Thursday, June 23, 2011
Moving day...
ONE JAY AT A TIME has moved. New posts will be going up over on tumblr. Thought it might be time to get out of my Capricorny safe-zone and try something new. All the old OJAAT posts will still be here for you to reminisce- then head on over here for that same great ONE JAY taste, but with a new look and url.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
What I learned: A new dad's year in review
I survived one year of being a dad. Over the past year, I've used this blog as a sort of punching bag-- I thought it'd be fun (for me anyway), to look back over the past year to see what being someone's parent has taught me. Some if it I probably knew already, some if came out of left field- but all of it will stick with me. Here's a gander at what I learned:
I wasn't fully prepared for what I may see on delivery day.
I don't ever want to have to see my little girl in the hospital ever again.
Children's playthings can be haunting.
I may never show up on time again.
Happy to not have lost my outward inner-child.
Later in the year, we did discover zippers.Glorious.
Who knew I'd get so much nourishment from feeding a baby.
I talk to a lot more strangers now.
Who needs to sleep in, anyway?
Wait- parenthood isn't a competitive sport?
Why wouldn't I want to save myself some precious time?
I don't want to see it.
Everybody does it-- and you kind of have to, especially in NYC.
I'm a man- but that doesn't mean my ovaries can't ache.
Yes, pink.
Sometimes, you just have to say it in a haiku.
What an informative and draining year it was... no break though, year two lies ahead!!
I wasn't fully prepared for what I may see on delivery day.
I don't ever want to have to see my little girl in the hospital ever again.
Children's playthings can be haunting.
I may never show up on time again.
Happy to not have lost my outward inner-child.
Later in the year, we did discover zippers.Glorious.
Who knew I'd get so much nourishment from feeding a baby.
I talk to a lot more strangers now.
Who needs to sleep in, anyway?
Wait- parenthood isn't a competitive sport?
Why wouldn't I want to save myself some precious time?
I don't want to see it.
Everybody does it-- and you kind of have to, especially in NYC.
I'm a man- but that doesn't mean my ovaries can't ache.
Yes, pink.
Sometimes, you just have to say it in a haiku.
What an informative and draining year it was... no break though, year two lies ahead!!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
No emergency!
If you've spent any time on the NYC subway, you've noticed the little cord with the red handle hanging from the ceiling in the back of each car: the emergency cord (brake). Only to be used in case of an emergency!
Well, posted under or at least nearby the dangling cord is a sign listing possible emergencies- Police Activity, Fire, Sick or Injured Passenger... following each however, is the phrase- DO NOT PULL EMERGENCY CORD. Which makes me wonder, in what case is it in fact okay to use it? Earthquake? Flash flood? Godzilla attack (or any others beast of mythic proportions)? It seems though in those cases the trauma would be such as to make the train derail, rendering the emergency brake moot.
So when do you use it? And if the answer is never-- why is it in every car on every train, out in the wide open where anyone could pull it? At any time? It's not even behind glass or anything, like they do with fire extinguishers- so as to ward off the riff-raff. So what's the deal? To pull or not to pull?
Well, posted under or at least nearby the dangling cord is a sign listing possible emergencies- Police Activity, Fire, Sick or Injured Passenger... following each however, is the phrase- DO NOT PULL EMERGENCY CORD. Which makes me wonder, in what case is it in fact okay to use it? Earthquake? Flash flood? Godzilla attack (or any others beast of mythic proportions)? It seems though in those cases the trauma would be such as to make the train derail, rendering the emergency brake moot.
So when do you use it? And if the answer is never-- why is it in every car on every train, out in the wide open where anyone could pull it? At any time? It's not even behind glass or anything, like they do with fire extinguishers- so as to ward off the riff-raff. So what's the deal? To pull or not to pull?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 34: The best day she'll never remember
The first birthday is a milestone to be treasured. A time to look back at the incredible year that has past, and remember all the moments that brought your little one to this day. A day to celebrate her.
The first birthday party however, is a completely different beast. It's not for the child. She's not going to remember what she wore, what plates were used or what food was served on them. She'll not someday reminisce about the decorations, nor the presents she received. The first birthday party is for the parents. A "Whoo-hoo we made it through a year" kind of bash, and most deserved. However, the party is not thrown for the parents- it's the parents that throw it for themselves, under the guise that it's really for the child.
Matching napkins and specific color schemes, addressing specialized invitations and planning the menu. Cleaning the house until your reflection can be seen in the bathroom fixtures (a New York City bathroom, mind you- which doesn't ever look that clean not matter how much bleach you use). Stressing over every detail to make sure it's perfect for your little angel.
Only it's not for the little one- I reminded my friend of this when she was throwing her son's first b-day soiree, I reminded my wife of this when it was time to throw one for our little nugget. And yet, still special cake pans were purchased, and cupcakes were baked in quantities large enough to feed the Union army- with some left over for Lee's boys in gray as well. Minor breakdowns ensued when the day came and there was still so much left to be done to make the day all a one year old could ever wish for. If only she knew what a wish was. Right now her wishes would probably consist of more Ritz crackers and unlimited play time with the TV remote (so she can unwittingly order pay-per-view movies mommy and daddy don't want to see).
The day was a success... I mean the food for the adults was an hour late. The food for the kids was purchased about 20 minutes prior to the party starting- and only then because my sister asked when were putting the chicken nuggets in the oven. K. was, no surprise, overwhelmed and clingy to me and my wife. And after all the prep time her mom put into the birthday treat- our little cupcake wanted little to do with hers.
But we survived. And the baby-sitter was invited, so when she showed up a little pressure was lifted. And everybody had a good time. It was a day to remember for us- even if we wanted to forget it afterwards. Our little girl turned one year old. Happy Birthday, Miss K... you are loved.
The first birthday party however, is a completely different beast. It's not for the child. She's not going to remember what she wore, what plates were used or what food was served on them. She'll not someday reminisce about the decorations, nor the presents she received. The first birthday party is for the parents. A "Whoo-hoo we made it through a year" kind of bash, and most deserved. However, the party is not thrown for the parents- it's the parents that throw it for themselves, under the guise that it's really for the child.
Matching napkins and specific color schemes, addressing specialized invitations and planning the menu. Cleaning the house until your reflection can be seen in the bathroom fixtures (a New York City bathroom, mind you- which doesn't ever look that clean not matter how much bleach you use). Stressing over every detail to make sure it's perfect for your little angel.
Only it's not for the little one- I reminded my friend of this when she was throwing her son's first b-day soiree, I reminded my wife of this when it was time to throw one for our little nugget. And yet, still special cake pans were purchased, and cupcakes were baked in quantities large enough to feed the Union army- with some left over for Lee's boys in gray as well. Minor breakdowns ensued when the day came and there was still so much left to be done to make the day all a one year old could ever wish for. If only she knew what a wish was. Right now her wishes would probably consist of more Ritz crackers and unlimited play time with the TV remote (so she can unwittingly order pay-per-view movies mommy and daddy don't want to see).
The day was a success... I mean the food for the adults was an hour late. The food for the kids was purchased about 20 minutes prior to the party starting- and only then because my sister asked when were putting the chicken nuggets in the oven. K. was, no surprise, overwhelmed and clingy to me and my wife. And after all the prep time her mom put into the birthday treat- our little cupcake wanted little to do with hers.
But we survived. And the baby-sitter was invited, so when she showed up a little pressure was lifted. And everybody had a good time. It was a day to remember for us- even if we wanted to forget it afterwards. Our little girl turned one year old. Happy Birthday, Miss K... you are loved.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 33: Teething (a pair of companion haiku...)
Crying, screaming babe.
Writhing and sleepless at night-
Cheerful though, come morn'.
***
My pillow asked me-
Where had you gone, overnight?
My crossword just laughs.
Writhing and sleepless at night-
Cheerful though, come morn'.
***
My pillow asked me-
Where had you gone, overnight?
My crossword just laughs.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 32: Color games...
As a sports fan, I was always slightly miffed at the pink versions of team apparel donned by females at sporting events. I get it- they're trying to sell more merchandise by appealing to the feminine side (which, of course, gender stereotypes tell us means pink!). But I have always just found it very unsettling, seeing as though two fans could be walking side by side, and it's not necessarily readily apparent who's rooting for who if they are both decked out in opposing- yet matching- pink jerseys. And when my wife started coming with me to games, I found it refreshing that she wanted to purchase items only the true team colors. All was right in the world of sports...
Now I am seeing life through pink-colored glasses. When our little K. entered the picture, despite our best efforts to fully explore the color palette of fashion, more and more pink has entered our household. Sure she has greens and blues and purples in her wardrobe (her room is even painted sky blue!), but so much of what is out there for little girls to wear is (thanks again, stereotypes) pink! And plus she looks so darn cute in pink, it's hard to resist. And resist I didn't. When I purchased her Yankees apparel the other day it was in shades of pink. A hot pink #2 Derek Jeter jersey-shirt, to go with a pastel pink hat with the revered interlocking NY. It just seemed right. Maybe as she gets older she'll want to follow her mom's path of team color choice- but for now, she'll stay our little Yankee pinkee!!
