Speaking and Speechless

A few months ago, I noticed that Jack was beginning to understand the meaning of words. It all started with our nighttime nursing sessions. To nurse evenly at night, I need to switch him from one side to another after a few minutes. And any attempt to remove Jack from a boob generally results in a frantic "nononononono I'm not done" mad grab.

Jack was always confused about the whole switching sides thing, so I started saying "switch" every time I changed his latch. I had no idea whether it was working or not, until one day I was giving him milk from a bottle. I said "switch" and Jack let go of the bottle and looked up at me expectedly.

It was pretty exciting. I tried "switch" in different contexts and found that it always meant the same thing to him: let go.

A few weeks ago, Jack did something else that was exciting. If we said, "Where's my nose?", Jack could point to our noses.

Two weeks ago, I noticed that Jack was making the "milk" sign with his hand while he nursed.

And last week, Jack started saying "Uh-Oh". Uh-Oh. Uh-Oh. Uh-Oh.

Uh. Oh.

Jack goes on letter-benders commonly. For a while he was all about the vowels. It was "aaaaaa eeeeeee uuuuuu aeeeooooo iiii". Then the consonants started. "bababababa dadadada mamamama dudududu". In the past month, everything has been a duck or a dog or a door. "Dugh! Doh! Doowr!".

But Uh-Oh is different. It takes a lot of concentration to say Uh-Oh. Sometimes the Uh comes out first, and sometimes the Oh. Sometimes it happens quickly, and sometimes slowly. Sometimes there's a bunch of Uh Uh Uh before he gets to the Oh. If we say it to him, he'll repeat it back. Sometimes he says it when things drop.

Uh-Oh. Uh-Oh. Uh-Oh.

Last night we were changing Jack's diaper (yes, this was a two person job). Greg was joking with him, saying "sticky poopy!"*, and I noticed that Jack was actually repeating the St's back to us. (He's pretty good at S's -- he hisses like a snake -- but this time, he actually added the T in there, too. "Sssst-uh!"). So then we told him "Wipe!", and he started with his W's. And then we said "Diaper!", and he was all about the D's.

*Sorry. Vital part of the story.

I did not imagine this. Greg was there. We were both shocked, certain it was a coincidence. But he kept doing it. And when I say he started with the W's, I don't mean "Wuh duh buh baba wooo"... I mean, "Wuh! Wuh! Wuh! Wuh! Wuh! Wuh!". Times 10. And he did not stop "Wuh!"ing until we started saying Diaper and he started "Duh!"ing.

This morning, he repeated the repeating trick for me. And then he crawled over to me, pulled up on my leg, stared right at my eyes, and went "Ma. Mama. Ma ma ma ma. Mamamamama." And then Greg came into view, and Jack switched tactics: "Duh. Duh duh duh!". He dropped his breakfast over the side of his high chair, and it was all "uh oh uh oh uh oh".

So, Jack is talking, and his vocabulary consists of "Uh-Oh", "Mama", and "Dada". Now we can hear it: he is trying very, very hard to match many of our other words with sounds of his own. I suppose he's been working up to this for a while, but to us, it seems rather sudden. Suddenly I notice how he switches letters to the ones that we are using. Suddenly I hear the cadence in his babble, the expression of intent. Suddenly I can hear what it is he is trying to say.

Jack. Talking. I'm speechless*.

*Apparently not wordless, judging by this post.

Jack's second hospital visit in two weeks. Just breath

Traveling will a baby is certainly different than traveling without a baby. The last time that Greg and I were in Europe together, it was 2007, and we were getting married in Rome. We had three weeks to disappear into blissful relaxation. It was otherworldly. This trip to Barcelona -- while enjoyable in an entirely new way -- has emphasized how totally and completely different our lives are now. There are certain responsibilities and stresses that we simply can't escape.

First, let me finish up the story about the forgotten breast pump charger, and to tell you that story, I've got to tell you something about Beata. Beata is my co-worker. We were pregnant together, due one week apart. At the time, she was my only pregnant friend, and her little boy, Julian, was born just 10 days after Jack. Beata and her husband have always been wonderful: a more generous couple, I could hardly describe.

Anyway, back to the pump charger story. Everything worked out, and I cannot express my gratitude to the *many* people who helped. After my last frantic post on Jack Attack, I sent an email to my female coworkers, asking if anyone had not yet left for Spain. Luck was with me, and someone replied: if I could get the charger to her in the next few hours, she could cram it in her suitcase and hand it off to me at the conference. One of our tenants was able to enter our floor (thankfully the key was in the common door -- it usually isn't!), dig through my bags and find the charger to put it in our mailbox. Then Beata took an hour out of her day, walked to our house and then to a second location to drop it off with the courier... but not before her husband dug through his own stash of electronics chargers at their house (to find one he thought might work) and drove that one by, too.

