the 12 hours Izzy is awake each day. That's 30 words per minute. That's one word every other second. And these are extra words! How many words do the poor parents speak in the first place? I'm not even sure this can add up.

Although I do say "Isaac, stop pulling Walt's tail" many, many, many times each day.

Traveling Dad

Nine summers ago I asked my friend Mike Stand what he knew about this cute guy with vintage eyeglasses that I'd seen at shows and parties. It was Craig, of course. Mike seemed to think we would be a good match, but he had three caveats about Craig:

1. he had been married before and remained good friends with his former wife (true)
   
2. he traveled a great deal for his job as a "nuclear scientist for the goverment" (partially true; he's actually a physical chemist at a national lab, but he does travel a lot)
3. (completely untrue and has been deleted from the record)

Numbers 1 and 3 were not a big deal, and for many years neither was number 2. If the timing was right and a conference was someplace glamorous (like Assisi, Italy or Cambridge, England) I would go along as an "accompanying person," and sometimes I would go even if it wasn't glamorous (like the wilds of Long Island or Essen, Germany). Or I'd just stay home, as I did when Craig went to Japan for three weeks or to Boulder on sabbatical for five months.

But this is a baby blog, and the baby has made our being separated a lot less tolerable -- for me at home as a pseudo-single mother, but especially for Craig away from his family. For most of the past year he has managed to stick close to home, but that couldn't last forever -- now he's got four week-long trips in a three-month span. I don't have anything witty to say about this, just that we miss him when he's away.

There's a solution, of course -- haul Isaac along too. We're working our way up to that.

Next time she cackled, she cackled on the table

We're not vegetarians, despite my sympathies for my fellow animals, which I guess makes me a hypocrite. But up until two days ago, we had never given Isaac any meat. We read him all these books about farm animals -- recently he's into Margaret Wise Brown's Big Red Barn, an utopian ideal of barnyard happiness -- and I am glad we don't yet have to answer hard questions about it. Cows give milk, hens give eggs, but Mama, why does the farmer keep the small pink pig around?

When I came home from work Friday evening, however, Craig had made us chicken enchiladas and had set aside some chicken for Isaac to try -- nice boiled organic free-range chicken. I had absolutely no good reason to prevent Isaac from eating it, except some philosophically shaky sense of wanting him to remain pure, so eat it he did.

He loved it. He couldn't shove those little cubes of chicken into his mouth fast enough. He said, "Mmmmm!" over and over. So much for purity.

And to make things worse, Craig sang a few lines from the Pete Seeger song about the old hen, a song which has always depressed me:

The first time she cackled, she cackled in the lot
The next time she cackled, she cackled in the pot
The old hen she cackled! She cackled in the stable
The next time she cackled, she cackled on the table

Poor old hen.

New pictures

If you want to head on over to the photo album of Isaac's second six months (it's also on the sidebar), I've added some new pictures, including some taken today. It's his 11-month birthday!

Banana, light of my life

On Friday, Craig said, "He definitely says banana."

They had gone to the grocery store earlier, and the word had been uttered in the appropriate part of the produce section -- in front of the apples. No, just kidding!

Isaac says it somewhat indistinctly, with two syllables: nah-nuh. I think he's been saying it for a while, maybe as long as two months, but it was infrequent enough that we weren't sure. He doesn't say it every time he sees a banana, for instance -- and he doesn't say it every time he wants some banana, either, or else we'd be hearing it around the clock. Boy loves him some banana.

So banana makes the move from first fake word to first real word. Congratulations, banana! I was hoping for mama, or even milk, but hey, banana deserves it. We've been saying "Bah. Nah. Nuh." around here for many weeks. Strangely, it reminds me of this inappropriate literary reference.

Birth day minus four

Isaac's first birthday is in four weeks, and as we count it down, I will be posting something labor- or birth-related on each of the next four Wednesdays. I'll start with this:

I was at work at the library last Friday, and I talked to a patron I hadn't seen since this time last year when I was eight months pregnant. She and her three little daughters were regular library users, so I know them well, and I wasn't surprised when she asked me how Isaac's birth had been. I gave her the nutshell version of the story: wonderful doula, peaceful labor at home until the last possible moment, a rushed drive to the hospital, and birth within an hour of arrival. It was a natural birth without any drugs, not even an IV.

She asked, "Didn't it hurt?"

