We’re settling into a routine nowadays, which is so nice, if you like routines, and horribly mundane and soul-killing, if you don’t.  Now that the holidays are over (despite the fact that our outside lights are still up), people have stopped visiting and our weekdays and weekends are getting predictable.  Cue the nice or soul-killing.

Mornings consist of showering and breakfast eating.  We’ve recently joined the Green Monster Movement, as a breakfast experiment, and it’s going pretty well, considering that when you break it all down, it’s spinach for breakfast.  In an effort to see if RR is still allergic bananas by feeding her bits of smoothie, we found out that she still is (cue the face redness, splotches, and overall lethargy).  So she gets a bowlful of pre-banana smoothie, and we get the post-banana smoothie.  Seriously, the kid can’t eat enough of it.  We’re on week two and still find both them and each other enjoyable in the morning.

We’re both going to the gym on a pretty regular basis.  I’m coping with the fact that I have to be on stage at the end of April, in front of a significant crowd, for my band’s final farewell party/show/extravaganza.  I’m also trying to meditate my headaches away.  What?  Right.  Since last December, I’ve had weird, constant-like headaches.  So every day at work, I close my door and meditate to get my brain to chill the fuck out, since my therapist and doctor both think they’re stress related.  It’s kind of helping.  Kind of.

Spinach for breakfast and meditation?  You don’t even KNOW me!

RR is growing a molar that is killing us all slowly every night, and I might just replace her pacifier with the tube of Orajel so that we can all get some damn sleep.  That’s been the only routine-breaker these days, but with it’s frequency, actually, waking up at 2am might be the new routine if she keeps this up.

I’ve also found that I’m deeply in love with Vanilla Rooibos tea.  See?  Random.  But delicious!

The last three months have been a crazy whirlwind.  Anchored by some persistent ear infections, and a parade of visitors, your mama and I have spent countless hours away from work, taking you to the doctor, staying home with your sick self, or entertaining the masses.

I am more than delighted to report, though, that your ear tube surgery on Dec. 23rd was a resounding success… pun intended.  You were such a trooper, and other than screaming for two hours after you came out of anesthesia, everything went as expected.  We took you in early that morning, donned in your grey Gap sweatpants and your pink “Hug Me, I’m Vaccinated!” shirt.  I sat with you as they put the anesthetics over your nose, and you were out of surgery almost as quick as it took me to get my over-the-clothes scrubs off.  Mama soothed you in recovery, and you came home as fightin’ angry as I’ve ever seen a baby.  A week later, though, you’re sleeping through the night like a champ.

They said, “You won’t believe how much she will talk afterwards.”  And your mama and I doubted them, because before the surgery, you talked nonstop.  But Holy Jesus are you talking.  You can finally identify Elmo by saying “Ellllmoooo” in a high-pitched, breathy, trailing voice.  You also put your hands on your cheeks and say, “Ohhh Nooo!”  Perhaps you will be an actress after all.

Walking has turned into running, and fast.  You still have kind of terrible balance, but that just means you run into things faster.  I’m inclined to ask the people at school to call me on the days that you DON’T run into the bookcase.

Your love for music is unbelievable.  We start music classes back up this Saturday, and I don’t know who is more excited – me, you, or your mother.  You also dance a lot.  You rock, you sway, you shimmy your hips and your shoulders, you bounce.  Whenever music comes on (even, like, car commercials), you stop to dance.  When it ends, you say, “more” with your hands and your mouth.  If you don’t like a song, you say, “all done.”  Like it’s peas.

We had visitors of all varieties – both sets of Grandparents, and some aunts, and cousins.  Christmas morning was modest, as we do.  Your favorite present?  A blue ball.  This, of course, was blown to smithereens when your Grandma (my mom, who is NOT having a stroke and almost dying this year – hooray!) showed up with more toys and presents than any one child could ever possibly need.  I guess nearly dying her has inspired her to buy entire toy stores.  Your mother, on the other hand, almost died at the sight.  But that’s a whole nother post…

I think you’ll be pretty bummed this weekend when we finally take down the Christmas lights out front, since you do love them so.  You did very well with the Christmas tree (packed away last weekend), and loved picking off the baby-friendly ornaments and leaving them throughout the house.  We didn’t take you to see Santa… cause, well, kid, have you been reading this blog?  Everyone knows how you feel about strangers… much less ones in red suits with white beards.  Maybe next year.