I cannot get over how amazing people are. Folks, I am embarrassed to have caused so much trouble, and especially to have caused so much trouble over the charger to a device that's designed to suck milk out of my boobs. Awkward. Let me send a giant, public Thank You to everyone who went so far out of their way to help with the pump charger.

Thank You!

On to other topics.

We've been in the hospital with Jack.

Again.

Here's how events proceeded. On Monday morning, Jack threw up. Then came the 104 fever, diarrhea*, listlessness and general malaise. He nursed well the first day, but he quickly stopped nursing and refused all liquids and food. He screamed and cried from the intense stomach pain. Fever of 101-104 despite alternating advil and tylenol. The wet diapers started slowing down. He. Was. Miserable.

*I can finally spell that word correctly the first time. Does this mean I am officially a Mom?

We were miserable.

We were sick with worry. We were frustrated and helpless and so sad for Jack being in such pain. Admittedly, we were also frustrated and sad that our Great Family Vacation was spinning rapidly down the drain.

But mostly we were worried. Because if there's anything worse than being in pain, it's watching your baby be in pain. It's feeling desperate. It's wanting to do anything to make the pain go away, but knowing that you can't do a damn thing.

I'll skip over the freaking out parts (and there was much, much freaking out), to say that just when we thought he was getting better... just when his fever cleared and he started nursing again... just then, the bright red blood showed up in his diaper.

Seriously. Fresh blood.

Hospital Del Mar, there we went.

We checked into the emergency room. We saw some very nice Spanish doctors who spoke a bit of english. They said he looked good: he wasn't dehydrated. They took a stool sample. They explained that babies bleed easily from tummy bugs. And eventually they sent us on our way with instructions to hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.

And within 5 hours, Jack was totally fine.

Really. Completely fine. No fever. No diarrhea* (well, less of it anyway). No blood. Happy Camper. Smiles and laughing and pointing and much "duh! duh! duh!" (and a few "Uh-Oh!"s, more on that later).

*I'm 2 for 2.

So Greg and I are now hyperventilating at even the slightest hint of potential injury (you would not have wanted to be a fly on the wall when Jack slipped and bumped his head on the wood floor in our rental apartment...). But our baby is fine and apparently that is the theme of parenthood: freak out, baby OK. Get a moment to breath. Freak out, baby OK. Etc.

Having a sick baby in a foreign country -- albeit one that speaks quite a bit of english -- was terrifying.

The first few days in Spain were consumed by nursing Jack back to health. Then I had my conference for a few days. We played all day Saturday, all day today, and we have all day tomorrow to chill out before our flight back on Tuesday.

More on the rest of the trip soon.

Sh*t!

OK, I owe this blog some attention. For starters, Jack turned 10 months on Wednesday (10 months!) and I still haven't found the time to write his 10-month-day post. Many things have happened in the last month, and I am eager to write about them all.

Why the hold up? Well, we've been traveling... traveling a LOT. First, Jack and I went to Phoenix for a week. Then Greg went to Oregon for a week, leaving the two of us + dog to fend for ourselves. And now all three humans are in Barcelona, Spain. I have a work conference later this week, so we figured we'd take a few extra days to enjoy the sites and sounds of Europe.

Here's the trouble. I have to pump during the conference hours. Jack is still nursing quite a bit, and I get uncomfortable after about 6 hours. I will be gone for 8-14 hours per day for 3-4 days and I *need* to pump during that time. I don't mind giving Jack formula. But if I don't pump for that long, I will be in pain, and I will run the risk of mastitis. So I made arrangements with the conference coordinator ahead of time. I packed my pump. I packed all of its various parts. I counted them over in my head a hundred times: pump, pump bra, 2 horns, 2 shields, 2 rubber fitting thingies, 2 back pieces, 2 adapters, 20 milk bags, 2 ice packs, 2 medela bottles with 2 nipples, 2 collars, 2 covers, and 2 stoppers. 44 pieces to count.

I counted all of those important things, and then I forgot to count the pump charger.

The pump turns on, but I have no idea whether the battery charge will last. I have no idea where to locate a charger in Barcelona (Google hasn't been much help). I've considered ordering one from Amazon, but it won't arrive in time.

Urrrrrrrgh.

I almost brought my handheld (manual pump) instead of the freestyle. Why, why, why did I have to forgot the charger?!

Will I have to have Greg bring Jack to meet me at the conference every day (perhaps even twice?)? That's such a huge pain.

Shit!!! SHIT! I don't know what I'm going to do...