And I said, to my surprise and chagrin, "No."

As that was not in fact true, I corrected myself immediately, if inarticulately. It wasn't that it hadn't hurt, but that it didn't hurt like something was wrong with me, so I didn't mind it. Or I guess I didn't mind it -- at least I never had the desire to take the pain away, although pain isn't quite the right word. How did it feel, anyway? It's so hard to remember. I do remember being angry when two contractions came right on top of each other, with no space between them -- I felt cheated, and I complained, "Where's my break? I want my break!"

It was difficult to describe the experience without minimizing 12 hours of amazingly intense work, reducing it to "It wasn't that bad." So I muddled my way through these thoughts, and she listened politely, but I got the impression she thought I had been some kind of tough guy, gritting my teeth in stoic agony. That wasn't how it felt. I felt in control of being out of control. I concentrated thoroughly during contractions, and relaxed just as thoroughly between them. I was in a small sturdy boat floating in a warm peaceful sea during a pitch-black night -- punctuated by a series of truly enormous waves, yes, but even in the dark I could navigate by instinct, my boat was capable of cresting each wave, and I wasn't going to sink as long as I kept alert.

I didn't say this ridiculous thing, of course. In the end, I just shrugged and smiled.

Off the grid

Isaac and I are on vacation.

Well, of sorts -- we've been visiting my parents while Craig's away. My parents also live in coastal Northern California, about 100 miles away from us, but in a more rural area. Our visit here has been relaxing and vacationesque, not least because of the full meal service! (Well, Isaac always has full meal service, but it's a treat for me.)

Some things we've done: Several family members played hooky from work, and we all got together for a picnic at the beach. Izzy stood at the edge of the ocean, holding onto my knees, and seemed to enjoy the waves and sand shifting beneath his feet. We walked the dog among the redwoods, and the morning fog was so heavy and low it was like breathing cool steam. We visited Isaac's two great-grandmothers, and he was happy and playful with them. And Isaac sat on a tractor with his Opa, and they both had a good time.

However, my folks have dial-up Internet -- thus the brief post. We'll be back in the welcoming bosom of the suburbs later on Saturday.

New pictures

I've put some new photos up, most of them taken on our recent pseudo-vacation at my parents' house. As always, the link is also on the sidebar.

We had a great time, but I haven't yet dealt with our trip's aftermath. The dog is sulky because he wants to play, the garden needs watering, the moles have nearly destroyed the lawn, everything I need is still in a suitcase, and I had peanut butter for dinner because there's no food in the house. Worst of all, it's taking Isaac a while to remember how to sleep in his own bed.

I don't imagine I'll be having that problem.

Bonus points

Did I read somewhere that it isn't polite to point? Then someday we'll have to break Isaac of his exciting new habit -- but not yet, because we're enjoying the insight it provides into his mind. Yes, he points! About two days ago Isaac began pointing at distant objects in the real world. He had been purposefully touching pictures in books, as well as our facial features, for about three weeks before that. (He had been touching components of pictures in books -- like the bulbous toes of a frog, for example -- almost as soon as he could control his hands, but I don't think he was doing it to communicate with us.)

Now when I ask him, "Izzy, where's Walt?" he can demonstrate his understanding by pointing. As I wrote previously, before the advent of pointing we would follow his gaze to see what he was looking at, but it was just a guess. And honestly sometimes there's some guesswork involved in following his swerving finger, but it's a more substantial and human form of communication.

I have used the point test to confirm he understands quite a few words. This evening Isaac, overtired and cranky, began to cry as we drove back home from a birthday party. Singing to him didn't work, so I decided to try out his vocabulary. "Isaac," I said, "we are riding in the car. If you look out the window, you might see a truck or a bird. When we get home, you can turn on the light. Then we can go outside with Walt and you can play with the dog. You can see Mama's nose, and maybe even her belly button." It worked immediately. He stopped crying by truck, and by the time I got to belly button, he was laughing. (It was like one of those exercises in high school English class where you got extra credit for using all the spelling words in one surreal and marginally narrative paragraph.)

Perhaps an even more exciting aspect of pointing is that he can use it to ask us questions. Finally, communication is a two-way street! It can sometimes be a challenge to provide the right answers to his inquiring finger ("That's a radio ... no, it's a boom box ... no, it's a CD player") but I'm relishing his curiosity, even when he points at the same things over and over ("That's the light ... that's the light switch ... light ... light switch") or when what he is pointing at is unclear ("That's ... the wall? ... the corner? ... a shadow?").

