Kid Amnesiac

According to all the guidebooks, you are supposed to baby-proof your house by the time your child is nine months old. This includes but is not necessarily limited to the following: installing cabinet locks, covering electrical outlets, installing baby gates by stairs, and lowering the crib mattress.

I dutifully complied with the first three instructions, only to (true story!) trip over and break two out of three baby gates before Simon was mobile enough to need them. In hindsight, I think I put a jinx on his gross motor development by getting ahead of myself. The baby gate at the top of the stairs is up. The gates at the bottom are awaiting Simon’s ability to walk.

For a variety of reasons, Matt and I delayed lowering the crib mattress. Every now and again I’d bring it up, and Matt would remind me that Simon wasn’t able to get from lying down to sitting yet (sigh), and therefore did not require a low mattress. Plus, my arms are kind of short, so he worried it would make it harder for me to put Simon down. Plus, both of us are mechanically inept, and we almost died and/or killed each other assembling the crib in the first place. Plus we weren’t sure where the instructions are. Plus we are both first class procrastinators.

Then yesterday Simon woke up from his afternoon nap a bit earlier than expected. I decided to let him cry for a few minutes, thinking he might go back to sleep. He didn’t, and when the crying began to escalate I went upstairs to greet him. You can imagine my surprise when I opened the door and saw Simon, standing in his crib, greeting me.

Whoa baby-this is new! That made it clear that kiddo could not go back in the crib until we lowered the mattress. This time the universe was kind to us: I found instructions online, we both understood the instructions, and we had all the required tools for the job. Within thirty minutes, Simon’s crib was newly adjusted to prevent him from jumping overboard.

So kudos to Simon for hitting a new milestone! And kudos to us for not being totally inept with baby equipment!

A hearty Happy Birthday to Thomas, son of friends Tony and Katherine. Thomas started the Great Baby Boom of 2006 and was the first baby born to our San Francisco circle of friends. Unbelievably, he’s two today. Wow! Happy Birthday, little boy!

Back in early December, I was really looking forward to the holidays: Specifically, I was looking forward to having a lot of uninterrupted time with Simon. I had vacation and personal days to use up before the end of the year, and I just assumed that I would pass most of them with happy Mom and Baby days.

Instead, I was really busy with Hanukkah shopping, Hanukkah parties (2), Christmas shopping, Christmas parties (2), my Dad’s 70^th birthday party, a hospitalized cat, and some last-minute work assignments. The inevitable result of all this shopping,  partying, vet-going, and working was that Matt got tons of quality time with Simon, my mom and mother-in-law got lots of quality time with Simon, and I think I actually spent less time with him than I usually do. Bah humbug.

By the time we all got sick on my birthday, I was used to watching others take care of Simon while I checked in on occasion, an arrangement that didn’t sit well with me. Thankfully, my work schedule and the MLK, Jr. holiday serendipitously combined to give me five days in row to be home with Simon last week. And that is exactly what the doctor ordered to get us reconnected.

Simon has been in a terrific mood lately, we played our hearts out over the long weekend. We went for walks, went sledding, played patty-cake, danced, played the piano, built block towers, sent the animal train on its way, slid down the stairs on our tushes, played ball, and otherwise played, played, played. For those five days, I changed the vast majority of his diapers, fed him most of his meals, and took a million pictures.

It’s an interesting paradox that a string of long and seemingly tiring days can leave one feeling so invigorated. But there it is. Add to that a second paradox that the more time I spend with Simon, the less keen I am to have help or share him with others. From the distance of a week, I can see that Simon feels the same way. After our little babymoon, he’s been unusually attached to me, gesturing to be picked up and help every time he sees me and prone to cry whenever I leave a room.

He’ll adjust back to having a part-time sitter soon enough, and he certainly loves our new nanny Kathy (as do I). But after feeling a bit removed for a few weeks, it was great to once again be two peas in a pod and see that my love is requited.

Poor baby! Simon is currently recovering from his first bout with diaper rash. I suppose Matt and I should be grateful that we made it 15+ months without having to deal with diaper rash, but frankly we’re still finding the whole situation miserable.

But not as miserable as Simon. Poor baby! It all started Friday when he had a dirty diaper that must have been unusually toxic. We went to change him that afternoon and discovered a very red, very irritated bottom. We knew we were dealing with something new when Simon cried while we cleaned him up.

In the past, we could put on the tiniest layer of zinc oxide (or not), put on a fresh Fuzzi Bunz, put Simon to bed, and rest assured that all would be normal by morning. Well, Simon was noticeably improved today, but he was still red in in the center of his bottom, and he still had a raw spot the size of a nickel on the back of his right thigh.

