Milk

5:04 a.m. -- 5 mos., 25 days

Baby A eats solid food. That is, if you can define milky rice cereal as "solid."

For weeks she's been gazing at our forks and spoons and wine glasses with murderous intent. She doubtless could have eaten sooner, but our pediatrician was concerned about M's food allergies and our family histories of diabetes. But last week he decided it was time, so for the past three days she has begun wolfing with unadorned delight a tablespoon of rice flakes drenched in three tablespoons of formula. Mouth agape, arms aflail, tremblingly awaiting her tiny spoon, she looks like a ravenous baby bird.

Last night she sat for the first time in her highchair at our dinner table. She was most pleased at the development, banging her multicolored plastic cups on her new white plastic tray with vim.

Though breast milk is no longer Baby A's sole means of sustenance, this doesn't seem to have reduced its significance. Both M's visiting mother and I have had an easier time feeding with a spoon than M. Her proximity apparently leads Baby A to conflate the "food" and "boobie" categories, and she loses focus on the milky cereal and whines for her first and best food source, the nipple.

And the development hasn't meant the demise of the unholy troika of all working mothers seeking to limit formula intake: pumping, freezing, and reheating. Keeping Baby A in breast milk has taken an inordinate amount of parental attention, and the moment our reliance upon it promises to diminish seems an opportunity for reflection.

My recreational drug use is long behind me, but nothing calls to mind the activity of scrambling for every last twig and seed of your quarter-ounce like storing and using breast milk.

For starters, there's the baggie. For a while we were using the breast pump manufacturer's Official Storage Devices, specially demarcated with ounce measurements, made of unusually thick plastic, and costing about 50 cents a pop. Then we realized that we could save about 49 cents by using a regular, thin, undemarcated baggie with a twist tie. So we spend a lot of time opening, sealing, twisting, and unrolling devices designed to store sandwiches but that do a fine job storing liquid.

I can't empathize, but I have some idea what M endures to provide the 8 ounces or so of pumped milk we give Baby A on a typical day. She's lucky in that she has her own office. But in an hour she might get three or four visitors, and few are likely to be unstartled by the sight of a plastic suction device attached to the boss's breast. So she has to secure blocks of her day for the sole purpose of using a machine that, despite droning like a Roto-Rooter pump at full throttle, packs much less punch than Baby A's lips.

The pump comes in a sleek black backpack and has new-fangled plastic tubing, but the 21st century design belies its reliance on 19th century engineering. It requires at least one hand to secure its balky cone-and-bottle recepticle, making it impossible to type or do any work more arduous than a phone call. Removed from the context of suckling and nurturance and human warmth, the pump reduces the magic of breast feeding to its mechanical process, while reducing its users to milk producers -- to feeling like, not to put too fine a point on it, cows on a factory farm.

And let's not even talk about the (needless but apparently unavoidable) guilt that many working moms feel about infant abandonment, of which the pump becomes a portable symbol, fully self-contained.

Compared to the operation that produces it, my job of storing and pouring shouldn't be a big deal. But knowing that every drop has extracted a physical and psychic toll on the woman who provided it tends to ratchet up the pressure. And for a man whose stubby fingers have never displayed anything like nimbleness, not to say grace, the process of transferring frozen milk into bottles for Baby A has had its frenzied moments.

Few of the following tasks would be troublesome under normal circumstances, even for an acknowledged klutz. But the proximity of a hungry, squawling infant changes the equation. I recall in detail only a couple of the incidents required to learn the lessons delineated below. But in broad outline, problem areas include:

-- Defrosting. Remember: baggies can develop holes. Best to defrost them in a bowl, where leaks can be contained.

-- Heating. I put the partially defrosted baggie in a large tea cup filled with steaming water from our tap. (At some point in Baby A's development we'll need to turn down the water heater.) While dunking or testing baggies for frozen milk chunks, scalded fingers are routine.

-- Untwisting and unrolling the baggie. Virtually impossible, repeated experiments have proven, with one arm. Possible results include milk dripping, splashing, or gushing onto countertops and into sinks, where desparate attempts to recapture the spreading droplets remain unavailing. (Sponge soaking and squeezing are, it turns out, ineffective as well as unhygenic.)

-- Pouring from the baggie into a bottle. Re one-armed pouring: See above. Even with arms empty of baby (cue screaming from the crib), it helps to place a bowl beneath the open bottle to catch random rivulets rushing from unexpected baggie sections.