Now I am seeing life through pink-colored glasses. When our little K. entered the picture, despite our best efforts to fully explore the color palette of fashion, more and more pink has entered our household. Sure she has greens and blues and purples in her wardrobe (her room is even painted sky blue!), but so much of what is out there for little girls to wear is (thanks again, stereotypes) pink! And plus she looks so darn cute in pink, it's hard to resist. And resist I didn't. When I purchased her Yankees apparel the other day it was in shades of pink. A hot pink #2 Derek Jeter jersey-shirt, to go with a pastel pink hat with the revered interlocking NY. It just seemed right. Maybe as she gets older she'll want to follow her mom's path of team color choice- but for now, she'll stay our little Yankee pinkee!!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Whetting my bleak
Why, oh why do I continue to read the fiction in the New Yorker? Why, when it continues to be, without fail, depressive literature? Not just depressive- bleak is more accurate. Characters wandering through their lives as ghosts of real people, their dreary existences mapped by failures and/or misfortune, or at best oddities.
Recent yarns I have read include: A story about a boy who makes it his life's goal, quite apropos of nothing, to press his lips to every square inch of his body- he actually snaps vertebrae in the process; A tale of a put upon guy with an asthmatic toddler, his ex-wife hateful and hurtful, his job and carpool mates a miserable mess; A remembrance of two college girls, from different backgrounds, interested in the same man- one of them settles for small town boredom (after the man had chosen the other girl), and dreams about what life had been like they been together, only to meet the man on a train many years later, and discover he's really not all that great after all; And a dizzying story in which a man's mid-life to death is reduced to half-remembered flashes of drunken nights and never quite knowing what in his life he really has had any control over- told in a rapid succession of seemingly overlapping memories, unsettling as it is confusing.
Even a piece by Stephen King a while back- I wasn't expecting happy go lucky, but maybe something scary or suspenseful to break up the monotony. But no, it was a simple piece about a man waiting in his car on a very hot day, while his wife goes into a convenience store. She proceeds to have a heart attack and die in the store. He goes in and is consoled by the people in the store, and stays around just long enough so that when he leaves to go to the hospital to claim his wife's body- he returns to his car to find he had forgotten the dog had been in there and is now dead as well. Sigh.
It's not that these stories aren't compelling, or poorly written. The fact that I have plowed my way through them, despite the somber subject matter, speaks to the fact that they are clearly interesting pieces. And maybe I read them, hoping for a little sunshine to peak through somewhere. A little joy... perhaps some whimsy. It's gotta happen sooner or later, right? I suppose I'll just keep reading to find out.
Recent yarns I have read include: A story about a boy who makes it his life's goal, quite apropos of nothing, to press his lips to every square inch of his body- he actually snaps vertebrae in the process; A tale of a put upon guy with an asthmatic toddler, his ex-wife hateful and hurtful, his job and carpool mates a miserable mess; A remembrance of two college girls, from different backgrounds, interested in the same man- one of them settles for small town boredom (after the man had chosen the other girl), and dreams about what life had been like they been together, only to meet the man on a train many years later, and discover he's really not all that great after all; And a dizzying story in which a man's mid-life to death is reduced to half-remembered flashes of drunken nights and never quite knowing what in his life he really has had any control over- told in a rapid succession of seemingly overlapping memories, unsettling as it is confusing.
Even a piece by Stephen King a while back- I wasn't expecting happy go lucky, but maybe something scary or suspenseful to break up the monotony. But no, it was a simple piece about a man waiting in his car on a very hot day, while his wife goes into a convenience store. She proceeds to have a heart attack and die in the store. He goes in and is consoled by the people in the store, and stays around just long enough so that when he leaves to go to the hospital to claim his wife's body- he returns to his car to find he had forgotten the dog had been in there and is now dead as well. Sigh.
It's not that these stories aren't compelling, or poorly written. The fact that I have plowed my way through them, despite the somber subject matter, speaks to the fact that they are clearly interesting pieces. And maybe I read them, hoping for a little sunshine to peak through somewhere. A little joy... perhaps some whimsy. It's gotta happen sooner or later, right? I suppose I'll just keep reading to find out.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 31: That old feeling...
I've seen, many times, when mothers (maybe some dads too, but mostly I notice this in moms) are around another new baby, it's always, "Oh I remember this!" Or "I miss this..." I just didn't think something similar would happen to me.
It's such a great and rewarding experience to see your child grow, and develop, and change before your eyes. Her personality coming through, her increased response to you and things around her are just amazing. So why in less than a year's time do I find myself pining for small babies when I see them on the street, or the train. Or when a picture of K from the first few months pops up on the computer, I get that pang of longing... longing for what though, I can't exactly say.
Do I want another little baby already? My wife and aren't sure at this point if we even want another child. I mean, we lightheartedly discuss it sometimes as we lie semi-comatose across from one another on the couch at the end of another exhausting, yet all too normal day. But at this point I can't even realistically imagine such a thing. Or is that I just want my current little nugget to shrink back down to when things were simpler? To relive the innocence? Of course there's a part of me that misses that time, but really I wouldn't want to trade the stage we are at with her now for anything. Ask me again when she's thirteen.
So what is it about seeing a tiny baby that gives me that ache? Probably the fact that it's not my baby. The fact that I can be free to look, maybe even cradle him/her in my arms, without having to give the whole of myself to this little being. It's the fantasy of having another baby- all the coos and tiny appendages- without the reality- the middle of the night feedings, etc. So until that time comes, when reality sets in (or doesn't)- I'll just be the baby gawker. Living vicariously through other parents' and their teeny tinies, while enjoying my ever-growing one.
It's such a great and rewarding experience to see your child grow, and develop, and change before your eyes. Her personality coming through, her increased response to you and things around her are just amazing. So why in less than a year's time do I find myself pining for small babies when I see them on the street, or the train. Or when a picture of K from the first few months pops up on the computer, I get that pang of longing... longing for what though, I can't exactly say.
Do I want another little baby already? My wife and aren't sure at this point if we even want another child. I mean, we lightheartedly discuss it sometimes as we lie semi-comatose across from one another on the couch at the end of another exhausting, yet all too normal day. But at this point I can't even realistically imagine such a thing. Or is that I just want my current little nugget to shrink back down to when things were simpler? To relive the innocence? Of course there's a part of me that misses that time, but really I wouldn't want to trade the stage we are at with her now for anything. Ask me again when she's thirteen.
So what is it about seeing a tiny baby that gives me that ache? Probably the fact that it's not my baby. The fact that I can be free to look, maybe even cradle him/her in my arms, without having to give the whole of myself to this little being. It's the fantasy of having another baby- all the coos and tiny appendages- without the reality- the middle of the night feedings, etc. So until that time comes, when reality sets in (or doesn't)- I'll just be the baby gawker. Living vicariously through other parents' and their teeny tinies, while enjoying my ever-growing one.
My friend Kerry of Citizen Kerry asked me to be a part of her on-going discussion on the WSJ article “Where Have All the Good Men Gone?” Thanks to Citizen Kerry for including some of my thoughts, and linking OJAAT as well!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The High Road (Or the Blackberry never lies)
Why do people feel the need to be hostile? Or why is it, that for some people- hostility seems the easier path, than reasoning it out level headed-ly?
I was at an appointment the other day for physical therapy- when some lady limped in claiming to have an appointment, with the same therapist at the same time as me. Her go-to argument being, "But it's in my Blackberry!!" The girl at the front desk was calm and non-confrontational in trying revolve the situation. In the course of probably two and a half minutes, limpy lady stated that: She had made the appointment a week ago. Then: She had made the appointment a week and a half ago. And then: She had made the appointment two weeks ago. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she glared at the girl "I know you think this is very funny, because you keep shaking your head at me, but it's not!" The girl was just as confused as I was, as there was no laughter or insinuation this situation was funny at all. "I just spent $10 on a cab ride over here, what the..." was followed by "There's no way I would have scheduled an appointment last week, I had big clients in from Mexico for a few days." Then about a minute later, "I had really big clients in from Mexico all week last week."
I get it. It's frustrating when appointments get crossed. I would be put off, for sure. But when someone is trying to be helpful, why don't people realize that perhaps verbally abusing this person isn't the best way to get what you want out of the situation? It seems simple to me.
Well, eventually the girl at the front desk excused herself to go talk to the physical therapist about the situation, and gimpy chick huffed and puffed off to the side saying, "It's always something or another with this place, I should go somewhere else," all the while staring at her Blackberry- presumably at the appointment that the god of all schedules had apparently beamed into her electronic calendar. And when the therapist came out to tell her what the were going try and do, squeeze her in if she'd just wait a couple minutes, she kept interrupting accusingly (going back to the $10 cab ride argument in the process) as if he he was saying I am sorry you are not on the schedule please go home- which is what I wanted to say, as she was cutting into my appointment time. Which was both on my schedule and the physical therapist's schedule too. And when the situation had seemed to be corrected, there was no thank you. No awareness that her behavior was affecting anybody else's schedule but her own.
I like the saying, "If your lunch mate is nice to you, but not to the waiter- then they are not a nice person." This woman was not nice. It took a lot of restraint on my part not to say anything to this awful woman. And she was truly awful. Not my battle, I kept telling myself, not my business. This woman couldn't possibly wrap her mind around the fact that the mistake could have been her own. No way. Not when it was In her Blackberry. I have no idea what kind of baggage or issues, other than physical pain, this woman brought in with her, but there is no excuse in my book for treating someone as she did- especially when that someone is in the position to and trying to help. Perhaps "physical" isn't the only sort therapy she should be looking into. I realize I am far from a saint- judge not lest ye be judged, I once read somewhere... But I hope I am never as ugly to others as this woman was, and let's face it- probably is in other other aspects of her life. Ugh.
