6:56 a.m. -- 4 mos.
In honor of Baby A's 4-month birthday, and purely in the interests of scientific inquiry, with no hint whatsoever of parental pride, let's review her development by comparing her achievements with those of one of the Net's ubiquitous milestone charts.
First, a brief word. As with so much of the Information Age, the instant accessibility of such data is both an anxiety-alleviating blessing ("My child is OK") and an anxiety-creating curse ("My child is substandard"). In either event, it can create in the obsessive a cause to search 27 further sites for details and explanation -- and, poof, there goes a morning.
In addition, this charting phenomenon -- indeed the whole parenting phenomenon -- has sparked internal conflict. Imbued in me is a deep distrust of cheap praise -- well, let's face it, praise of any kind. Given my extended family's general comportment, I'll go out on a limb and conclude that it's an Irish cultural trait. Perhaps we feel that a hint of braggadocio will call down upon our tribe the wrath of the faeries, or of Satan. Perhaps it's simply an inclination to distrust. But I have an instinct to assume that kind words are inherently bogus. And I'm inclined to dole them out myself only upon extreme provocation.
Family story that proves the rule: When my mother was marrying in 1957, at what was considered the ancient age of 26, her mother heard incessantly from the neighbors about what a fine catch she'd made, what an upstanding young man her fiance was, what good prospects he had, what a good Catholic family he came from, etcetera. Finally, upon hearing this for the upteenth time, my grandmother pronounced, "Well, he's not exactly putting his foot into a bog himself."
In my family, that counts as effusive.
And thus my internal conflict. On the one hand, I want to shower my daughter with praise, to show her that I'm proud of her in every respect, to shout her inherent greatness from the rooftops. On the other, I want to avoid (and I know this sounds ridiculous for the father of a 4-month-old) giving her a big head, pressuring her to do things only to please her parents, or becoming the kind who attaches bumper stickers like "My daughter is Student of the Month at Grendell Grammar School Pre-Kindergarten."
So, I repeat, the following is presented only in the interests of historical research and of scientific rigor.
Mastered Skills (most 4-month-olds can do):
Smiles, laughs -- Check (the latter since about 2 months).
Can bear weight on legs -- Check (for more than a month now).
Coos when you talk to her -- Check (since at least 2 months).
Emerging Skills (half of 4-month-olds can do):
Can grasp a toy -- Check (for about a month now).
Rolls over from tummy to back -- Nope. She has several times rolled from back to tummy (by lifting her knees to her chest and tucking), but I've never seen the reverse. I blame myself for providing inadequate "tummy time" (which is a royal pain which most infants apparently despise, worthy of its own blog entry).
Advanced Skills (a few 4-month-olds can do):
Imitates sounds -- Check. She's not doing repeated sounds that require plosive consonants (like "dada" or "baby"). But she's been attempting to imitate us since around 1 month, when I began howling to her like a wolf. (Don't ask.) She's given up howling, but she currently enjoys saying fricative sounds like "fffff" and "vvvvvv," probably because of their proximity to blowing bubbles, a favorite recent activity.
Cuts first tooh -- Nope (though the pediatrician notedlast visit that she's begun teething).
May be ready for solid foods -- She'll be purely on breast milk probably until 6 months, or she shows interest in our food.
Moving up the chart, Baby A has also done the following things more typical of 5- or 6-month-olds: play with hands and feet; recognize own name; turn toward new sounds; sit momentarily without support; mouth objects; and pass objects from hand to hand (just last weekend!).
In short, Baby A, you're fabulous in every respect. Oh, and let me hasten to add: No pressure, kid.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Role Model
5:30 a.m. -- 3 mos., 27 days old
Baby A woke up at about 11 last night, just as we were about to turn off the lights. I changed her diaper, but she peed before I could attach the new one so I had to change her onesie, too. By the time I snapped the last snap, she was wide awake and ready to roll.
M put the kid on her productive breast. (We call that one "ice cream boobie" and the one that produces less "trainer boobie," so when I'm handing her off I'll say, "Ice cream or trainer?") Baby A had no interest in feeding and began to play a favorite game: raise her head, turn 90 degrees to face down, do a face plant on the boob, raise head, turn 90 degrees to face M's feet, do an ear plant on the boob, then burble with pleasure.
We're at least partially responsible for such shenanigans. When Baby A learned to roll last month, one night we gave her a delightful lesson just before bedtime. When she went for her pre-sleep feeding, she wanted simultaneously to nurse and roll -- a natural desire to combine two of life's greatest pleasures. When M repeatedly discouraged her from rotating while keeping a nipple firmly locked between her lips, Baby A was more outraged than she'd been in her life, emitting a series of wails and gut-shaking sobs. I calmed her a little by walking her while discussing life's limitations, mentioning gravity and the hard fact that eating too much unagi or lasagna or dulce de leche ice cream makes your mouth happy but your tummy sick. But philosophy's consolations pale in the face of existential grief. The sobs ceased only when she exhausted herself, about 20 minutes later.
Last night, with Baby A turning -- nipple-less -- and burbling, M began to shake with silent laughter.
"Don't encourage her," I said.
Baby A probably needed no encouragement to stay jacked up this time; it was nearly half an hour and a couple of Beatles songs ineptly rendered a capella ("Michelle" and, incongruously, "Here Comes The Sun") before she settled in.
Such incidents make me realize that we've arrived at a place I've been dreading: Baby A is not just learning from the world around her but absorbing almost everything she senses. Which means she watches and listens to everything we say and do. Which means it's time to start monitoring everything we say and do.
Yikes.
We've already joked about creating a curse jar, in which we'd be forced to put quarters or dollar bills every time one of us swears. M is more guilty of this than I, she'll acknowledge. Perhaps it's her father's military background. But she has moments when she drops all pretense of professionalism or decorousness and swears like a drill sergeant. Similar imprecations have been known to drop from my lips as well. So it's probably only a matter of time before Baby A begins strewing random "shits" and "fucks" into her conversation.
Then there's our bodily habits. I'm not worried about burping or farting. M and I have long practiced a routine in which the instigator of the bodily expulsion will say "Excuse me" while the spectator enthuses "Good one!" That seems a reasonable practice for a toddler, too. In fact, neither of us will be surprised if Baby A's first words come after a particularly juicy explosion; whether they'll be "Cuze me" or "Good one!" will depend on its perpetrator.
I'm more worried about those moments when I look into a full-length mirror and worry, not quite to the point of obsession, about my burgeoning middle-aged spread. This has been burgeoning for some 25 years, and I certainly don't worry about it when I'm having a second bowl of dulce de leche ice cream. But I do worry about it when I have to, say, shop for new pants, and this seems an unhealthy practice for Baby A to absorb. It may be inevitable, but do I have to be the role model for self-hatred?
Ditto for my acne-pocked skin. Had someone told me when I was a pimple-encrusted teen that I would still be suffering from this blight three decades later, I'd have scoffed, or committed suicide. Fortunately, long ago I more or less called a truce with my epidermis, which I try to spend as little time looking at or thinking about as is humanly necessary. (I shave in the shower partly because I like long showers and partly so I don't have to face the daily bathroom mirror.) But I still have occasional dark moments of poring over my pores, and I'd as soon Baby A be spared knowledge of such events.
Of course, larger questions are also at stake. My sister says she never took advantage of the fact that her son looked younger than his years to, for example, get free airline tickets. "How can I tell him to behave ethically if I won't do the same?" she asked.
I applaud such reasoning and believe I have the ability to emulate it. Mostly. It's no doubt good that I waited to have Baby A until I reached middle age, since in my early 20s I was known to occasionally shoplift (meat was my item of choice for a year or so), and I didn't stop sneaking into movies at multiplexes, seeing two or (once) even three movies at a stretch, until about the age of 35. M, whom I've always believed to be a better person than I in most every respect, struggles less with such personal ethics. At least I think so -- I'll have to ask her which of her habits she fears Baby A will imitate.
My biggest fear of the moment remains small caliber: nose picking. Already Baby A has caught me with a digit busy exploring one nostril or another, her startlingly large blue eyes unblinking. It's too late to break out the handkerchief or run for a tissue -- she has the evidence burned into her irises and, no doubt, memory bank.
Granted, she has never seen me suck my toes; she has learned to enjoy that practice on her own. But how much more eagerly will she indulge in nasal spelunking knowing that one of the people she emulates most -- or at least sees the most -- practices it semi-routinely?
Worse by far will be the moment when she realizes that my parental admonitions to "Stop picking your nose" (or insert other distasteful or socially irresponsible habit here) are worth less than the air they're uttered with. I'll bet Atticus Finch never picked his nose. I fear the day that Scout Finch never faced, the day Baby A awakes and says: Hypocrisy, thy name is Daddy.
Baby A woke up at about 11 last night, just as we were about to turn off the lights. I changed her diaper, but she peed before I could attach the new one so I had to change her onesie, too. By the time I snapped the last snap, she was wide awake and ready to roll.
M put the kid on her productive breast. (We call that one "ice cream boobie" and the one that produces less "trainer boobie," so when I'm handing her off I'll say, "Ice cream or trainer?") Baby A had no interest in feeding and began to play a favorite game: raise her head, turn 90 degrees to face down, do a face plant on the boob, raise head, turn 90 degrees to face M's feet, do an ear plant on the boob, then burble with pleasure.
We're at least partially responsible for such shenanigans. When Baby A learned to roll last month, one night we gave her a delightful lesson just before bedtime. When she went for her pre-sleep feeding, she wanted simultaneously to nurse and roll -- a natural desire to combine two of life's greatest pleasures. When M repeatedly discouraged her from rotating while keeping a nipple firmly locked between her lips, Baby A was more outraged than she'd been in her life, emitting a series of wails and gut-shaking sobs. I calmed her a little by walking her while discussing life's limitations, mentioning gravity and the hard fact that eating too much unagi or lasagna or dulce de leche ice cream makes your mouth happy but your tummy sick. But philosophy's consolations pale in the face of existential grief. The sobs ceased only when she exhausted herself, about 20 minutes later.
Last night, with Baby A turning -- nipple-less -- and burbling, M began to shake with silent laughter.
"Don't encourage her," I said.
Baby A probably needed no encouragement to stay jacked up this time; it was nearly half an hour and a couple of Beatles songs ineptly rendered a capella ("Michelle" and, incongruously, "Here Comes The Sun") before she settled in.
Such incidents make me realize that we've arrived at a place I've been dreading: Baby A is not just learning from the world around her but absorbing almost everything she senses. Which means she watches and listens to everything we say and do. Which means it's time to start monitoring everything we say and do.