You’re a really good kid.  You’re funny and smart and downright entertaining.  And now that you sleep, we’re all happier people.  Oh, and you really like drumming.  See?

Keep up the good work!

Love,
Mom

We survived a 2 week marathon visit by my wife’s family, who are simply delightful, but two weeks with anyone in your house (especially living in the guest room, which shares a wall with a recent sleepless RR) and one tiny 1950′s bathroom is exhausting.  We also ate a lot of meat/potatoes meals, and I consumed far too much bourbon.

After their departure, RR turned into satan got a double ear infection, and two different antibiotics and some eardrops later, she is getting tubes in her ears on Wednesday morning.  Maybe, then, we can all sleep through the night… meaning that none of us are sitting upright in the recliner, which is about as uncomfortable as it sounds.  Her appointment is super early that morning, so extra thoughts and vibes would be great.  I’ve been calling it a “procedure” which sounds a whole lot less scary than “surgery.”  That, and everyone I tell has known someone who’s had them, or had a sister who had them, or they themselves had them, etc. etc. and no one’s yet said, “And now they’re deaf.”  Real life reassurance.

Christmas is coming, whether we like it or not.  My wife is baking like a crazy lady, and I found myself on Sunday making crafts for my family as presents, though only through the help of watching football and drinking beer during the process.  I wonder if Hannah would mind a spin-off of My Drunk Kitchen called My Drunk Crafting?  Crafting presents for family members you don’t particularly like is only made tolerable by alcohol.  And beer, because I ran out of bourbon, and hesitate to dip too much into my wife’s good bottle of whiskey.

We’re going to visit my mother on Christmas day, staying over that night, and coming back the next day.  Mostly, I’m excited to see her on Christmas day because I’m thankful that she’s not dead.  That’s kind of the long and short of it.  We will then, subsequently, have to see my sister and her family, hence the drunken-made craft gifts.  These crafts were cheaper to make than buying something store-bought, but they DO go against the family rule for this year that we made, which was, NO PRESENTS FOR ANYONE (which was mostly based on our monetary restrictions, not a reflection of being a scrooge).  But that seemed really grinchy… economical, but grinchy.  So we broke down (quite literally) and have embraced the bliss of gift-giving.  Crafts and cookies for all!

Whereas I understand that this is all well and good with growing up, and we keep the first aid kit on hand for every tumble down the concrete path she takes, I’m finding that my patience as a parent to watch her struggle and learn and fall and get back up (bloodied, scraped, bruised) is very thin.  This leads me to literally hovering over her at a playground, while she says, “I got it!” over and over, making her way up and down the stairs.

My wife and I have different philosophies.  I am of the, “no standing on the couch.” and she is of the, “the BEST way to get on the couch so that you can stand up is to put your foot here… then push… now, here’s how to get onto the back so that you can see out the window…” So instead of actively holding her back, I hover, or more likely when my wife is on duty helping her learn, I look away.  Like it’s a car accident waiting to happen.

Her most impressive wounds haven’t happened on our watch, but the watch of her daytime providers.  We’re doing a good job.  Rather, my wife is doing a great job, and I’m nervously biting my lip from the sidelines.

She’s gaining confidence, though.  Strength.  Balance.  I’m gaining trust, patience, and the understanding that her development trumps my nervous Nellies.  Parenting lesson number… oh, I don’t know… 1,453?

On its heels is “Dap-um” as in “dap-um dap-um dap-um” – usually in three’s.

Where she excels in language development, she lacks a bit in physical grace.  As she’s learning to run (fast!) she’s also learning about gravity, falling down, and yes, Neosporin.  This week, just in time for Grandma and Pop Pop’s visit as well as school picture day, she’s sporting a massive scrape/abrasion from her nose down to her chin, thanks to a fantastical playground wipeout.  I’d say it looks worse than it is, but that might be a lie.  Hard times, folks.  Or, rather, OhhWhaaTee.

