I went to a work-sponsored luncheon yesterday and the speaker was a “fifth generation natural-born psychic.” She’s a 60-year-old dynamo with a mane of crazy black hair and some of the littlest chicken legs I’ve ever seen (she’s a staunch vegetarian) and when she spoke, she was energetic, passionate, and crass (she dropped the f-bomb a few times and—while wearing a short skirt, no less—occasionally sat very, um, UN-lady-like in her chair. Think Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct). She’s an unapologetic strong-willed product of the 60s who brought to mind the expression “full of spit and vinegar.” It seemed like every woman in the audience was intrigued.
After she told us about her life, and how she developed her sixth sense, she took questions from the audience. One woman asked how she could quiet the noise in her head in order to meditate (since this woman had grown up Catholic, the psychic suggested reciting an old Catholic prayer over and over), another asked how a woman can develop her intuition (start with small things, like the outcome of a baseball game, before trying to tackle big, personal issues), another asked if a baby was in her near future (eventually, the psychic told her, but not until she visits another country first). The moderator of the luncheon asked if she’s ever seen ghosts (yes) and HOW, exactly, she knew she had this rare sixth sense (“You know how some people are natural writers or artists or dancers? I was a natural psychic. I just knew. I had the gift.”)
And then it got really interesting. One of my coworkers asked the psychic if she could “invite her in” to “read her aura” (the psychic had explained early on that she won’t read someone’s aura or palm or cards unless first given permission) and the psychic told her that she sensed there was a lot of pressure to have a baby. She then told her that she kept hearing the name Mary. “I can’t think of anyone named Mary,” my coworker answered. “Do you mean my MARRIAGE? I’m MARRIED.” No, no, it was a woman named Mary.
Knowing this particular (adorable) coworker and knowing a little about her relationship, it sure seemed like she was looking for some type of validation ABOUT her marriage. Instead the psychic told her that her husband is “really cute” and “they’d have a baby girl together.” Not quite the answer she was hoping for.
Another coworker, who looks very Italian, was asked if she knows a Tony. (What Italian doesn’t know a Tony?) Her brother happens to be Tony. The psychic then said that her brother felt tormented by her when they were growing up (her brother is 13 years younger than she is, there was no tormenting/teasing, just babysitting). She also said this coworker wanted to be a lawyer because she was always asking questions (she said she has never been interested in law), mentioned a tennis racket (huh?) and said she was scared of doctors (on some level, who isn’t?)
Another coworker asked if her husband should open his own deli in the skyway (the answer was yes) and yet another was told to re-do her stairwell (um, not really possible, since she rents an apartment). When a CLEARLY foreign woman “invited her to read her aura,” the psychic immediately asked, “How many languages do you speak?” (anyone could’ve figured out she speaks at least two) and when the psychic asked another woman how many kids she has, and the woman said she doesn’t have kids, the psychic blamed it on the fact that the woman’s table-mate was sitting too close to her and her “aura was bleeding” over to the next chair, which is why she was picking up her aura instead of the woman in question.
I don’t want to sound TOO cynical (is it too late for that?) but I have a hard time believing that this woman could look at a total stranger and sum up her life in a matter of seconds. There’s a part of me that WANTS to believe she really can “read” a person’s aura somehow, and there’s a part of me that thinks maybe some people really do have the ability to tap into their sixth sense (Gary Spivey is not one of them, I’m thinking more along the lines of psychics who help solve police mysteries), and there’s an even bigger part of me that’s like: You believers are GULLIBLE. I can’t blame them for eating it up, though. I keep thinking about Whoopi’s character Oda May Brown in the movie Ghost. Who doesn’t want to believe that living people can somehow communicate with the dead? Who doesn’t want affirmation that their dearly departed loved ones are safely on the “other side”? Who doesn’t want to think that a stranger might have the uncanny ability to see into our future and read us better than even we can read ourselves?
I used to watch John Edwards’ show “Crossing Over” until my husband asked me why this LEGITIMATE psychic was on the Science Fiction channel? He had a point. And then I later read somewhere that all of his shows are heavily edited to get rid of the “misses” – leaving the viewer with a sense that he’s never wrong about anyone, when in reality he has just as many misses as he does “hits.”
On the flip side, the psychic was extremely entertaining AND she donated all proceeds to a wonderful children’s nonprofit organization in town, and for that I commend her.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
So much for man's best friend
Let's just hope his bark is worse than his bite.
I normally love dogs. I grew up with a springer spaniel, Bandit, and later in life my parents had a Dalmatian, Lucky. I see my brother's dog, Bella, at least once (if not twice) a month. I have grown to love my friends' labs, setters, beagles, pugs, terriers, poodles, chihuahuas, collies, boxers, bulldogs, greyhounds, and mutts of all sizes. If we weren't always on the go, we'd get a dog. Most of them are loving, gentle, and playful. Yesterday was the first time I have ever felt threatened by a dog.
Around 7 a.m., as I was taking out the garbage in the back alley, I was startled by a loud (ferocious-sounding) bark. When I turned around, I was “greeted” not so pleasantly by our neighbor’s Rottweiler, Molly. (I only know her name because I hear the neighbors yelling at her so often.) She was growling/snarling at me (teeth bared and all) and within seconds I was cornered by my garage. My heart started racing. She did NOT look like she wanted to “play.” What do I do, what do I do? Wait here in the hopes that someone will be leaving for work and "rescue me"? Make a run for the house? Throw a dirty diaper at her head?