And it makes for interesting discussion. He's fascinated by buttons, rivets, nails, and fasteners of all kinds, so while we were visiting my parents, I found myself disparaging his grandmother thusly: "That's a screw ... that's your Oma ... screw ... Oma ... screw ... Oma."

Heh. Luckily my mom didn't seem to notice.

Schrödinger's birthday party

We've nearly decided to have a big party for Isaac's first birthday. Very nearly. Those of you who know me are aware of my dislike of finalizing plans. I prefer to leave all paths open for as long as possible -- right now I exist in a happy state of balance, a universe where either one could happen, party or no party. (Is it like Schrödinger's cat?)

However, as the date of the potential party is three weeks away, it truly is time to decide. I ask those of you who have hosted big first birthday parties: what do you advise?

An excess of errands

What do you get when you go to Kindermusik for an hour, hang around to chat afterwards, stop at two carpet stores to return samples, spend too long at two stationary shops looking for the perfect birthday invitations, come home and eat lunch, then watch while the carpet installer measures the living room and the dog jumps around excitedly?

You get one crazy-tired baby, that's what. And a lot of pain, too -- after all this, I tried to nurse him to sleep, and he simultaneously slapped me across the cheek, pressed his heel into my windpipe, pulled my hair, and ground his top teeth into me. Yikes. I put him in the crib to jump around for a while instead.

But he's sleeping sweetly in my lap now.

-----

His seventh tooth has broken the surface -- it's next to the left front on the bottom. He's been chewing like a puppy and biting his own thumb, so I knew there was one in there somewhere, but I couldn't tell where. I guess the molars must be next. Yikes again.

Birth day minus three

I'm counting down the month before Isaac's first birthday by posting something about his birth each Wednesday. We've had one installment so far, and here's installment number two:

I was so frightened of giving birth. I had the same fears as many other pregnant women -- afraid of the pain, afraid for my safety, afraid that a series of medical interventions would dehumanize the birth, and most of all afraid for the baby's safety -- but what paralyzed me was the fear of freaking out. I was terrified of my own potential fear. I had suffered from anxiety attacks previously, especially in health-related contexts, and I was sure that I would spend labor and delivery in a constant state of debilitating panic. (It's hard to explain; I suspect that only someone who has struggled with anxiety or panic can fully understand this.)

I mentioned my fear of panicking at every doctor's appointment, and the doctors always said, "We can give you a little something if that happens" -- meaning a sedative or anti-anxiety medication. My doula said in her best tough-love fashion, "So what? Even if you panic for 12 hours straight, that baby is still coming out." I didn't find either of these strategies helpful, so I devised my own treatment plan based on both cognitive-behavioral therapy and the book Birthing from Within. (Note: I didn't find much when I searched the Internet for generalized anxiety disorder and childbirth, so if you stumble across this blog looking for help, let me know and I'll happily share my methods!)

One of my favorite tools was a guided visualization I wrote that combined concentration on my breathing with a nature image -- a silver maple tree in our yard that responds to the slightest breeze. I imagined that in labor I would breathe in, slow and deep, and I would visualize the wind sweeping the leaves of the silver maple toward me. When I exhaled, I thought, I would visualize the leaves rushing away, the branches bending gently with my breath. In practice I hoped I would find it distracting, comforting, grounding, calming, inspiring. I was very pleased with it, and spent quite some time fine-tuning my prose as I sat in a lounge chair in the yard, looking up at the tree.

During my labor, the tree never crossed my mind. Not even one leaf. I didn't need it -- I simply wasn't afraid.

However, I can't deny that the act of writing the visualization brought me peace of mind beforehand. And now whenever I sit in the yard and look at the tree, as I am right this moment, I am filled with compassion and tenderness for myself this time last year, filled with needless fear and misplaced focus. Yes, I was waiting for Isaac, but I was thinking too much about myself and his arrival, and not enough about him.

Of course, I didn't know him yet. Now I know that he loves to look up at the silver maple leaves swaying in the wind. That feels right.

Comfort object

When I was small I had a beloved blankie. (Heck, I still have it tucked away in a closet.) While my teddy bear (formal name: Theodore Murky Bear) was a playmate and companion for my waking hours, my blanket served to sooth my primal self, the sleepy subconscious of infancy. My memories of being comforted by it are as much tactile as emotional; I can clearly recall its cool smooth fabric against my cheek.