About the babysitter

Mother's Day, 2011. Jack is enjoying some world-famous New Haven Pizza! (After suffering a major concussion the night before!)

We are so lucky: Jack is doing great. He was a little strange on Sunday* and a little sleepy on Monday, but he was perfectly Jack-like today. He is laughing and smiling and giggling and running as fast as he can behind the wheels of his walker-wagon. He is pointing and exclaiming "Duh! Duh duh duh!" at everything he sees. He can still find the doggie in the book. And for that degree of normality, for those constant indications of his good health and great cognitive function, we are very thankful.

*As best as I can tell, Jack had one killer of a headache. He kept reaching behind to the back of his skull. And he was confused. While snuggling against my arm on Sunday, he opened his mouth and bit me so hard that I can still count the toothmarks.

In case you wondered what was outside the frame of the other picture. Does that expression look familiar? Let me caption this emotion: immense, terrible fear

Several of you have asked about the babysitter. We've only actually left the house without Jack several times and have never had a stranger sit for us. Twice, Greg's parents watched him. Three times, our neighbor watched him. She is our babysitter; she is in her 50s, is a responsible landlord in the neighborhood, and has a grown child of her own. Once, she forgot to show up when she was supposed to. She missed the appointed time on a vitally important night, when I was throwing an engagement party for my best friend. I don't think the two issues -- forgetting to show up and tripping on our back porch steps -- are related, but the point of that is... things have been awkward with this woman for a variety of reasons and I have felt continued pressure to assure her that everything is just fine and that I'm not upset with her.

When Jack's accident first happened, I was not the slightest bit angry toward her. I felt sorry for her, because I knew how terrible she must feel inside. I knew she meant well.

Still, I doubted her judgement. She chose to take an infant out of the house for a walk at 8:30pm in near pitch black darkness. She utterly failed to communicate the seriousness of Jack's injury. Once I learned the height of his fall, before I knew that he was nearly unconscious, I had a sudden urge to rush him to the hospital: she did not. She let my baby pass out in her lap and misinterpreted it as "happily falling asleep". And then there was this email...

The day after the incident, she sent us this email telling us that in our "essential care of Jack", we ought to do something about the back steps. She described several reasons why the fall was not her fault. Those were not her words, and I am certain that transferring blame to us was not her conscious intent... but the subconscious motivation behind the email was obvious. She felt guilty. And she decided our back porch, with its 4 concrete steps, is a safety hazard that we are responsible for.

Truth is, she's right. We ARE responsible for the structure of the house, for what goes on in our own backyard, in the same way that I feel terribly, horribly responsible for Zane's death when he was hit by the car. This is why I didn't feel angry with her: accidents happen and her stumble happened on my property. Still, I was not the person speeding down Dwight and I was not the person to drop Jack on concrete and I think it show terrible, horrible judgement on her part to play the blame game just one day after Jack was in the hospital.

Now I'm pissed.

I have an inclination to send her an equally "helpful" email suggesting that in her "essential role as a responsible citizen" she might not want to ever lift or carry an infant again, given the possibility that she might trip and fall because the lighting is dim.

By the way, we've lived in this house for 7 years and none of our guests have ever had an issue with the four concrete steps, including drunk people.

Don't worry, I won't tell her that.

Truly, I don't ever want to see this woman again.

But she lives across the street from us and I've already seen her twice in two days.

My instinct says that I should simply ignore the email and not make any additional overtures. But, as Greg pointed out, this would leave the relationship sour and that's simply never a good idea.

So what do we do? What would you do? At the moment, I'm sitting on my hands. If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that no good can come of "schooling" a person in appropriate behavior. I had and have no interest in laying blame about this incident, and I am upset that her remarks have made me think of what happened in terms of blame. I wish I could tell her that, but I can't.

Back to Jack. Thank god he's OK. He could have been killed by that kind of fall. I've learned a few lessons from this experience. If my child should ever hurt himself while I am away from home, I will know these things:

1. Don't listen to the babysitter. Don't let her say anything about "normal" or "OK" or "seems fine". You know your baby. You know your baby better than anyone else in the world and you can never, ever rely on someone else's judgement to say whether he is healthy or not.
2. Don't delay coming home if you have the inclination to come home. I shouldn't have waited the few minutes. I should have gone immediately.
3. Don't feel any pressure to assume it will be OK. It might not be OK. Mama Bear is a phrase for a reason: my job is to protect this child and if that means making a babysitter feel bad by reacting externally in the same manner that I am reacting internally (*read, frantic with worry), I will do so without shame.

Let me reiterate. Jack's doing great. He reached two major milestones the day of the accident -- walking behind his walker wagon and pointing at objects in books -- and he's still doing both of those things. He is smart and happy and more bubbly than I ever imagined a baby could be. He's just fine.