Yikes.
We've already joked about creating a curse jar, in which we'd be forced to put quarters or dollar bills every time one of us swears. M is more guilty of this than I, she'll acknowledge. Perhaps it's her father's military background. But she has moments when she drops all pretense of professionalism or decorousness and swears like a drill sergeant. Similar imprecations have been known to drop from my lips as well. So it's probably only a matter of time before Baby A begins strewing random "shits" and "fucks" into her conversation.
Then there's our bodily habits. I'm not worried about burping or farting. M and I have long practiced a routine in which the instigator of the bodily expulsion will say "Excuse me" while the spectator enthuses "Good one!" That seems a reasonable practice for a toddler, too. In fact, neither of us will be surprised if Baby A's first words come after a particularly juicy explosion; whether they'll be "Cuze me" or "Good one!" will depend on its perpetrator.
I'm more worried about those moments when I look into a full-length mirror and worry, not quite to the point of obsession, about my burgeoning middle-aged spread. This has been burgeoning for some 25 years, and I certainly don't worry about it when I'm having a second bowl of dulce de leche ice cream. But I do worry about it when I have to, say, shop for new pants, and this seems an unhealthy practice for Baby A to absorb. It may be inevitable, but do I have to be the role model for self-hatred?
Ditto for my acne-pocked skin. Had someone told me when I was a pimple-encrusted teen that I would still be suffering from this blight three decades later, I'd have scoffed, or committed suicide. Fortunately, long ago I more or less called a truce with my epidermis, which I try to spend as little time looking at or thinking about as is humanly necessary. (I shave in the shower partly because I like long showers and partly so I don't have to face the daily bathroom mirror.) But I still have occasional dark moments of poring over my pores, and I'd as soon Baby A be spared knowledge of such events.
Of course, larger questions are also at stake. My sister says she never took advantage of the fact that her son looked younger than his years to, for example, get free airline tickets. "How can I tell him to behave ethically if I won't do the same?" she asked.
I applaud such reasoning and believe I have the ability to emulate it. Mostly. It's no doubt good that I waited to have Baby A until I reached middle age, since in my early 20s I was known to occasionally shoplift (meat was my item of choice for a year or so), and I didn't stop sneaking into movies at multiplexes, seeing two or (once) even three movies at a stretch, until about the age of 35. M, whom I've always believed to be a better person than I in most every respect, struggles less with such personal ethics. At least I think so -- I'll have to ask her which of her habits she fears Baby A will imitate.
My biggest fear of the moment remains small caliber: nose picking. Already Baby A has caught me with a digit busy exploring one nostril or another, her startlingly large blue eyes unblinking. It's too late to break out the handkerchief or run for a tissue -- she has the evidence burned into her irises and, no doubt, memory bank.
Granted, she has never seen me suck my toes; she has learned to enjoy that practice on her own. But how much more eagerly will she indulge in nasal spelunking knowing that one of the people she emulates most -- or at least sees the most -- practices it semi-routinely?
Worse by far will be the moment when she realizes that my parental admonitions to "Stop picking your nose" (or insert other distasteful or socially irresponsible habit here) are worth less than the air they're uttered with. I'll bet Atticus Finch never picked his nose. I fear the day that Scout Finch never faced, the day Baby A awakes and says: Hypocrisy, thy name is Daddy.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Baby In A Hurry, Parents In A Fog
6:35 a.m. -- 3 mos., 24 days old
Just awoke from a dream in which I was being chastisted by my cousins for allowing my baby (Baby A, but older) to play unsupervised in a backyard with a pool. Started the dream certain my cousins were paranoid, ended it knowing I was consigning my child to a watery grave. Hmmm. Could I be the tiniest bit anxious?
Another trip to the pediatrician yesterday. (Last night, actually. Our good doc sees patients until 9 p.m.) Baby A has in the past week been peeing more frequently, it seems, and over the past couple of days she's had a diaper rash -- her first. (Her thrush wasn't a rash.) M looked up the symptoms and concluded it could be a urinary tract infection, likely caused by poop in her urethra. My first thought had been diabetes -- my nephew's first sign, at the age of about 8, had been frequent urination. Bring her in, the doctor said.
Baby A didn't freak out at the doc's this time; she was anxious, but we soothed her continuously and she stayed calm. Plus we had a lot to do before the doctor even showed up.
First she was weighed (16 lbs. 2 ozs. -- an ounce a day since our visit 12 days ago) and temperature-checked (normal). Then another nurse came and asked us to remove her diaper, then rewiped her (had I done a poor job?) and attached a plastic collection bag, larger than a baggie, over her vulva with some adherent that stuck but didn't hurt when removed -- Post-Its for infants.
The nurse reattached her diaper. Move to another room, she told us. We did. We laid Baby A down on an exam table and waited for her to pee. I tried the trick that works on M: prattling about Niagra Falls and the Russian River and waters coursing over Hoover Dam. Between sentences I hissed, imitating a broken pipe. In seconds, Baby A was filling her plastic bag.
We fetched the nurse, who unstuck the bag ("Wow! That was fast!") and told us to move to another room. We did. She came back in minutes with a piece of paper listing the results. "Glucose normal" was all I could understand -- no diabetes! The doc shortly followed and said the urine was 100 percent normal.
Let's start at the beginning, he said. How often are you feeding her? About every two hours, we said. How much are you feeding her each time? About two ounces, we said. You're working too hard, he said; her stomach should be able to accommodate four ounces about every four hours. She's probably peeing so much because she's got so much coming in so often. Wow. Why didn't we think of that?
A quick examination showed all was normal. Hey, the doc said, she's interested in her feet. Oh yeah, we said, she's discovered them since our last visit to you. Now she thinks sucking on her toes is the greatest thing in world history. Put her on her back, and within seconds the feeties of her onesies are sodden.
That's 5-month-old behavior, the doc said. Very unusual for a 3-month-old. As we saw last time, you've got a baby in a hurry here. Who might she be taking after? M said, Both of us. I pointed a thumb at M. (These days, I only hurry trying to finish crossword puzzles.) Yeah, M said. I guess mostly me.
Hey, we remembered -- what about the diaper rash? That's probably from teething, he said. Come again, we said. Has she been drooling more lately? Oh yeah, tons more. Plus, M said, she's been chomping her gums on my nipples when she nurses. (The explanation for the occasional yowls and yelps with which M interrupts otherwise peacful feedings.) Well, the doc said, she's swallowing a lot of her own spit, which is acidic. Teething babies often get rashes around the anus. She's a little early for that, but as we've noted, she's a baby in a hurry.
He instructed us to apply zinc oxide as a protective barrier, then clean it each time with Cetaphil. We thanked him profusely.
M said, A lot of what you do must be relieving the anxiety of clueless parents. Well, the doctor said, that is a big part of the job. But I like that part of my job. Pediatricians get looked down on by other doctors because we're not performing cardiac catheterizations and the like. But if you come to me with a fear, and I can relieve that fear, and everybody goes home happy, that's not a small thing, right?
No sir, doc. Not small at all.
Just awoke from a dream in which I was being chastisted by my cousins for allowing my baby (Baby A, but older) to play unsupervised in a backyard with a pool. Started the dream certain my cousins were paranoid, ended it knowing I was consigning my child to a watery grave. Hmmm. Could I be the tiniest bit anxious?
Another trip to the pediatrician yesterday. (Last night, actually. Our good doc sees patients until 9 p.m.) Baby A has in the past week been peeing more frequently, it seems, and over the past couple of days she's had a diaper rash -- her first. (Her thrush wasn't a rash.) M looked up the symptoms and concluded it could be a urinary tract infection, likely caused by poop in her urethra. My first thought had been diabetes -- my nephew's first sign, at the age of about 8, had been frequent urination. Bring her in, the doctor said.
Baby A didn't freak out at the doc's this time; she was anxious, but we soothed her continuously and she stayed calm. Plus we had a lot to do before the doctor even showed up.
First she was weighed (16 lbs. 2 ozs. -- an ounce a day since our visit 12 days ago) and temperature-checked (normal). Then another nurse came and asked us to remove her diaper, then rewiped her (had I done a poor job?) and attached a plastic collection bag, larger than a baggie, over her vulva with some adherent that stuck but didn't hurt when removed -- Post-Its for infants.
The nurse reattached her diaper. Move to another room, she told us. We did. We laid Baby A down on an exam table and waited for her to pee. I tried the trick that works on M: prattling about Niagra Falls and the Russian River and waters coursing over Hoover Dam. Between sentences I hissed, imitating a broken pipe. In seconds, Baby A was filling her plastic bag.
We fetched the nurse, who unstuck the bag ("Wow! That was fast!") and told us to move to another room. We did. She came back in minutes with a piece of paper listing the results. "Glucose normal" was all I could understand -- no diabetes! The doc shortly followed and said the urine was 100 percent normal.
Let's start at the beginning, he said. How often are you feeding her? About every two hours, we said. How much are you feeding her each time? About two ounces, we said. You're working too hard, he said; her stomach should be able to accommodate four ounces about every four hours. She's probably peeing so much because she's got so much coming in so often. Wow. Why didn't we think of that?
A quick examination showed all was normal. Hey, the doc said, she's interested in her feet. Oh yeah, we said, she's discovered them since our last visit to you. Now she thinks sucking on her toes is the greatest thing in world history. Put her on her back, and within seconds the feeties of her onesies are sodden.
That's 5-month-old behavior, the doc said. Very unusual for a 3-month-old. As we saw last time, you've got a baby in a hurry here. Who might she be taking after? M said, Both of us. I pointed a thumb at M. (These days, I only hurry trying to finish crossword puzzles.) Yeah, M said. I guess mostly me.
Hey, we remembered -- what about the diaper rash? That's probably from teething, he said. Come again, we said. Has she been drooling more lately? Oh yeah, tons more. Plus, M said, she's been chomping her gums on my nipples when she nurses. (The explanation for the occasional yowls and yelps with which M interrupts otherwise peacful feedings.) Well, the doc said, she's swallowing a lot of her own spit, which is acidic. Teething babies often get rashes around the anus. She's a little early for that, but as we've noted, she's a baby in a hurry.
He instructed us to apply zinc oxide as a protective barrier, then clean it each time with Cetaphil. We thanked him profusely.
M said, A lot of what you do must be relieving the anxiety of clueless parents. Well, the doctor said, that is a big part of the job. But I like that part of my job. Pediatricians get looked down on by other doctors because we're not performing cardiac catheterizations and the like. But if you come to me with a fear, and I can relieve that fear, and everybody goes home happy, that's not a small thing, right?