I had read somewhere that you’re not supposed to make eye contact, so I didn’t (making eye contact gives dogs the idea that you’re a threat). She kept growling and barking at me, which only elevated my blood pressure. I also remembered that you’re not supposed to panic. Animals sense fear. (I tried to stay calm but ohmygod was I freaking out inside.) I told Molly to “GO HOME!” a few times, hoping it would throw her off. I didn’t run away (I didn't want her to chase me) but instead stood perfectly still for what felt like forever, then walked, slowly, to the gate that was my refuge to safety. Amazingly, she kept her distance. Once I shut the gate, she sort of lunged for me and then, just as quickly as she'd run up on me, bolted off to terrorize someone/something else. In retrospect, I probably should’ve called the police. This isn’t the first time this not-so-friendly dog has been seen roaming around.
I was going to go right to work, but I thought I should warn Aaron and Adam. My hands were shaking so hard I could hardly unlock the front door. Once I was in my kitchen, I started sobbing. My nerves were shot. My heart was still pounding. Aaron was in the kitchen, getting ready to bring Adam to daycare, and I think I startled him more than Molly startled me. He consoled me like any good husband would. Adam looked at me with genuine concern in those big blue eyes and gave me a sympathetic smile (maybe that was just my imagination, but it’s a nice thought that he might have sensed my distress and tried to make me feel better.) It took me awhile to regain my composure, but after a minute I stopped shaking. I was still wiping tears from my eyes as I drove to the park and ride. Aggressive dogs scare the crap out of me. And there’s no shortage of aggressive dogs in our neighborhood. On our half-mile walk to Lake Phalen, we pass two Rotts and two Pit Bulls. They sound like they want to rip your throat out when you walk by.
The good news is, I survived to tell the story. The bad news is, not everyone does. Here are some pointers on what you should do, should you ever be cornered by a big, mean dog (and I truly hope you never are!), courtesy of “How to Handle a Dog Attack:"
Most dogs are not aggressive but rather just curious or defending what they perceive as their territory. It is important to be able to tell if a dog is just playing or is being truly aggressive.
* If the dog approaches you with its head held high or low, it is probably not going to attack. A dog whose head is level means business.
* A loping gait means the dog is playful and checking you out. An even, steady run means business.
If the dog lunges, place a direct hard kick to the chin, that can stop even a big dog in mid-lunge. If you miss, then protect your face and neck. If the dog is now biting you, poke the dog in the eyes as hard as you can with fingers/thumb, ... do it again -- harder! Judo chops may be easier and more effective than fists at hard angles up close.
If the dog is biting, the last thing you want to do is struggle or pull away, as this can cause open, torn wounds. If you stay still and protect your ears, face, chest, and throat, the dog will only be able to inflict puncture wounds on areas of your body that have thicker skin.
If the dog is biting someone else, do not pull the victim away for the very same reason. Try to force your arm in the dog's mouth. Push your arm in forcefully towards the throat to minimize damage to yourself. If you have time, wrap your arm in a shirt or jacket first.
If the dog bites you, remember that one of the most sensitive spots on a dog is his eyes. A quick jab in the eye will seriously disorientate a dog, allowing you more time to defend yourself.
I normally love dogs. I grew up with a springer spaniel, Bandit, and later in life my parents had a Dalmatian, Lucky. I see my brother's dog, Bella, at least once (if not twice) a month. I have grown to love my friends' labs, setters, beagles, pugs, terriers, poodles, chihuahuas, collies, boxers, bulldogs, greyhounds, and mutts of all sizes. If we weren't always on the go, we'd get a dog. Most of them are loving, gentle, and playful. Yesterday was the first time I have ever felt threatened by a dog.
Around 7 a.m., as I was taking out the garbage in the back alley, I was startled by a loud (ferocious-sounding) bark. When I turned around, I was “greeted” not so pleasantly by our neighbor’s Rottweiler, Molly. (I only know her name because I hear the neighbors yelling at her so often.) She was growling/snarling at me (teeth bared and all) and within seconds I was cornered by my garage. My heart started racing. She did NOT look like she wanted to “play.” What do I do, what do I do? Wait here in the hopes that someone will be leaving for work and "rescue me"? Make a run for the house? Throw a dirty diaper at her head?
I had read somewhere that you’re not supposed to make eye contact, so I didn’t (making eye contact gives dogs the idea that you’re a threat). She kept growling and barking at me, which only elevated my blood pressure. I also remembered that you’re not supposed to panic. Animals sense fear. (I tried to stay calm but ohmygod was I freaking out inside.) I told Molly to “GO HOME!” a few times, hoping it would throw her off. I didn’t run away (I didn't want her to chase me) but instead stood perfectly still for what felt like forever, then walked, slowly, to the gate that was my refuge to safety. Amazingly, she kept her distance. Once I shut the gate, she sort of lunged for me and then, just as quickly as she'd run up on me, bolted off to terrorize someone/something else. In retrospect, I probably should’ve called the police. This isn’t the first time this not-so-friendly dog has been seen roaming around.