I love Jack so much. I would do anything to protect him, and I try to take every precaution I can, but I know that's not enough. Accidents do happen. There will be more scary moments in the future. I just hope this was the worst*

*What if it isn't?

I don't ever want to see the babysitter again

When I think of my first Mother's Day, a variety of strange, incongruous topics will come to mind. Whoopie pies, concrete, and radiation.

When think of my first Mother's Day, I will think first of Greg's 35th birthday. He turned 35 on Saturday. A good friend of ours was organizing a charity evening of music to support pitbull rescue. We had tickets. Greg was playing at the show. I made peanut butter chocolate whoopie pies and accidentally purchased candles that wished Greg a Happy Retirement instead of Birthday. We mingled with friends and ate hors d'oeuvre off of toothpicks and cocktail napkins. Greg tapped a keg of his own home brew. Everything was great for just a little while.

The very minute that Greg got on stage, I received a call from our babysitter. It was 8:30pm. Jack had been fussy, so she decided to take him out for a stroll around the block. While she was stepping down our back porch steps, she tripped. They both fell. He hit his head. He definitely hit his head.

He cried, she said, for a minute or two. He cried and then he seemed fine and happy. He pointed at things. He exclaimed and giggled. About 30 minutes later, he settled down and she put him to bed.

Was there any change in his behavior?, I asked. Was he cut or did he have any major wounds? No, she said, after he stopped crying he seemed totally normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Did she think he was OK? Yes, he seemed just fine.

I called my doctor anyway. She asked me a question after question and I answered as best as I could. "99 times out of 100, falls like the one you described turn out just fine. If it'll make you feel better, wake him up when you get home and be sure he's alert".

I waited for Greg to finish his show. I told him the news and I headed home.

I assured the babysitter that I wasn't upset, that I understood accidents happened. I asked for more details about the event, and what I learned began to horrify me. She had not fallen with Jack, her hands protecting him as she stumbled. She had been on the second to last step when she tripped. He flew out of her hands, landing at least a foot away from where she did, on concrete. I did the math in my head: he fell from six feet onto concrete? I bade her goodnight. I noticed that the lights were on, Jack's door was open, we had been loud... and he was sleeping.

So I went into my baby's room. I reached into the crib and picked him up and brought him into the light. He had an welt the size of a silver dollar above his right eyebrow, scrapes across his elbow and hand. And he didn't respond. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't move.

"Jack?"

"Jack?!"

"Jack!"

His eyelids barely parted. I could see one eye completely dilated and the other a small spec. He closed his eyes again. Oh my god.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

I don't even believe in god.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

All I could feel was his warm weight across my shoulder as I lunged for my cell phone and car keys.

Jack?

I think we flew to the emergency room. I cannot account for my speed. I only know that my son wouldn't respond to me and if that was that then my life was over.

I skidded into a parking spot at the pediatric ER and flung my keys at the valet attendant. I explained Jack's condition to the triage nurse. They took Jack from me and placed him on a stretcher. At least 8 people crowded around him, assessing him, testing him. A nurse came to help me, sat me in a chair and offered me some water, but there was nothing to do. I just waited in the corner and cried.

But then he started crying, too, and that was a good thing. He started yelling and he started moving and twisting. He was upset and that was a very good thing. They let me go to his side. We looked into each other's watery eyes and he instantly calmed down. My baby was very scared and very confused and he wanted his mama. Soon they let me lay down on the stretcher with him and hold him, and he began to be to be like a baby should be. He cuddled his head against me. This was very un-Jack-like behavior, but I appreciated it.

And then they informed me that he had to have a CT scan. He had to. He probably had a subdural hemorrhage. Based on the change in mood, decreased respiratory rate and unequal pupil sizes, there was a strong change of hemorrhage and a hemorrhage could kill him. They had to know.

But, my god, the radiation, the excessive radiation. A 9 month old should not be exposed to that kind of radiation. I asked them about dosing. They said it would be OK. I told them I was in diagnostic radiology at the school of medicine, a medical imaging researcher, and what would his dose be?

One in one thousand and five hundred. What? One in one thousand and five hundred, the doctor repeated. I'm sorry, what is that? That's the increased likelihood of a brain tumor from the scan that we will give him.

What?

But that's when he's old, the doctor said.

I actually laughed. Some of what I do involves brain tumor research. My husband studies occupational risk for a living. He's writing a review on the overuse of radiation in medical imaging. I explained this to the doctor. I am a conservative person: 1 in 1000 risk of brain tumor, and half of brain tumors being fatal within months? No. No no no. We could not let him be exposed to that kind of radiation.