No sir, doc. Not small at all.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Mommies and Nannies
4:58 a.m. -- 3 mos., 23 days old
Reporting on the unseasonably warm January weather, WNYC recently sent a reporter to talk with folks on the streets in Greenwich Village. A young-sounding woman noted the large number of people in Washington Square Park and said, "Today's a great day for mommies and nannies."
Huh, I thought. No doubt she's right: not a daddy in sight. I felt overlooked, invisible -- not a typical sentiment in this culture for an upper-middle-class white man.
Pushing Baby A's stroller around my neighborhood every weekday for the past three weeks, I've seen plenty of mothers, plenty of nannies, and a couple of grandparents. No dads. Amusingly, M encountered a father of twins on a recent weekend stroll. Like M, he was giving his spouse a Saturday child-care break. M said he was a nice guy. I doubt I'll see him any time soon.
I'm hardly unique, I realize. Many people I talked to about my Daddy Day Care semester seemed at least to know some father or other who'd pulled a similar stint. But stay-at-home dads remain aberrational enough to engender pause in most folks I encounter.
When M was pregnant, we decided that her mom would stay with us for the first 10 weeks, and then I'd take the spring semester off; that would take us almost to Baby A's first birthday, and we'd cross that child-care bridge when we approached it. The plan made imminent sense: M's job doesn't allow for extended time off, whereas my school schedule is amenable to a break. Plus she makes about three times my salary. We were lucky to have these options. It wasn't a tough call.
The first time I felt I was tugging against the current was when I discussed M's pregnancy with my program head, my departmental chair, and my divisional dean. When I told them of our plan, I watched them all -- two men and a woman -- experience the same reaction: a second's hesitation, an internal double-take, as the news registered: You're going to take time off? And then, hardly missing a beat, they smiled and said it sounded like a great idea, how lucky I would be to spend time with a growing infant, and we'd make a plan to cover my classes.
The unanimity of this reaction sparked in me unease. The logical side of my brain insisted we were being sensible. But emotionally, I was bugged. I reconsidered my adulthood, my repeated decisions to uproot and move in with sweethearts. I only started teaching when, after ending a perfectly satisfying job to move 500 miles and live with M, I was unable to find a similar job in my field. I don't regret the decision; it led to our marriage and Baby A, the two best things in my life. Yet here I was again, watching people wonder about my decisions to put career second and relationships first. What was it with me? Did I lack drive? Was I somehow -- emasculated?
Since then I've dismissed the feeling, scoffed at it, scorned it. I count myself an extremely lucky man. I treasure my ability to spend several months with Baby A, to track her daily evolution. No one (save Alec Baldwin's character in "30 Rock") ever approached death wishing he'd spent more time at the office. But the nagging is something I've never quite managed to vanquish.
I simply don't know of enough men who've shelved career ambitions to partner and parent. I get long looks from neighbors who must wonder about the unshaven guy pushing a pram past them at 2:15 on a Tuesday. My mother, who postponed her own career for a decade to raise four children, jokes that I'm "lolling about."
Maybe by August, as the fall semester approaches and my time with Baby A dwindles, I'll be more sanguine about kicking it with the mommies and the nannies.
Reporting on the unseasonably warm January weather, WNYC recently sent a reporter to talk with folks on the streets in Greenwich Village. A young-sounding woman noted the large number of people in Washington Square Park and said, "Today's a great day for mommies and nannies."
Huh, I thought. No doubt she's right: not a daddy in sight. I felt overlooked, invisible -- not a typical sentiment in this culture for an upper-middle-class white man.
Pushing Baby A's stroller around my neighborhood every weekday for the past three weeks, I've seen plenty of mothers, plenty of nannies, and a couple of grandparents. No dads. Amusingly, M encountered a father of twins on a recent weekend stroll. Like M, he was giving his spouse a Saturday child-care break. M said he was a nice guy. I doubt I'll see him any time soon.
I'm hardly unique, I realize. Many people I talked to about my Daddy Day Care semester seemed at least to know some father or other who'd pulled a similar stint. But stay-at-home dads remain aberrational enough to engender pause in most folks I encounter.
When M was pregnant, we decided that her mom would stay with us for the first 10 weeks, and then I'd take the spring semester off; that would take us almost to Baby A's first birthday, and we'd cross that child-care bridge when we approached it. The plan made imminent sense: M's job doesn't allow for extended time off, whereas my school schedule is amenable to a break. Plus she makes about three times my salary. We were lucky to have these options. It wasn't a tough call.
The first time I felt I was tugging against the current was when I discussed M's pregnancy with my program head, my departmental chair, and my divisional dean. When I told them of our plan, I watched them all -- two men and a woman -- experience the same reaction: a second's hesitation, an internal double-take, as the news registered: You're going to take time off? And then, hardly missing a beat, they smiled and said it sounded like a great idea, how lucky I would be to spend time with a growing infant, and we'd make a plan to cover my classes.
The unanimity of this reaction sparked in me unease. The logical side of my brain insisted we were being sensible. But emotionally, I was bugged. I reconsidered my adulthood, my repeated decisions to uproot and move in with sweethearts. I only started teaching when, after ending a perfectly satisfying job to move 500 miles and live with M, I was unable to find a similar job in my field. I don't regret the decision; it led to our marriage and Baby A, the two best things in my life. Yet here I was again, watching people wonder about my decisions to put career second and relationships first. What was it with me? Did I lack drive? Was I somehow -- emasculated?
Since then I've dismissed the feeling, scoffed at it, scorned it. I count myself an extremely lucky man. I treasure my ability to spend several months with Baby A, to track her daily evolution. No one (save Alec Baldwin's character in "30 Rock") ever approached death wishing he'd spent more time at the office. But the nagging is something I've never quite managed to vanquish.
I simply don't know of enough men who've shelved career ambitions to partner and parent. I get long looks from neighbors who must wonder about the unshaven guy pushing a pram past them at 2:15 on a Tuesday. My mother, who postponed her own career for a decade to raise four children, jokes that I'm "lolling about."
Maybe by August, as the fall semester approaches and my time with Baby A dwindles, I'll be more sanguine about kicking it with the mommies and the nannies.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Boy!
6:06 a.m. -- 3 mos., 20 days old
As far as I can determine, infants wearing diapers display no indication of gender. This has not failed to stop innumerable people, vast numbers of people, virtually everyone we meet, from assuming that Baby A is a boy.
M and I, who have seen Baby A diaperless, know her to be a girl.
Like most babies, Baby A has short hair. Unlike most baby girls, Baby A is not routinely decked out with accoutrements (pinks and pastels, bows, ribbons, baby jewelry) that tell the world she lacks a penis. Therefore -- the logic here is irrefutable, vacuum sealed -- Baby A is a boy.
To the extent we can determine -- and we live in New York City, so this is a more rigorous experiment than could be conducted in much of the world -- this assumption appears to cross cultures, classes, and genders. Waiters in Chinese restaurants, shop keepers in sari stalls, Wall Street execs, dowagers at the Met, professors, reporters, construction workers, secretaries, random Joses and Laticias on any street in any neighborhood: "Oh, what a darling boy!" "Your boy is so cute." "Good-looking son you've got there." "What's his name?"
Since Baby A's name offers no clear gender signal to most ears, the answer to this last question does nothing to disprove the assumption.
For Baby A's first few weeks, the most common sentence we uttered in public was, "She's a girl, actually." With supreme will I resisted my desire to respond, at least once, "Actually, she's a lesbian." Now, partly from fatigue and partly in the interests of anthropological inquiry, we have stopped trying to disabuse the world of its sexist notion.
"Why don't they just say 'baby'?" my mother asks, sensibly.
It's remarkable the degree to which American society in the early 21st century wants to classify its children as gendered. Most parents now want to learn while the kid lies in utero, a trend whose appeal I have yet to determine. In either event, we were neither going to abort the child nor repaint the nursery nor begin accumulating a trousseau. We found out when I moved the umbilical cord from between Baby A's legs.
But the penis or vagina question matters to most. Tell the world you have a baby girl and the world beats a pink path to your door. Nurses at our hospital labelled their portable bassinets with pink or blue cards (and, misconstruing Baby A's name, mislabeled hers with a blue card before we informed them of their error); we were given as a parting gift a bag of pink items. Blankets, bibs, bath towels, burp cloths, plastic rattles, frozen teething rings, sockies, shoesies, onesies, sets, overlays, layettes, overalls, caps, PJs, diaper covers -- all come in more shades of pink than I knew existed. No one has yet bought us pink camouflage, but it's out there. Other pastels are acceptable but remain in the minority. Sex clues such as ribbons or ruffles are encouraged.
Most of this stuff we instantly put in the "re-gift" pile, or wore once to please the giver before re-gifting. To my knowledge we have not purchased one article of clothing for Baby A, accepting hand-me-downs from M's sister and a couple of work colleagues. (Some of this stuff is at least third-hand; "Cho" is written on many of Baby A's labels, and we know no Chos.) All of these major donors shared our disinclination to mark their infants, so Baby A wears lots of perfectly cute clothes that tell the world she is male.
Two of these friends, the parents of Baby N, who's about 9 months older than Baby A, have made further field notes. When folks assume Baby N is male, they'll comment on her size and strength: "What a big boy!" When they know she's female, they'll comment on her looks: "Oh, she's so beautiful!" When Baby N's father tosses her in the air or roughhouses with her, he often gets disapproving looks -- but only from observers who know Baby N is female.
None of this much surprises M, who's dedicated her life to feminist causes and has felt society's sexist lash (if lightly, compared to the majority of the world's females). But it has all rather stunned clueless me. I've been forced to rethink the depths to which humans, even those of us most desirous of overlooking distinctions of color, religion, class, and physical ability, cling to and nurture notions of "female-ness" and "male-ness."
I'd like to imagine it will be different by the time Baby A considers having children. But, boy, I doubt it.
As far as I can determine, infants wearing diapers display no indication of gender. This has not failed to stop innumerable people, vast numbers of people, virtually everyone we meet, from assuming that Baby A is a boy.
M and I, who have seen Baby A diaperless, know her to be a girl.
Like most babies, Baby A has short hair. Unlike most baby girls, Baby A is not routinely decked out with accoutrements (pinks and pastels, bows, ribbons, baby jewelry) that tell the world she lacks a penis. Therefore -- the logic here is irrefutable, vacuum sealed -- Baby A is a boy.