It was a bit larger than a pillowcase, made of white silky polyester with scalloped edges; it had light batting between its outer two layers, and was somewhat quilted. It was once a larger blanket, but my mother wisely cut it in half in case of mishap. (I think she may have given the other half to my brother eight years later!)

Isaac has a baby blanket too. We got it for him when he was about six months old, which my mother says was already too old. Maybe she's right, because he doesn't seem to care about it at all. Personally, I find it a pleasure to touch: the satin on one side is smooth and cool, and the fuzzy fabric on the other side is like long-haired velvet. But although I put it in Isaac's crib every night, and we snuggle up with it almost every time we nurse, I've never seen him pick it up -- not even to toss it out of the crib. Mostly I end up using it as extra support for my elbow.

Ah, well. Perhaps Isaac will find comfort in some other, random object. Perhaps a true love connection can't be orchestrated even through careful online shopping. My grandmother says that my father was quite attached to an old washcloth.

Come to think of it, Isaac does have a comfort object, although not a convenient one -- it's my hair. He runs his fingers gently (usually) through it as he nurses, and when he's worried or upset, he likes to bury his hand at the nape of my neck. Maybe what he really needs is a human-hair wig, or at least extensions.

Oh, the humanity

Or rather: oh, the lack of napping. Oh, the crankiness. Oh, the clinginess.

At least he's asleep already, and it's only 7:30 p.m.

I hate the night-life

Last night my brother mentioned how little Craig and I go out. He's right (although his standards as an under-30 rock musician are different than mine). I ventured, "Yes, well, we do have a baby," and Joel gave me a kindly be honest with yourself, sister! look. Again he is right: our night-life hasn't been active for several years, long before Isaac's birth. The final nail in the coffin may have been the night in 2002 when we blew off our tickets to see Neko Case because we were too tired -- and felt nothing but relief.

Anyway, even if Isaac wasn't the original reason we stopped going out, I think having a baby is a perfectly adequate reason to stay home in the evening. Young Izzy doesn't cooperate with my sleeping in, so any late night results in an exhausted day. And staying up late isn't appealing when you're already living at the cutting edge of fatigue, and have been for a solid year. Plus I am up for at least one hour in the middle of every single night for what Girl's Gone Child amusingly calls "the NEW & IMPROVED titty-flashing all-nighter."

It was when Joel implied I was content to stay at home all the time that I had to disagree. Yes, I am self-contained happy homebody -- I easily entertain myself as a gardener, a reader, a blogger, a household putterer, and a daydreamer -- but I do get out sometimes. Here's a recap of last week:

• Monday: playgroup
  
• Tuesday: Kindermusik music class
• Wednesday: picnic at the botanical garden with a friend and her two kids
• Thursday: playdate at a friend's house with her son
• Friday: work at the library
  

It makes me a little tired just thinking about it. I think I'll go to bed early tonight.

World record of sleep!

Well, a personal record of sleep ... but remarkable nonetheless. (Note: I'm sure someone else's baby's sleep is never actually "remarkable," and I did have a more interesting blog entry planned for today, but hey -- this is record-breaking sleep we're talking about!)

So Trixie Tracker has a sleep statistics feature which keeps track of your child's lifetime sleep records. Izzy earned records in two categories last night: he got his top mark ever for longest single sleep (8 hours, 42 minutes) and came in with his third best for most overnight sleep (11 hours, 30 minutes). I could hardly believe it when I woke up to the sounds of the baby monitor at 8:40 a.m. this morning. I felt refreshed and rested.

To what do I attribute this marathon of sleep? After his normal 50-minute nap yesterday morning, Isaac was awake for nine hours straight prior to his bedtime, so maybe he was just tuckered out. (Well, he did have a brief ten-minute catnap in the afternoon.) And what are the results of said marathon? Today he hasn't napped at all. (Well, he did have a brief 12-minute catnap this afternoon.)

I can't really complain: just like yesterday, he's been in a remarkably good mood despite the lack of sleep, so it isn't like either of us is suffering. It's just that when he doesn't nap, it's a whole lot of baby, if you know what I mean. That's two days running with a whole lot of baby. I have a big list of things to get done before Isaac's birthday party, and although he makes charming company, he isn't helping me to get any of it done. TCB, indeed.