(Steps off his soap box, which was positioned very carefully, on very high ground)
I was at an appointment the other day for physical therapy- when some lady limped in claiming to have an appointment, with the same therapist at the same time as me. Her go-to argument being, "But it's in my Blackberry!!" The girl at the front desk was calm and non-confrontational in trying revolve the situation. In the course of probably two and a half minutes, limpy lady stated that: She had made the appointment a week ago. Then: She had made the appointment a week and a half ago. And then: She had made the appointment two weeks ago. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she glared at the girl "I know you think this is very funny, because you keep shaking your head at me, but it's not!" The girl was just as confused as I was, as there was no laughter or insinuation this situation was funny at all. "I just spent $10 on a cab ride over here, what the..." was followed by "There's no way I would have scheduled an appointment last week, I had big clients in from Mexico for a few days." Then about a minute later, "I had really big clients in from Mexico all week last week."
I get it. It's frustrating when appointments get crossed. I would be put off, for sure. But when someone is trying to be helpful, why don't people realize that perhaps verbally abusing this person isn't the best way to get what you want out of the situation? It seems simple to me.
Well, eventually the girl at the front desk excused herself to go talk to the physical therapist about the situation, and gimpy chick huffed and puffed off to the side saying, "It's always something or another with this place, I should go somewhere else," all the while staring at her Blackberry- presumably at the appointment that the god of all schedules had apparently beamed into her electronic calendar. And when the therapist came out to tell her what the were going try and do, squeeze her in if she'd just wait a couple minutes, she kept interrupting accusingly (going back to the $10 cab ride argument in the process) as if he he was saying I am sorry you are not on the schedule please go home- which is what I wanted to say, as she was cutting into my appointment time. Which was both on my schedule and the physical therapist's schedule too. And when the situation had seemed to be corrected, there was no thank you. No awareness that her behavior was affecting anybody else's schedule but her own.
I like the saying, "If your lunch mate is nice to you, but not to the waiter- then they are not a nice person." This woman was not nice. It took a lot of restraint on my part not to say anything to this awful woman. And she was truly awful. Not my battle, I kept telling myself, not my business. This woman couldn't possibly wrap her mind around the fact that the mistake could have been her own. No way. Not when it was In her Blackberry. I have no idea what kind of baggage or issues, other than physical pain, this woman brought in with her, but there is no excuse in my book for treating someone as she did- especially when that someone is in the position to and trying to help. Perhaps "physical" isn't the only sort therapy she should be looking into. I realize I am far from a saint- judge not lest ye be judged, I once read somewhere... But I hope I am never as ugly to others as this woman was, and let's face it- probably is in other other aspects of her life. Ugh.
(Steps off his soap box, which was positioned very carefully, on very high ground)
Friday, March 4, 2011
A lesson in 21st century Jungian Analysis
An overheard conversation on the train this morning between two teenage girls.
[Mid-sentence:]
"...and isn't having sex on the train illegal?"
"I dunno..."
"It's just weird, what a weird dream."
"It's weird."
"I know I was like, 'what'?"
"You should look it up on urban dictionary."
[end]
Which made me think, she should look what up on urban dictionary? Matters of legality? Symbolism and meaning in dreams? Yeah, urban dictionary is totally the first place I think of to go to get that kind of information. I'm not even aware of any purpose of urban dictionary, other to enlighten the reader as to the meaning and derivations of slang words and phrases. But what do I know, I'm old. Maybe there's some sort of secret section for teens where they log in and all is revealed to them. Life, love, investment strategy...
And anyway, I was eavesdropping... eavesdropping of course being a relative term since they were both less than a foot away from my ear, speaking at increased volume do to the fact that the entirety of their conversation took place wearing earphones, attached to their respective iPods with audible music emanating. Ah youth...
[Mid-sentence:]
"...and isn't having sex on the train illegal?"
"I dunno..."
"It's just weird, what a weird dream."
"It's weird."
"I know I was like, 'what'?"
"You should look it up on urban dictionary."
[end]
Which made me think, she should look what up on urban dictionary? Matters of legality? Symbolism and meaning in dreams? Yeah, urban dictionary is totally the first place I think of to go to get that kind of information. I'm not even aware of any purpose of urban dictionary, other to enlighten the reader as to the meaning and derivations of slang words and phrases. But what do I know, I'm old. Maybe there's some sort of secret section for teens where they log in and all is revealed to them. Life, love, investment strategy...
And anyway, I was eavesdropping... eavesdropping of course being a relative term since they were both less than a foot away from my ear, speaking at increased volume do to the fact that the entirety of their conversation took place wearing earphones, attached to their respective iPods with audible music emanating. Ah youth...
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 30: Mobile mayhem
Mood music: The Who, "Going Mobile"
Getting ready in the morning, lounging around in the evening, preparing a meal... well, just about everything has changed now that our little Miss K has gone mobile. (Thanks Pete and Roger, I'll take it from here.)
Time was we could leave our little girl snug on the couch for second or two in the boppy, with little fear of her rolling off or causing any sort of calamity. Then when she started rolling over, the couch became off limits as a means of her minding herself. But she fit every so nicely in on the carpet, or in her little play gym. If she did move, it wasn't far and she had all she needed to keep herself entertained with dangling toys, not to mention her fingers and toes. Then rolling over turned into rolling and tumbling- a true means of transport. It may have taken her a while, but she could get from point A to point T(rouble) if she wanted to. But the grunts and sometimes little yelps that accompanied the little tumbleweed were alarm enough to know that she was on her way to no good- and in enough time to scoop her up or change her course.
Well, when the tumbleweed joined forces with the "army crawl" (using her arms to pull herself along like a soldier in the field) it spelled the beginning of the end of, let's call it, normalcy. Now she was able to get around a little swifter and quieter- opening her eyes to things all around her, now that her head was somewhat forward while she puttered along. Such as her feline brother Mickey Mantle, who was at once intrigued and terrified by the slow-moving mass coming towards him. It was during this phase that my candidacy for Parent of the Year hit full swing, when I happened to snooze for maybe two minutes one morning while "watching" her, only to find when my eyes opened that she had moved deftly across the room and pulled over the basket in which we keep (see also: kept) our cell phone chargers, with wires aplenty attached- and plugged in, mind you. So my POTY candidacy really did take off you see, what with the risks of electrocution and strangulation all rolled into one!
But we were still somewhat able to keep her entertained in various devices at that point- the exersaucer or the swing, or the like. But what came next- what we are dealing with now- is the full-fledged crawl. The crawl!!! And not only the crawl, but she can pull herself up willy-nilly on any object to a standing position thereby creating- literally- a whole new level of trouble for her to get into. The crawl happens fast. And it happens ever so quiet. So when you turn your back, and turn around again, she's made it into the foyer and pulled some of the books off of the bookshelf. Or she's found the one cord we haven't baby-proofed. Or she's dialed India on my cell phone- or at least the Indian take-out place up the street. Or neither, but you get my drift.
Now that she's mobile, she's not nearly as amenable to being kept one place by the exersaucer or the swing for any extended period of time. She's gotta move! So in the morning, when either my wife or myself has to care for her alone, while trying to get ourselves ready- it proves to be quite challenging. There's a lot of "keeping the ears open," and running from room to room so as to accomplish what we need to, yet not allowing her to find her way into the very things we try and keep her away from. There are only so many things you can block off with a baby gate. I've been looking through the baby-proofing aisles for some sort of tether-ball pole inspired leash sort of thing, where the most she could do is crawl around in circles. But oddly enough, I haven't found such a device. And when I am part of the team that designs it- my election to Parent of the Year will be a shoe-in.
P.S. I know it will only get worse when she starts walking... sigh.
Getting ready in the morning, lounging around in the evening, preparing a meal... well, just about everything has changed now that our little Miss K has gone mobile. (Thanks Pete and Roger, I'll take it from here.)
Time was we could leave our little girl snug on the couch for second or two in the boppy, with little fear of her rolling off or causing any sort of calamity. Then when she started rolling over, the couch became off limits as a means of her minding herself. But she fit every so nicely in on the carpet, or in her little play gym. If she did move, it wasn't far and she had all she needed to keep herself entertained with dangling toys, not to mention her fingers and toes. Then rolling over turned into rolling and tumbling- a true means of transport. It may have taken her a while, but she could get from point A to point T(rouble) if she wanted to. But the grunts and sometimes little yelps that accompanied the little tumbleweed were alarm enough to know that she was on her way to no good- and in enough time to scoop her up or change her course.
Well, when the tumbleweed joined forces with the "army crawl" (using her arms to pull herself along like a soldier in the field) it spelled the beginning of the end of, let's call it, normalcy. Now she was able to get around a little swifter and quieter- opening her eyes to things all around her, now that her head was somewhat forward while she puttered along. Such as her feline brother Mickey Mantle, who was at once intrigued and terrified by the slow-moving mass coming towards him. It was during this phase that my candidacy for Parent of the Year hit full swing, when I happened to snooze for maybe two minutes one morning while "watching" her, only to find when my eyes opened that she had moved deftly across the room and pulled over the basket in which we keep (see also: kept) our cell phone chargers, with wires aplenty attached- and plugged in, mind you. So my POTY candidacy really did take off you see, what with the risks of electrocution and strangulation all rolled into one!