To the extent we can determine -- and we live in New York City, so this is a more rigorous experiment than could be conducted in much of the world -- this assumption appears to cross cultures, classes, and genders. Waiters in Chinese restaurants, shop keepers in sari stalls, Wall Street execs, dowagers at the Met, professors, reporters, construction workers, secretaries, random Joses and Laticias on any street in any neighborhood: "Oh, what a darling boy!" "Your boy is so cute." "Good-looking son you've got there." "What's his name?"
Since Baby A's name offers no clear gender signal to most ears, the answer to this last question does nothing to disprove the assumption.
For Baby A's first few weeks, the most common sentence we uttered in public was, "She's a girl, actually." With supreme will I resisted my desire to respond, at least once, "Actually, she's a lesbian." Now, partly from fatigue and partly in the interests of anthropological inquiry, we have stopped trying to disabuse the world of its sexist notion.
"Why don't they just say 'baby'?" my mother asks, sensibly.
It's remarkable the degree to which American society in the early 21st century wants to classify its children as gendered. Most parents now want to learn while the kid lies in utero, a trend whose appeal I have yet to determine. In either event, we were neither going to abort the child nor repaint the nursery nor begin accumulating a trousseau. We found out when I moved the umbilical cord from between Baby A's legs.
But the penis or vagina question matters to most. Tell the world you have a baby girl and the world beats a pink path to your door. Nurses at our hospital labelled their portable bassinets with pink or blue cards (and, misconstruing Baby A's name, mislabeled hers with a blue card before we informed them of their error); we were given as a parting gift a bag of pink items. Blankets, bibs, bath towels, burp cloths, plastic rattles, frozen teething rings, sockies, shoesies, onesies, sets, overlays, layettes, overalls, caps, PJs, diaper covers -- all come in more shades of pink than I knew existed. No one has yet bought us pink camouflage, but it's out there. Other pastels are acceptable but remain in the minority. Sex clues such as ribbons or ruffles are encouraged.
Most of this stuff we instantly put in the "re-gift" pile, or wore once to please the giver before re-gifting. To my knowledge we have not purchased one article of clothing for Baby A, accepting hand-me-downs from M's sister and a couple of work colleagues. (Some of this stuff is at least third-hand; "Cho" is written on many of Baby A's labels, and we know no Chos.) All of these major donors shared our disinclination to mark their infants, so Baby A wears lots of perfectly cute clothes that tell the world she is male.
Two of these friends, the parents of Baby N, who's about 9 months older than Baby A, have made further field notes. When folks assume Baby N is male, they'll comment on her size and strength: "What a big boy!" When they know she's female, they'll comment on her looks: "Oh, she's so beautiful!" When Baby N's father tosses her in the air or roughhouses with her, he often gets disapproving looks -- but only from observers who know Baby N is female.
None of this much surprises M, who's dedicated her life to feminist causes and has felt society's sexist lash (if lightly, compared to the majority of the world's females). But it has all rather stunned clueless me. I've been forced to rethink the depths to which humans, even those of us most desirous of overlooking distinctions of color, religion, class, and physical ability, cling to and nurture notions of "female-ness" and "male-ness."
I'd like to imagine it will be different by the time Baby A considers having children. But, boy, I doubt it.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The Beach Boys, Sly Stone, The Clash, Etcetera
6:03 a.m. -- 3 mos., 17 days old
I'm in a household of sick people. Baby A's had snot in her head for the past three mornings, and yesterday M awoke saying, "I know why Baby A's been fussy. My throat's killing me." I thought I'd noticed once, giving Baby A a bottle, that she'd struggled to swallow. Now we know her little throat must have been inflamed. Boy, will we be glad when she's got language. M stayed home yesterday, which she never does. So far I've managed to stay out of the morass. Spent the better part of yesterday fetching tea and toast and trying to entertain Baby A when she wasn't dozing at her mother's breast.
One sure-fire way to keep Baby A engaged is to play music. (We have no TV, so we do this a lot.) Yesterday, having sung her a Beach Boys tune for about the hundredth time -- she squirms frequently, and "squirmer" fits so neatly into all those surfer songs ("Squirmin Safari," "Little Squirmer," "Squirming USA") -- I decided to bust out the "Endless Summer" LP and play her the originals. Her reaction reminded me of when I played the Beach Boys for a cockatiel I once bird-sat for a few months, and Beethovenova (don't ask) instantly began to chirp and trill and scuttle across her cage in excitement. Something about the vocal harmonies, I gather. Upon the needle touching down on "Surfin Safari," Baby A evinced similar reactions: all four limbs wriggling, body bobbing, non-stop vocalizing. (When she gets excited these days she sounds like an adolescent talking through a burp.) She didn't begin to settle until "Warmth of the Sun," and when I sat her down and sang along to "I Get Around," she cracked up, then got riled up all over again.
No lullabies for Baby A. From early on we've played a variety of music, mostly in attempts to soothe her savage breast. Dancing with her in our arms is often the only way to keep her calm. The stuff that works best has strong beats -- Mozart symphonies over flute quartets, Lionel Hampton over Joshua Redman, Janis Joplin over Janis Ian. (OK, that last is an extrapolation -- we own no Janis Ian. But one night in an inconsolable state, "Try (Just A Little Bit Harder)" and "Cry Baby" settled her right down.)
When in doubt, we turn on the blues. From Robert Johnson and Howlin' Wolf to John Hammond singing Tom Waits, Baby A seems to enjoy it all. Conceivably, this stems from the 22 hours of her birthing, when M -- who'd picked out CDs for her labor -- listened to a steady diet of "Blonde on Blonde," Nick Drake, downbeat Beck, and other more or less mournful songs that kept M grounded amidst the pain. Finally, about 20 hours in, when Leonard Cohen began to drone some of his Greatest Hits, our midwife had heard enough and popped in one of her own airy, earth-mother, New Age CDs, which welcomed Baby A into the world.
Nothing New Age-y now. At a party last week, a live Habib Koite album was the only thing that stopped her screaming. When I walked toward my office, where the speakers thumped, she hushed; when I turned and walked back toward the party, she started right up again. A couple of nights ago she was kicking up a fuss, and we had to take off the cool Orchestra Baobab and put on a 1970s soul mix; it took long minutes of The Staples Singers, Bill Withers, and Sly And The Family Stone before she mellowed. Baby dance workouts are the only thing keeping our thighs from total flab-dom.
It's hard to describe how much pleasure I derive from Baby A's enjoyment of my music. And I use the personal pronoun with intention. For the first time in years, I can play in my own house artists that M has proscribed, whether through explicit requests or implicit but unsubtle actions (like leaving the room when the disc comes on.) The Clash. Elvis Costello. The Rolling Stones. One night, having put her to sleep with some early XTC, I came to M with tears in my eyes and said, "She must be my daughter. She likes all my music, especially the stuff you hate."
So, since they form the only path to put our infant to sleep, many long unplayed, much mourned parts of my CD collection have leapt back into rotation. Bless you, Baby A. For "The Name of This Band is Talking Heads." For "Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy." For "Get Happy." For "Tim." Remember all those nights when I got up five, six times to change your diaper? We'll call it even.
I'm in a household of sick people. Baby A's had snot in her head for the past three mornings, and yesterday M awoke saying, "I know why Baby A's been fussy. My throat's killing me." I thought I'd noticed once, giving Baby A a bottle, that she'd struggled to swallow. Now we know her little throat must have been inflamed. Boy, will we be glad when she's got language. M stayed home yesterday, which she never does. So far I've managed to stay out of the morass. Spent the better part of yesterday fetching tea and toast and trying to entertain Baby A when she wasn't dozing at her mother's breast.
One sure-fire way to keep Baby A engaged is to play music. (We have no TV, so we do this a lot.) Yesterday, having sung her a Beach Boys tune for about the hundredth time -- she squirms frequently, and "squirmer" fits so neatly into all those surfer songs ("Squirmin Safari," "Little Squirmer," "Squirming USA") -- I decided to bust out the "Endless Summer" LP and play her the originals. Her reaction reminded me of when I played the Beach Boys for a cockatiel I once bird-sat for a few months, and Beethovenova (don't ask) instantly began to chirp and trill and scuttle across her cage in excitement. Something about the vocal harmonies, I gather. Upon the needle touching down on "Surfin Safari," Baby A evinced similar reactions: all four limbs wriggling, body bobbing, non-stop vocalizing. (When she gets excited these days she sounds like an adolescent talking through a burp.) She didn't begin to settle until "Warmth of the Sun," and when I sat her down and sang along to "I Get Around," she cracked up, then got riled up all over again.
No lullabies for Baby A. From early on we've played a variety of music, mostly in attempts to soothe her savage breast. Dancing with her in our arms is often the only way to keep her calm. The stuff that works best has strong beats -- Mozart symphonies over flute quartets, Lionel Hampton over Joshua Redman, Janis Joplin over Janis Ian. (OK, that last is an extrapolation -- we own no Janis Ian. But one night in an inconsolable state, "Try (Just A Little Bit Harder)" and "Cry Baby" settled her right down.)
When in doubt, we turn on the blues. From Robert Johnson and Howlin' Wolf to John Hammond singing Tom Waits, Baby A seems to enjoy it all. Conceivably, this stems from the 22 hours of her birthing, when M -- who'd picked out CDs for her labor -- listened to a steady diet of "Blonde on Blonde," Nick Drake, downbeat Beck, and other more or less mournful songs that kept M grounded amidst the pain. Finally, about 20 hours in, when Leonard Cohen began to drone some of his Greatest Hits, our midwife had heard enough and popped in one of her own airy, earth-mother, New Age CDs, which welcomed Baby A into the world.
Nothing New Age-y now. At a party last week, a live Habib Koite album was the only thing that stopped her screaming. When I walked toward my office, where the speakers thumped, she hushed; when I turned and walked back toward the party, she started right up again. A couple of nights ago she was kicking up a fuss, and we had to take off the cool Orchestra Baobab and put on a 1970s soul mix; it took long minutes of The Staples Singers, Bill Withers, and Sly And The Family Stone before she mellowed. Baby dance workouts are the only thing keeping our thighs from total flab-dom.
It's hard to describe how much pleasure I derive from Baby A's enjoyment of my music. And I use the personal pronoun with intention. For the first time in years, I can play in my own house artists that M has proscribed, whether through explicit requests or implicit but unsubtle actions (like leaving the room when the disc comes on.) The Clash. Elvis Costello. The Rolling Stones. One night, having put her to sleep with some early XTC, I came to M with tears in my eyes and said, "She must be my daughter. She likes all my music, especially the stuff you hate."