I was going to go right to work, but I thought I should warn Aaron and Adam. My hands were shaking so hard I could hardly unlock the front door. Once I was in my kitchen, I started sobbing. My nerves were shot. My heart was still pounding. Aaron was in the kitchen, getting ready to bring Adam to daycare, and I think I startled him more than Molly startled me. He consoled me like any good husband would. Adam looked at me with genuine concern in those big blue eyes and gave me a sympathetic smile (maybe that was just my imagination, but it’s a nice thought that he might have sensed my distress and tried to make me feel better.) It took me awhile to regain my composure, but after a minute I stopped shaking. I was still wiping tears from my eyes as I drove to the park and ride. Aggressive dogs scare the crap out of me. And there’s no shortage of aggressive dogs in our neighborhood. On our half-mile walk to Lake Phalen, we pass two Rotts and two Pit Bulls. They sound like they want to rip your throat out when you walk by.
The good news is, I survived to tell the story. The bad news is, not everyone does. Here are some pointers on what you should do, should you ever be cornered by a big, mean dog (and I truly hope you never are!), courtesy of “How to Handle a Dog Attack:"
Most dogs are not aggressive but rather just curious or defending what they perceive as their territory. It is important to be able to tell if a dog is just playing or is being truly aggressive.
* If the dog approaches you with its head held high or low, it is probably not going to attack. A dog whose head is level means business.
* A loping gait means the dog is playful and checking you out. An even, steady run means business.
If the dog lunges, place a direct hard kick to the chin, that can stop even a big dog in mid-lunge. If you miss, then protect your face and neck. If the dog is now biting you, poke the dog in the eyes as hard as you can with fingers/thumb, ... do it again -- harder! Judo chops may be easier and more effective than fists at hard angles up close.
If the dog is biting, the last thing you want to do is struggle or pull away, as this can cause open, torn wounds. If you stay still and protect your ears, face, chest, and throat, the dog will only be able to inflict puncture wounds on areas of your body that have thicker skin.
If the dog is biting someone else, do not pull the victim away for the very same reason. Try to force your arm in the dog's mouth. Push your arm in forcefully towards the throat to minimize damage to yourself. If you have time, wrap your arm in a shirt or jacket first.
If the dog bites you, remember that one of the most sensitive spots on a dog is his eyes. A quick jab in the eye will seriously disorientate a dog, allowing you more time to defend yourself.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Year in Review
Aug. 11 marked one year since Adam arrived. A YEAR. Happy birthday, Baby Boy!
In some ways it seems like a year, in other ways it seems like just yesterday. I can remember— with crystal clear accuracy—various details, while other “milestone moments” are a complete blur. It’s a good thing I recorded events in Adam’s baby book.I recapped the "Year in Review" with photos, but for this post I'm going to go even further back than that, to when Adam was a teeny, tiny bundle of cells.
After writing a series of stories on infertility at the newspaper, I realize now that all of the stars basically have to be aligned in order to conceive a child, and I feel very fortunate that I didn’t have any problems getting pregnant. And even though Aaron and I were ready to have a baby, I was definitely in denial about being pregnant right up until I peed on the stick. Even when a plus sign showed up—as obvious as obvious could be—I read the directions about 100 times thinking it might be due to some fluke. (Lots of info about false negatives, not so much about false positives.)
Once I was able to comprehend the fact that we had created life (this still amazes me) I had a fairly textbook pregnancy, no morning sickness, headaches, back pain, or severe swelling. I ate pretty much what I wanted, with the exception of those few foods all pregnant women should avoid like fish (high levels of mercury can cause brain damage in a developing fetus), deli meat (Listeriosis, a form of food poisoning, can harm the fetus) and soft cheeses (unpasteurized cheese can harbor bacteria). I didn’t go through any sort of caffeine or nicotine withdrawal since I don’t drink coffee or smoke, and I didn’t really miss my friend Alcohol like I thought I would. I felt BEYOND tired those first few weeks—not just your run-of-the-mill tired, but the “I’m recovering from the worst hangover of my life and I could sleep for a week” variety of tired—but that’s a common complaint during the first trimester. Nothing out of the ordinary. The worst part of pregnancy for me was the mental anxiety. I became a pro at playing the dreaded “what if” game. What if there isn’t a heartbeat? What if my baby has a developmental issue? What if I have gestational diabetes? What if I’m put on bed rest? What if the baby arrives too soon? What if, what if, what if. I drove myself insane. Aaron finally had to tell me to stop obsessing and chill out. I couldn't stop thinking about my good friends who had suffered miscarriages and my college friend who went through the devastating heartbreak of losing a nearly full-term baby boy (due to a knot in the umbilical cord). But if it's going to happen, it's entirely out of our control, Aaron rationalized. All we can do is make healthy choices and hope for the best. And if something does happen, we will lean on each another, grieve our loss, then move on and try again. Yes, yes, yes, I knew that. But with every passing week I grew more and more attached. It was our baby, but it was my body, and I couldn’t escape my irrational fears. They followed me everywhere.
I felt like a manic depressive when Aug. 4—my estimated due date—came (woo hoo!!! The magical date had finally arrived!) and went (more waiting).
Adam finally arrived on Aug. 11, 2007, exactly one week past his due date, also known as The Longest Week of my Life. I'll spare you the details about my labor and delivery, but I will say—for anyone who wonders what a “real” contraction feels like—let me put it bluntly: It’s a sharp, intense pain that radiates through your stomach before hardening into a ball around your baby. You cannot have a conversation while having a contraction. It’s about a million times worse than a menstrual cramp.