-- Screwing on the bottle top. Nothing like dumping an ounce of milk onto the baby's chest to teach this lesson.

I suppose it would be possible to calculate the number of hard-pumped ounces that have dribbled into our drainage system or Baby A's onesies rather than her digestive tract.

But who's counting?

Learning To Crawl

7:11 a.m. -- 5 mos., 15 days

Golf courses aside, Baby A has always enjoyed sitting in her stroller, which we take around our neighborhood at least once and usually twice a day. So it was a surprise this week when, two days and three walks in a row, she fussed most of the trip.

There's nothing like walking past your neighbors with a squawling baby to raise your parental defenses. No, no, I protest as faces turn with a mix of pity and empathy or, more often, concern. She's not usually like this. She's a happy baby, honest. Our pediatrician says she's thriving. I'm a competent father, I swear.

Thus, after three walks filled not with the joy of budding spring but infant wails and paternal chagrin, I was willing to experiment.

Standard winter walk wear for Baby A has been a snow suit over her onesie and then to be swaddled in her favorite green blanket. But every day she's becoming more physically independent. I.e., she can sit for 15 minutes without toppling. When lying on her back she loves to thrash all four limbs for minutes on end. And, as she becomes aware of her ability to move and her sense of personal space expands, she's been doing full-body dolphin thrusts toward objects she wants, either from a lying or sitting position.

This last maneuver means she's no longer safe except in the precise middle of our bed. I came back from a toothbrushing break to discover her not sitting demurely where I'd left her but lying on her tummy next to a rattle, hands at bed's edge in push-up position, head raised, grinning at her new trick. Yikes.

The dolphin thrusts are clearly an evolutionary step toward crawling. On our bed yesterday morning, M put Baby A on her tummy and pressed her hands against her little feet. Sure enough, Baby A put her hands in push-up position, lifted her head, looked toward me, and generated enough leg force to move her hips forward, tumbling onto her face before peeking up with a smile. She did this about a half-dozen times and was delighted.

And she was furious later in the day when she tried the trick on her own. Without something to push off, her legs just slid on the carpet and she stayed in place. This was an outrage the likes of which she'd never experienced. The time has come. Baby A wants to move.

So on a blustery afternoon I decided to deviate from our stroller swaddling routine. We'd learned this from pediatrician Harvey Karp's five S technique to calm under-3-month-olds. Swaddling was part of the magic (plus putting her on her side, suckling, shushing, shaking) that could quiet her tantrums. And though we haven't much needed the full five S's since her last airplane ride, Baby A had always liked being securely tucked into her stroller.

This time, I tucked the blanket around her torso and legs while leaving her arms free. I was certain she'd knock out her pacifier and make herself more miserable. But I was desperate. Baby A's walks have been my saving grace, one of only two ways I can get her to nap. If our strolls became a torment, I'd be dancing around our house to rock music non-stop. My thighs ached just thinking about it.

We launched out, and immediately Baby A began to flail her arms so hard that one of her hands popped out of the snow suit, which has fold-over sleeves to keep her hands covered. But the kid was burbling, not screaming, so I was hardly going to break our momentum.

One block later, we passed a young Chinese woman carrying groceries. She stopped in her tracks, a look of horror her face. "Baby cold," she said. "Baby cold!"

"Yes," I said. "She certainly hates being cold."

The woman struggled for words. She moved her arms as if to bundle up. "Blanket," I think she said. "Poor baby. Baby cold."

"Yes," I said, striding past. "Have to keep walking. Can't have the baby getting cold."

I didn't glance back for another half-block, and the woman was gone. But she'd worried me enough to stop and refold the snow suit over Baby A's hand, which was indeed chilled. "You OK?" I asked.

There was no need. Baby A grinned, then squinted and turned her head sideways in the gesture that means the world is almost too delightful to bear. Sleeve adjusted, we marched on, with attentive head turns but barely a peep from the stroller. After a while the head turns slowed. We went the long way, and when we got home she stayed asleep for another 30 minutes.

Neighbors be damned: baby arms are meant to be free.

Babysitting

6:21 a.m. -- 5 mos., 12 days

M had a work retreat late last week, a two-day gathering of 25 of her peers (division leaders, mostly) and corporate brass at a conference center about an hour out of the city. We decided the best strategy was for Baby A and me to tag along, so M wouldn't have to shuttle back and forth or worry about pumping breast milk in the midst of meetings.

This worked just fine for M and Baby A.