So, since they form the only path to put our infant to sleep, many long unplayed, much mourned parts of my CD collection have leapt back into rotation. Bless you, Baby A. For "The Name of This Band is Talking Heads." For "Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy." For "Get Happy." For "Tim." Remember all those nights when I got up five, six times to change your diaper? We'll call it even.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Able-bodied
6:49 a.m. -- 3 mos., 12 days old
We have a big baby. Baby A weighed in at yesterday's doctor appointment at 15 pounds, 6 ounces -- 95th percentile. She's 25-and-a-half inches long -- 95th percentile. Her head was more than 17 inches around -- off the chart (or, more literally, above the 95th percentile curve on the pediatrician's chart).
Concerning the head circumference, the doc said that only one number was not worrying, that trends could only be told over time, such as over three measurements. Instantly, of course, that caused worry: What could be wrong with a big head? M and I both have big heads. (Literally; I'll leave it to others to gauge that statement's metaphorical truth.) Encephylitis? Another medical condition to look up.
All the other size comes from M's family. M's about 6 feet, while I'm about 5'5"; her shortest sister is 5'9" and her brother tops out at 6'9", whereas my dad remains the giant in my family at 5'8". All this is fine. I won't complain if Baby A's looking down on me by the sixth grade.
This 3-month pediatrician visit caused us parents little worry. Baby A's long over her thrush, her lone medical condition that required medicine. Beyond that, aside from a couple of colds, she's been healthy. And she seems to be hitting early all of the markers that indicate infant development. She recognized our faces, it seemed to us, before 4 weeks, and she started smiling around the same time. She laughed for the first time around 8 weeks -- laughed hard, repeatedly, when I played the "Rain" game with her. She started tracking with her eyes early, and she could track left-to-right, past the midpoint of her head, by around 8 weeks. Etcetera.
All of this parental gauging comes with a weird mixture of fear (is she normal?) and pride (is she a genius?), repressed quickly with thoughts that we don't want to burden her with expectations and that she's a blessing no matter her skills and talents or lack thereof. Etcetera.
One thing that has become clear to both of us is how "able-ist" we became when it mattered. M has worked with the disabled and the disability rights community, so she in particular is conscious of of the discrimination such folks face. But, boy, did we want Baby A to be born with all her fingers and toes and whatnot. We decided early that we'd carry Baby A to term if she had a high probability of Down Syndrome or other non-life-threatening condition. (We didn't want the tests that would make such diagnoses absolute.) But that decision made us face our deep desires to have Baby A be not just "healthy" but "normal" -- a troubling but incontrovertible conclusion.
Anyway, our devil-may-care attitude toward this 3-month checkup did not extend, in the event, to Baby A. She was calm in the waiting room. But as soon as we walked into the check-up room, things changed. She'd been nursing, and immediately she popped off M's breast and began to scan the room, moving her head from side to side. M said nothing at the time but was certain she was afraid. The kid stayed unsettled for the few minutes we waited, and we took turns walking her around.
Then the doctor came in, and we laid her down on the examination table. Her eyes got huge, and as soon as she saw the pediatrician loom over her, she begain to wail. Now we like our pediatrician, and he's never been anything but gentle with her. (We signed up with him in part because he told us in our initial interview, "These hands are for holding tushies.")
But he's also been responsible for giving her multiple shots. And he's a reminder of what I consider the most traumatic experience of Baby A's life: lying on her back in the maternity ward upon a glorified heating tray, naked, shivering, and wailing, for more than an hour shortly after her birth. I say "more than an hour," but I don't in fact know; after 15 minutes I couldn't bear any more helpless spectating and left the viewing window to catch some sleep. She was returned to our hospital room about three hours later, calm and sleepy. But for the first few weeks she hated any clothing changes or baths -- as soon as she was naked on her back, she began to wail.
That behavior has long passed. (Now she loves baths.) And yesterday's wails didn't accompany any activity of the doctor at all, much less probing or pain. There's no doubt that she recognized the pediatrician's face, stored from her last visit some four weeks prior. The cries didn't stop until he was done with his mercifully brief exam and I could pick her up. They started again even before he loomed over her a few minutes later to give her two more shots.
Afterward, the doc said he associated this behavior -- fear accessed from long-term memory -- with 6-month-olds. "That's typically when they start to hate me," he said. "I hesitate to make too much out of any one incident. But that's quite unusual for a child of her age. I don't know what it means, but it's something to note."
Rest assured, doctor, that Baby A's parents, having repressed all prideful thoughts that their child is doubtless the most ingenious infant in human history, did so note. Etcetera.
We have a big baby. Baby A weighed in at yesterday's doctor appointment at 15 pounds, 6 ounces -- 95th percentile. She's 25-and-a-half inches long -- 95th percentile. Her head was more than 17 inches around -- off the chart (or, more literally, above the 95th percentile curve on the pediatrician's chart).
Concerning the head circumference, the doc said that only one number was not worrying, that trends could only be told over time, such as over three measurements. Instantly, of course, that caused worry: What could be wrong with a big head? M and I both have big heads. (Literally; I'll leave it to others to gauge that statement's metaphorical truth.) Encephylitis? Another medical condition to look up.
All the other size comes from M's family. M's about 6 feet, while I'm about 5'5"; her shortest sister is 5'9" and her brother tops out at 6'9", whereas my dad remains the giant in my family at 5'8". All this is fine. I won't complain if Baby A's looking down on me by the sixth grade.
This 3-month pediatrician visit caused us parents little worry. Baby A's long over her thrush, her lone medical condition that required medicine. Beyond that, aside from a couple of colds, she's been healthy. And she seems to be hitting early all of the markers that indicate infant development. She recognized our faces, it seemed to us, before 4 weeks, and she started smiling around the same time. She laughed for the first time around 8 weeks -- laughed hard, repeatedly, when I played the "Rain" game with her. She started tracking with her eyes early, and she could track left-to-right, past the midpoint of her head, by around 8 weeks. Etcetera.
All of this parental gauging comes with a weird mixture of fear (is she normal?) and pride (is she a genius?), repressed quickly with thoughts that we don't want to burden her with expectations and that she's a blessing no matter her skills and talents or lack thereof. Etcetera.
One thing that has become clear to both of us is how "able-ist" we became when it mattered. M has worked with the disabled and the disability rights community, so she in particular is conscious of of the discrimination such folks face. But, boy, did we want Baby A to be born with all her fingers and toes and whatnot. We decided early that we'd carry Baby A to term if she had a high probability of Down Syndrome or other non-life-threatening condition. (We didn't want the tests that would make such diagnoses absolute.) But that decision made us face our deep desires to have Baby A be not just "healthy" but "normal" -- a troubling but incontrovertible conclusion.
Anyway, our devil-may-care attitude toward this 3-month checkup did not extend, in the event, to Baby A. She was calm in the waiting room. But as soon as we walked into the check-up room, things changed. She'd been nursing, and immediately she popped off M's breast and began to scan the room, moving her head from side to side. M said nothing at the time but was certain she was afraid. The kid stayed unsettled for the few minutes we waited, and we took turns walking her around.
Then the doctor came in, and we laid her down on the examination table. Her eyes got huge, and as soon as she saw the pediatrician loom over her, she begain to wail. Now we like our pediatrician, and he's never been anything but gentle with her. (We signed up with him in part because he told us in our initial interview, "These hands are for holding tushies.")
But he's also been responsible for giving her multiple shots. And he's a reminder of what I consider the most traumatic experience of Baby A's life: lying on her back in the maternity ward upon a glorified heating tray, naked, shivering, and wailing, for more than an hour shortly after her birth. I say "more than an hour," but I don't in fact know; after 15 minutes I couldn't bear any more helpless spectating and left the viewing window to catch some sleep. She was returned to our hospital room about three hours later, calm and sleepy. But for the first few weeks she hated any clothing changes or baths -- as soon as she was naked on her back, she began to wail.
That behavior has long passed. (Now she loves baths.) And yesterday's wails didn't accompany any activity of the doctor at all, much less probing or pain. There's no doubt that she recognized the pediatrician's face, stored from her last visit some four weeks prior. The cries didn't stop until he was done with his mercifully brief exam and I could pick her up. They started again even before he loomed over her a few minutes later to give her two more shots.
Afterward, the doc said he associated this behavior -- fear accessed from long-term memory -- with 6-month-olds. "That's typically when they start to hate me," he said. "I hesitate to make too much out of any one incident. But that's quite unusual for a child of her age. I don't know what it means, but it's something to note."
Rest assured, doctor, that Baby A's parents, having repressed all prideful thoughts that their child is doubtless the most ingenious infant in human history, did so note. Etcetera.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Holding
7:19 a.m. -- 3 mos., 10 days old
Of more than a thousand parenting pleasures I hadn't anticipated, holding Baby A ranks close to the top. Which is good, since M and I spend a lot of time doing it.
I generally carry her in my left arm, leaving my right free to pat her back, pick up mail, change CDs, or, now that she's strong enough to wriggle free, catch her. (Beyond pouring milk for cereal, one-armed cooking remains beyond my level of expertise.) She likes to perch high, to look over my left shoulder. My left hand curls around her left hip. Gradually, especially if I'm comforting her or trying to put her to sleep, she sinks and rests her left cheek against my shoulder, her little chest pressed to mine, her butt tucked above my forearm. When newly asleep, her head often tucks securely under my jawline and above my Adam's apple. Over time, she curls into shapes that would have any adult seeking chiropractic aid. Her 90-degree neck twists and mid-back humps can be realigned, but to little avail, as she slumps into a new contortion. The positions cause alarm only among the unchilded.
The pleasure is primarily, of course, physical. It's like hugging a friend with whom one instantly connects: there's no awkwardness or fumbling, no sense that parts are unattended or require rearranging. Like a dowel in a groove, or two components assembled properly -- click, it fits.
But beyond her warmth and her weightedness, Baby A also brings an acceptance, or absence of resistance. If fussy with others, as a rule she'll instantly settle down in the arms of M or me. Several times a day she demonstrates a level of trust that I, a typically defended American adult male, can regard only as unfathomable. She has faith that I will sustain her.
One evening, after guests had visited and she had calmed only after curling into my arms, I came to M teary eyed and said, "My God -- she needs me." I meant in a way that no one had; lovers and friends, after all, could always find sustenance elsewhere. I suppose Baby A could, too. But she'd notice the lack. M of course understands this more deeply, biologically, having sustained the child first for nine months and now with milk pumping through her body. I can only imagine; the father-child bond is powerful enough. But while Baby A's trust and its attendant responsibility can be overwhelming, more often it's come to feel like a blessing.