Also? Bring music and Chapstick to the delivery room, and GET AN EPIDURAL.
Adam was 7 lbs. 10 oz. and 21 inches long with dark hair and olive-colored skin and a cute button nose and my dad's chin and MY GOD he was beautiful. The nurse cleaned up our baby before tightly wrapping him in a white receiving blanket and placing him on my chest. When Adam stared at me and let out a loud wail, I started crying. I looked up at Aaron and realized he was crying too. It was all so much to process. We were weeping out of happiness (we had a baby!), and a little bit of fear (we had a baby!), and because that beautiful, healthy little boy was our SON.
“I had a good life
Before you came
I had my friends and my freedom
I had my name
But this love is like nothing I have ever known
Come with me, son
I’m taking you home”
What a year it's been since that amazing day. And even with sleep deprivation, a ridiculous nursing schedule (every two hours), pumping at work, skipping out on happy hours, and basically adjusting to the "new normal," I have no regrets. It's been a wonderful year of milestone moments (Was that a smile? Did he just roll over? Look! A tooth! Now that we've weaned him to regular formula, is that a rash!? What? He's allergic to cow's milk? Let's see how he likes baby food. He's sitting up! When is this kid going to crawl? What do you call that? Adam, you like to splash in our tiny sink, why won't you splash in a giant swimming pool? He's flirting with another pretty girl! He's chasing the cat! He's dancing! He's crawling on all fours! He said "Mama, Dadda, Kitty, Nigh-Nigh, Bye-Bye!" He's pulling himself up!) and on and on.
I'm proud to be Adam's mom, and look forward to many more milestone moments in the future. This is only the beginning.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Sonic Boom
Not a whole lot of people venture to St. Paul’s East Side for dinner, but that’s exactly what Aaron’s former boss and current coworker are willing to do this evening in order to check out the first Sonic drive-in. They’ve been so excited about eating here I swear it’s been on the calendar for 6 weeks. Forget gang activity, horrible assaults, murders, drug deals, drive-by shootings, and drive-by eggings (I was the victim of an attempted drive-by egging while running around Lake Phalen two summers ago, luckily the punk-ass teenagers had terrible aim. I couldn’t figure out where those golf balls were coming from—where was the nearest course?—until one of the “golf balls” exploded in a goopy mess on the trail ahead of me), now there’s a reason to show my East Side Pride! We have the FIRST Sonic in the entire state, and it’s practically in my backyard! Cherry limeades, Tater Tots, and big, juicy burgers, here we come!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Reflections
I was looking through old journals recently and realized, with sadness, that I started writing about my weight starting when I was 15. I went from 118 to 130 pounds between my freshmen and sophomore years in high school (after I quit the cross-country running team) and apparently thought I was a blimp. Here are a few things I wrote: "Nobody understands how I feel about my body. I HATE it. And when I'm not hating it I'm trying to ignore it." "How did I gain so much weight in one year? I'm two inches taller but that's still no excuse." "I used to be skinny. Now I'm HUGE."
"Why is thin so NECESSARY?"
Fast-forward 18 years and I still wonder that.
I work in a department dominated by weight-conscious women (a former coworker would watch us eat with longing in her eyes and drool practically collecting in the corners of her mouth to the point that no one wanted to eat around her) and the majority of the women in my life—close friends and family—seem to struggle with accepting their bodies. I admit, I'm one of the worst. For this reason alone, I'm glad I had a boy. I once read a statistic that 80 percent of fourth grade girls have tried some type of diet. We're talking 10-year-old girls. I'm sure many (most?) girls learn to accept or reject their bodies based on their mother's perceptions of weight. And of course it doesn't help that we're constantly subjected to images of rail-thin women in the media. It's not easy being a girl in 2008, and it wasn't easy being a girl in 1990, and I'm guessing it won't be easy for the daughters of my friends in the year 2020. I'm sure Adam will have his own adolescent issues, but I have a hard time believing they'll be too focused on his weight. (Unless he's a wrestler.)
Why are we women so hard on ourselves?
I have a friend who is GORGEOUS, the kind of girl who turns heads whenever we're together (and is so genuinely modest she doesn't ever seem to notice all the men admiring her). Most women would KILL to look like her, she is that pretty, and I recently discovered that she won't wear shorts or capris—even when the temps are in the 90s—because she hates her knees and "cankles."
I have another beautiful friend who, in my opinion, has a better body than some celebrities and she hates the way she looks because of her flat chest. She eats healthy, she works out (she recently competed in a triathlon), she doesn't smoke, she rarely drinks, she's long and lean and looks amazing whenever I see her. I don't notice her lack of a rack but she jokes about it all the time, I'm guessing to cover up her insecurities.
I have another stunning friend who obsessively watches what she eats and carefully removes the OLIVES from her martinis because of the "added calories."
I have wonderful, smart, amazing friends and it makes me incredibly sad to think of how we've abused our bodies ... the same bodies that went on to create lives, deliver babies, and provide those babies with milk and nourishment.