(But he is cooperating with my blogging! He's entertaining himself by trying to climb out of his crib as I sit in his room and write this.)

Sleep begets sleep?

Dear Dr. Marc Weissbluth,

I have one thing to say about your oft-quoted claim that sleep begets sleep:

Most. Overnight. Sleep. Ever.

Yes, it was another #1 record: Isaac slept 11 hours and 43 minutes last night -- following a day with a 12-minute nap. Take that, Weissbluth! (He didn't sleep straight through the night, but he did go ten hours between nursings. Yikes.)

- - - -

Note: I know it's Wednesday, so I promise a birth story entry later on today. I also promise to try to stop writing so much about sleep.

Birth day minus two

I'm counting down the month before Isaac's first birthday by posting something about his birth each Wednesday. Here's the third installment:

I had estimated my due date with Isaac as being Sunday, September 11, 2005. (The doctors had estimated September 7, but I figured: what do they know?) Everyone kept telling me that first babies were often born later than their due dates, so most people thought there was a good chance I'd have at least until the 18th. My gut feeling was that the baby would be a little early, but I felt like it was okay that lot of loose ends were still being tied up in early September:

Thursday, September 1 was my last day of work. Instead of just going out on a brief maternity leave, I was leaving my beloved job of ten years -- head children's librarian -- forever. Sadly, there were many projects I would be unable to complete, but I wanted to preserve my legacy by leaving clear guidelines for my successor, so I wrote a 15-page document detailing my goals and philosophies of service. Plus I wanted to completely organize and clean my filing cabinets and desk. I was tired, so I took a few half-days toward the end, but I worked until 7:30 p.m. on my very last day.

Friday, September 2 at 9:00 p.m. was when the contractors reached a stopping point on our house and began a two-week hiatus. Yes, our house was being remodeled -- while we lived in it. The remodel, a total rebuild of the family room and entryway, had been going on for four months by then. They had given up hope of finishing the job before the baby was born, and instead just rushed to be out of the interior of the house before his arrival. My home was not a cozy nest; half the kitchen, including the refrigerator, had been relocated to the living room, and nearly everything was coated in drywall dust. (At least I liked the workers and didn't mind them seeing my huge pregnant belly in a plaid bathrobe every morning as I made my tea and toast.)

The weekend of Saturday, September 3 and Sunday, September 4 was when we started seriously getting ready for baby. We looked around at the piles of baby goods and laundry and old newspapers and dirt and wondered where to begin. We'd been living in a smaller space due to the constraints of the remodel, and there was an incredible amount of clutter. We started with the most important things first. Craig set up the co-sleeper. I washed all the baby clothes and blankets. Craig took the tools and construction supplies out of the guest bedroom so my mother would have a place to sleep when she stayed with us after the baby's birth. I swept down the cobwebs behind the washer and dryer, then got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed all the spots off the laundry room floor. Craig shopped for food appropriate for a laboring woman. I organized the wrapping paper.

I hadn't quite believed it when our childbirth education teacher talked about the nesting instinct as a sign of impending labor. (She had cleaned the oven with a toothbrush prior to one of her deliveries.) At any rate, I was sure it wouldn't apply to me. I had been so tired throughout pregnancy I couldn't imagine wanting to clean or organize anything. Plus, things had been so chaotic around our house due to the remodel that we hadn't had any incentive to make things nice. However, there was no denying the evidence: I had organized ten years worth of files for a job I was leaving. I had cleaned behind the washer. And I had organized the wrapping paper, right down to the bows.

I called the doula and warned her of my irrational cleaning jag, and she seemed to laugh it off. My due date was still pretty far in the future, after all. However, after the birth she told me that after my call she had gone ahead and packed her labor bag. Here's a question for you: why didn't I pack my labor bag then? And wouldn't it have made more sense to pack the bag rather than clean the laundry room?

Monday, September 5, just after midnight, was when my contractions started. (It was Labor Day. Really!)

Tuesday, September 6, just after midnight, was when Isaac was born.

A true reader

Did you ever know a true reader, a kid who read all the time? That was me. Throughout my youth I carried a book everywhere I went, and I had half-finished books stashed at each of my frequent haunts -- the car, the living room, my best friend's house, etc. I sat in the back of the class and read until the teacher took my book away and locked it in her desk drawer alongside the confiscated Walkmen and Rubik's Cubes. Now that I think about it, reading was a sort of compulsion for me.