But we were still somewhat able to keep her entertained in various devices at that point- the exersaucer or the swing, or the like. But what came next- what we are dealing with now- is the full-fledged crawl. The crawl!!! And not only the crawl, but she can pull herself up willy-nilly on any object to a standing position thereby creating- literally- a whole new level of trouble for her to get into. The crawl happens fast. And it happens ever so quiet. So when you turn your back, and turn around again, she's made it into the foyer and pulled some of the books off of the bookshelf. Or she's found the one cord we haven't baby-proofed. Or she's dialed India on my cell phone- or at least the Indian take-out place up the street. Or neither, but you get my drift.
Now that she's mobile, she's not nearly as amenable to being kept one place by the exersaucer or the swing for any extended period of time. She's gotta move! So in the morning, when either my wife or myself has to care for her alone, while trying to get ourselves ready- it proves to be quite challenging. There's a lot of "keeping the ears open," and running from room to room so as to accomplish what we need to, yet not allowing her to find her way into the very things we try and keep her away from. There are only so many things you can block off with a baby gate. I've been looking through the baby-proofing aisles for some sort of tether-ball pole inspired leash sort of thing, where the most she could do is crawl around in circles. But oddly enough, I haven't found such a device. And when I am part of the team that designs it- my election to Parent of the Year will be a shoe-in.
P.S. I know it will only get worse when she starts walking... sigh.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 29: The schedule
Trying to get your baby on a schedule, is a challenge that most parents struggle with. What time they eat. What time they nap. What time they go to sleep. It really is a struggle, because of all the internal/external variables that affect your day and theirs. Took longer at the store than anticipated? That's going to cut into nap time, if it happens now at all. More likely she'll pass out in the car for a few minutes and then be wide awake at home and demanding your attention when it's time to put the groceries away. Did her morning nap run longer than usual? Now lunchtime is a little late, and you can almost forget the afternoon nap.Or if she still happens to go down for the afternoon nap- now you can pretty much count on the fact she'll still be awake at least an hour past her usual bed time.
Put hands to head and pull hair. (Screaming: "Heeeeelp!" to the heavens optional)
Some parents (super-parents!) try to squash the variables, by rigidly sticking to the schedule come hell or high water. Maybe they won't go to the store if it means there's a chance it could run long. Or they'll wake their child up at an appointed time when the planned nap is over. There's a lot to be said for that kind of diligence. But most of the time we're so thrilled when K goes down mid-morning or day, that we feel she'll wake when her body tells her it's time to wake up. And, she's got to eat- so we have to go to the store. Schedule be damned! And let's face it, she probably has something to do with us getting out the door late. That's right, blame the baby.
All that said, we do have our little one on a decent (if not written in very light pencil) schedule. But since we aren't the super-parents mentioned above, she gets off schedule a little here and there. With minor tweaks every now and then, she's pretty good and keeping to it. So much of the talk surrounding the "schedule" is that they baby gets fussy when the schedule is deviated from. But what I've come realize is that although sure she gets a little cranky when her schedule gets screwed up, it's her parents that really get cranky. That nap time is our time to nap too- or at least get stuff done around the house that is next to impossible to do while she's up. So when the day doesn't go as planned we're the ones that get grumpy.
I can't imagine, though, that the super-parents are any less cranky at constantly having to re-arrange and reschedule their days so as not to disturb the almighty schedule! I mean yes, you have to make a lot of concessions in your life when a baby arrives- but you can't let them take completely take charge. As with a lot of things in parenting, compromise is the name of the game. Nobody likes a fussy grown-up, after all.
Put hands to head and pull hair. (Screaming: "Heeeeelp!" to the heavens optional)
Some parents (super-parents!) try to squash the variables, by rigidly sticking to the schedule come hell or high water. Maybe they won't go to the store if it means there's a chance it could run long. Or they'll wake their child up at an appointed time when the planned nap is over. There's a lot to be said for that kind of diligence. But most of the time we're so thrilled when K goes down mid-morning or day, that we feel she'll wake when her body tells her it's time to wake up. And, she's got to eat- so we have to go to the store. Schedule be damned! And let's face it, she probably has something to do with us getting out the door late. That's right, blame the baby.
All that said, we do have our little one on a decent (if not written in very light pencil) schedule. But since we aren't the super-parents mentioned above, she gets off schedule a little here and there. With minor tweaks every now and then, she's pretty good and keeping to it. So much of the talk surrounding the "schedule" is that they baby gets fussy when the schedule is deviated from. But what I've come realize is that although sure she gets a little cranky when her schedule gets screwed up, it's her parents that really get cranky. That nap time is our time to nap too- or at least get stuff done around the house that is next to impossible to do while she's up. So when the day doesn't go as planned we're the ones that get grumpy.
I can't imagine, though, that the super-parents are any less cranky at constantly having to re-arrange and reschedule their days so as not to disturb the almighty schedule! I mean yes, you have to make a lot of concessions in your life when a baby arrives- but you can't let them take completely take charge. As with a lot of things in parenting, compromise is the name of the game. Nobody likes a fussy grown-up, after all.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Reverence for the garage (An OJAAT Haiku)
A surprise snow fall.
Parked on the street last night for
Convenience, ha! Crap.
Blogger's note: A tip of the hat to an old classmate, Julienne, whose blog I Love Bus Haiku gave me the inspiration for this post. Give it a read, very good stuff!
Parked on the street last night for
Convenience, ha! Crap.
Blogger's note: A tip of the hat to an old classmate, Julienne, whose blog I Love Bus Haiku gave me the inspiration for this post. Give it a read, very good stuff!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 28: Behind the plastic
My first winter in New York, I noticed something that seemed alarming. Babies being pushed around in strollers shrouded in plastic sheets. How awful, I thought, those poor kids- can they breathe in there??!! Then I came to realize very quickly that not only are the stroller covers quite safe, but they are also almost a necessity for city living. When you have to walk from point A to B rather than just hopping in a car, and you live in a place subject to weather, keeping your baby safe from the elements- be it rain, snow, or biting wind- is difficult to do with out one of these devices.
So when our little one came along, we of course purchased the plastic cover for her chariot. And while it's been a godsend on cold, wet winter days, some of those initial fears of mine about these things come creeping back every time a I put it on. After all, while it began to make sense to me that these a perfectly safe for other children, this is now my little girl we're talking about. So of course I'm afraid she'll suffocate in there-- to say nothing of the twelve layers of clothing she has on. If we have a walk of any sustained length or time, I find myself constantly checking to see if she's still breathing. Sometimes it steams up which may make it hard to see her clearly, but at least that's a tell-tale sign there is breathing happening. Then when there's no steam, I have to bat at the plastic to defect the glare so I can see inside that she's all good under the hood. Her making noise while under the sheet help calm the nerves a little, until the point I start thinking- Is she making noise because she's getting carbon dioxide poisoning? Sigh.
If these plastic stroller covers weren't safe, they probably wouldn't be so prevalent- right? There's no need to worry. There's ventilation... she's fine in there... and she'd be cold and wet otherwise. And it's just another reason to pray for warmer weather.
So when our little one came along, we of course purchased the plastic cover for her chariot. And while it's been a godsend on cold, wet winter days, some of those initial fears of mine about these things come creeping back every time a I put it on. After all, while it began to make sense to me that these a perfectly safe for other children, this is now my little girl we're talking about. So of course I'm afraid she'll suffocate in there-- to say nothing of the twelve layers of clothing she has on. If we have a walk of any sustained length or time, I find myself constantly checking to see if she's still breathing. Sometimes it steams up which may make it hard to see her clearly, but at least that's a tell-tale sign there is breathing happening. Then when there's no steam, I have to bat at the plastic to defect the glare so I can see inside that she's all good under the hood. Her making noise while under the sheet help calm the nerves a little, until the point I start thinking- Is she making noise because she's getting carbon dioxide poisoning? Sigh.
If these plastic stroller covers weren't safe, they probably wouldn't be so prevalent- right? There's no need to worry. There's ventilation... she's fine in there... and she'd be cold and wet otherwise. And it's just another reason to pray for warmer weather.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 27: Accentuating the Positive
Babies have got it good.
I'm not just talking about being pushed around in a stroller, or being changed when they've messed themselves. I'm not just talking about being fed whenever they want to, or held and coddled when they get upset. Those things are nice. But in addition to that- every little thing they do gets celebrated. Nobody smiles and pats me on the back when I finish all my food. And I can clap too, you know- been clapping for a long time- and yet when I do it goes almost completely unnoticed. Not "Yaaaay," followed by clapping along with me in celebration. It's got me feeling like Fredo from the The Godfather 2: "I can handle things! I'm smart!" No- I don't ever voice this state of mind... I'm an adult. Plus, we all know what happened to Fredo.