We arrived the night before the retreat began. The large hotel, which includes a 9-hole golf course and tennis complex, was institutional and anodyne. Whatever leftover childhood excitement I have about hotel stays was, as usual, wiped away in the first 30 minutes, with the realization that the shower, mattress, and food were inferior to ours at home.

Not to mention Baby A's entertainment options. We'd brought a couple of favorite rattles and books, but the array -- as well as our ability to change environments when she got bored -- was limited.

But no worries. It was only for a couple of nights. Plus, meal times promised me some adult company for a change. M had checked with her bosses, and they'd assured her that Baby A and I would be most welcome at all of the non-business gatherings.

We awoke hungry on the retreat's first day and ordered room service. About an hour later the three of us went down to where the attendees were gathering for a pre-meeting breakfast. M carried Baby A, who as usual attracted admirers and adorers. I introduced myself to a couple of division leaders.

"So you're taking care of the baby for a couple of days?" one asked.

"That's my current job, actually," I said, explaining about the semester off.

"That's funny," the other said. "We were just talking about the definition of 'work.'"

"Well," I said, "what I do every day doesn't exactly engage higher-level brain function, but I'd certainly define it as work."

They smiled vaguely and didn't respond. I shifted. Then M needed me to take Baby A for a minute, and after some more infant admiring I retreated with her back to our room.

For some reason, Baby A hated the golf course. I'd thought it would be a perfect place to stroll, closed to golfers for the winter but with cart paths that accommodated our stroller. But she wailed for more than half of our 45-minute walk, undiverted by the ducks, geese, bridges, and manicured, marshy fairways, before falling into a fitful sleep. She was fussy again when she woke up. I was glad when lunch rolled around.

A long line awaited us at the impressively arrayed buffet table. I chatted with a guy who was running sound for the retreat. I should have known from his first comment that he wasn't connected to M's company, when he admired my Chuck Taylors. Nice guy.

By the time M and I got through the line, most of the tables were filled. I walked over to two vacant chairs and sat down.

Sorry, I was told, another vice president is sitting here.

I stood up. Plate in hand, I moved to the center of the room. A division leader, who's in my field and whom I'd met at a couple of professional conferences, walked past.

"So you're here babysitting?" he said.

"Umm, I guess you could say that."

"Well, good to see you."

The staffer organizing the retreat saw us standing awkwardly. (Someone else was dandling Baby A at one of the tables.) Here, she said, you guys can sit at this table.

I sat down.

Sorry, someone said, the CEO's sitting there.

I stood up.

The staffer apologized. We'll get someone to add a couple of chairs, she said. Just wait a minute.

Either sensing my discomfort or feeling uncomfortable herself, M said, "Forget it. We'll just go back to the room."

Which we did. M grabbed the baby, and I carried her plate. "That's the last time I'm doing that," I said. "That was humiliating."

"I'm sorry," M said, abashed. "She told me there'd be plenty of room."

"Yeah, whatever."

M had to return to the buffet to grab silverware. When she returned, she said the staffer had apologized to her again and told her they were bringing more chairs.

"Forget it," I said.

We ate in stony silence. Baby A played happily on the mattress.

The incident caused a bit of kerfluffle. Apparently the hotel had put us in a lunch space that failed to accommodate the size of the retreat; we weren't the only ones without seats. The retreat organizer told the CEO, who apologized to M personally and reiterated that her husband and baby were more than welcome at all future meals. The organizer told M repeatedly that I should certainly come to the evening reception and dinner. During our afternoon golf course stroll (we went the opposite way, from Hole 9 to Hole 1; Baby A cried about half the time), the hotel staff left a message on our phone apologizing for the mistake and ensuring us that we would have sufficient space at any future meal.

I passed.

"Imagine," I said to M as she changed for the reception. "You come to your husband's company retreat, caring for our baby. You're invited to the meals, but there's a similar fuck up. You get asked if you're the 'babysitter.' There's no other reason for you to be there. You feel conflicted enough about giving up your career. Would you want to swallow hard, smile, and hang out with my colleagues?"

M said she understood. She took Baby A to the reception. I swam laps and sat in the sauna, ate dinner by myself, then watched movies in the room and put Baby A to sleep. The next day, I ate room service while M took Baby A to breakfast. During our morning walk, Baby A cried for more than four holes. I requested that we leave after the last meeting and skip lunch, which M kindly did. We drove home.

Next time, I said, I'll let you bring the breast pump.