Here's the contravening curse.
Baby A's a big kid -- 9.3 lbs. and more than 21 inches at birth, staying around the 95th percentile in weight and height ever since. Now she's about 15 pounds.(We'll find out precisely tomorrow at the pediatrician's.) And she's developed fast. Ability to track with her eyes, lift her head, grab a toy: all have arrived ahead of schedule. All of which is great.
But as she's gained strength and a sense of autonomy, she's begun to wriggle: back arches, legs pinwheel, hands clutch my sweater or grab at my face, head pivots side to side (especially when she's tired). Her skull remains relatively soft, but with the bonks my nose and cheeks and jaw have taken, I can anticipate boxer-like blows in the coming months.
And, as my sister concluded after holding her for about 30 seconds, "She's not ergonomic." There's nowhere to hold her in which one's body doesn't begin to torque or twist or tweak. Neither M nor I are in great shape (she with the excuse of pregnancy, I with none but a lifetime of lassitude), and our backs have become constant shifting masses of pain. M did something horrendous to the muscles under her left scapula this weekend, and at the moment she can't even shift in bed without grimacing.
What happens when the kid's 6 months? A year?
Here's the other tricky part about holding Baby A: she likes it so much she instantly notices its absence, even dead asleep. The sternest advice we received recently from my brother-in-law, a father of three, was to put the kid down as soon as her eyes closed. "Don't get her used to sleeping on your body, or you'll become the favorite pillow she can't sleep without." Umm -- too late, brother. Pillows we have become. Our once-productive lives are now passed as sentient pieces of furniture.
So we've begun a process of weaning her from our bodies. The best advice we've received is from my sister, who made the process of laying down her son so deliberate that it was capturable only in time-lapse photography. She would literally keep her hands on him for minutes, gradually withdrawing one and then, painstakingly, the second, replacing it on his chest if he stirred. Even after contact was broken she'd remain, hands hovering inches over his prostate body. "I swear he could feel my aura. He'd wake up if I broke the connection too fast."
So these days you can often find M or me hunched over a crib or a playpen, one hand perched inches away from Baby A's chest, murmuring inaudible prayers that she stay asleep so we can straighten up, rediscover our existence as human beings, and get three uninterrupted minutes to do some back stretches.
Of more than a thousand parenting pleasures I hadn't anticipated, holding Baby A ranks close to the top. Which is good, since M and I spend a lot of time doing it.
I generally carry her in my left arm, leaving my right free to pat her back, pick up mail, change CDs, or, now that she's strong enough to wriggle free, catch her. (Beyond pouring milk for cereal, one-armed cooking remains beyond my level of expertise.) She likes to perch high, to look over my left shoulder. My left hand curls around her left hip. Gradually, especially if I'm comforting her or trying to put her to sleep, she sinks and rests her left cheek against my shoulder, her little chest pressed to mine, her butt tucked above my forearm. When newly asleep, her head often tucks securely under my jawline and above my Adam's apple. Over time, she curls into shapes that would have any adult seeking chiropractic aid. Her 90-degree neck twists and mid-back humps can be realigned, but to little avail, as she slumps into a new contortion. The positions cause alarm only among the unchilded.
The pleasure is primarily, of course, physical. It's like hugging a friend with whom one instantly connects: there's no awkwardness or fumbling, no sense that parts are unattended or require rearranging. Like a dowel in a groove, or two components assembled properly -- click, it fits.
But beyond her warmth and her weightedness, Baby A also brings an acceptance, or absence of resistance. If fussy with others, as a rule she'll instantly settle down in the arms of M or me. Several times a day she demonstrates a level of trust that I, a typically defended American adult male, can regard only as unfathomable. She has faith that I will sustain her.
One evening, after guests had visited and she had calmed only after curling into my arms, I came to M teary eyed and said, "My God -- she needs me." I meant in a way that no one had; lovers and friends, after all, could always find sustenance elsewhere. I suppose Baby A could, too. But she'd notice the lack. M of course understands this more deeply, biologically, having sustained the child first for nine months and now with milk pumping through her body. I can only imagine; the father-child bond is powerful enough. But while Baby A's trust and its attendant responsibility can be overwhelming, more often it's come to feel like a blessing.
Here's the contravening curse.
Baby A's a big kid -- 9.3 lbs. and more than 21 inches at birth, staying around the 95th percentile in weight and height ever since. Now she's about 15 pounds.(We'll find out precisely tomorrow at the pediatrician's.) And she's developed fast. Ability to track with her eyes, lift her head, grab a toy: all have arrived ahead of schedule. All of which is great.
But as she's gained strength and a sense of autonomy, she's begun to wriggle: back arches, legs pinwheel, hands clutch my sweater or grab at my face, head pivots side to side (especially when she's tired). Her skull remains relatively soft, but with the bonks my nose and cheeks and jaw have taken, I can anticipate boxer-like blows in the coming months.
And, as my sister concluded after holding her for about 30 seconds, "She's not ergonomic." There's nowhere to hold her in which one's body doesn't begin to torque or twist or tweak. Neither M nor I are in great shape (she with the excuse of pregnancy, I with none but a lifetime of lassitude), and our backs have become constant shifting masses of pain. M did something horrendous to the muscles under her left scapula this weekend, and at the moment she can't even shift in bed without grimacing.
What happens when the kid's 6 months? A year?
Here's the other tricky part about holding Baby A: she likes it so much she instantly notices its absence, even dead asleep. The sternest advice we received recently from my brother-in-law, a father of three, was to put the kid down as soon as her eyes closed. "Don't get her used to sleeping on your body, or you'll become the favorite pillow she can't sleep without." Umm -- too late, brother. Pillows we have become. Our once-productive lives are now passed as sentient pieces of furniture.
So we've begun a process of weaning her from our bodies. The best advice we've received is from my sister, who made the process of laying down her son so deliberate that it was capturable only in time-lapse photography. She would literally keep her hands on him for minutes, gradually withdrawing one and then, painstakingly, the second, replacing it on his chest if he stirred. Even after contact was broken she'd remain, hands hovering inches over his prostate body. "I swear he could feel my aura. He'd wake up if I broke the connection too fast."
So these days you can often find M or me hunched over a crib or a playpen, one hand perched inches away from Baby A's chest, murmuring inaudible prayers that she stay asleep so we can straighten up, rediscover our existence as human beings, and get three uninterrupted minutes to do some back stretches.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Teamwork
6:14 a.m. -- 3 mos., 8 days old
Baby A is a remarkably good-natured baby. Last night we took her to an M-work-related function at a crowded Chinatown restaurant. (Given that I've only visited the Lower East Side by subway, I've never seen Manhattan from the Williamsburg Bridge. Nice.)
I've taken Baby A for a neighborhood stroll around 4:30 p.m., and she's still enjoying her post-perambulation slumber when we put her in the car at 5:45. Given her inclination toward the unconscious in any mode of transport, she remains conked out until we walk off an elevator into a cacophany of clattering plates and clinking bottles and shouted conversations.
We coat-check the car seat and transfer her to the Baby Bjorn, which she's ridden in just once. She wakes up as we navigate the room, face against my chest, blinking into bright lights and a dozen curious faces. (She's hardly immune to the Law of Baby Attraction.) She's actively curious -- what is all this? Only when she realizes she's peed, about 10 minutes later, does she fuss and send M and me into action.
M and I have created a functional babycare team, which is put to the test in social situations. Tonight has unique challenges. Baby A hasn't pooped since Wednesday and is clearly uncomfortable by now (Poopless Day 3), so before leaving for Chinatown we followed my sister's advice and had M drink prune juice. Now we discover the restaurant bathrooms have no diaper-changing areas, so we find an empty table in the back corner, line up a couple of chairs, and conduct a quick change: M handles baby while I unzip diaper bag, grab changing pad and waterproof lining and covering cloth and lay them all down; M lays down Baby A and unsnaps garments while I unzip front compartment and grab wipes and new diaper; M rips open offending garment (still only pee -- sigh) and wipes while I rip open new diaper; I place offending garment in ziplock bag while M arranges new diaper; I reorder diaper bag while M rearranges clothes. Voila: the smiling child is ready to greet her public.
But, no -- now she realizes she's starving. More fussy-child transfers as I take Baby A while M unfastens one side of her undergarment and removes a breast pad and tentatively arranges a modesty scarf, then takes and turns Baby A sideways while I fumble to keep the scarf between inquiring eyes and a nippled breast while trying not to occlude M's view of the baby.
By now dinner is about to be served, and people have begun to join our table. M used to worry about public breastfeeding, but she's become more comfortable blowing off the occasional gaze of moral condemnation, and this crowd evidences nothing but admiration for the madonna-and-child tableau. Feeding over, we take turns dandling baby and manipulating chopsticks.
About an hour later, Baby A looses three brief blasts, which cause all eyes at the table to turn but which we hear as three cheers for prunce juice: Poop poop, hurray! (Can juice metabolize so fast?) Diaper change, Part II. That we're in mid-meal causes us mild consternation, and bending over the chairs is a pain. But either no one cares or they're too polite to object. (Later, M wonders why we didn't commandeer the lazy susan: "Just move those soup spoons, will you?") Besides, it's true that the shit of breastfed babies doesn't stink.
M and I agree that the teamwork forced upon couples by a baby cannot compare to anything that life has yet required. OK, we planned our wedding together, and that took some cooperation. But it was little more than a series of discussions and a couple of editing sessions where we hashed out our vows. And we've traveled together, which means picking itineraries and navigating airports and maneuvering rental cars in foreign cities.
But helping helpless Baby A requires cooperation of a different order of magnitude: dozens of tiny decisions and maneuverings to negotiate, every new environment a different set of variables. And almost from the start we've plunged Baby A into lots of new environments. At Day 6, less than four days after M and Baby A returned from the hospital, we rode trains (Long Island Railroad, Amtrak) from New York to Washington, D.C., then hired a car to enable M to attend a vital work event. It proved harder on M than on Baby A, who mostly slept (let's hear it for gently rocking trains) and took every bump with equanimity. A colleague of M commented at how smooth the two of us seemed in feeding and changing her. It hadn't felt smooth; primarily it had felt terrifying, trying to anticipate all the potential mishaps. But by now, four cross-country flights and another D.C. trip and several parties and meals and whatnot later, it's no longer terrifying. And indeed, I feel a new closeness with M, similar to that of a valued double-play partner who one knows will be in the perfect spot to receive the throw, and who will bail you out if the toss is errant.