Which got me to thinking: Can you imagine how productive we all might be if we all received the the kind of positive affirmation afforded to babies? I'm sure it would get a little annoying after a while, but man it would feel good to be showered with compliments on the way I walked to the printer from my desk... and back!! What a big boy!! And what satisfaction: Going to the bathroom... in the potty? All by myself?? Yaaaay! Just think of Barak Obama signing a bill into law, and being hoisted up on John Boehner's shoulders for being the bestest President ever!! And the cutest!! What a proud papa he'd be!
But sadly, the hyper-positive reinforcement ends as soon as you're old enough to appreciate it. So live it up while you still get it, babies- because it's much less of big deal when you make poopies in your pants at age 34. Well, it's still a big deal- but not in the good sort of way. And the rest of you, hold your applause, please.
I'm not just talking about being pushed around in a stroller, or being changed when they've messed themselves. I'm not just talking about being fed whenever they want to, or held and coddled when they get upset. Those things are nice. But in addition to that- every little thing they do gets celebrated. Nobody smiles and pats me on the back when I finish all my food. And I can clap too, you know- been clapping for a long time- and yet when I do it goes almost completely unnoticed. Not "Yaaaay," followed by clapping along with me in celebration. It's got me feeling like Fredo from the The Godfather 2: "I can handle things! I'm smart!" No- I don't ever voice this state of mind... I'm an adult. Plus, we all know what happened to Fredo.
Which got me to thinking: Can you imagine how productive we all might be if we all received the the kind of positive affirmation afforded to babies? I'm sure it would get a little annoying after a while, but man it would feel good to be showered with compliments on the way I walked to the printer from my desk... and back!! What a big boy!! And what satisfaction: Going to the bathroom... in the potty? All by myself?? Yaaaay! Just think of Barak Obama signing a bill into law, and being hoisted up on John Boehner's shoulders for being the bestest President ever!! And the cutest!! What a proud papa he'd be!
But sadly, the hyper-positive reinforcement ends as soon as you're old enough to appreciate it. So live it up while you still get it, babies- because it's much less of big deal when you make poopies in your pants at age 34. Well, it's still a big deal- but not in the good sort of way. And the rest of you, hold your applause, please.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 26: Must NOT-See TV
I've never been a big fan of TV news pieces or articles that deal with misfortune involving children. Kidnapping, child abuse, inspirational yet depressing stories of children dealing with terminal illness- not my cup of tea. If I happened to be watching a program and one came on, I might watch some of it- but I would never go out of my to watch or read these stories or seek them out in any way. (I know you are are thinking, Who does? Plenty of people, although they may not admit it, love watching that heart-wrenching real life drama stuff. Maybe they like a good cry, maybe they watch to make themselves feel better about where they're at- but they are out there. I know this, because that's why you see stories like this abound- TV producers and/or news editors know their audiences.)
Now that I have a little girl- who has, like all children do I suppose, become the center of my universe- I can't even bear to peek at this stuff. The second something like this comes on the screen I will change the channel- can't do it. My neuroses about the health and well-being of my child don't need any help going to dark places, thank you very much. Having been in the hospital with my little girl for a non-life threatening situation was difficult enough, let alone imagining the struggle that the parents and children involved in these tragedies must go through. I don't want to think about it!
I know sticking my head in the sand doesn't make the ills of the world disappear as it concerns my daughter. But it's not so much putting on rose-colored glasses as it is not inviting any more stress and worry than is already there to begin with. More like sweeping it under the carpet. I know it's there, but I don't have think about it, or deal with it. Out of sight, out of... well, never completely out of mind- but maybe it gives me a fighting chance to keep it in the way back of my mind.
Now that I have a little girl- who has, like all children do I suppose, become the center of my universe- I can't even bear to peek at this stuff. The second something like this comes on the screen I will change the channel- can't do it. My neuroses about the health and well-being of my child don't need any help going to dark places, thank you very much. Having been in the hospital with my little girl for a non-life threatening situation was difficult enough, let alone imagining the struggle that the parents and children involved in these tragedies must go through. I don't want to think about it!
I know sticking my head in the sand doesn't make the ills of the world disappear as it concerns my daughter. But it's not so much putting on rose-colored glasses as it is not inviting any more stress and worry than is already there to begin with. More like sweeping it under the carpet. I know it's there, but I don't have think about it, or deal with it. Out of sight, out of... well, never completely out of mind- but maybe it gives me a fighting chance to keep it in the way back of my mind.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 25: Temporary Backseat
We've been very lucky in that our little girl has a very easy going personality. We can take her places where there's a lot of different people, and she's fine with being passed around. But around the house lately, it's become Mommy-time!
When Mommy leaves the room it's accompanied with a yelp from K., or sometimes even a full fledged cry. Sometimes Mommy can sneak out without her absence being detected, but not usually. So left in the room is me and a crying baby. "What's wrong with Daddy?" I'll ask her. "Remember me? Daddy?" At which point she'll look up at me with that break-your-heart pout, and realize #2 will have do- but not without another whip around of the head to make sure Mommy's not coming back. When Mommy hands her off to me, it's met with the same kind of reaction, much like I am aflame or something.
It's hard not to take it personally. The little bundle for whom you expend so much energy, and love so much it aches doesn't seem to like you!! Daggers!! Okay, yeah this is an over-exaggeration. Because it's not all the time- it's not even a majority of the time. But it's amazing to me how easily this tiny human can sway my emotions. It's the outward display of displeasure to be left with Daddy- even if it's momentary- that stings, only to be erased mere seconds later by her toothless grin. And the other thing is, it's never a feeling of jealousy towards my wife, at all. I absolutely love the way K. looks at her mom. It's more precious to me than even when she looks at me- and that doesn't bother me. Watching the two of them together gives me an indescribable joy, and I'd never want that to go away or nor would I change it for anything.
I also know that someday, this is all bound to change. That there will be a Daddy's-little-girl phase, where I'll reap the benefits of unbridled and uninterrupted affection from the little miss. Until then I'll put up my parental suit of armor so as not to suffer the daily slings and arrows of tiny mood-swings.
When Mommy leaves the room it's accompanied with a yelp from K., or sometimes even a full fledged cry. Sometimes Mommy can sneak out without her absence being detected, but not usually. So left in the room is me and a crying baby. "What's wrong with Daddy?" I'll ask her. "Remember me? Daddy?" At which point she'll look up at me with that break-your-heart pout, and realize #2 will have do- but not without another whip around of the head to make sure Mommy's not coming back. When Mommy hands her off to me, it's met with the same kind of reaction, much like I am aflame or something.
It's hard not to take it personally. The little bundle for whom you expend so much energy, and love so much it aches doesn't seem to like you!! Daggers!! Okay, yeah this is an over-exaggeration. Because it's not all the time- it's not even a majority of the time. But it's amazing to me how easily this tiny human can sway my emotions. It's the outward display of displeasure to be left with Daddy- even if it's momentary- that stings, only to be erased mere seconds later by her toothless grin. And the other thing is, it's never a feeling of jealousy towards my wife, at all. I absolutely love the way K. looks at her mom. It's more precious to me than even when she looks at me- and that doesn't bother me. Watching the two of them together gives me an indescribable joy, and I'd never want that to go away or nor would I change it for anything.
I also know that someday, this is all bound to change. That there will be a Daddy's-little-girl phase, where I'll reap the benefits of unbridled and uninterrupted affection from the little miss. Until then I'll put up my parental suit of armor so as not to suffer the daily slings and arrows of tiny mood-swings.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Goundhog Day Revolution
A year ago on this day, on this blog, I questioned the validity and the very tradition of Groundhog Day. After re-posting today (on a popular social-networking site which is the subject of an Oscar-nominated movie which will remain nameless), my friend Kerry commented, asking a very pertinent and though-provoking question: Why not entrust another animal to foretell the weather? Her answer to her own question was perhaps a cat- pointing to their intuition. Valid point. It got me thinking, what other animals could apply- and how would their version of February 2nd play out? And, what to do with the groundhog now that he's got more free time?
CATS: It might go something like this. As Kerry noted, cats do have a very intuitive quality to them. In which case, I say the cat makes every attempt not to let anybody pull them from the carrier (assuming they allowed themselves to be put in the carrier to begin with), knowing full-well the madness that awaits. Arms bloodied, and nerves rattled, the handlers tell the awaiting crowd they're not really sure about the weather, but they look to have 6 weeks of recovery ahead from their injuries.
DOGS: Dogs are too smart for this. Plus, if they're outside all they are going to want to do is play or go to the bathroom. So the dog gets excited- runs around in a wide circle a few times to burn off some of that pent up energy from being cooped up, tuckers out and takes a very long-awaited pee. Again, the dog runs off, in hot pursuit of his shadow. At which point everyone forgets why they've come- but walk away with the valuable lesson re-learned to not eat the yellow snow.
PARROT: After emerging from its cage, the handlers may say something like, "Tell us what the season brings..." To which the parrot will respond: "Tell us what the season brings...bwaaaah!" "Six weeks more winter?" "Six weeks more winter?....bwaaah!" "Or will spring come early?" "Or will spring come early?..bwaaah!" I think you get the point.
GOLDFISH: Dreadfully, someone has left the goldfish bowl out for too long out in the elements and it has frozen solid. It is announced that six more weeks of winter will be observed in remembrance of our frozen-gilled friend. Also- special on goldfish at the fish market!!
BURMESE PYTHON: I guess we'll have to go with him today, because we can't find the groundhog, or the cat, dog, parrot, or goldfish. Seriously- where the hell are they?
