Two weeks old.

As of yesterday, Colin's two weeks old. He's a pretty good baby as far as babies go. (I mean, he still looks like an old man and, you know, he doesn't really do much.) He sleeps most of the time.  At night he gives us 4-5 hour stretches of sleep so we're doing alright on that front. He's different from Oliver in that he wants to be talked to and held more. Oliver didn't seem to care either way as long as he was fed and changed. Colin demands to be held up so he can stare at your face. He also likes people to talk and sing to him way more than I think is normal.

Oliver likes Colin. He is very quick to make sure that I take care of him the second he cries, BUT. Oliver is a huge pain. He is embarrassing to take in public. The fits he throws are epic. He is completely happy and fun to be around - until you ask him to do anything. Then he throws fits.

This past week he has thrown fits when I've asked him to:

-Step on the scale at the doctor's office
-Go potty (more times than I can count.)
-Pick out a shirt to wear
-Climb into his car seat
-Brush his teeth
-Eat anything at all, regardless of how much he likes it

All of these things are things he used to do without complaining. Now he argues. With everything. Even things he wants to do.  He plays a game of saying the opposite of what we say - something taught to him by others in cuteness that is now just obnoxious and rude. He thinks he can joke and play around all the time and get away with it, but he can't.

On top of all of that, Oliver got a rash on his leg while we were in the hospital. We couldn't clear it up on our own so we took him in to the doctor yesterday. It's either shingles or impetigo. I bet it's impetigo as Oliver has never had chicken pox or the chicken pox vaccine, but the doctor didn't seem to pay attention to that. They did a skin scrape and they'll culture it to figure out what it is, but in the meantime we have to keep Oliver from spreading it to the baby.




This means that we have to rub ointment on his leg three times a day. It means that we have to give him medicine three times a day. It means we have to wipe down the toilet seat with rubbing alcohol after he uses it. It means we have to bathe him and dry him with new, fresh towels every day. It means we have to wash his hands many, many times throughout the day. It means he has to wear long pants at all times to keep his crusty, oozing lesions covered up.

Of course, he wants to do none of this. It is a constant battle.



Now I have a small spot on my side that looks exactly like how Oliver's rash started out, so I fear that I am contaminated, too. The doctor disagreed, but she seems to know nothing. It's just too big of a coincidence that I, too, have a big red blister on my side that itches like mad. I'm waiting for it to pop open and crust over like Oliver's did.

I just hope that the baby doesn't get this because although it's an annoyance for me and for Oliver, it'd be a big deal for Colin. And I REALLY do not want to spend time at Children's Hospital again. Especially because it'd make Oliver's temper problems even worse, I bet.

It's not that I didn't expect Oliver's disobedience. I did. I expected Oliver to have a hard time adjusting. But expecting problems and dealing with those problems are two different things. Today I have been trying to relax and only request the absolute minimal of him to see if that makes him feel better. In an exercise of good faith, I let him take a nap without his diaper on. Miraculously, he did exactly as I said and came up from the basement to go potty instead of peeing in his bed. There may be hope for him, yet.

Oliver tickling Colin.

Being a baby.

Fat baby.

Grumpy baby, happy boy.

The dog likes the smaller one a lot better than the bigger one.

Haircut. Don't try this at home.

Oliver has needed a haircut for a long long time. Every time we've tried to get it done, something has come up. Or he has decided he doesn't want a haircut. Trust me. You only want to go get his hair cut if he is on board with it.

So today I was sitting at home feeling lucky and I thought, hey! I can cut it myself.

This is always a disastrous line of thinking for me. There is a reason I didn't go to beauty school. There is a reason I stopped trying to cut both my dad's hair and Jared's hair. It just doesn't work.  For some reason, I felt today would be different and Oliver would come out with a rockstar haircut.

Unfortunately, today wasn't different. I present you with before and after.

This is his typical "before" self.

This is what his "after" expression should have been.

Instead, his "after" is pretty happy. It has nothing to do with me giving him an M&M when I finished.

And now he thinks he can run around saying, "I'm cute!"

His new, typical "after" self.

At least he's not old enough to be embarrassed yet.

Snow.

We haven't had much snow this year. Jared and I haven't minded all that much. Oliver is sad that he hasn't been able to make a snowman.

Last night we got a couple inches of snow and Oliver is satisfied. He likes to help Jared shovel. In one of my unpacked boxes, I found my old half-broken camera.