One friend used to chew her food and spit it out so she could "get the taste without commitment," one used to eat nothing more than a bagel and an apple a day, and another has been on more diets than I could ever possibly count. She's tried WW, Jenny Craig, diet pills, a crazy cabbage soup diet, no carbs, no sugar, and on and on. I think she's perfect just the way she is, clearly she doesn't see herself the same way.
I struggled with my own eating disorder when I was living with a guy who paid more attention to other women than he did me. Thankfully I met my husband right around then. I will always be grateful that he saved me from myself. I can still picture the two of us sitting outside after work one day. When I confided in him about what I had been doing, he kneeled down in front of me and took my hand in his, sadness and concern in those big green eyes, and asked, "Don't you realize how beautiful you are?"
Just one of the many, many, many reasons I love him so much.
"Why is thin so NECESSARY?"
Fast-forward 18 years and I still wonder that.
I work in a department dominated by weight-conscious women (a former coworker would watch us eat with longing in her eyes and drool practically collecting in the corners of her mouth to the point that no one wanted to eat around her) and the majority of the women in my life—close friends and family—seem to struggle with accepting their bodies. I admit, I'm one of the worst. For this reason alone, I'm glad I had a boy. I once read a statistic that 80 percent of fourth grade girls have tried some type of diet. We're talking 10-year-old girls. I'm sure many (most?) girls learn to accept or reject their bodies based on their mother's perceptions of weight. And of course it doesn't help that we're constantly subjected to images of rail-thin women in the media. It's not easy being a girl in 2008, and it wasn't easy being a girl in 1990, and I'm guessing it won't be easy for the daughters of my friends in the year 2020. I'm sure Adam will have his own adolescent issues, but I have a hard time believing they'll be too focused on his weight. (Unless he's a wrestler.)
Why are we women so hard on ourselves?
I have a friend who is GORGEOUS, the kind of girl who turns heads whenever we're together (and is so genuinely modest she doesn't ever seem to notice all the men admiring her). Most women would KILL to look like her, she is that pretty, and I recently discovered that she won't wear shorts or capris—even when the temps are in the 90s—because she hates her knees and "cankles."
I have another beautiful friend who, in my opinion, has a better body than some celebrities and she hates the way she looks because of her flat chest. She eats healthy, she works out (she recently competed in a triathlon), she doesn't smoke, she rarely drinks, she's long and lean and looks amazing whenever I see her. I don't notice her lack of a rack but she jokes about it all the time, I'm guessing to cover up her insecurities.
I have another stunning friend who obsessively watches what she eats and carefully removes the OLIVES from her martinis because of the "added calories."
I have wonderful, smart, amazing friends and it makes me incredibly sad to think of how we've abused our bodies ... the same bodies that went on to create lives, deliver babies, and provide those babies with milk and nourishment.
One friend used to chew her food and spit it out so she could "get the taste without commitment," one used to eat nothing more than a bagel and an apple a day, and another has been on more diets than I could ever possibly count. She's tried WW, Jenny Craig, diet pills, a crazy cabbage soup diet, no carbs, no sugar, and on and on. I think she's perfect just the way she is, clearly she doesn't see herself the same way.
I struggled with my own eating disorder when I was living with a guy who paid more attention to other women than he did me. Thankfully I met my husband right around then. I will always be grateful that he saved me from myself. I can still picture the two of us sitting outside after work one day. When I confided in him about what I had been doing, he kneeled down in front of me and took my hand in his, sadness and concern in those big green eyes, and asked, "Don't you realize how beautiful you are?"
Just one of the many, many, many reasons I love him so much.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Rock and ROLL!
I am convinced that Adam is the fastest little roller in the Midwest. It’s kind of comical to watch, but he gets where he wants to go. He even rolled his little body right off our bed once. I was in the shower when it happened. When I left the bedroom, both Aaron and Adam were sleeping peacefully. When I returned, I saw Aaron on the bed and no trace of the little guy. My first reaction was that Aaron had rolled over ON TOP of Adam and was suffocating him. (We aren't big fans of the family bed, but right now the crib isn't working out so well.) I heard a noise and looked down, and there Adam was—lying face-up on the ground (on a pillow, thankfully. I had set two pillows next to the bed "just in case"), his pacifier was flung a few feet away, and he was smiling and babbling like he hadn’t just plummeted three feet to the ground. I screamed “AARON! ADAM FELL OFF THE BED!” so loud I’m sure I woke the neighbors. Aaron popped up, all disoriented, and bolted over to my side of the bed, where Adam was now staring at us, wide-eyed and innocent, like, ‘What’s the big deal?’ And ‘Hey, it looks different down here. And what’s that under the bed? Is that a big ball of dust? I should try to eat that.’
I personally think Adam enjoyed rolling off the bed. And that scares me. I don’t want him to be an adrenaline junkie dare-devil boy who has no fear. Next thing ya know he’ll be jumping out of planes or scaling Mt. Everest. If he's all about the risks and dares, high speeds and great heights and all that, put me out of my misery now because I will surely have a heart attack worrying about him in the future.