By 9 p.m., though the dinner and speeches are continuing, we three have had enough and get in the car for home. Another night navigated.
Baby A is a remarkably good-natured baby. Last night we took her to an M-work-related function at a crowded Chinatown restaurant. (Given that I've only visited the Lower East Side by subway, I've never seen Manhattan from the Williamsburg Bridge. Nice.)
I've taken Baby A for a neighborhood stroll around 4:30 p.m., and she's still enjoying her post-perambulation slumber when we put her in the car at 5:45. Given her inclination toward the unconscious in any mode of transport, she remains conked out until we walk off an elevator into a cacophany of clattering plates and clinking bottles and shouted conversations.
We coat-check the car seat and transfer her to the Baby Bjorn, which she's ridden in just once. She wakes up as we navigate the room, face against my chest, blinking into bright lights and a dozen curious faces. (She's hardly immune to the Law of Baby Attraction.) She's actively curious -- what is all this? Only when she realizes she's peed, about 10 minutes later, does she fuss and send M and me into action.
M and I have created a functional babycare team, which is put to the test in social situations. Tonight has unique challenges. Baby A hasn't pooped since Wednesday and is clearly uncomfortable by now (Poopless Day 3), so before leaving for Chinatown we followed my sister's advice and had M drink prune juice. Now we discover the restaurant bathrooms have no diaper-changing areas, so we find an empty table in the back corner, line up a couple of chairs, and conduct a quick change: M handles baby while I unzip diaper bag, grab changing pad and waterproof lining and covering cloth and lay them all down; M lays down Baby A and unsnaps garments while I unzip front compartment and grab wipes and new diaper; M rips open offending garment (still only pee -- sigh) and wipes while I rip open new diaper; I place offending garment in ziplock bag while M arranges new diaper; I reorder diaper bag while M rearranges clothes. Voila: the smiling child is ready to greet her public.
But, no -- now she realizes she's starving. More fussy-child transfers as I take Baby A while M unfastens one side of her undergarment and removes a breast pad and tentatively arranges a modesty scarf, then takes and turns Baby A sideways while I fumble to keep the scarf between inquiring eyes and a nippled breast while trying not to occlude M's view of the baby.
By now dinner is about to be served, and people have begun to join our table. M used to worry about public breastfeeding, but she's become more comfortable blowing off the occasional gaze of moral condemnation, and this crowd evidences nothing but admiration for the madonna-and-child tableau. Feeding over, we take turns dandling baby and manipulating chopsticks.
About an hour later, Baby A looses three brief blasts, which cause all eyes at the table to turn but which we hear as three cheers for prunce juice: Poop poop, hurray! (Can juice metabolize so fast?) Diaper change, Part II. That we're in mid-meal causes us mild consternation, and bending over the chairs is a pain. But either no one cares or they're too polite to object. (Later, M wonders why we didn't commandeer the lazy susan: "Just move those soup spoons, will you?") Besides, it's true that the shit of breastfed babies doesn't stink.
M and I agree that the teamwork forced upon couples by a baby cannot compare to anything that life has yet required. OK, we planned our wedding together, and that took some cooperation. But it was little more than a series of discussions and a couple of editing sessions where we hashed out our vows. And we've traveled together, which means picking itineraries and navigating airports and maneuvering rental cars in foreign cities.
But helping helpless Baby A requires cooperation of a different order of magnitude: dozens of tiny decisions and maneuverings to negotiate, every new environment a different set of variables. And almost from the start we've plunged Baby A into lots of new environments. At Day 6, less than four days after M and Baby A returned from the hospital, we rode trains (Long Island Railroad, Amtrak) from New York to Washington, D.C., then hired a car to enable M to attend a vital work event. It proved harder on M than on Baby A, who mostly slept (let's hear it for gently rocking trains) and took every bump with equanimity. A colleague of M commented at how smooth the two of us seemed in feeding and changing her. It hadn't felt smooth; primarily it had felt terrifying, trying to anticipate all the potential mishaps. But by now, four cross-country flights and another D.C. trip and several parties and meals and whatnot later, it's no longer terrifying. And indeed, I feel a new closeness with M, similar to that of a valued double-play partner who one knows will be in the perfect spot to receive the throw, and who will bail you out if the toss is errant.
By 9 p.m., though the dinner and speeches are continuing, we three have had enough and get in the car for home. Another night navigated.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Mommy Works While Daddy Tends Baby
3 mos., 5 days old
4:07 a.m.Up after changing Baby A at 3:30 a.m. A good night for her, having last received a new diaper around 10:30 p.m. Five hours ties her personal record for sleep between changes. Came up with a new song that I'll try to remember: a slow, wave-like melody to lift her from the soggy dreams that leave her thrashing. ("Oh Baby A, it's time to wake up and change your diaper, then come back to bed and get some loving, from mother and father, who love you so, who love you so.") Unambitious lyrics, but she seemed to like the tune. For a while I was trying "Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me" (or is it "waken to me"?), but I don't know many more of the words, and too often it left her squawling throughout the change, uncertain of her surroundings. I don't take well to being the cause of her distress. This tune seemed to wake her gently and left her smiling and kicking calmly on the diaper pad before being returned to M's breast -- the best of possible nighttime changing outcomes.
Yeah, she sleeps in our bed. It's a point of some debate in (and out of) our household. Much more about that at some point. I get up to change diapers, a modest trade for M doing all the feedings.
5:03 a.m.
Diaper Change #2. Cluster peeing often happens after long stretches without urination. The little song received a blustery welcome this time, but she soon settled down and smiled at me during the second or third Repeat Chorus (i.e., the entire song).
Yesterday, the first test of our eight-month, Mommy Works While Daddy Tends Baby experiment, was rough. We'd just returned from a week of family visiting on the West Coast, and after a hard day's flight no one had slept well, least of all Baby A. Well, no: least of all M, who wakes (at least a little) at the slightest infant stirring. So M, who'd wanted an early start, instead got a couple of catch-up hours between 7-9 a.m., and then awoke discombobulated and overwhelmed by considerable work duties (which, with a couple of exceptions, had been ignored for a week, in an unprecedented relaxation of her typical vacation practice). Then she started answering emails in bed, and between feedings and phone calls and whatnot, she didn't even get up to pee until about 11 and was still in her robe at 1:30 p.m. The "whatnot" included at least a couple of snippy exchanges with me, including over control of the menu for a work-related dinner we're hosting Friday night. I offered to ease her burden by assuming all responsibility for the dinner -- planning, shopping, cooking, the works. She responded by worrying that I'd experiment and avoid well-trodden recipe ground, which I often do (that is, experiment) and which she dislikes when guests loom and her priority is to minimize potential culinary disaster. I responded by calling her in so many words a control freak, which in retrospect was not only a moment of Pot Calling Kettle Black but also a poor Conflict Avoidance Strategy. When she finally left the house at 2:15, having departed abruptly after calling down to me in the basement (I responded with a snotty "Give me one minute, I'm putting things in the dryer" -- then, "Hey, she's pulling out of the driveway at a speed that indicates ill-repressed rage"), I was glad she was gone.
Post-departure, things don't improve. I buckle Baby A into her car seat, attach it to the stroller and head out on our usual 30-minute route around the neighborhood, a sure-fire way to induce sleep. But for the first time in my stroller experience she cries for 10 solid minutes, despite (because of?) my repeated efforts to return her pacifier to her mouth. I've forgotten my gloves, and my hands are stiff. She has on a onesie and a beanie and a hooded snowsuit and her warmest blanket, but the wind is up and the temperature is about freezing, and maybe she's just cold. I give up and turn toward home when she falls asleep; I veer back toward our usual route along Shore Drive, but the wind is whipping up whitecaps on the Sound and she stirs under her blanket, so I scurry leeward and, shortly, home.
I keep her in the car seat, and she sleeps for more than an hour while I catch up on a week's worth of email and scan the Times online. She awakes bawling, and after a change of diapers fails to stop the cries, I defrost a 2-ounce baggie of pumped mother's milk by running it under hot water for a couple of long minutes, bouncing her in my left arm and singing nonsense to keep her fussing to a minimum. With an occasional assist from my pinioned left hand, I uncap her bottle, untie the twist tie, unfold the baggie, pour the defrosted milk into the bottle, rescrew the bottle top, grab the boppie pillow from its perch atop the playpen, pull out a chair, scooch up to the kitchen table, wrench the boppie around my waist, lay her down, tip the bottle into her mouth, and pour a good half-ounce of milk onto her chest. That "rescrew the bottle top" step needs work. Now she's really crying, and she wants no part of the bottle. Well, she wants some part of it. But she's offended, outraged even, whether from the presence of the plastic nipple or the absence of M or the presence of a milk-sodden onesie or the presence of an increasingly addled and unreassuring father.
Baby A has developed a habit of continuing to complain after we have taken seconds or minutes too long to meet her needs. A nurse at our pediatrician's office witnessed 6-week-old Baby A griping at M's breast, alternating long sucks with furious cries. The nurse seemed stunned. "How old is she? Is that all? And she's talking back to you like that? Has she always done that? Ooo-ooo." Her voice rose on the second "ooo," like someone calling "soo-ey!" She shook her head, staring as Baby A continued to suckle and squawk. "That girl, she's, she's a..." The nurse rifled her internal thesaurus, searching for something that wouldn't sound as pejorative as "she-devil" or "hellcat" or "bitch." Finally she said, "She's going to be a leader!"
Now our leader is whipped up, and while she takes an occasional suck at the nipple, she's putting more energy into her cries. Every time she catches my eye she's stirred into a new frenzy of rage. For a while I try to avoid her gaze, keeping my eye pinned to the clock whose second-hand drags unaccountably. This confuses her into silence, but only for about 45 seconds. Then I try to shield her eyes from looking at anything at all. (I'm recalling M's description of Baby A's "private nursing" when she brings her tiny hand up to M's nipple, as if to shield her suckling from the world's gaze.) This only refuels her outrage. Finally, less than one ounce downed, I decide to head upstairs to change the wet onesie and endure more long minutes of screeching while I put on a new outfit and a vest to warm her up. By this time her cries have taken on the shuddering aspect that says her grief is unassauageable. We return downstairs and again wrestle with the bottle -- she's not having it. Finally, I resort to the "5 S" routine known to followers of pediatrician Harvey Karp as a way to calm the most perturbed baby. In this crisis I don't take the time to swaddle (S No. 1), but I put her on her side (2), give her a pacifier to suckle (3), jiggle my legs and "shake" (4), and intone loudly, directly into her ear, over and over, "Shhhhh" (5). The goal is to recreate conditions of the womb, where the ambient noise is as loud as a vacuum cleaner. Baby A resists mightily. Trying to keep her unswaddled hands at bay and her pacifier in place requires a minimum of three parental hands, or creative use of one's thighs and forearms. After 10 minutes of rassling, Baby A gives up and falls into fitful sleep, her brow creased into the look we call "Consternation Girl."