We could go on all day, feel free to add your own.
So, what to do with the groundhog? All this history of predicting on his resume, where does he go? Perhaps he could go to Vegas and set odds for sporting events. Or how about Wall Street? It would be nice to know which way the stock market's gonna go- in six week increments of course. Or if that fails he could be the crazy groundhog who can guess your weight at the carnival. Maybe he retires somewhere without seasons, and forgets it all. Don't ask him if he saw the weather report- he's sensitive.
It's a lot of pressure to put on a groundhog, to have him make a meaningless prediction like this every year. But until the revolution, it looks as though the groundhogs will continue to hold the monopoly on this one. And to Punxutawney Phil, who today told us spring would be coming early, I say "What Phil?? I couldn't hear you with the sound of all the ice crushing under my feet!!"
CATS: It might go something like this. As Kerry noted, cats do have a very intuitive quality to them. In which case, I say the cat makes every attempt not to let anybody pull them from the carrier (assuming they allowed themselves to be put in the carrier to begin with), knowing full-well the madness that awaits. Arms bloodied, and nerves rattled, the handlers tell the awaiting crowd they're not really sure about the weather, but they look to have 6 weeks of recovery ahead from their injuries.
DOGS: Dogs are too smart for this. Plus, if they're outside all they are going to want to do is play or go to the bathroom. So the dog gets excited- runs around in a wide circle a few times to burn off some of that pent up energy from being cooped up, tuckers out and takes a very long-awaited pee. Again, the dog runs off, in hot pursuit of his shadow. At which point everyone forgets why they've come- but walk away with the valuable lesson re-learned to not eat the yellow snow.
PARROT: After emerging from its cage, the handlers may say something like, "Tell us what the season brings..." To which the parrot will respond: "Tell us what the season brings...bwaaaah!" "Six weeks more winter?" "Six weeks more winter?....bwaaah!" "Or will spring come early?" "Or will spring come early?..bwaaah!" I think you get the point.
GOLDFISH: Dreadfully, someone has left the goldfish bowl out for too long out in the elements and it has frozen solid. It is announced that six more weeks of winter will be observed in remembrance of our frozen-gilled friend. Also- special on goldfish at the fish market!!
BURMESE PYTHON: I guess we'll have to go with him today, because we can't find the groundhog, or the cat, dog, parrot, or goldfish. Seriously- where the hell are they?
We could go on all day, feel free to add your own.
So, what to do with the groundhog? All this history of predicting on his resume, where does he go? Perhaps he could go to Vegas and set odds for sporting events. Or how about Wall Street? It would be nice to know which way the stock market's gonna go- in six week increments of course. Or if that fails he could be the crazy groundhog who can guess your weight at the carnival. Maybe he retires somewhere without seasons, and forgets it all. Don't ask him if he saw the weather report- he's sensitive.
It's a lot of pressure to put on a groundhog, to have him make a meaningless prediction like this every year. But until the revolution, it looks as though the groundhogs will continue to hold the monopoly on this one. And to Punxutawney Phil, who today told us spring would be coming early, I say "What Phil?? I couldn't hear you with the sound of all the ice crushing under my feet!!"
Monday, January 24, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 24: True Confession
Our little one- like many babies- prefers her food/bottles on the warm side. And by prefers I mean she hates it any other way. So we warm it up, for her benefit and our sanity.
All formula canisters, as well food labels come with a stern warning: "NEVER USE A MICROWAVE when heating, as serious burns may occur." What they don't state is: "It will also take you 10-15 seconds to warm up as opposed to 4-5 minutes sitting in a bowl of hot water." So after a few months of staying true to the label and hours of thumb-twiddling beside bowls of hot water (let's face it, as new parent you wouldn't ever defy what is says on a label!), we now USE THE MICROWAVE method. Against all warnings!! Rebellion!! Perhaps the makers of the these products have never had a baby- but those extra 3 minutes and 45 seconds or so can make a big difference to a hungry, fidgety baby.
As far as "serious burns" occurring- how long are you putting it in the microwave for? It is the 21st century, you do know that microwaves heat things up very fast, yes? And another thing- you always test the food or formula before you give to the baby, just as you would if you heated it up any other way. Don't you? If it's too hot, don't give it to the baby. Serious burns avoided!! I seriously don't get what all the fuss is about. Unless the warnings are there for the stupid people? Or I suppose we should all pop our popcorn on the stove, and cook our frozen burritos in a conventional oven too? Or maybe the baby food industry is funded by the anti-microwave lobby? But I digress...
A little convenience goes a long way, is all I'm saying. There are so many things world of child rearing where you absolutely can't cut corners- but I'm not adding heating up a bottle to the list. Not when there's a simpler way. Even if means defying warnings for stupid people. Lock me up if you must, child services- our baby is getting a warm bottle on the quick, and on our terms- and then going about her business burn free.
All formula canisters, as well food labels come with a stern warning: "NEVER USE A MICROWAVE when heating, as serious burns may occur." What they don't state is: "It will also take you 10-15 seconds to warm up as opposed to 4-5 minutes sitting in a bowl of hot water." So after a few months of staying true to the label and hours of thumb-twiddling beside bowls of hot water (let's face it, as new parent you wouldn't ever defy what is says on a label!), we now USE THE MICROWAVE method. Against all warnings!! Rebellion!! Perhaps the makers of the these products have never had a baby- but those extra 3 minutes and 45 seconds or so can make a big difference to a hungry, fidgety baby.
As far as "serious burns" occurring- how long are you putting it in the microwave for? It is the 21st century, you do know that microwaves heat things up very fast, yes? And another thing- you always test the food or formula before you give to the baby, just as you would if you heated it up any other way. Don't you? If it's too hot, don't give it to the baby. Serious burns avoided!! I seriously don't get what all the fuss is about. Unless the warnings are there for the stupid people? Or I suppose we should all pop our popcorn on the stove, and cook our frozen burritos in a conventional oven too? Or maybe the baby food industry is funded by the anti-microwave lobby? But I digress...
A little convenience goes a long way, is all I'm saying. There are so many things world of child rearing where you absolutely can't cut corners- but I'm not adding heating up a bottle to the list. Not when there's a simpler way. Even if means defying warnings for stupid people. Lock me up if you must, child services- our baby is getting a warm bottle on the quick, and on our terms- and then going about her business burn free.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 23: Sass and solids, the battle wages on...
Mood music: U2 - "One"
Is it getting better...? Yes, thank you Bono, it is.
The daily struggle of getting our little princess to ingest solid foods is moving towards reconciliation, but it's still a labor of love. Not only is it a battle with her, lady high-queen of the high-chair, but it is a battle with yourself- a battle to remain cheery and playful in the face of mounting frustration. And in the face of a baby growing ever sassier before your eyes.
I was, I thought, fully prepared I knowing that my little daughter would at some point become a sassy little thing- "All little girls are," people have told me since we found out we were having one. But I figured perhaps this wouldn't be the case until maybe she learned the word "No!" or "I want that!" Well the seeds of sass have apparently already been planted, and roots are forming- well before verbal acuity has reared its head. One needs only to bring a spoon close to K.'s lips and watch her willfully clamp her lips shut and dramatically turn her head aside, to glimpse the future of what attitude may lay in store for us.
On a couple of occurrences, I have seen her actually swat the spoon out of my wife's hand. Arguments can of course be made that she still may not complete understand exactly what she's doing- but coupled with the stare-down duel that followed between the queen and her minion- it makes me wonder. And then two seconds later it's all smiles and giggles from the chair, and her mouth opens just ever so slightly, so you swoop in with the spoon- only to be greeted with "lips of steel," as I like to call them. The same lips of steel we are met with when she doesn't want the bottle, but much messier and stickier. The same lips of steel that fly wide open when it's time to take her yummy medicine, the same lips of steel that welcome the thumb with ease during feeding- so they do work...
But it is getting better. Once you can sneak some food into her royal mouth, she generally relents- realizing that we're not feeding her cat food- and keeps the drawbridge open for the waiting feeding implement. But she'll let us know she's done- even if we do try and push the envelope still, "Just one more bite..." You know who usually wins.
Never let them (her) see you sweat, is a good motto to go on. Once she sees that frustration build up on your face- feeding time is over. And try, against insurmountable odds, not to laugh when she sasses it up- I know someday very soon it won't be cute at all, but right now it's really friggin' adorable.
Hopefully she turns into that kid who after giving us food-related grief as little one, becomes a very good eater in her later kid years- very much like one of my nephews. Until then we'll fight the good fight (the food fight?)- trying to keep the sass down to a minimum, and the solids down the gullet!
Is it getting better...? Yes, thank you Bono, it is.
The daily struggle of getting our little princess to ingest solid foods is moving towards reconciliation, but it's still a labor of love. Not only is it a battle with her, lady high-queen of the high-chair, but it is a battle with yourself- a battle to remain cheery and playful in the face of mounting frustration. And in the face of a baby growing ever sassier before your eyes.
I was, I thought, fully prepared I knowing that my little daughter would at some point become a sassy little thing- "All little girls are," people have told me since we found out we were having one. But I figured perhaps this wouldn't be the case until maybe she learned the word "No!" or "I want that!" Well the seeds of sass have apparently already been planted, and roots are forming- well before verbal acuity has reared its head. One needs only to bring a spoon close to K.'s lips and watch her willfully clamp her lips shut and dramatically turn her head aside, to glimpse the future of what attitude may lay in store for us.