 

 I brought it out to take pictures tonight. They're not very good pictures, but you get the idea.

Oliver is a snow shoveling trooper.

 

Four times his boot came off and he stepped in the snow, but still he wanted to stay out. 

The only problem is that he'd rather shovel the lawn than the driveway.

Cookies for Breakfast.

I was getting ready for the day when I noticed that Oliver was mysteriously silent in the other room. I walked out to the kitchen and found him up on our high bar stool chairs, chocolate smeared on his face and belly.

Oliver climbed up onto the stool, climbed up onto the counter, grabbed the bag of monster cookies, and then sat back down at the counter to have a civilized breakfast.  That part just kills me. The fact that he felt like he had to sit on the chair and eat them at the counter. Like an adult. Like Jared & I would.

When I confronted him about climbing onto the counters, he didn't have much to say for himself.

In fact, I think he was quite proud.

"Were you eating a cookie?"
"Cookie."
"Well, at least, was it good?"
"Mmmm...."




I told a friend of mine this story and she said, "How do you keep yourself from laughing at situations like that?"

I don't.

Bath time.

Supposedly, our corrected, perfect invitations will arrive tomorrow. I'm not holding my breath.

Today we just sat around the house and did nothing.

 

So festive it hurts.

We put up our first Christmas tree as a family. It is hideous.

Ever other tree I've ever put up has been beautiful. Manicured. Themed, usually. Perfect.

So how is it that this one came out so hideous? How did we ever end up this way? Here's how.

The whole thing started off well. We found the farm alright. Oliver seemed to like being pulled in the sled. The countryside was beautiful after a fresh snow fall.

The weather was fine. I wore my furry trader hat and ran around with a saw, two things that always signal a rollicking good time. We found a tree. I cut it down with no problems. The bald spots/asymmetry of it were minimal.

We got back into the car and drove home. We had fun and Christmas carols in the car.

Until Daddy took the camera away, anyway.

Accusatory finger of The Doob.

We made a pit stop at my parents' house, and I realized that we don't have a tree stand. Or lights. Or ornaments.

My parents offered to lend us the use of theirs, and we accepted. We grabbed the two boxes labeled "Christmas" and headed home. Jared and I cut off a fresh stump and a few of the lower boughs before setting the tree in the stand. We went to tighten the bolts when we realized that half of the bolts were bent and couldn't be tightened.

So what did we do? We tightened the ones that would work, and settled for a crooked tree. Who would let a few bent bolts get in the way of Christmas spirit? Certainly not these people. Not in our house. We were determined.

I then cracked open the box of lights. Only colored strands, and about 50 odd replacement bulbs for sets they definitely no longer had.

Well, that isn't my style, but okay. We could deal with that. 

I plugged in a strand and it played obnoxious Christmas music, and it wouldn't stop. Also, the red bulbs didn't work. 

We vetoed that one.

The next strand was silent, but only the green and blue bulbs worked. The third strand had all working lights and colours, but was too short for our tree and could not be extended. The last set of lights had the green, blue, and red lights working. Feeling a bit like baby bear looking for the best bowl of porridge, we said, 

"Well? Green and red are the main Christmas colours, plus we get blue as a Hanukkah bonus! Good enough!"

We strung the lights on as best we could, and they looked okay. With all things considered, it looked great! Our tree was crooked and the lights were weird colours, but it would take more than a crooked tree and some funky coloured (seizure inducing & flashing) Christmas lights to slow down all of this festivity. After all, we couldn't give up at the first signs of trouble. What are we, grinches?! Certainly not.

We opened up the ornament box and realized that the only bulbs we had were red, with some sort of floral gold glitter on them. Tacky, but fine! I've seen worse! I put them on the tree.

 Underneath the bulbs were compartment after compartment of home made Christmas ornaments. Some of these handmade gems were molded with the help of an ashtray. Others were made from construction paper and Elmer's. Still more were festooned with glitter glue and tinsel garland. 

Every one of them featured a tiny, fading, red tinted picture of the kids who made it. Jared and I  strung them up, guessing which face belonged to which of my sisters. Each year I'd looked at those ornaments, but they were never hung. The trees I decorated always had themes - silver and red, blue and white, or candy cane stripes. I never used the hand made ornaments because they just couldn't fit in with the perfect, factory made beauties.

But this year (partially because we had no alternatives) I busted them out. 

Every. Single. One.

