May
1
May 1, 2006
When Riley was born I was a paranoid shivering wreck for those first weeks, constantly certain I was going to drop him or forget to support his floppy-ass head or allow him to choke on a giant fluff of dog hair. Remember when I told you about charting every ounce that went in or out of his body in an Excel sheet? Hoo, good times.
I think raising a baby becomes hugely less frightening when their necks strengthen a smidge and they aren’t such delicate droopy tulips; I also think there’s some invisible line you cross around 4 months where you find yourself contemplating a dropped pacifier, shrugging, blowing the visible chunks of dirt off it and plugging it back in your baby’s mouth.
Not that I, uh, ever did that. (But if I did, maybe that’s why Riley gave up the pacifier so early on! Hot Mom Tip: want to break your child of the binky habit? Try coating it with a layer of filth! Remember to boil it before rolling it on a dirty kitchen floor!)
I remember the day that I stepped into the shower while Riley was napping, and I realized that my biggest concern if he woke up and started crying wasn’t whether or not he would be upset, but rather how audible he might be outside the house. And whether or not my neighbors would call CPS if they heard my voice echoing from the bathroom vents: “For the love of CHRIST can’t I even take a FIVE MINUTE SHOWER?”
Caring for a newborn was so overwhelming and emotional and sprinkled with sleep deprivation and post-partum hormonal insanity, I think the hardest part about it was that it was so serious. Just feeding Riley was such an undertaking, all my energy poured into making sure this tiny creature was getting the nutrition he needed, and then worrying afterwards: did he get enough? Did he burp enough? Is he going to be okay on formula? What if he’s one of those milk-allergy kids who needs soy? Was that glurt of semi-digested milk just a spitup or does he have Rotavirus? Etc!
In so many ways caring for Riley is much, much more difficult today because he is starting to require actual parenting skills beyond periodically sticking a bottle in his mouth and a diaper wipe on his rear. He’s a wiggly bundle of interactivity now, and we need to nurture him and stimulate him and make sure he doesn’t grow up to be like that A.J. brat on The Sopranos.
It’s more challenging, but in my opinion there’s an immense improvement in the overall experience when you are able to respond to your child as if he were a sentient creature rather than a tiny squalling blob of new life. Just this morning I hauled Riley’s tired, cranky butt into his room where I told him he was going to take a nap, mister, and I kissed his angry head and left him to scream as though his skin was being flayed from his body, and one minute later he was snoring. The fact that I can sometimes correctly guess at what he needs, and fulfill it without being completely consumed by a fear of causing him a moment’s distress, is surprisingly rewarding to me.
(Yes, I guess I am saying that I take enjoyment from leaving my furious, screaming kid to bleat by himself in a darkened room. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Mary Poppins.)
We are better equipped now. Every day I add a little more experience to my paltry parenting resume, and it all gets – well, the word I’m looking for isn’t easier, but maybe better. Yeah, that sounds about right: it just keeps getting better.
:::
The boy is eight months old. Eight! I remember reading ahead in my copy of What To Expect the First Year and thinking that at month eight, Riley would be sitting, crawling, and possibly moonwalking.
Nein to all of the above, nor is he on “finger foods” just yet (all attempts to introduce this revolutionary method of eating have been met with turbo-gagging, tongue protrusion, and dismayed expressions that suggest we have placed a live cockroach in his mouth).
He is smiling and laughing more than ever, though. He loves peekaboo and if I had the stamina to continually pop my head over the tray of his highchair mugging openmouthed at him and chirping “Peekaboo! I see you!” for twelve hours in a row, I think he’d stay entertained the whole time. I do not plan to test this theory, however.
In the last couple weeks he’s started, every so often, to show fear of an object. The first time it was his stroller that scared him as I tried to yank it out of the cluttered garage, banging it loudly against a metal ladder. Next it was a plastic garbage sack that someone was snapping as they shook it out. The other day it was the vacuum as it sucked up a pebble.
This seems a momentous step for a baby. Not that I want him to be unnecessarily scared, but fear is not unhealthy – like pain, it’s a survival mechanism. Each time I’ve held him, told him it was okay, and let him touch the offending object if he wanted to. “Look at you, all cognitive and aware and stuff,” I said comfortingly after the vacuum incident. “Whose brain isn’t always made of packing material? Your brain!”