What alternatives? MRI? Wait and see? What would they look for? How would they treat it? How would the CT scan change the course of treatment? Each question was carefully answered. I thought about my paranoia during pregnancy. I thought about how careful I was to avoid occupational radiation. How my film badge came back below detection each and every time. How we didn't even let him fly in an airplane until he was at least a few months old. I thought about our caution with his body, about the organic food and the non-ozone emitting air purifier, the no-VOC paint and the used furniture, about sunscreen and caution and every attempt we make to ensure his future health.

The nurses reiterated how bad it could be. I felt frantic. I explained to Greg on the phone. Greg was adamant: we could not let them expose him to that kind of radiation. Wasn't his improved mood an indication of anything? The doctor sympathized and said if it was his son, he would do the scan. Immediately. It was necessary. It was absolutely necessary.

Greg showed up. Greg showed up and Jack cheered up. He started to move more. He tried to sit up. He started crying again. He wanted to play.

It could happen quickly, they said. The pressure of an intracranial bleed is relieved through the baby's fontanelle, and often there are no symptoms until it is too late.

And so we put on aprons and wrapped our baby in led sheeting. We placed our hands in the scanner along with him. We sang Jack songs and jiggled a toy in his line of sight. And between the CT and the x-rays, we gave him 500mRem of gamma radiation in a span of 20 minutes.

And then we went back to the ER and waited. And Jack cheered up. And as his smile broadened, ours did too.

Then the doctor came back and said it was all OK. There was no bleed. His liver was fine. His kidneys were fine. His skull was not fractured. His blood vessels were not damaged. He had a concussion. He had a serious fall and his brain was swelling, but the swelling would go down. Jack would be just fine.

And I cried and we hugged and we held Jack tightly. I nursed him. Then we took him home and curled up in bed. I cuddled Jack and Greg cuddled me. We spent a worried night with a sleepy, confused and disoriented Jack. And then we woke and spent a beautiful morning with a happy, talkative, playful Jack. A Jack we recognize.

So we gaze in wonder and fear and acknowledge the greatness of good health. Our amazing, special boy. The terrible magnitude of love and worry that all parents have feel every day for their children. Jack is here and he is happy and there is simply no thing more important thing in life than that.

Dear BOB, happy Earth Day

When I was in high school, my brother and I played online games together. (Yes, this is what sibling bonding time looks like in the digital ages). We'd set up our computers side by side, running our characters around the make-believe world, hacking at monsters and shouting things like "Meet in me in Marion!", or, "Troll, outside of Tos!". There was one area in the game called the "Border of the Badlands". It was a sketchy place. It was where the renegade, criminal players went to hang out. You never knew when a troll was going to jump out of a corner over there. We always shortened it to BOB. BOB was a place to be wary of, to hurry through on your way to somewhere else.

This story really has nothing to do with anything, except that I was thinking of the acronym BOB as I left for work yesterday morning. The neighborhood I live in is a bit... on the border.

Our house is big and grand and, once, it was beautiful. It was built sometime around 1860. Greg and I spent the better part of our early relationship painstakingly renovating it. The heart and soul that we poured into our (well, HIS, at the time) abode, the nights-out denied, the decision-making teamwork... these things formed the foundation of our relationship: domestic accomplishment. Sometimes I look back at those early days and marvel: how did we manage to fall in love while this house sucked away our ability to be fun? Those days were mind-numblingly exhausting and full of tearful arguments. I banish many of the memories to a corner of my mind marked "let's forget that ever happened". But then I get it. Building our house showed us what we had in common when you stripped all the superficial fluff away. What we had left was the unflattering truth of what defines us both: the inability to let go of a goal, no matter how totally insane it might be*.

*Isn't that romantic? Hehe.

Yet, for all of this hard work to make our house into what we wanted it to be, we didn't touch the floorplan, and the floorplan is mighty inconvenient. The house is shaped like giant U. Our bedroom is in the back, at the bottom of the U. There are two middle rooms and two front rooms. The staircase leading upstairs (to the apartment that we rent out to Yale undergrads) runs down the center of the U. If you're in one room, you can't see or hear things in the other rooms, which gets really annoying really quickly.

Furthermore, our patchwork assembly of wood and horse-hair plaster stands on a city corner, such that all of the rooms border a street. When someone walks by at 2am, yammering into their cell phone, it feels like they're only 5 feet away... because, well, they're actually only 5 feet away.

So the house is loud from all sides, yet the rooms are totally disconnected from one another. Baby-proofing is a joke with this awkward layout, since the only way to keep Jack reasonably safe is to be with him at all times.