I put them all on, each one assigned a prominent spot to shine in garish glory. It felt right. It felt like us -  a family tradition that is a little bit embarrassing, a lot bit tacky, but well intentioned.

We stepped back, and took in the whole blinking, glittering, crooked hot mess of a Christmas tree.

We put up our first Christmas tree. It is hideous. And it is perfect.

Pneumonia.

Oliver has pneumonia. He had a runny nose for probably a week, and then Sunday I finally said, "Well, looks like you're all better!"

Turns out, he wasn't.

He woke up in the middle of the night with a raging fever. As the day wore on and his fever got higher and he got tireder, we started thinking something was wrong. Then he started grunting with each breath, so we took him into the ER. They did chest xrays, and declared he has pneumonia.

He went from this:

To this:

In less than 24 hours.

For most of today he seemed better, but as the day wore on his fever started creeping back. For the most part, though, he was in a decent mood. Decent enough, anyway, to watch The Cat in the Hat from his favorite spot up on the couch.

TV induced zombie stare.

He even let me hold him on my lap while we watched an hour of TV. What a nice boy.

Rainy.

It was really cold and rainy out, but we were stylin' it up anyway.

 

I'm pissed that I didn't focus the camera for this one, but the content is rock solid.



(Of course, those of you who receive emails will have to go to the blog to see this video.)

Birthdays.

This is our birthday week. Jared and I have celebrated together in some way since we were thirteen. Last year we were so busy with Oliver and school and life in general that we didn't do much. We still probably won't do much this year, but I'm looking forward to going out. I'm looking forward to spending some time together.

I've been so uncharacteristically tired this week. It could be that I've never recovered from a trip to my sister's farm and my friend's house 2 hours away. Somebody decided to smash a pumpkin on the van's windshield, so my stay was longer than I'd expected. I had fun, but all of the driving and insurance claiming and police reporting and couch sleeping and baby missing was tiring.

It would be pretty if it didn't cost $400 to fix.

I started thinking about being away from Oliver and it made me feel really sad. Two/three days seems like forever to be apart from him. When I picked him up from my parents' house he had changed. He now exclaims, "My, My, My!" when something surprising happens. He walks more often. He says "cat" and "meow" to the neighborhood felines. In the time space of 2 days, he changed.

And although I know he's well cared for and he ENJOYS being away from me, I feel like I shouldn't ever let him go. I feel like I miss things when I let him leave. I feel so sad for Jared because Jared hasn't seen Oliver since these momentous first steps a week ago:

Jared feels horrible that he's missing all of this, but what can he do? He wakes up, catches the bus to school, and starts class before Oliver even stirs in the morning. Classes are over and he gets home after 6:30, and Oliver is already in bed. He might come home for a quick lunch or dinner, but the time he gets to spend with Oliver on weekdays is minimal. I know it's hard on him. It's hard on us too. Even though we know he's working hard for us, it is still lonely at home without him. We miss him.

Just before Oliver was born, I went through a couple of weeks where I was really, really scared. I felt like parenting was going to be an impossible task. I was convinced my life was over.  I remember that Jared said, "Why are you scared? It'll be you and me and the baby, and we'll kick ass and go on adventures."

The way he said it, so seriously, so matter-of-fact, made me smile.

Today is day 394 of kicking ass and going on adventures.

We love you, Daddy. Happy Birthday.
Our adventures wouldn't be the same without you.

The Dentist Can See You Now.

Today I noticed a tiny white speck on the grotesque looking burl in the back of his mouth. His molar is arriving! Think of the foods he can eat once that baby pops through. He could mash up raw apple! He could eat chips without cutting his mouth to shreds! And of course, he'll start requesting baby sized steaks!

The pediatrician told us to take him to the dentist now, but what would the dentist do? Oliver has a hard time opening his mouth to get his teeth brushed. I can't imagine what it'd be like if the dentist wanted to take xrays or something. I am pretty sure the only way a dentist could even get a peek at those chompers would be to dangle a cube of cheese in front of him.

So, I asked the dentist and the dentist said, "Uh.. Yeah. We don't usually see kids 'til they're starting school. And we don't really do too much for them. Don't give your kid juice or soda." So I decided we can wait.

Know what else I decided today? Many things, including but not limited to:

1. I will give in and start buying the tiny portioned ice creams, because they are like forced serving size control. EVEN IF THEY ARE MORE EXPENSIVE.
2.  Delta's credit card is stupid and too complicated. All I wanted was some free checked bags.
3.  Reading the developmental guidelines for babies/toddlers is even stupider than Delta's credit card policy.