I wrote a song recently inspired by my unexpected extended visit to my hometown when my mom had a stroke in January.  I was fortunate enough to live on and among such rhyme-worthy street names.  Alas… I’ve spent years avoiding “going home,” but then found myself stuck there for a while, alone, freaked out, and forced to drive through old memories every day.  It’s been ten months since my sister called me to tell me that my mom was hospitalized and unresponsive.  Considering that I just spent two days with her, driving around those same memories, on the way to the Red Robin for lunch, is awe-inspiring.  Before, going to Red Robin with my mom would have been hell on so many levels … but as I sat there, chopping up cantaloupe for RR (who was actually behaving in her high chair), I found myself actually having a delightful time.

The visit was just long enough, and my mom and I had plenty of time to chat and complain about my sister.  She not once judged (out loud) any parenting decisions I made on the spot, and she and RR got along famously.  She had unearthed some old toys for her to play with, and we spent most of the days in her apartment, just hanging out… “visitin’” as my mom calls it.  I held my ground Thursday night, making sure RR and I were back to the hotel in time for dinner, and to see the ferry boats putter about in the river under the city skyline from our room on the 8th floor.  Friday morning, we had a room service breakfast picnic on the floor before checking out.  We were back in time Friday night to relieve the dogsitter, and spent the weekend doing domestic weekendy things.

The visit aside, RR these days is quite a hoot.  She talks nonstop.  Some things we understand, most everything with an inflection, and she laughs out loud huge belly laughs when she’s not talking or sleeping.  Her newest trick is fake-sneezing… where she inhales loudly and then makes “aashhhhhhhh” noises right after.  This age, apparently, is where parenting turns into a sketch comedy show.  Who knew?

For the last few weeks, RR has been sleeping miserably.  Up at least once in the middle of the night, oftentimes needing not only soothing, but some Tylenol/Advil.  We chalked this up to growth spurt, or remnants of that pesky double ear infection, or just generalized bad baby-ness.  My wife and I take turns getting up, and sometimes we double-team her if she’s super cranktastic.  Sometimes, she’d cry it out and work herself back to sleep.  Other times, she’d cry it out and turn into a screaming devil baby.  It’s all in the type of cry.

So I think we’d quietly resolved ourselves to the fact that maybe her good-sleeping times were a thing of the past, and that we’d need to really hunker down and do some sleep training soon here, for all of our sanity.

Until a couple of night ago when I was changing her diaper and making her cackle like a crazy woman and saw this row of jagged bumps to the left and right of her two front teeth, and thought, Holy Shit!  As a baby who doesn’t easily open her mouth for anything but a pacifier or a spoonful of mashed potatoes, I tried to get her to laugh some more so that I could peek again.  Upon further inspection, it seems like she’s trying to bust through four huge teeth on her upper gums all at the same time.  And then this morning revealed two more potential teeth on her bottom gums.

If this is how it’s gonna go, I might need some more therapy to get through molar teething.

So right.  Instead of just popping some teeth out, we’re in this painful, lengthy holding pattern while her teeth slllowwwwllly grow.  She’s not a teether, really (remember, she doesn’t like to put things in her mouth), so we’re kind of stuck.  We’ll freeze some pacifiers and stock up on Tylenol – this might take a while.

Picture this:

RR sitting on my lap, watching the Skins game.  I’m having a beer in a pint glass, and she’s having some graham crackers and milk out of a sippy cup.  All is well until RR wants down, and I permit her to walk across the living room floor, graham cracker in hand.

Enter dog.

Dog sniff cracker.  RR taunts dog.  Dog licks cracker.  RR licks cracker, bites cracker.  Dog snuffles for crumbs and dropped bits.  RR outstretches arm to dog with cracker in hand again.  Dog looks at me with pleading What Am I Supposed To Do eyes.

All the while, I’m kneeling down in between them, playing boxer referee, sternly saying, “No Ma’am” to RR and quietly shouting under my clenched teeth, “Leave. IT.” to the dog.

When she insisted on putting the cracker in the dog’s mouth, I gave up and embraced this teachable “cause and effect” moment.  He gently took the cracker out of her hand and swallowed it, right before she pried his hound jowls open, searching for her long , lost cracker.  When she came back empty-handed, she looked up at me and her face melted into a pile of tears and hurt feelings.

This, of course, was resolved by gently escorting the dog outside, and offering up a replacement cracker.

