1 Mother 2 Another

I hate to even talk about this, because I don’t want to jinx things.  It’s like talking to your pitcher in the middle of a no-hitter.  But Maddie’s into a routine, and she’s grooving on it right now.
 
Madeleine’s a pretty great sleeper at night: we’ve had our sleep-training (heartbreaking) moments, but all in all she sleeps through the night without much encouragement from us.  The daytime naps, however, are a different story.  Far from the book recommendations of two naps – one about 1 hour, and the other 2-3 hours – a day, Madeleine limits her self to a very ascetic ½ hour nap each time.  She’s jumped back and forth between 2 and 3 a day, and we’ve finally settled at 3 providing Mommy doesn’t drag her back into bed in the morning for a sleep-in cuddle.  And she’s fluctuated between 5 and 6 nursings a day and is sitting right now at 6.

A mother at one of the message boards I frequent posted a question recently about using infant walkers.  Her pediatrician had recommended she not use a walker with her five-month-old and she was wondering the reasoning behind it, since her son seemed to love it so much.

While we are not a co-sleeping family, sometimes there’s nothing more delicious than spending the morning dozing together, and I’ll occasionally get up to nurse Maddie at 7 or 8 and bring her back into bed with us for a few more minutes.  Recently one morning the three of us were snuggling lazily in bed, Madeleine in between us cooing contentedly and looking back and forth happily between Daddy and me.  No one had spoken much yet; Brian and I were desultorily discussing the coming day and murmuring endearments to Baby Girl.  Suddenly she broke from her cooing to launch into an excited and enthusiastic monologue, complete with hand gestures and intense eye contact.  She wasn’t looking at either of us, though; she was speaking intently to a spot on the ceiling.  And when she finished, she broke into peals of laughter, chuckling and bouncing for several seconds before looking back at us, for all the world as if to say, “I’m sorry – where were we then?”
 
Brian looked at me and said, “I’d give anything to know what joke she just told.”

I got the afternoon “off” today to go see a show, and my husband and daughter walked me to the subway station as they do most every evening that I teach.  I kept sneaking glances at my husband as we walked; he was looking pretty fine in his wool peacoat and cute knit hat.   The accessory that makes him look the hottest, though, isn’t a piece of clothing.
 
It’s the stroller.

Four days after my daughter was born my milk came in, and with it came the hormones.  I found myself crying for a whole week for no apparent reason, unable to stop myself.  I was just sad and couldn’t find a way out of it.  I had supportive friends and family around me that got me through it, and fortunately for me, one day, I just wasn’t sad any more.
 
Before I left the hospital, my OB came in and had a very matter-of-fact conversation with me and Brian about what to expect in the coming week.  She talked through feelings I would have and the ways my hormones would send me up and down, and told me it was all very natural.  Then she told us both things to look for that might signal post-partum depression: thoughts I might have, things I might want to do.  She made sure we understood the difference between normal baby blues and post-partum depression, and encouraged me to call if I had any doubts or just wanted to talk.  She armed Brian with information so he didn’t feel so helpless and nervous about the unknown.  As I went through my week of baby blues, Brian gently checked in with me, making sure I was ok, listening to me talk about everything from what a bad mother I’d be to how I’d never be thin again.  He’d calmly ask if I wanted to call my OB but trusted me when I said I was ok.  My girlfriends were there for me (see previous post) and I came out the other side shaken but back to normal (well, newborn mommy normal).

I had the best possible scenario: a supportive husband, a knowledgeable and hands-on OB, and great support network around me, and best of all, I didn’t get post-partum depression.  I’m aware of how lucky I am, and that what I experienced was nothing compared to what many women go through with PPD.  Post-partum depression is a serious illness and I don’t want to make light of it, and since I’ve never had it I didn’t feel qualified to speak on the subject.  But I have had a couple readers ask me to talk about it, so I here goes.

Madeleine’s got a new favorite toy, and all others pale in comparison.  The toy provides hours of fun, keeps her constantly enthralled and moving, and causes her to peal with laughter and get a great workout all at the same time.  Unfortunately for you, I won’t be linking to the wonder toy, because said wonder toy is Mommy.
 
I am now literally lying down and letting my daughter walk all over me.

Madeleine began making vocal noises (other than cries!) around ten weeks of age.  One of the first sounds out of her mouth was “mumumumumum”, and I was convinced it was only a matter of days before she associated those sounds with the face eagerly looming over hers every time she made them.  I knew I had a child genius on my hands.
 
Alas, it was not so.  Her “words” have yet to have any known association with a specific object or idea.  Her verbalizations, however, have grown far beyond “mumumum” and now encompass what might be considered a complex language in its own right.

Recently I was chatting with a childless friend, lamenting Madeleine’s speedy growth out of babyhood.  “Tell me again when her birthday is?” my friend queried.  “She’ll be seven months in two days!  Can you believe it?” I responded.  My friend burst out laughing.  “I meant, when is her year birthday!”  She laughed, claiming I knew at any given moment exactly how many days old Madeleine is.  I’m going to plead the 5^th on that one.
 