Poor Jack doesn't really get to crawl all around the house; we mostly encourage him to hang out in the nursery, which faces Dwight Street. When we started planning his nursery, we didn't like knowing that he would face the street. We even moved his crib away from the window because it made us nervous. I swear we're not paranoid -- the street is not safe at night, and our house is ground level.

So this story is about something that happened several weeks ago. Greg and I were in the second front room watching a movie when we heard the gunshots: "Bam! Bam! Bambambam!". We 180'd to the windows and saw the culprit in dark clothes sprinting down the sidewalk. We freaked out, ran into the nursery. Jack was fine. He slept through the whole thing. We called the cops and spent the rest of the night convincing ourselves that gunfire immediately in front of our house is an OK event*. We're urban after all, and proud of it (sort of).

*Seeing as this is not the first (nor the second) instance of gunfire, it must be, right?

But the next morning, our neighbor found the bullet holes. He had parked his car in front of our house, and the wounds in his car told the story: lead projectiles headed straight for where our baby sleeps.

While it is true that most of the crime in our neighborhood is drug related, nobody wants to think the words "innocent bystander" in relation to their baby's place of residence.

Not good, BOB.

Sometimes I love where we live. I love New Haven and I love being close to downtown. It is a vibrant community and I believe we are doing the socially and environmental responsible thing, living near a city center, doin' our urban thing. I take pride in the fact that we renovated our generally-green home by ourselves, that we share a roof with people we're not related to, that we share a street with people who are different than us. These features of our house form an important part of my code of social ethics. The likelihood of Jack being harmed by the drugs and the gangs at this age is slim to none. But of course bullets near his nursery are just unacceptable. To put it lightly, this gets to me.

One other thing that also gets to me has to do with the tree that we planted in the sidewalk running past our house. The tree is beautiful. She is an Autumn Blaze Maple (urban tree of the year, 2004!), she has been growing for two years, and her name is Octavia, for the month during which we planted her. The tree brings some life to the corner. She is meant to shield that side of our house from the street noise and from the summer heat. She is meant to scrub the street air of some small fraction of its nasty chemicals.

Every day I look out the window and I see Octavia. Every day I walk out the door and walk by Octavia. And every springtime, without fail, I watch people rip branches off of Octavia.

Few things incite me more than this. I'm not going to even try to describe my anger: the stupidity of ripping branches off a tree, a beautiful, symmetric, healthy tree budding in the springtime. Not your tree. Someone else's tree. Someone else's tree that stands 4 feet from their bedroom window.

People also rip flowers out of our yard when they start blooming, so, yeah, there you have it.

Anyway, the point of this long discussion of our neighborhood is that when I left for work on Friday morning, I noticed that It had begun: the springtime ripping of Octavia had started. On Earth Day. Sorry, Octavia, I wish we could have provided you with better digs.

I want to be an urbanite. But I also don't like living in the BOB.

Happy 9-month-day!

Dear Jack,

You are nine months old today! Did you know? That's three quarters of a year, which means it is only 3 months before you will be one year old.

It's springtime here in New Haven: the trees are budding with new life, and that makes me happy. This change of seasons reminds me of last year's change of seasons, when I was 7 months pregnant. It was a season brimming with hope for your dad and I. We were so excited to know that you were on your way. That was the best time, Jack. You would kick all day long and I got to take you with me everywhere, learning your patterns and nuances, enjoying that moment of calm before you turned my life upside down. But I wouldn't go back to those days, Jack, only because I like you even better now than when I was pregnant. I like you better with each day that passes. You are simply the funniest and the cutest and the most interesting little thing I know. With you around, I look forward to each new day. It is fascinating to watch you grow.

I'm so proud of you, Jack. You've really come a long way. I would say that this month has been about self awareness. You've made a big transition having to do with "you" versus "us", as if you suddenly realized that there are other people around you. Your dad and I agree that you now know that you can affect our behavior by making us pay attention, comfort you, laugh, or get you something. You are learning how to really interact with us.

At the beginning of the month, I think you figured out that I can walk away from you. You did not like learning this fact. You would get very, very upset if I tried to put you down for even five seconds. You wanted to be in my arms at all times. You didn't even want your dad, which shocked me, because he can get a smile out of you better than anyone else can. You just wanted me. It was sweet, Jack, but it was also kind of rough for both of us. Everything was making you upset -- loud sounds, sudden movement, a new taste -- and you needed me to be there, holding you close at all times. The world became a very scary place for you for a few weeks. But suddenly you figured out that things would be OK, and you returned to your bubbly and good natured self. I will always wonder what happened for you, to make the world such a happy place again.