Besides rolling and walking with our help, he also points up to the “birdie” (or whatever word you use in that high-pitched baby voice), rips up Kleenex, or tissue paper, or napkins into many, many tiny pieces when given the chance (then tries to eat the paper), gives high-fives, bangs two wooden spoons against an overturned pot while taking baths in our kitchen sink (a future Ringo?), eats leaves and grass (his daycare provider has resorted to putting him in an exersaucer when the kids are playing outside because of the sheer amount of grass he ingests while sitting outside on a blanket), and claps his hands in excitement. His problem with clapping is that he doesn’t realize when he’s supposed to clap. Like last night, it was 3 a.m. and he was wide-awake, clapping.
Aaron and I also think he said “mama” when he was crying on Monday morning, but we’re not positive. He said it as clear as a bell on Monday, while stretching his arms out to me (I was leaving for work) and hasn’t said it since. When do most babies first start talking? My sister-in-law Amy’s super cute daughter Morgan, who is a few weeks older than Adam, can say duck, but then again, Morgan does everything long before Adam figures it out. Further evidence that girls are naturally smarter than boys?
Adam has been a regular fan at our softball games, where he's a big hit with a few of the players. They play with him after the game (a favorite of Adam's is Uncle Shawny's "Five, four, three, two, one" rocket launch), and take turns holding him at the restaurant, which gives me a chance to drink my beer and eat my waffle fries and seasoned sour cream without worrying about him pulling things off the table. Aaron and I appreciate the extra help (Dileepa and Jodi are especially fabulous). My work friend/fellow SWAT player Kylie likes to say that Adam looks like a Cabbage Patch Kid. I agree. He does look like a CPK (minus the Xavier Roberts butt stamp). It's those big eyes and chubby cheeks; round head and sweet smile. He is so dang cute! Does that make me sound conceited? I don't care. He is adorable. Plus he's a happy baby, and he’s a chunky baby, and with that combo you almost can’t go wrong. (Skinny, crabby baby vs. jolly, chubby baby? Which would you rather hold?)
His hair has turned more blonde now than when he was first born, and there’s a slight curl when the back of his neck gets a little sweaty. Don’t ask me how Aaron and I wound up with a blonde-haired, blue-eyed child. (Aaron’s eyes are green and mine are brown.) So much for the punnett square I learned in genetics class.
I still take Adam with me everywhere. We're a good team. He seems to know he's in familiar surroundings at Target, Byerly’s, and Maplewood Mall. He even sits in the front of the cart now, his little legs dangling down, his body twisting every which way, rather than in his car seat INSIDE the cart. Knock on wood, but he has yet to make a scene while we’re out in public.
People have been asking Aaron and I (a lot) lately when we’re going to try for Baby Number 2. I used to tell people we’d start trying when Adam was a year old, but now that he’ll be a year old in mere WEEKS, I’m starting to rethink my readiness. Being pregnant for 40 weeks is a long-ass time, and I’m not looking forward to constantly worrying about the baby’s development in utero, followed by sleepless nights and never-ending feeding cycles, not to mention the sheer work of caring for two little ones. I mean, we’re just NOW getting into a steady groove, nearly 11 months later. Are we ready to change everything? How will we afford two kids? Can we love a second child as much as we love Adam? Wait. I already know the answer to that one. Yes. The heart has a limitless capacity to love. There is always, always, always more love to go around.
I personally think Adam enjoyed rolling off the bed. And that scares me. I don’t want him to be an adrenaline junkie dare-devil boy who has no fear. Next thing ya know he’ll be jumping out of planes or scaling Mt. Everest. If he's all about the risks and dares, high speeds and great heights and all that, put me out of my misery now because I will surely have a heart attack worrying about him in the future.
Besides rolling and walking with our help, he also points up to the “birdie” (or whatever word you use in that high-pitched baby voice), rips up Kleenex, or tissue paper, or napkins into many, many tiny pieces when given the chance (then tries to eat the paper), gives high-fives, bangs two wooden spoons against an overturned pot while taking baths in our kitchen sink (a future Ringo?), eats leaves and grass (his daycare provider has resorted to putting him in an exersaucer when the kids are playing outside because of the sheer amount of grass he ingests while sitting outside on a blanket), and claps his hands in excitement. His problem with clapping is that he doesn’t realize when he’s supposed to clap. Like last night, it was 3 a.m. and he was wide-awake, clapping.
Aaron and I also think he said “mama” when he was crying on Monday morning, but we’re not positive. He said it as clear as a bell on Monday, while stretching his arms out to me (I was leaving for work) and hasn’t said it since. When do most babies first start talking? My sister-in-law Amy’s super cute daughter Morgan, who is a few weeks older than Adam, can say duck, but then again, Morgan does everything long before Adam figures it out. Further evidence that girls are naturally smarter than boys?
Adam has been a regular fan at our softball games, where he's a big hit with a few of the players. They play with him after the game (a favorite of Adam's is Uncle Shawny's "Five, four, three, two, one" rocket launch), and take turns holding him at the restaurant, which gives me a chance to drink my beer and eat my waffle fries and seasoned sour cream without worrying about him pulling things off the table. Aaron and I appreciate the extra help (Dileepa and Jodi are especially fabulous). My work friend/fellow SWAT player Kylie likes to say that Adam looks like a Cabbage Patch Kid. I agree. He does look like a CPK (minus the Xavier Roberts butt stamp). It's those big eyes and chubby cheeks; round head and sweet smile. He is so dang cute! Does that make me sound conceited? I don't care. He is adorable. Plus he's a happy baby, and he’s a chunky baby, and with that combo you almost can’t go wrong. (Skinny, crabby baby vs. jolly, chubby baby? Which would you rather hold?)