But how can I not keep such a close watch on her growing up?  I’m all too well aware of the days slipping through my fingers as she runs from babydom to toddlerhood.  Each month is so different from the one before: learning to smile, learning to sleep through the night, recognizing different people, discovering her feet and the ability to blow raspberries are just a few of the milestones that she’s left in the dust.  When she turned 7 months recently I marveled at how different she is already from the 6-month-old she was.  For a mommy’s heart, 7 months is the start of a downhill slide towards 1 year, a far cry from the safe perch of 6 months smack in the middle of the calendar. 
 
And if six months was all about perpetual discovery and joy in all new things, being 7 months is all about the will.

As Madeleine grows more and more independent (against my wishes, I need not add) we’ve been venturing further and further afar from home base for gradually longer periods of time.  I mean, we’ve flown with her several times and such, but for the most part we’ve kept to our routine whenever possible and tried to fit our life and the attendant errands around her naps and feedings.  It seemed simpler that way, and her daily happiness level has a direct relation to how predictable and “normal” her day is.  And of course, once you throw in the whole solid food thing, the effort feels almost Sisyphean; between nursing time, solids time, and nap time (including the cranky-but-not-ready-to-go-down pre-nap time), you have these little windows of about seven minutes where she’s in a good mood and ready for the unexpected.  It almost doesn’t seem worth it.
 
Sometimes, though, you’ve got no choice, so you just pack well, fasten your seatbelt, and hope for the best.

You know you’re a parent when you hear “Beluga” and don’t automatically think “caviar.”  My girlfriend Abby has a few thoughts on the subject of that baby-culture phenomenon/parental lifesaver known as Raffi – click to read more and enjoy!

Jennifer

When I was a child, I knew for a fact my parents were imbued with magical powers.  I recall one day when I was about 3 or 4 and my mother asked me to clean up my room; I did a swift pick-up, leaving dirty laundry lying on the floor, figuring what Mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.  I strolled into the kitchen confidently.  “Did you clean your room?”  My mother asked.  “Yep!”  I replied confidently.  “Did you pick up your underwear?”  She continued.  “No!  I didn’t!”  I replied, astonished that she knew.  (It did not occur to me at this age to bluff.)  I began badgering her; how did she know?  Was there a secret camera?  She just smiled mysteriously and sent me back to finish the job.  For me, that clinched it:  my parents were superheroes.

Christmas gifts have been put through the ringer, and there are some definite favorites shaping up.  Almost anything by Lamaze or Tiny Love is a sure-fire hit; her playmat by Tiny Love is still going strong, embellished by a couple add-on toys she got from Santa.  And Lamaze – what can I say?  They make excellent products.  Anything else in our house probably comes from One Step Ahead. 
 
And by the way, I know you’re probably not in any mood to shop for new gear, but you can tuck this info away for the next birthday or friend’s shower.  At any rate, here’s what’s taking the lead so far:

What’s black and white and fluffy all over?

If you guessed my cat, you’d be wrong.

Now, if the riddle had been, “What’s black and white and condescendingly envious of the baby and fluffy all over except for a few snatched-bald spots and some patches of caked-on sweet potato?” - then the answer would be my cat.

Yes, as Madeleine’s horizon’s have broadened, her eyes have lit upon Kitty.  And it’s love at first site.  On Maddie’s part, that is.  Kitty, the jury’s still out.

When Baby Girl was about 8 weeks old, I began reading ahead on the whole “helping your baby sleep” thing.  Being a chronic over-achiever, I’m much happier when I’ve got a firm plan of attack for anything I do, even if it’s just jotting down how an evening’s going to go (1.  Watch movie; 2.  Go to bed.) on a paper napkin.  So I wanted to have some sort of an idea about what our long-term goal – say, six months old - was for helping Maddie sleep at night.

When Baby Girl was about 8 weeks old, I began reading ahead on the whole “helping your baby sleep” thing.  Being a chronic over-achiever, I’m much happier when I’ve got a firm plan of attack for anything I do, even if it’s just jotting down how an evening’s going to go (1.  Watch movie; 2.  Go to bed.) on a paper napkin.  So I wanted to have some sort of an idea about what our long-term goal – say, six months old - was for helping Maddie sleep at night.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, THE TRAIN HAS LEFT THE STATION!!!
 
Following is what is commonly known as Too Much Information.  You’ve been warned.
 

With the big gift-giving bonanza behind us, chances are you’ve got a lot more baby gear in your house than you did two weeks ago.  Hopefully by now, instruction manuals have been read (hah!), appropriate batteries found, and every toy or item of clothing tried out or tried on.  Your child now has the must-have item of Christmas 2005 and is happily at work destroying it.  You can rest in the knowledge that it’ll take him at least a couple weeks to bring it to a state of dangerously worn out.
 
What happens, though, if you’ve unknowingly got a defective toy or new stroller?  What if you do everything right – supervise the use, read the instructions – but the product itself is inherently bad?  How will you find out?