He’s started wailing more often when one of us leaves his sight, not for any particular discomfort but simply because he wants us nearby. He still gets very focused on a particular object, but he’s far more able to stay aware of everything going on around him; no more sneaking off when he’s got a toy in his lap, secure in the knowledge he won’t notice.
This weekend I bought a Baby Einstein DVD. I know some people are not big fans of these DVDs, which is awesome because without Julie’s distaste for the Einstein marketing machine she may never have been motivated to make this hilarious video.
Well, I can tell you that both Riley AND I were utterly mesmerized by the Baby Neptune Discovering Water DVD. We have watched it three times now, and Julie’s description is apt: there are plastic toys that clatter across the screen, there are weird puppets (a yellow duck in particular seemed to strangely excite the boy), there is classical music and random nature footage. It’s bizarre and compelling, and I do not mind Riley’s preoccupation with it in the least. I take comfort in the fact that I at least have been sitting next to him while it’s on; but let’s be honest here – we are the parents who have exposed Riley to both Deadwood and Project Gotham Racing.
“You know what’s diabolical about this video,” I said to JB as Riley grunted a thrilled “Uh, uh, uh!” at the duck. “It makes me kind of want to buy one of the puppets. Like this duck one, for instance.”
JB didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the screen, which had switched to footage of a wet beaver. The man can find porn in anything, I swear to god.
So, eight months have passed and I don’t know if we’ve done everything right, I don’t even know if we’ve done the very best we can. But I think, I hope, that we’ve done pretty damn good so far.
Apr
30
April 30th, 2006
All week long I’ve been seeing signs posted here and there in our neighborhood: APRIL 29 SHEEP SHEARING AT KELSEY CREEK FARM.
Since last week I rode all the way to Eugene and back in order to observe a fence being built, I figured JB owed me a tedious activity this weekend, all the better if it was something that held zero appeal to him.
“We are going to watch sheep being sheared on Sunday,” I informed him. “And you have to go with me! To the sheep farm! Ha ha haaaaa, that’ll teach you, Mr. Fencey Von Fencerton!”
I reminded him on a daily basis (“Sheep! Being shaved! It’s going to be awesome!”) until this morning, when we arrived at the farm and walked past one of the ubiquitous APRIL 29 SHEEP posters.
“I wonder why there’s hardly anyone here,” I said. “Maybe because today is the 30th,” JB replied.
Well, all was not lost–I didn’t get to observe the hot man-on-sheep shearing action, which I had built up in my mind to be something like that dippy Australian guy running around after crocodiles (“Crikey, this one’s a beaut! Just look at the wool on this bugga!”), but the farm was so pretty and rural it was hard to believe we were right smack dab in our Bellevue stomping grounds. Riley rode in the backpack carrier, divvying his attention between the bucolic surroundings and the endless puzzle of the carrier’s straps.
Bok bok bok bok BUGAWK.
Taken in the reflection of a window.
JB, boy, and random horse.
Nothing can sneak up on the boy, for he has ninjalike hearing. Also, a deeply suspicious nature.
My turn with Riley. I love the backpack carrier, it’s so much more comfortable than the Bjorn thingamajig.
Farm relic.
:::
In other weekend news, in the brief periods during which Riley napped, I vacuumed the carpet twice, crammed an entire lemon down our sink disposal in an attempt to rid it of a horrifically foul mystery odor, picked several million sticky seed pod things off Dog, and cycled through about forty loads of laundry. We went to Home Depot twice, bought JB a massive package of socks at Fred Meyer, and visited Half Price Books where I purchased my own weight in used magazines.
It’s funny, sometimes I imagine my younger self being able to somehow observe my life today. “Oh my gah,” she’d say, rolling her eyes (which would be ringed like a panda with fifteen layers of Wet n’ Wild black eyeliner pencil, warmed for the task with a hair dryer) at how boring I’ve become.
“You just don’t understand yet,” I’d tell her. “This life, with all its earthly conventions and humdrum moments, is so happy. You are going to be so happy.”
Then I’d make her watch me putting on pink lipstick, just to blow her fucking mind.
-
My product review site:
[