I remember being at a dog park once, when Moses was just a puppy, and hearing other owners talk about how they wish they could train their children half as well as their dogs.  Or at least use the same commands/language.   I guess, though, “Take It, Leave It & Drop It” could come off as a little harsh when talking to a 15 month old.  The battle continues.

From your first birthday until now, we celebrated a lot of firsts – first steps, words, front teeth, double ear infection, trip to the beach.

Walking:
You started walking consistently the week of July 17th.  We packed up the car (and the dog) and headed to the beach for the week.  Something about the layout of the new digs launched you into full-on walking mode, and you haven’t stopped since.  Your foot is a size 5.5 and you wear this shoe nearly nonstop.  You want to walk everywhere.  You want to run everywhere.  Grocery shopping… hell, ANY shopping, has taken on a whole new level of dread.  You will NOT stay in the cart, or the stroller, or the high-chair at a restaurant.  You will squeal like a stuck pig.

Talking:
You talk a lot.. some things we understand: mama, kitty, dog, Moses (the dog’s name), water, bottle, bye bye, I’ll do it, You do it (you’re very bossy), read, this, yes, thanks, and probably some I’m forgetting.  You also speak in tongues about things we do not understand.  We all have a lot of conversations in which I desperately wish I had a translator (example video at the bottom of this post).  You talk all the time.  You are also an excellent mimic.  You also might think your name is NayNay, which is a whole other post.

Reading:
I’ve never met a baby that loves books as much as you do.  I blame your mother, the librarian.  But you devour books… one by one, methodically, over and over until spines are broken and lift-the-flaps have been amputated and taped back on.  At school, your notes at the end of the day almost always say: “RR enjoyed reading books all day today.”  In fact, whenever your upset, all we have to say is “One hippo, all alone” and you’ll stop dead in your tracks.

Eating:
You’re still a pretty good eater, but for Pete’s sake child, stop feeding the dog.  It’s doing neither of you any good.  My favorite, though, is when you put the food in his mouth, take it out, and then put it in yours.  Maybe this is why you’re so healthy?  His head is at high chair level, and we’ve developed a couple of barriers (chairs, boxes, electric fence) to put around your chair so that you can eat in peace, and he can be encouraged to be a good dog.  It’s a hard fight.  I think you and he are still winning.  Your favorite foods these days?  Peas, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and watermelon.

Social Etiquette:
You’re a hard kid to have out in public, which is a shame, since you are so damn adorable.  But high chairs and shopping carts are a nightmare (see, Walking above).  We’ve taken to grocery shopping with you in the backpack, which buys us some time to divide and conquer the Kroger, but even then, your patience runs out quickly.  This weekend, we’re having a babysitter come hang out with you so that we can grocery shop, if that’s any indication of the problem.  Pieces of sample cheese or snacks only buy so much time, but are sufficient for short trips.  We don’t take you out to eat.  Period.  Your only public redeeming quality is when you’re in your stroller and insist on waving at everyone as they pass you.  Like you’re practicing to be a princess on a float.  Most of the time, people even wave back.  Next thing we know, you’ll want to throw candy at them.

Clothes:
You are a 9-12 month bottom and a 18-24 month top.  I’m really sorry that you inherited my low waist and short legs.  Sorry, baby girl.  One word: leggings.  I’ve never been so happy to have a little girl than when your mom and I are picking out leggings… stripes, spots, crazy designs.  That + diaper butt + t-shirt + crazy socks = overwhelmingly adorable.

Other than this whole being-terrible-in-public, you’re a really good kid.  So much so that we’ve had to baby-proof little around the house.  And by little, I might mean none?  I mean, we had your Grandpa install a cat door to the basement so that you can’t fall down the stairs, but that’s it.  You’re not interested in opening cupboards or drinking Drano.  If you do something we don’t approve of, we say, “No Ma’am” and then you (usually) stop.  Those times usually involve you wanting to load/unload the dishwasher, or contemplating playing in the kitty water fountain (which, I don’t blame you).  You shake your head “no” a lot… even if the answer is yes.  I think you just like to shake your head?

This is a video of you last week, when we were home together during the double ear infection.  Babbling, “Mama,” balancing things on your head, and squealing at the end when you realize I have the iPhone and you want it (which is so flattering). PS -  Turn up the volume.

I love you, kiddo.  Every day, you’re everything I hope you’d be, and more.

Love,
Mom