Today was the first day that Izzy threw something approaching a tantrum: he arched his back, writhed, tried to throw himself to the floor, and produced a type of crying I'd never heard from him before -- inconsolable short bursts of loud dissatisfaction. This outburst ended abruptly and completely just as soon as he got his way. What caused the tantrum? I was trying to nurse him, and he wanted me to read to him.

He has enjoyed looking at books since he was about three months old, but he was never this adamant about it. All today I couldn't take him anywhere near his bookshelf without his pointing at it and making insistant noises. (Unfortunately it's right next to the chair where we nurse; thus the tantrum.) And as of the last few days, he's demonstrating strong preferences for certain books; I believe this is the mark of a true reader. Previously he would listen to whatever book we chose, but now if you try to read him the wrong one he'll take it from your hands and throw it to the floor! Then he'll point at the stack of books until you try another one. I guess we're getting to the point where he'll select his own books; tonight he grabbed Craig's hand and set it on top of The Wheels on the Bus (Zelinsky pop-up version).

His enjoyment of books is personally gratifying -- why is it so exciting that I see a little bit of myself in him? -- and it's a thrill to see him expressing his personality and developing his own tastes. On the other hand, today I read the same handful of books multiple times, and I'm already sick of them. How am I going to make it another two or three years (at which point I assume his tastes will change)? As a children's librarian I used to scoff at parents who seemed shellshocked by their children's need for repetition. After all, I'd been reading Machines at Work at storytimes for ten whole years -- how could they complain about reading it for just a few months? But now I see there's a big difference between reading a book 120 times over the course of ten years (once a month) and reading it 120 times over the course of a month (four times a day).

Sizing does matter

366 days ago I visited a shop in Oakland that is famous for its nursing bra fitter, who is said to have almost psychic powers of prediction -- somehow she can tell what size you're going to be after your baby is born. So if you're still pregnant you are required to make an appointment and meet with her before you're allowed to even try on a bra, let alone buy one. I was more than two weeks from my due date, and my body was changing shape at a rapid rate -- I was dubious that anyone would be able to predict my future bra size, but I also didn't want to wait until after the baby was born to buy a bra.

I stood in the dressing room with the bra fitter, a woman in her 60s. In my memory she is French, dressed in a demure yet chic black dress, with a yellow cloth measuring tape around her neck. (But I could be wrong.) She measured me, and then asked some questions: how many weeks pregnant was I; what was my pre-pregnancy bra size; did I have any milk yet? Then she announced my post-partum bra size, and I almost snorted with disbelief. Four cup sizes larger than I had been pre-pregnancy? No way. The books on breastfeeding I had read suggested that a much smaller increase was more likely. I bought three bras in the size she had predicted, but I thought I was wasting my money.

You know what's coming, of course: she was totally right. She even got the band size right, despite my temporarily expanded rib cage due to the invasive legs of my tall baby. (She gave me some of those extra hook things to help with the fit until my ribs returned to normal.)

Here we are a year later, and I just went to Nordstrom to buy some new nursing bras to celebrate entering our second year of breastfeeding. My experience there was quite different. Tune in next time to find out how!

Sizing does matter II

So I had decided that to celebrate one year of breastfeeding -- and to prepare for nursing into the second year -- I deserved a really nice nursing bra. After looking online I had my heart set on an Elle Macpherson brand bra, which Nordstrom carries, so one afternoon after playgroup Isaac and I went shopping.

Why didn't I go back to the shop with the psychic bra fitter? Because unlike shopping for a nursing bra before Isaac was born, this time I had my actual nursing breasts with me, which made things easier. Of course, I also had Isaac with me, which made things harder. (But not impossible: once he watched me try on 16 different swimsuits in one sitting, and although he was pretty bored by the end of it, he remained civil.)

Anyway, there we were at Nordstrom, trying to squeeze our stroller between the racks of lacy unmentionables, looking for the nursing bras. I figured as a specialty item they would be on the very outskirts of the department, but I didn't see them at all, so I finally asked a youthful sales clerk. "We keep them in the back room," she said unapologetically. "We don't have a very big selection anyway. What size are you?" I told her, and five minutes later she returned with three different bras in that size, two of them by Elle Macpherson. One style seemed to fit pretty well, so that was that. It seemed almost too simple. (Although when I asked the clerk if I could also try it in a 34E, she claimed -- incorrectly -- that they don't make it "that large." Of course they do -- it's a nursing bra, people!)