Number three is the biggie. I know that every mommy blogger ever in existence has written a story trying to warn people that baby books are dumb, so I'll just throw in my two cents.

Baby books are dumb.

That was the condensed version. If you're a veteran mom, you can just stop there. Because you already  know I'm going to say that the books will drive you to insanity.

Don't get what I'm saying? Let me explain.

 Say, for instance, you have an adorable baby. You've never taken care of a baby before. You think, "Hey! Somebody must have written down an instruction manual for this, right?" Right. You find one. You crack it open. The book tells you to never leave your baby unattended and to cover up your electrical sockets. So far, so good.

Then you flip to the milestones pages and it's all fire and brimstone. If your baby is 7 weeks old but the book says she was supposed to start grabbing things in a fist at 6 weeks? Or, say that your baby is 7.25 months old and she was supposed to be able to use the pincer grip at 7 months?

Well, I'm sorry to say it, but your baby is doomed. She is probably autistic. Or she has cancer. Or else she has that one rare genetic disorder that causes all of her hand muscles to atrophy into Jell-O.  That birth mark on her back is probably actually all that remains of the identical twin she absorbed in utero. You should call your pediatrician and start an intervention for her immediately.

Of course, there IS a disclaimer  (in a teeny tiny font!) saying that all babies grow and develop differently. But do you know where that disclaimer is? At the very end - after the book already told you how your child will never be able to lead a normal life and will probably grow up to be an LSD addicted stripper.

So, if your kid happens to be a little bit slower, you start to worry.  A lot. Then you call the pediatrician. They all try not to laugh at you as they explain that your child is not dying. You'll call in 10 more times before you realize that your baby just started doing x on an appropriate timeline. You decide baby books are stupid. You throw them in the trash.

And if your baby is on a bit of a fast track? You get a complex.

What if your kid is only 1.5 months old, but he already has the neck control of a giraffe? What if your 5 month old can support his weight and say dada to you?

At first it's no big deal. But then you start to brag at play dates. And then you mentally begin signing your baby up for a gifted preschool program. Before you know it, your kid is predetermined to greatness. He will be enrolled in violin and piano lessons at age two. He will speak a minimum of 4 different languages, at least one of them being Mandarin or Arabic. He will probably be the youngest person ever to receive a Nobel. And it's all because you had him listening to NPR while he was gestating. And also you fed him exclusively organic food, too.... Right?

That's all good and dandy, until one day you realize.. Wait a second. This is his 9 month birthday and he isn't walking yet! You're crestfallen. You're convinced that you just haven't been coaching enough. You work and work and work to get that baby to walk, but despite your best efforts nary a step taken!

You give up and resign your baby back into a life of normalcy. You realize that while you were so anxious for X to occur, you didn't notice that your baby was mastering the different traits of Y & Z. After you stop pressuring her, your baby does whatever minuscule thing you were so worried about and you curse your baby book for giving you such high expectations. You decide baby books are stupid. You throw them in the trash.

Either camp your baby falls into, you throw them in the trash. Stupid baby books.

This photo was left behind yesterday, but I thought it needed recognition. Note how baby and goat have the same expression.

A Wafer for Your Thoughts.

Sorry about another quick blog post, but I figure short and sweet is better than, well... short and nonexistent?

Oliver had his one year check up yesterday, and he's not having a good time with his shots. He was up all night last night, whimpering nonstop. He was burning hot and the most he would do is lift up a limp hand to point to the Nilla Wafers box we had sitting on the counter.

If all else fails, Nilla Wafers will cure you.

Of course, I had to let him have one. He didn't so much eat it as he just held it in his hand and looked at it. Just the act of having wafer in hand made him feel better.

Earlier today he seemed to be doing well, but now that he's home and he's back in bed he's been clingy and whimpery again. I know he's so tired, but he just won't sleep. His fever is higher tonight than it was during the day. How does that make sense?

I'm hoping that once he finally falls asleep he'll stay out for the night and wake up tomorrow feeling refreshed.

I know this is the least bit evil of me, but it is kind of wonderful to hold him when he wakes up at night. For once in his life he just likes me to hold him. He's  not licking my face or sticking his fingers up my nose - just quietly resting his head on me. Now as I type this, his head is resting on my thigh and he's half sleeping, half twitching and whimpering. In each hand is a whole, untasted Nilla Wafer cookie.