And the world is a happy place for you, Jack. Everything makes you happy, and it is funny to see you get excited when you figure something out. You've started doing some new things. You are standing up! You want to pull up on e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. You're really quite good at it. Once you get onto your feet, you reach up with your arms and try to do a mini pull-up. I was a little worried about the "I'm stuck standing up" phase that most babies go through, but you seem to have skipped it. Within a few days of standing up, you were sitting down, too. The first time I caught you sitting back down, it was really funny. You kept inching your hands down the legs of a chair, lowering your butt closer and closer. I could tell that you were being careful not to fall. When you were about 4" from the floor, you let go with both hands at once! Plop. You were on the floor and off to other pursuits. Your dad says that in the last month, you've gotten to be fast and twisty. We can't leave you alone anywhere.

You learned how to clap, and you learned that it means that exciting things are happening. You learned how to back yourself up from crawling into sitting. You learned how to carry toys with you when you crawl. You learned how to crawl away from your dad when he chases you. You learned how to kiss our noses (though really you seem to be trying to eat them). You learned how to get your socks off. You learned how to go to the bathroom on the potty each morning, right after getting up. You learned how to feed Tori things that you don't want to eat.

In the last few months, I've written quite a bit about how much you babble. You made so many sounds so early on: it was a constant stream of chatter for a while! Now you've gotten so much quieter and pared things down to a limited set of sounds, mostly "duh" and "nuh". I'm not sure if they mean the same thing to you or not. Sometimes you repeat them endlessly: "duhduhduhduhduhduh nuhnuh duh nuhnuhnuh", and so on. Sometimes you use them like little explanation points, like "that!", and sometimes you use them like questions, like "huh?". You also do a lot of hooting. We can tell what the hoot means, usually "Wow!", when you are really impressed with something, or "What?" when you are trying to figure out how something works. Your hoot is my favorite sound of all, since you've been making it since you were a little tiny baby.

Maybe if you read these letters, some day, you will realize how completely absorbed your dad and I are by your every moment. We want to learn everything we can about you.

Your two bottom teeth are totally in, now, and your top teeth are just starting to break through the gums. You are eating lots of food. You definitely want what we are eating, even when it is spicy or has a strong flavor. Your favorite this month was something I made last week: potato gnocchi with sardines and pepitas/cilantro pesto. Considering that you went nearly as nuts for pepitas/cilantro pesto shrimp as you did for the sardines and gnocchi, I think we can conclude that you are of the "cilantro = yummy" camp (good thing, because your parents are, too). You liked this particular dinner so much that we actually ran out, and your dad and I had a heated debate over who would forgo their last bite to satisfy you. By the way, one of your other favorite foods? Beans. Beans, how you love beans, and even more so when they are cooked with tomatoes. You cram them into your mouth by the handful.

You tried two, completely different things this month with two, completely different reactions. First, you went swimming. You weren't too big on that. I think it was quite overwhelming. You just wanted to cuddle with us in the water and didn't like it when we tried to play. Then, a week later, you went on a swing set. You loved the swing set. You loved it so much. I took you to another playground last week, and you had so much fun. Every time the swing went back, your eyes would get big. As it rushed forward, your eyes would get all squinty and then you would giggle and clench your little fists. I could tell you were really enjoying the feeling of flying. Considering how much you like it when we toss you in the air, and how much fun you have when jumping in the doorway jumper, this is no surprise.

We have so much fun, Jack. We play so many games. You giggle and laugh and get breathless from excitement and fun. You just want to play all day long. Just tonight, your dad was blowing puffs of air in your face. This nearly always gets a giggle out of you. But this time you found it especially ticklish, and whenever he would get read to puff some air in your face, you would duck your head, put your hands up in front of your face, and giggle in anticipation. (This is a technique that I'm quite familiar with, because your dad is terribly playful with the people he loves). We could not stop laughing. It was certainly the most coordinated thing I've ever seen you do.

I could very well live on smile of your's. I love you, Jack.

Jacked Physics

Science has kept me away from this blog in the last few weeks. I thought this might be a good time to discuss a particular scientific subject that is near and dear to my parental heart: Jacked Physics. I present to you here the new rules of physics as they specifically pertain to my son, Jack...because we all know that the rules of the physical world no longer apply once you become a parent.

A few examples.