His hair has turned more blonde now than when he was first born, and there’s a slight curl when the back of his neck gets a little sweaty. Don’t ask me how Aaron and I wound up with a blonde-haired, blue-eyed child. (Aaron’s eyes are green and mine are brown.) So much for the punnett square I learned in genetics class.
I still take Adam with me everywhere. We're a good team. He seems to know he's in familiar surroundings at Target, Byerly’s, and Maplewood Mall. He even sits in the front of the cart now, his little legs dangling down, his body twisting every which way, rather than in his car seat INSIDE the cart. Knock on wood, but he has yet to make a scene while we’re out in public.
People have been asking Aaron and I (a lot) lately when we’re going to try for Baby Number 2. I used to tell people we’d start trying when Adam was a year old, but now that he’ll be a year old in mere WEEKS, I’m starting to rethink my readiness. Being pregnant for 40 weeks is a long-ass time, and I’m not looking forward to constantly worrying about the baby’s development in utero, followed by sleepless nights and never-ending feeding cycles, not to mention the sheer work of caring for two little ones. I mean, we’re just NOW getting into a steady groove, nearly 11 months later. Are we ready to change everything? How will we afford two kids? Can we love a second child as much as we love Adam? Wait. I already know the answer to that one. Yes. The heart has a limitless capacity to love. There is always, always, always more love to go around.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Loves the ceiling fan; terrified of the vacuum
Adam is nearly 10 months now and has officially spent more time outside of my womb than inside it. He's still very social, and transportable, and happy, happy, happy. He weighs 20 pounds (50th percentile), is average for height, and is starting to go blonde. His eyes are big and round and a beautiful shade of blue and chipmunks ain't got nothin' on those cheeks. He still enjoys traveling, which works well since I like to be on the go, and readily accompanies me (without fussing) on trips to Byerly's, Target, the mall, or local restaurants. He's in his element when he's able to people-watch. He is a very curious boy.
He now waves goodbye, gives kisses and hugs, points (his newest infatuation is ceiling fans), can roll a ball back and forth, shakes his head no, claps his hands, likes playing with buttons, bracelets, tags, and the faucet (we give him a bath in the kitchen sink), throws himself backward when sitting on laps (this one worries me. What if he does this when the adult holding him isn't prepared for it and flings himself onto a concrete patio or something?), drinks from a cup, scarfs down Cheerio's and Gerber's Fruit Puffs like they're the best-tasting treats in the world, loves playing peekaboo, listening to Raffi, and making a mess of his bath water, shakes with excitement when he sees "the kitty" (Pip), and trembles with terror when he sees our vacuum (I had the vacuum sitting in the living room last night and he couldn't relax until I put it "away" in the porch. For about five minutes afterward, he kept nervously glancing over his shoulder to see if it was still there), babbles—all the time—in his secret baby language, and has two laughs: the fake-sounding laugh (yeah, Mom and Dad, those ridiculous faces you're making are really funny) and the full-bodied chuckle (Stop! Tickeling! Me! Can't! Stop! Laughing! Getting! The! Hiccups!)
He's still not slithering on his belly or crawling on all fours, and I'm OK with that. It's sort of convenient not having to worry about him sticking those chubby little fingers in a light socket or eating the corner of a magazine page when I leave the room for a second. I might as well enjoy this lazy phase while I can. I mean, it's not like he's NEVER going to figure out how to get around (Right?)
His daycare friend, Zander, is two weeks older and is army crawling all over the place, he even crawls OVER Adam sometimes (like he's a bump in the road). You'd think Adam would be inspired watching his buddy zoom around the room, yet he remains unfazed. He's perfectly content to sit on the floor, surrounded by toys, waiting for the older kids to bring him what he needs. When he pays ANY attention to Zander, it's with a look on his face that seems to say, "Big deal. You can crawl. I'm so not impressed. Dude, you're totally wasting your energy." (Oh, he is so his mother's child.) When he's feeling really ambitious, he rolls from Point A to Point B, or pulls a corner of the floor blanket toward him to bring a toy closer, or bends way, way down, so his chin is nearly touching the floor from a seated position, to extend his go-go-Gadget arm in search of a certain object. He's more flexible than Mary Lou Retton. It's very impressive.
He's also in the "fling" stage of development, where he likes dumping toys out of containers and throwing them, particularly while in his exersaucer or at a restaurant. Especially at restaurants.
I kiss him all the time, constantly tell him how much I love him, and can't wait until 4:45 every day when I pick him up from daycare. When he realizes I'm there, he looks up at me with a huge grin on his face, reaches for me, then, once safely in my arms, nuzzles his face into my neck. It is such a tender moment. My insides turn to mush every time.
This spring, Adam also:
• gave me a reason to celebrate my very first Mother's Day as a mom
• graduated from his six-session "Water Babies" class
• was baptized at St. Mark's
• was diagnosed with croup (a virus leading to harsh, repetitive coughs that sound like a barking seal)
• battled through his first ear infection (his temp spiked to a scary 103.3 and he was very lethargic and whiney, poor little guy)
• sprouted a few teeth (probably related to the ear infection)
• welcomed his newest cousin, Logan Joshua, into the world on May 20
• went to Como Zoo for the first time with Auntie Tonya, Megan, Karla & Greta. (Loved the fish tanks, was sort of indifferent to the rest of the animals.)