On a couple of occurrences, I have seen her actually swat the spoon out of my wife's hand. Arguments can of course be made that she still may not complete understand exactly what she's doing- but coupled with the stare-down duel that followed between the queen and her minion- it makes me wonder. And then two seconds later it's all smiles and giggles from the chair, and her mouth opens just ever so slightly, so you swoop in with the spoon- only to be greeted with "lips of steel," as I like to call them. The same lips of steel we are met with when she doesn't want the bottle, but much messier and stickier. The same lips of steel that fly wide open when it's time to take her yummy medicine, the same lips of steel that welcome the thumb with ease during feeding- so they do work...
But it is getting better. Once you can sneak some food into her royal mouth, she generally relents- realizing that we're not feeding her cat food- and keeps the drawbridge open for the waiting feeding implement. But she'll let us know she's done- even if we do try and push the envelope still, "Just one more bite..." You know who usually wins.
Never let them (her) see you sweat, is a good motto to go on. Once she sees that frustration build up on your face- feeding time is over. And try, against insurmountable odds, not to laugh when she sasses it up- I know someday very soon it won't be cute at all, but right now it's really friggin' adorable.
Hopefully she turns into that kid who after giving us food-related grief as little one, becomes a very good eater in her later kid years- very much like one of my nephews. Until then we'll fight the good fight (the food fight?)- trying to keep the sass down to a minimum, and the solids down the gullet!
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 22: In it to win it?
To borrow from a sports analogy- raising a child is not a sprint, it's a marathon. But it's not a race. And it is not a competition. Right? Well then why do we feel we need to win so badly?
My wife and I have been blessed with the fact that we have close friends who have had babies around the same time as us. It has given us a wealth of support, and to see their children grow up along side our little girl so far as made it an even more rewarding experience.
The draw back of course is the inevitable comparisons of your child against theirs, in regards to milestones and development and such. A new tooth is reason to celebrate, except when your child has been teething for two months or so without any teeth to show for it. Walking is incredible, but when your child isn't even crawling yet- despite your belief that she could if only she'd... blahblahblah... sigh. You get the point.
My wife and I know that our little lady is a healthy and happy baby. She is learning and growing everyday, and isn't behind in any sort of developmental way. So why isn't it good enough? Why do we internalize her unique path to her milestones as some sort of failure as parents on our part? It's just not logical, or productive. We always remind each other of this. That K.'s on her own journey, and that she's progressing very well, that we're not horrible parents and no, our child is not suffering due to our lack of parental ability and skill.
It certainly doesn't cloud our happiness for our friends' children in the least- we truly want them to excel and grow as they should. It's amazing to see. So why can't it be, "Wow! That's great!" rather than "Wow! That's great! Why can't/isn't our baby...?"
I guess this is only the beginning in the marathon of wanting nothing but the best for and out of your child. I can only hope that we become more reasonable as K. gets older and more aware. I wouldn't change a single thing in her life so far, and I would hate for her to ever see or feel disappointment from us in this regard. Because it's not disappointment in her. It's nothing more than excitement of what's to come, coupled of course with fear- of our own failure- that her development and speed thereof is a direct reflection on what we do day-to-day as parents. We will just continue to remind ourselves that we are all on this journey together, and that we all are learning as we go. I am positive K.'s not beating herself up over any of it, so why should we we?
My wife and I have been blessed with the fact that we have close friends who have had babies around the same time as us. It has given us a wealth of support, and to see their children grow up along side our little girl so far as made it an even more rewarding experience.
The draw back of course is the inevitable comparisons of your child against theirs, in regards to milestones and development and such. A new tooth is reason to celebrate, except when your child has been teething for two months or so without any teeth to show for it. Walking is incredible, but when your child isn't even crawling yet- despite your belief that she could if only she'd... blahblahblah... sigh. You get the point.
My wife and I know that our little lady is a healthy and happy baby. She is learning and growing everyday, and isn't behind in any sort of developmental way. So why isn't it good enough? Why do we internalize her unique path to her milestones as some sort of failure as parents on our part? It's just not logical, or productive. We always remind each other of this. That K.'s on her own journey, and that she's progressing very well, that we're not horrible parents and no, our child is not suffering due to our lack of parental ability and skill.
It certainly doesn't cloud our happiness for our friends' children in the least- we truly want them to excel and grow as they should. It's amazing to see. So why can't it be, "Wow! That's great!" rather than "Wow! That's great! Why can't/isn't our baby...?"
I guess this is only the beginning in the marathon of wanting nothing but the best for and out of your child. I can only hope that we become more reasonable as K. gets older and more aware. I wouldn't change a single thing in her life so far, and I would hate for her to ever see or feel disappointment from us in this regard. Because it's not disappointment in her. It's nothing more than excitement of what's to come, coupled of course with fear- of our own failure- that her development and speed thereof is a direct reflection on what we do day-to-day as parents. We will just continue to remind ourselves that we are all on this journey together, and that we all are learning as we go. I am positive K.'s not beating herself up over any of it, so why should we we?
Monday, January 10, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 21: Tiny laundry...
Being married opened up new horizons for me when it came to laundry. Gone were the days of maybe just throwing the colors AND the whites in the same load to save time and money... gone too were overloading, and just ripping everything out of the wash and throwing them into the dryer. You see, certain things just can't be dried. And some things needed to be put into little mesh bags so they wouldn't be damaged. It all used to be so simple! Well, with the arrival of the little wonder (really more beginning during pregnancy), my wife has certainly let up a little in her laundry demands because much of the laundry-related extra care and energy goes towards the tiny laundry.
The sheer volume of the tiny laundry is impressive, especially given the fact that the laundry is so very tiny. Normal adult-sized articles in this magnitude would surely fill up many hampers and subsequently washers, causing great stress and hair pulling. But the tiny laundry usually fits in two or three loads- and only that because of the tiny sheets and tiny towels. And let's not forget the tiny laundry gets its own special detergent, and NO drier sheets.
It's perpetual. I mean, how many clothes and linens could a tiny baby possibly go through? Well, between food spills, external pooping episodes, flash-flood like drooling sessions, spit up events- A LOT. Funny how the drawers teeming with tiny outfits, quickly become empty, and we find ourselves back in front of the machines, watching the tiny laundry dance and spin. I hate doing laundry, but it's nearly impossible to be overly grumpy when you pick up to fold a tiny pair of pants or socks- especially when there's something like "I love Daddy" printed on them.
About those tiny socks- socks are one of those things when doing our normal-sized laundry, I don't care if they fall on the floor as I take them out of the drier... I mean sure the laundry room floor can be dusty, but hey- the socks just go on our feet, so no big deal. Well, not so with the tiny laundry. While those socks still just go on the feet, the fact is those feet go in the mouth! So special attention must be paid to keep the socks as clean as possible. Tiny baby mouths can't go in the wash, although that does give me an idea...
So the tiny laundry will keep coming. Although it will get less tiny, hopefully the spitting up and pooping on the clothes will decrease over time, thereby holding the amount to a minimum. But with a teenage girl, I am sure mulitple outfits per day will be in order... whoa, hold on there.. just aged myself... let's stick with tiny laundry for as long we can.
The sheer volume of the tiny laundry is impressive, especially given the fact that the laundry is so very tiny. Normal adult-sized articles in this magnitude would surely fill up many hampers and subsequently washers, causing great stress and hair pulling. But the tiny laundry usually fits in two or three loads- and only that because of the tiny sheets and tiny towels. And let's not forget the tiny laundry gets its own special detergent, and NO drier sheets.
It's perpetual. I mean, how many clothes and linens could a tiny baby possibly go through? Well, between food spills, external pooping episodes, flash-flood like drooling sessions, spit up events- A LOT. Funny how the drawers teeming with tiny outfits, quickly become empty, and we find ourselves back in front of the machines, watching the tiny laundry dance and spin. I hate doing laundry, but it's nearly impossible to be overly grumpy when you pick up to fold a tiny pair of pants or socks- especially when there's something like "I love Daddy" printed on them.
About those tiny socks- socks are one of those things when doing our normal-sized laundry, I don't care if they fall on the floor as I take them out of the drier... I mean sure the laundry room floor can be dusty, but hey- the socks just go on our feet, so no big deal. Well, not so with the tiny laundry. While those socks still just go on the feet, the fact is those feet go in the mouth! So special attention must be paid to keep the socks as clean as possible. Tiny baby mouths can't go in the wash, although that does give me an idea...
So the tiny laundry will keep coming. Although it will get less tiny, hopefully the spitting up and pooping on the clothes will decrease over time, thereby holding the amount to a minimum. But with a teenage girl, I am sure mulitple outfits per day will be in order... whoa, hold on there.. just aged myself... let's stick with tiny laundry for as long we can.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 20: Speaking of myself...
We all do it. Talk to ourselves a little... while you're performing odd tasks around the house, or perhaps when you screw something up- "Nice work, [your name here]," kinda under your breath. You know what I am talking about.