1. The pitch of a baby's cry rises in proportion to your inability to attend to it, and its duration is inversely related to the square of your remaining patience. Babies know these values. They do. They really do.
2. Babies do not fall asleep according to the amount of time spent in the car. Instead, they fall asleep in direct relation to the amount of time remaining before you pull into the driveway. This number generally equals exactly 5 minutes before you would have reached their crib. For really long trips, they wake up (cranky and hungry) exactly 15 minutes before you are capable of stopping your motor vehicle to attend to them.
3. The width of the most commonly traversed door / hallway / corridor is always exactly 1/2" smaller than the width of the car seat in your preferred carry position (1" smaller if you've got groceries)
4. When the baby begins to overturn a cup of water or, say, uhm, that new 8oz box of cornstarch, your hand must repeatedly cover exactly half the distance between you and the object to prevent the accident. This means that you never actually reach the cub or the box. Mess, therefore, is inevitable.
5. The willingness of a baby to sleep is inversely proportional to how tired they actually are. *This one is true. Very, very, VERY true.
6. Pooping frequency increases in inverse relation to the number of diapers left in the diaper bag. (This is also true of toy-dropping frequency and the number of toys left in the diaper bag)
7. The longer a baby has been sleeping, the cuter the baby becomes
8. The number of times that a baby looks up while nursing (thus exposing your boobs and their spraying milk to everyone within view) is equal to the number of people in the room divided by your familiarity with them.
9. No matter the baby's appearance or behavior, he or she is simply the cutest and the best baby around.

While I'm on the topic, I think I've got to share this video with you all. I've watched it more times than I should probably admit!

These are a few of my favorite things

1. Jack poops on the potty every morning

It's cute. Really cute. Cuter than I ever imagined pooping could be.

Jack poops a lot -- like 3 times a day, STILL -- and he's a reliable morning poop-er. At least every other day, we would get him fully dressed for daycare, be ready to go out the door, and find out that not only does he need a diaper change, he needs a full-body hose down.

I had toyed with the idea of elimination communication training (or EC, that is, teaching a baby about going potty) when he was young, but dropped the idea as unlikely to work due to the fact that Jack spends most of his day at daycare. Then we hit several weeks of morning frustration. Greg picked up where I left off, and he started taking Jack to the potty in the morning.

First, Greg stands him up with his feet on the seat and makes the sound "psssss". Jack pees and then bounces up and down with excitement when he's done. Then Greg puts a baby seat onto the toilet and sits him down. Within a few minutes, Jack's done, we all clap, the diaper goes on, and our morning becomes that much easier.

Imagine the sight for a moment. A nine month old baby, sitting on the toilet, legs sticking straight out into the air (they're too short to bend over the seat!), twiddling his feet back forth, and making excited hooting sounds and faces as he alternately stares down at the toilet and back up at his dad. My husband, who is kneeling next to him offering manly encouragement. "Hoot?" Jack questions. "Uh hu" says dad. "Du?" says Jack. "Yup!" says dad. "Du! Du! Du!" replies the baby.

It's cute. It's really cute. I haven't taken a picture yet, but I realize this is only a matter of time.

2. Jack likes lasagna, a lot.

And he smears it all over his face when he eats it. Good handheld fun. Actually I think what he likes most is the tomato sauce. Jack loooooves tomatoes and tomato products, which is funny to me because I've disliked acidic things since I can remember.

Also good handheld fun: lemons. Did you know that Jack likes raw lemon? Crazy. We've given it to him 4 times. The first three times, he kept going back for more. The fourth time, he got a particularly sour bite, made a face and put it down. We'll try again.

3. Greg taught Jack the game "I'm gunna get you!"

Jack has learned how to crawl away from us, giggling frantically all the while. The game is exponentially more fun when he tries to take a toy with him.

4. Bedtime, please

Jack is sleeping so well! We've still hit the few odd rough nights, but things are definitely moving into Phase II of Parental Un-Rest. Jack goes down at 7. I wake him up to nurse at 11. He wakes up once in the night (usually around 2), and then he's back down until 6 or 6:30.

Oh my gosh, getting so much sleep is simply incredible. I could do this (getting up once in a 7 hour night) indefinitely.

(This from a woman who, pre-baby, would eagerly sleep 11 hours a night)

5. Teeth

A toothy grin is way cuter than gums. Jack has two lower teeth clearly visible, and the upper teeth have broken through, too. I can see his lower canines are getting started. He went through a short phase of wanting to bite while nursing, but it wasn't too bad and he hasn't tried in a few weeks

Teeth are cute. He leaves bite marks in fruit. He ate a whole pear yesterday.

6. Sippy (straw) cups

We're attempting to avoid sippy-cup-land, so we are giving Jack straw cups. He knows how to use them. Awww.

7. Walking

Jack has been pulling up for a while, and now he is showing interest in walking. We hold onto his hands and he makes GIANT dinosaur steps. He's very eager! I love walking him around the house

8. Pinscher Grasp

Jack still has a terrible pinscher grasp, for two reasons (I think). 1, we usually give him big chunks of food, so he hasn't had as much time to work on fine motor skills (note to self: feed more puffs). 2, he figured out that that most food will stick to the outside of his fist if he smashes it enough

Clever, no?