• hung out with Grandma Patti so Aaron & I could go on a movie & dinner date one night & play SWAT softball another evening. We appreciated the opportunity to play softball together, rather than taking turns.
• had a slumber party in Forest Lake with Grandma & Grandpa S. so we could go to a friend's wedding up in Hinckley. (It was the first time both Aaron & I spent the night away from our little boy.) We missed him, but we all did just fine. To be honest, I don't think he even realized we were gone, he was having such a good time.
• spent a fun day/evening with his godparents, Uncle Shawn & Auntie Trish, while Aaron & I went to a friend's wedding in Wayzata. There was only one couple at our table who didn't have kids (I'm sure they REALLY enjoyed our conversations about breastfeeding, little boys "finding" their units, and thumbs vs. pacifiers). Five years ago we would've been appalled by those conversations. Ah, yes, times have changed, my friends. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
He now waves goodbye, gives kisses and hugs, points (his newest infatuation is ceiling fans), can roll a ball back and forth, shakes his head no, claps his hands, likes playing with buttons, bracelets, tags, and the faucet (we give him a bath in the kitchen sink), throws himself backward when sitting on laps (this one worries me. What if he does this when the adult holding him isn't prepared for it and flings himself onto a concrete patio or something?), drinks from a cup, scarfs down Cheerio's and Gerber's Fruit Puffs like they're the best-tasting treats in the world, loves playing peekaboo, listening to Raffi, and making a mess of his bath water, shakes with excitement when he sees "the kitty" (Pip), and trembles with terror when he sees our vacuum (I had the vacuum sitting in the living room last night and he couldn't relax until I put it "away" in the porch. For about five minutes afterward, he kept nervously glancing over his shoulder to see if it was still there), babbles—all the time—in his secret baby language, and has two laughs: the fake-sounding laugh (yeah, Mom and Dad, those ridiculous faces you're making are really funny) and the full-bodied chuckle (Stop! Tickeling! Me! Can't! Stop! Laughing! Getting! The! Hiccups!)
He's still not slithering on his belly or crawling on all fours, and I'm OK with that. It's sort of convenient not having to worry about him sticking those chubby little fingers in a light socket or eating the corner of a magazine page when I leave the room for a second. I might as well enjoy this lazy phase while I can. I mean, it's not like he's NEVER going to figure out how to get around (Right?)
His daycare friend, Zander, is two weeks older and is army crawling all over the place, he even crawls OVER Adam sometimes (like he's a bump in the road). You'd think Adam would be inspired watching his buddy zoom around the room, yet he remains unfazed. He's perfectly content to sit on the floor, surrounded by toys, waiting for the older kids to bring him what he needs. When he pays ANY attention to Zander, it's with a look on his face that seems to say, "Big deal. You can crawl. I'm so not impressed. Dude, you're totally wasting your energy." (Oh, he is so his mother's child.) When he's feeling really ambitious, he rolls from Point A to Point B, or pulls a corner of the floor blanket toward him to bring a toy closer, or bends way, way down, so his chin is nearly touching the floor from a seated position, to extend his go-go-Gadget arm in search of a certain object. He's more flexible than Mary Lou Retton. It's very impressive.
He's also in the "fling" stage of development, where he likes dumping toys out of containers and throwing them, particularly while in his exersaucer or at a restaurant. Especially at restaurants.
I kiss him all the time, constantly tell him how much I love him, and can't wait until 4:45 every day when I pick him up from daycare. When he realizes I'm there, he looks up at me with a huge grin on his face, reaches for me, then, once safely in my arms, nuzzles his face into my neck. It is such a tender moment. My insides turn to mush every time.
This spring, Adam also:
• gave me a reason to celebrate my very first Mother's Day as a mom
• graduated from his six-session "Water Babies" class
• was baptized at St. Mark's
• was diagnosed with croup (a virus leading to harsh, repetitive coughs that sound like a barking seal)
• battled through his first ear infection (his temp spiked to a scary 103.3 and he was very lethargic and whiney, poor little guy)
• sprouted a few teeth (probably related to the ear infection)
• welcomed his newest cousin, Logan Joshua, into the world on May 20
• went to Como Zoo for the first time with Auntie Tonya, Megan, Karla & Greta. (Loved the fish tanks, was sort of indifferent to the rest of the animals.)
• hung out with Grandma Patti so Aaron & I could go on a movie & dinner date one night & play SWAT softball another evening. We appreciated the opportunity to play softball together, rather than taking turns.
• had a slumber party in Forest Lake with Grandma & Grandpa S. so we could go to a friend's wedding up in Hinckley. (It was the first time both Aaron & I spent the night away from our little boy.) We missed him, but we all did just fine. To be honest, I don't think he even realized we were gone, he was having such a good time.
• spent a fun day/evening with his godparents, Uncle Shawn & Auntie Trish, while Aaron & I went to a friend's wedding in Wayzata. There was only one couple at our table who didn't have kids (I'm sure they REALLY enjoyed our conversations about breastfeeding, little boys "finding" their units, and thumbs vs. pacifiers). Five years ago we would've been appalled by those conversations. Ah, yes, times have changed, my friends. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
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