M returns from work early, apparently in a better mood, and we go out to dinner with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew, whose visit to NYC ends tomorrow and who've spent the day in ignorant bliss watching Kevin Kline play Cyrano de Bergerac. We sit down at our nice neighborhood Italian place, and as we listen to the waiter run through the specials I can feel M's anger rise. In the wake of Baby A's birth she's become allergic to a raft of foods -- wheat, nightshades like tomatoes, peppers, potatoes, and eggplant, any cheese with a rind, red wine, pistachios, more. I'm pretty sure she can eat the fish special without breaking into a throat-closing rash, but she apparently disagrees. These days, almost every time she eats she gets cranky -- quite a change for a woman who's always loved food. What with her job in an unusual pressure-filled state, her days are often filled with angst and unhappiness. Then Baby A poops for the first time all day, and it stains both her onesie and vest. No one's remembered to bring the diaper bag. So I grab a piece of sourdough, wipe up some olive oil, grab the car seat with Baby A in place, uncheck my coat, pay the parking attendant, and drive home, venting the entire time to my child about her mother ("When is she finally going to resign herself to her limited food options? I know it sucks, but, shit, I can't take the sighing and the silent moping every fricking time we sit down to a meal. I'm telling you, Baby A, my patience has about run out.") When I pull up to the house four minutes later, Baby A's fast asleep. For some reason, this brightens my mood. I change her and return to the restaurant, and we have a lovely meal. M enjoys the fish without reaction. Baby A sleeps peacefully right through to her pre-bedtime feeding. Later, in bed, over her sleeping body, I tell M about our baby's response to my car rant, and we laugh.
6:14 a.m.
Diaper Change #3. Cluster peeing, indeed. Nothing but coos to the new song. A keeper.
4:07 a.m.Up after changing Baby A at 3:30 a.m. A good night for her, having last received a new diaper around 10:30 p.m. Five hours ties her personal record for sleep between changes. Came up with a new song that I'll try to remember: a slow, wave-like melody to lift her from the soggy dreams that leave her thrashing. ("Oh Baby A, it's time to wake up and change your diaper, then come back to bed and get some loving, from mother and father, who love you so, who love you so.") Unambitious lyrics, but she seemed to like the tune. For a while I was trying "Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me" (or is it "waken to me"?), but I don't know many more of the words, and too often it left her squawling throughout the change, uncertain of her surroundings. I don't take well to being the cause of her distress. This tune seemed to wake her gently and left her smiling and kicking calmly on the diaper pad before being returned to M's breast -- the best of possible nighttime changing outcomes.
Yeah, she sleeps in our bed. It's a point of some debate in (and out of) our household. Much more about that at some point. I get up to change diapers, a modest trade for M doing all the feedings.
5:03 a.m.
Diaper Change #2. Cluster peeing often happens after long stretches without urination. The little song received a blustery welcome this time, but she soon settled down and smiled at me during the second or third Repeat Chorus (i.e., the entire song).
Yesterday, the first test of our eight-month, Mommy Works While Daddy Tends Baby experiment, was rough. We'd just returned from a week of family visiting on the West Coast, and after a hard day's flight no one had slept well, least of all Baby A. Well, no: least of all M, who wakes (at least a little) at the slightest infant stirring. So M, who'd wanted an early start, instead got a couple of catch-up hours between 7-9 a.m., and then awoke discombobulated and overwhelmed by considerable work duties (which, with a couple of exceptions, had been ignored for a week, in an unprecedented relaxation of her typical vacation practice). Then she started answering emails in bed, and between feedings and phone calls and whatnot, she didn't even get up to pee until about 11 and was still in her robe at 1:30 p.m. The "whatnot" included at least a couple of snippy exchanges with me, including over control of the menu for a work-related dinner we're hosting Friday night. I offered to ease her burden by assuming all responsibility for the dinner -- planning, shopping, cooking, the works. She responded by worrying that I'd experiment and avoid well-trodden recipe ground, which I often do (that is, experiment) and which she dislikes when guests loom and her priority is to minimize potential culinary disaster. I responded by calling her in so many words a control freak, which in retrospect was not only a moment of Pot Calling Kettle Black but also a poor Conflict Avoidance Strategy. When she finally left the house at 2:15, having departed abruptly after calling down to me in the basement (I responded with a snotty "Give me one minute, I'm putting things in the dryer" -- then, "Hey, she's pulling out of the driveway at a speed that indicates ill-repressed rage"), I was glad she was gone.
Post-departure, things don't improve. I buckle Baby A into her car seat, attach it to the stroller and head out on our usual 30-minute route around the neighborhood, a sure-fire way to induce sleep. But for the first time in my stroller experience she cries for 10 solid minutes, despite (because of?) my repeated efforts to return her pacifier to her mouth. I've forgotten my gloves, and my hands are stiff. She has on a onesie and a beanie and a hooded snowsuit and her warmest blanket, but the wind is up and the temperature is about freezing, and maybe she's just cold. I give up and turn toward home when she falls asleep; I veer back toward our usual route along Shore Drive, but the wind is whipping up whitecaps on the Sound and she stirs under her blanket, so I scurry leeward and, shortly, home.
I keep her in the car seat, and she sleeps for more than an hour while I catch up on a week's worth of email and scan the Times online. She awakes bawling, and after a change of diapers fails to stop the cries, I defrost a 2-ounce baggie of pumped mother's milk by running it under hot water for a couple of long minutes, bouncing her in my left arm and singing nonsense to keep her fussing to a minimum. With an occasional assist from my pinioned left hand, I uncap her bottle, untie the twist tie, unfold the baggie, pour the defrosted milk into the bottle, rescrew the bottle top, grab the boppie pillow from its perch atop the playpen, pull out a chair, scooch up to the kitchen table, wrench the boppie around my waist, lay her down, tip the bottle into her mouth, and pour a good half-ounce of milk onto her chest. That "rescrew the bottle top" step needs work. Now she's really crying, and she wants no part of the bottle. Well, she wants some part of it. But she's offended, outraged even, whether from the presence of the plastic nipple or the absence of M or the presence of a milk-sodden onesie or the presence of an increasingly addled and unreassuring father.
Baby A has developed a habit of continuing to complain after we have taken seconds or minutes too long to meet her needs. A nurse at our pediatrician's office witnessed 6-week-old Baby A griping at M's breast, alternating long sucks with furious cries. The nurse seemed stunned. "How old is she? Is that all? And she's talking back to you like that? Has she always done that? Ooo-ooo." Her voice rose on the second "ooo," like someone calling "soo-ey!" She shook her head, staring as Baby A continued to suckle and squawk. "That girl, she's, she's a..." The nurse rifled her internal thesaurus, searching for something that wouldn't sound as pejorative as "she-devil" or "hellcat" or "bitch." Finally she said, "She's going to be a leader!"
Now our leader is whipped up, and while she takes an occasional suck at the nipple, she's putting more energy into her cries. Every time she catches my eye she's stirred into a new frenzy of rage. For a while I try to avoid her gaze, keeping my eye pinned to the clock whose second-hand drags unaccountably. This confuses her into silence, but only for about 45 seconds. Then I try to shield her eyes from looking at anything at all. (I'm recalling M's description of Baby A's "private nursing" when she brings her tiny hand up to M's nipple, as if to shield her suckling from the world's gaze.) This only refuels her outrage. Finally, less than one ounce downed, I decide to head upstairs to change the wet onesie and endure more long minutes of screeching while I put on a new outfit and a vest to warm her up. By this time her cries have taken on the shuddering aspect that says her grief is unassauageable. We return downstairs and again wrestle with the bottle -- she's not having it. Finally, I resort to the "5 S" routine known to followers of pediatrician Harvey Karp as a way to calm the most perturbed baby. In this crisis I don't take the time to swaddle (S No. 1), but I put her on her side (2), give her a pacifier to suckle (3), jiggle my legs and "shake" (4), and intone loudly, directly into her ear, over and over, "Shhhhh" (5). The goal is to recreate conditions of the womb, where the ambient noise is as loud as a vacuum cleaner. Baby A resists mightily. Trying to keep her unswaddled hands at bay and her pacifier in place requires a minimum of three parental hands, or creative use of one's thighs and forearms. After 10 minutes of rassling, Baby A gives up and falls into fitful sleep, her brow creased into the look we call "Consternation Girl."
M returns from work early, apparently in a better mood, and we go out to dinner with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew, whose visit to NYC ends tomorrow and who've spent the day in ignorant bliss watching Kevin Kline play Cyrano de Bergerac. We sit down at our nice neighborhood Italian place, and as we listen to the waiter run through the specials I can feel M's anger rise. In the wake of Baby A's birth she's become allergic to a raft of foods -- wheat, nightshades like tomatoes, peppers, potatoes, and eggplant, any cheese with a rind, red wine, pistachios, more. I'm pretty sure she can eat the fish special without breaking into a throat-closing rash, but she apparently disagrees. These days, almost every time she eats she gets cranky -- quite a change for a woman who's always loved food. What with her job in an unusual pressure-filled state, her days are often filled with angst and unhappiness. Then Baby A poops for the first time all day, and it stains both her onesie and vest. No one's remembered to bring the diaper bag. So I grab a piece of sourdough, wipe up some olive oil, grab the car seat with Baby A in place, uncheck my coat, pay the parking attendant, and drive home, venting the entire time to my child about her mother ("When is she finally going to resign herself to her limited food options? I know it sucks, but, shit, I can't take the sighing and the silent moping every fricking time we sit down to a meal. I'm telling you, Baby A, my patience has about run out.") When I pull up to the house four minutes later, Baby A's fast asleep. For some reason, this brightens my mood. I change her and return to the restaurant, and we have a lovely meal. M enjoys the fish without reaction. Baby A sleeps peacefully right through to her pre-bedtime feeding. Later, in bed, over her sleeping body, I tell M about our baby's response to my car rant, and we laugh.
6:14 a.m.
Diaper Change #3. Cluster peeing, indeed. Nothing but coos to the new song. A keeper.
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