I'm sorry that he feels sick, but it melts my heart to know that he wants me to comfort him.

(Even if that means giving him Nilla Wafers to hold.)

My fingers are crossed that he'll wake up tomorrow feeling like this.

Dear Oliver

Dear Oliver,

Today you turned one year old. There are only 8 minutes left of your birthday, but I wanted to be sure I wrote you something. The older you get the more important I realize it is that I write down these moments for you - that I capture every good thing you do. I want you to look back and realize that even if you were an "accident" that you are a wonderful, blessed, beautiful "accident."

The first few months after we took you home from the hospital, your daddy would always look at you and he'd say over and over, "Can you believe we made this?"

For the longest time, we couldn't.

We would stare at you and every single part of you was perfect. Every part of you still is perfect. Somehow, your father and I came together and, though we are flawed, made something perfect. Last week, an old woman at the grocery store kept calling you "Milagro."  I didn't understand most of what she was saying, but I knew she was calling you a miracle. And it's true. If two flawed halves coming together to make a perfect whole isn't a miracle, what is?

You talked with that old woman for a long time. I let her reach out her soft, gnarled hands to pet your hair and smooth your collar. I don't know what she was telling you, but you smiled at her. You seemed to understand. She smiled back at you so big. She was just standing there, soaking up the happiness that you radiate so easily.  Maybe she had babies of her own, and to her you were a beautiful reminder of her earlier years. Who knows? I will never understand exactly what you were to that woman, but I know you brought her joy.

And that's just how you are. Everywhere you go, it's like somebody opened a window in a stuffy room and then there was you - this big whooshing breath of cool air.

You make it so easy to have faith in the world. Everywhere we go, there are more people who want to marvel at you. People are opening doors for us. Helping us carry in our groceries. Saying kind things to us. People who would otherwise have said or done nothing see you and they are reminded to be kind. They are reminded that it is okay to smile, that is okay to make eye contact, okay to offer up complements.  There is something about seeing a baby (especially one as warm and beautiful as you) that makes everyone realize that we're all people, and on some level we all deserve to receive love.

Your father and I have only known you for a year, but we are already helpless in our devotion to you. You were born because we needed you to be, whether we knew it or not.

Thank you for being here with us.  Thank you for being our Sun.

Happy Birthday, Oliver. We love you.

Flash to the past.

Peer pressure always works.

Thank you Dave for these photos.

(Finally.)

Oliver's orchard experience 11 months ago. October 2009

We know how to have fun.

My baby.

So, since my last post I've decided Oliver's molars are really bothering him. He is now refusing almost all solid foods. And he's been going to bed at 6:30.

Lately since it's been getting colder and he's been trying to walk, I've had to dress him up more. No more little one piece rompers with puppies and smiling cartoon dinos. He's wearing jeans. A hardcore leather jacket. Long sleeve shirts with monsters and aliens and rock star graphics. And even... shoes, dare I say, socks! He wears classier, finer, and more clothes than the average West Virginian. He looks so grown up.

He tries to brush his own hair. He tries to buckle himself into his car seat. He holds the leash when my parents walk the dog. He knows where specific pieces of his toys belong, and puts them there. He does all kinds of things that seem like no big deal, but when you consider that a year ago he was still living off of my (ew) placenta and unable to even focus his eyes... Yeah. It's a pretty big deal. I am just the tiniest bit proud.

He's starting to try some words on for size. He says "mo"  or "mom" for more. He knows that cows go moo, dogs go woof woof, and kisses go "muah." And now that he's starting to walk? He just seems so big.

So big, in fact, that he sits forward facing in the car now.

Lots of people say, "But don't you miss when he was a tiny baby!?"

 I don't. At least I don't miss it right now.

Because he is becoming so much more person-like, so much less dog-like. Because I like that he is happy to see me. Because I like that he has his own personality. Because it is good to know that all of the work I do for him is actually contributing to something more than poop and spit up. Because I just like who he is turning out to be.

And while we can go out on family dates to the zoo, and he can watch monkeys and imitate their sounds...

...And while we can have deep, meaningful conversations about animals...




...And while we can build cardboard box forts together...

...And while he can stand up to beg for a Rice Crispies treat...

...When he falls asleep, he is still a little baby, no matter how I dress him up.