As Isaac wasn't fussy yet, I decided to shop for underpants. I asked a different clerk, "If I wear size 6 or 8 pants, do I need a size medium?" She answered in the affirmative, and then said, "Let me show you some," proceeding to lead me to a rack clear across the department. She was also very young, and she wore a tight-fitting floor-length Pucci-print dress. I wondered what on earth she was going to show me, considering she hadn't even asked what I wanted. "These are the best," she said with breathy emphasis, as if she were letting me in on a secret. She held up a hanger with what I can only describe as a granny panty. It was shiny beige polyester, and it would have covered me from thigh to navel.

I almost laughed at her for getting it so wrong. Instead I said, "I usually wear something a little less high-waisted," gesturing low along my hips. She moved a little further around the same rack, and held up the identical panty with an only slightly lower waist. "The good thing about this one," she said seriously, "is that you still get full coverage in the rear." I wondered where she had gotten the impression that I wished to thoroughly cover my rear. It was probably just because of Isaac -- maybe this young woman couldn't see past the stroller. To her, I was a Mother, and I should wear Motherly Undergarments.

I saw that this clerk-customer relationship was never going to work. I said politely that I was looking for something cotton, so maybe I would go look at the DKNY bikini underwear instead. "That's fine," she said, trailing me to the display, "but they're not cotton." She continued to hover over me as I discovered several 100% and many 97% cotton DKNY panties, although she didn't acknowlege this. And even though I was actively shopping, actually picking out panties, she tried again to steer me to more suitable underwear, pointing out another rack that was also "the best." Poor girl; I'm afraid I didn't take her or her sales assistance very seriously. How could I, when she tried three times to sell me something I told her I didn't want? In fact I found her strangely amusing, as if she were an actress playing a role, a parody of a high-end sales clerk -- hey, do you think I was on Candid Camera?

- - - - -

The true and less amusing end to this story comes after I got the bra home and tried it on again. It just doesn't seem to fit right. I am so uncertain of the fit, in fact, that I haven't cut off the tags. I find myself wishing for the quiet mature competence of the psychic bra fitter. With her help, I would have gone home with the right size. Also, she would never have implied that a 34E was unusually large. I can't say whether or not she would have tried to sell me granny panties.

Hello, high-waisted panty lovers!

Not one hour ago, someone from Madison, Wisconsin, found this site by searching Blogger for "high waisted" panties. (I do come up in the top ten results.) I'm amused. Mostly. I guess. Okay, I'm also a little creeped out. At least he (or could it possibly have been she?) spent a total of zero seconds looking at the site.

This Internet community thing cuts both ways, doesn't it?

Birth day minus one

It's Wednesday, so it's time for another labor- and birth-related entry as I count down the weeks remaining to Isaac's first birthday (here are postings one, two, and three). With just one week to go, I thought I'd share the first half of our actual Birth Story:

Monday, September 5, 2005
12:00 midnight
I woke up with what felt like twinges of gas pain. I even got up and took a Maalox before I saw that I had some brown spotting. I had been positive that my first signs of labor would be accompanied by anxiety, but instead I was quietly pleased. I went back to bed and got a pretty good night's sleep, interrupted by occasional lower abdominal pains, until I woke up at my usual hour seven hours later.

7:00 a.m.
I woke up Craig and told him, "Happy Labor Day!" (It was, too!) This drove him into high gear as far as finishing up his baby-related projects. He sped around the house for a few hours getting stuff done, while I tried to go about my normal business. I ate breakfast, read the newspaper, and obsessively checked my pregnancy books to see if this was "false" labor.

9:30 a.m.
We started timing the contractions, and as they were moving in the right direction I called my mom and the doula to put them on alert -- sometime later this afternoon, I told them, but not for a while yet. Then there was no more reading the newspaper for me, as I began to focus all my concentration inward. Even though I was sleepy, I was very uncomfortable when I lay down -- it made my whole midsection tighten up and ache terribly -- so I sat and rocked on the birth ball for a while, and then I leaned on a straight-backed chair and an arrangement of pillows that held me upright in a relaxed position. I was so relaxed, I think I even dozed off between contractions. I was fine like this for another two hours or so.