Oh you don't, do you? Well, I am secure enough in what's left of my sanity to admit that I do. Although lately I have noticed a bit of a change, when the task I am performing is some what related to the baby- packing her bag, or making her a bottle- I've realized I am calling myself Daddy. As in, "Way to go, Daddy," when I've dumped half a scoop of formula on the kitchen counter. Not only that, by my wife has also become Mommy in my conversations with yours truly- although this only in my head. As of yet I don't I think I have called her Mommy out loud to myself.
I mean we spend so much time talking K. about Mommy and Daddy, it's perfectly reasonable it should spill over into my "talking-to-myself" time. Right? No more unreasonable than talking to yourself in the first place, anyway. Right?? I mean, at least so far it's only when I am doing baby related stuff that the D word pops up. So far. I have not been at work, thinking or saying to myself, "Oh crap- Daddy forgot to send out that email!" Not yet anyway. And so what if I do? These are my conversations with myself- I can call me whatever I want! Yeah! ...yeah. Although, if you happen to be around, please punch me in the face or lock me up if ever I introduce myself as Daddy to someone else. In the meanwhile I'll keep telling myself Daddy's got it under control.
Oh you don't, do you? Well, I am secure enough in what's left of my sanity to admit that I do. Although lately I have noticed a bit of a change, when the task I am performing is some what related to the baby- packing her bag, or making her a bottle- I've realized I am calling myself Daddy. As in, "Way to go, Daddy," when I've dumped half a scoop of formula on the kitchen counter. Not only that, by my wife has also become Mommy in my conversations with yours truly- although this only in my head. As of yet I don't I think I have called her Mommy out loud to myself.
I mean we spend so much time talking K. about Mommy and Daddy, it's perfectly reasonable it should spill over into my "talking-to-myself" time. Right? No more unreasonable than talking to yourself in the first place, anyway. Right?? I mean, at least so far it's only when I am doing baby related stuff that the D word pops up. So far. I have not been at work, thinking or saying to myself, "Oh crap- Daddy forgot to send out that email!" Not yet anyway. And so what if I do? These are my conversations with myself- I can call me whatever I want! Yeah! ...yeah. Although, if you happen to be around, please punch me in the face or lock me up if ever I introduce myself as Daddy to someone else. In the meanwhile I'll keep telling myself Daddy's got it under control.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 19: Fear and parenting
I've come to realize in my short time as a parent, that so much we do as parents is driven by fear. Not by love or responsibility- although, sure those come into play- but fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the known all to well. And I am not even talking about the fears that come into play when one thinks about their child's future- what will she become, what will the world be like then, etc. It's the day to day fears that keep those fingernails short and the eyes bleary, and make the hairs gray.
I guess the trick is not to be consumed by it.
We still go in an check on K. multiple time after she's gone to bed to make sure she's breathing. Thanks to the ever-present availability of information these days, new parents are bombarded with stories of SIDS and other awful things that can happen in the night, and steps you can take to prevent it, although taking these steps won't assure your child's safety. So we remove the bumper, we put her down on her back (which is moot now, she just rolls over onto her belly), we do all things we're "supposed" to- and still we go in and check. Still breathing? Yes. This I have found may never end. My brother-in-law informed me he still does the check with his boys- and they're 4 and 7 years old.
Why isn't my child eating? Is she getting enough? How much does she weigh? Is it appropriate for her length? Her length appropriate for her weight? Is her head getting misshapen? What are those bumps on her face, her back, her bottom? Why doesn't she have any teeth yet?
And then there's sickness. Fear is now accompanied by helplessness. She feels warm. Her temperature's 102.6, she won't be consoled- give her some Tylenol. But what's really wrong? As you are holding her in your arms, you are literally trying to will her fever from getting worse- she's already so upset, and you are wishing she could just tell you what exactly was wrong so you could at least try and make it better. So daylight comes and we go to the doctor to find out she has had an ear infection. A brief moment of, Oh, that's what it is- is followed by:
Why didn't we go to the doctor sooner? What if what if what if?? Antiobiotics prescribed. And taken. What if she has an allergic reaction? How will we know? What do we do? Don't look on the internet! It will only manifest symptoms!
Then ten days later, another fever, another long night. Back to the doctor. Ear infection still there, despite the round of medicine.
What if there is something really wrong with her ears? Once again, did we wait too long? Did we miss a sign?
Stronger antibiotics. Now we wait for the follow up. K. is still tugging at her ears, but since there is no fever or night waking, doctor's not concerned. Yes, we've called. It's a good thing we don't have his home number.
Should we give her Ibuprofen? I don't want to OD our child! Is that sound she's making normal? She hasn't pooped in three days? That's a weird color! Does her pee smell funny to you? Is she still sleeping? Hope she's okay... And on, and on, and on...
These fears, I know, are not uncommon to any parent, not just new ones. And despite the multitudes and frequency of these thoughts, I think we do a pretty good job of not letting them overtake us. Truthfully, there's not really time to dwell on singular fears, because something always needs to be done, or the little one will suddenly smile and make you forget there was any cause for alarm. Fears will always be there- whether it's fear of being a bad parent, or fear of something being wrong- and I guess it's all the love and responsibility that makes being a parent to so rewarding and frightening all at the same time.
I guess the trick is not to be consumed by it.
We still go in an check on K. multiple time after she's gone to bed to make sure she's breathing. Thanks to the ever-present availability of information these days, new parents are bombarded with stories of SIDS and other awful things that can happen in the night, and steps you can take to prevent it, although taking these steps won't assure your child's safety. So we remove the bumper, we put her down on her back (which is moot now, she just rolls over onto her belly), we do all things we're "supposed" to- and still we go in and check. Still breathing? Yes. This I have found may never end. My brother-in-law informed me he still does the check with his boys- and they're 4 and 7 years old.
Why isn't my child eating? Is she getting enough? How much does she weigh? Is it appropriate for her length? Her length appropriate for her weight? Is her head getting misshapen? What are those bumps on her face, her back, her bottom? Why doesn't she have any teeth yet?
And then there's sickness. Fear is now accompanied by helplessness. She feels warm. Her temperature's 102.6, she won't be consoled- give her some Tylenol. But what's really wrong? As you are holding her in your arms, you are literally trying to will her fever from getting worse- she's already so upset, and you are wishing she could just tell you what exactly was wrong so you could at least try and make it better. So daylight comes and we go to the doctor to find out she has had an ear infection. A brief moment of, Oh, that's what it is- is followed by:
Why didn't we go to the doctor sooner? What if what if what if?? Antiobiotics prescribed. And taken. What if she has an allergic reaction? How will we know? What do we do? Don't look on the internet! It will only manifest symptoms!
Then ten days later, another fever, another long night. Back to the doctor. Ear infection still there, despite the round of medicine.
What if there is something really wrong with her ears? Once again, did we wait too long? Did we miss a sign?
Stronger antibiotics. Now we wait for the follow up. K. is still tugging at her ears, but since there is no fever or night waking, doctor's not concerned. Yes, we've called. It's a good thing we don't have his home number.
Should we give her Ibuprofen? I don't want to OD our child! Is that sound she's making normal? She hasn't pooped in three days? That's a weird color! Does her pee smell funny to you? Is she still sleeping? Hope she's okay... And on, and on, and on...
These fears, I know, are not uncommon to any parent, not just new ones. And despite the multitudes and frequency of these thoughts, I think we do a pretty good job of not letting them overtake us. Truthfully, there's not really time to dwell on singular fears, because something always needs to be done, or the little one will suddenly smile and make you forget there was any cause for alarm. Fears will always be there- whether it's fear of being a bad parent, or fear of something being wrong- and I guess it's all the love and responsibility that makes being a parent to so rewarding and frightening all at the same time.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 18: Weak-ends
Like so many working people in this world, I'd had Friday circled in red in perpetuity on my mental calendar. The weekend was time for rest and rejuvenation- maybe catch up on a few household chores that fell by the wayside over the course of the week. Ahhh, the weekend. Just saying it made it feel all was going to be okay.
And then along came parenthood.
Now the weekend is full. Every weekend. There's always something going on. Even when there's nothing really going on. Even the once exciting trips to Target [read: (tar-zháy)], have now become the obligatory trips Target- in which to purchase diapers, formula, and other accouterments for Miss K. When we get home, it's not time to plop down on the couch and catch the second half of that game; it's time to change her diaper, bathe her, play with her... you know, the 24-hour job of a parent.
A funny thing happens though. After being exhausted all weekend, and longing for rest and respite- come Monday morning- when it's time to drop her off at day care, it's painful and I can't wait for the end of the day when we can pick her up. Repeat for days Tuesday-Friday. And all starts again.
The weekend is certainly not what it used to be, but I wouldn't change it for anything.
And then along came parenthood.
Now the weekend is full. Every weekend. There's always something going on. Even when there's nothing really going on. Even the once exciting trips to Target [read: (tar-zháy)], have now become the obligatory trips Target- in which to purchase diapers, formula, and other accouterments for Miss K. When we get home, it's not time to plop down on the couch and catch the second half of that game; it's time to change her diaper, bathe her, play with her... you know, the 24-hour job of a parent.
A funny thing happens though. After being exhausted all weekend, and longing for rest and respite- come Monday morning- when it's time to drop her off at day care, it's painful and I can't wait for the end of the day when we can pick her up. Repeat for days Tuesday-Friday. And all starts again.
The weekend is certainly not what it used to be, but I wouldn't change it for anything.
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