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.
Monday, January 24, 2011
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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