12:00 noon
My sense of time was screwy all day (the doula said, in labor, minutes pass slowly, hours pass quickly), but Craig says that around lunchtime I wanted him to stay at my side and help me. At this point, I felt like the contractions were getting ahead of me unless he helped me concentrate. I don't remember exactly how he helped; I think he just reminded me to monitor my breathing, to keep it calm and smooth. Together we did this for another two hours or so.

2:00 p.m.
Then the contractions started getting difficult, even with Craig's help. This was when I had my only real moment of worry: if they're this hard now, how will it be later? (Note: this turned out to be flawed thinking -- the contractions didn't get that much harder, only more frequent.) At this point Craig called the doula and told her that we needed her. Lying down continued to cause great pain; I simply had to remain upright. In fact, I was on my feet for most of my labor, putting my weight on a person or an item of furniture -- leaning over the dining table, for instance. (It's hard to imagine how difficult it would have been if I'd been at the hospital, in bed on my back, attached to the monitors or various other tubes.)

3:30 p.m.
The doula arrived just when we really needed help dealing with my increasing pain and nervousness. When she came in, she asked me, in a quiet confident voice, if I was ready to start working hard. I realized that I was ready -- and also that I was no longer worried. I was in the labor zone. The pain was something separate from me, and with intense mental and physical concentration I could let it wash over me and disappear. Now I become what they call an unreliable narrator. I barely opened my eyes, didn't make eye contact with anyone else, didn't time my contractions, never looked at a clock, and devoted all my focus to moaning low round tones and relaxing into each contraction. Whenever my exhalations became too high-pitched or tight, the doula reminded me to open up and to make my voice deep. It totally helped. I did it for the next eight hours.

5:00 p.m.
My entire family (mother, father, sister, brother, and his girlfriend!) arrived. It took them a while to get comfortable with our laboring, but eventually my mom and sister joined us. The doula kept us all moving from room to room every hour or so; each time it took about an hour of repeated suggesting and convincing to get me to move! I liked to find one position that worked for me and just stay in it -- which meant that the contractions became milder and easier to tame. The doula wanted to keep my labor progressing, so every time I got too comfortable she made me move, which really stepped up the intensity of the contractions. (She didn't let me get exhausted though, as she gave me plenty of chances to rest and catch my breath. She also made sure that I peed and drank some revolting hydrating drink every hour.)

6:00 p.m.
I spent several hours sitting perched on the counter in the hall bathroom, leaning forward on Craig (or my mom), with the doula (or my sister) sitting on the toilet rubbing my lower back. (They took turns.) When this eventually became too comfortable for me, again the doula encouraged me to move. She had to strongly encourage me to move, or I would have stayed in that bathroom for the rest of my life. We all lurched down the hall to the bedroom. Throughout my labor I felt the contractions in my lower abdomen, then radiating around my sides to my lower back. I never felt them any higher than my navel. I also couldn't stand to have any pressure on my midsection, not even someone touching it -- it intensified the pain. (I was very unhappy at the hospital when they finally did strap the fetal monitor around me.)

8:30 p.m.
When we got to the bedroom, we finally called my doctor. (My mother, who had been timing my contractions without telling me, had wanted us to call for the last few hours.) The doctor wanted to talk to me directly, but after I could only converse with her for a scant minute before I dropped the phone during a contraction, she said we could come to the hospital at any time. But I wasn't ready yet. I didn't want to go.

Partly I was afraid that upon examination, they'd say I wasn't that far along, and I would have been heartbroken to learn that many hours of hard, hard work were for nothing. Partly I dreaded changing position, since it increased the intensity of my labor, and I knew that the long walk down the hall and out to the car would be a killer. And partly I was so totally out-of-it that I simply wasn't capable of making a rational decision. So we stayed in the bedroom. Everyone was willing to believe me when I said we didn't need to go, I guess, or else no one wanted to argue with a woman in labor who was dead-set against going to the hospital.

As a side note, do you think that this account seems strangely absent of one important element: the baby? You're right. I was so focused on labor, I very nearly forgot that there was even going to be an Isaac at the end of it. I can't believe it now. If I knew how wonderful he was going to be, I would have been thinking about him every second of my labor. Maybe that would have made it harder?

But tune in next week for our thrilling conclusion -- Isaac's birthday!