Tonight we realized–to our absolute horror–that the red spot on his thigh is currently without an epidermis. Poor baby! I even spotted a tiny bit of blood on his Fuzzi Bunz. No wonder he cried when I tried to put some zinc oxide on that spot.

I called my brother and sister-in-law for some parent-to-parent advice, and to their everlasting credit they called me back with parent-to-parent and doctor-to-patient advice. Steve called in a prescription for silver sulfadiazine, we’ll be switching from wipes to warm wash clothes tomorrow, and we might even get out the baby legs and air that bottom out. Honestly, a little pee would be a small price to pay for faster relief.

Watching Simon cry from the pain of being cleaned up was simply horrendous. Earlier today, I Googled “diaper rash” and was greeted with some truly horrible sights that made me cry for babies I don’t even know. Poor babies!

Uh oh! It’s been a goal of mine since Simon was born to ensure that he develops solid eating habits.

For the first six months, I ate quality food and he exclusively nursed. For the next six months, I fed him mostly vegetarian, exclusively organic homemade baby food and nursed him. I felt good about the entire first year.

Then he began to refuse being spoon fed, and the quality of his nutrition took a predicable downturn. Out were the wholesome lentil stews. In came the mac and cheese. I justified this by knowing/hoping that if I introduced Simon to a broad range of foods and modeled good eating habits to him, he’d eventually broaden his diet.

I assume this is still true. What is also true is that your kid will notice and be infinitely more interested in your bad food choices than he/she ever will ever take note of or wish to mimic your good ones. Does Simon reach for my kale and beans? Hanker for sushi or a salad? Heck no.

But look what happened when he saw my soda can Tuesday night! I was horrified. I mean, I don’t even drink soft drinks on a regular basis. I don’t like them much for starters, and from a nutritional standpoint they are a total nightmare. Between the carbonation (bad for bones), the corn syrup (bad for teeth and just generally bad for you), and all those natural and artificial flavors (straight from a lab in Jersey!), I hold up the soft drink as a token of all that’s wrong in the Western diet. To quote Michael Pollan, who echoed my exact thoughts in his most recent book, this isn’t food: it’s a scientifically constructed food-like substance. And one that’s making us sick to boot.

For the most part, I drink water. Once a day, I have a cup of tea. And several nights a week I enjoy a glass of red wine. But I do like ginger ale on occasion. And when I got sick two weeks ago, it really helped to settle my stomach. Then, after I got well, I continued drinking a can a day because I had a case on hand.

That stops NOW. I know that one day the marketing forces that combine in schools, on TV, at restaurants, etc. will result in endless arguments between me and Simon over how much soda he can drink. And I’m not so naïve to think that I’ll win the battle and have a soda-free kid. But honestly, when a fifteen-month old picks up a can and pretends to drink from it, you have only yourself to blame.

Effective immediately, I have instituted new house rules: 1. No soft drinks in the house. 2. Any soft drinks brought into the house (like Matt’s Mountain Dew) must be consumed in a glass and have the bottle or can disposed of out of Simon’s sight. With any luck, Simon will not know what to do with a soda can in six months.

Simon has made some significant leaps in cognition lately that are thrilling to witness.

A while back, we delighted at his use of the word “light” and were puzzled by some other utterances like “ba” and “yagi.” In the past week or so he’s set to work on his pronunciation, and as a result we understand more. Simon now has six clear words: “light”, “mama”, “dada”, “ba” (bye), “ball”, and “lat” (cat). He also has several more words he’s said once or twice, but for now we are attributing them to mimicry. These pre-words include “turkey” and “clock”. He’s got a seventh word, “good,” that we’re not quite ready to confirm yet, and he also delights in saying “uh-oh” and “eeeeeey”.

Beyond simply saying a few words, Simon is letting us know that he understands more every day, too. For a week or so, he’s been able to point to a light, a cat, and a bunny in books when I ask him to. If I ask him to get his ball, most of the time he will. And if I ask him to give me a hug, he usually stretches out his arms. He’s hugged his stuffed bunny on command, too.

I’ve also been fascinated by watching Simon play with graduated boxes. When he first got them, he knocked the boxes together. As the months wore on, he began to play by putting the smaller boxes inside the larger ones. A few weeks ago, he stacked two boxes for the first time ever. And this week, he’s managed to stack as many as four boxes at a time.

Since these boxes are graduated in size, results vary dramatically according to the order he tries to stack things. Sunday and Monday, I looked on as Simon successfully put smaller boxes on top of larger ones, and then less successfully put larger boxes on top of smaller ones. Sometimes when he does this, he grabs the larger box off the smaller one and giggles as though he were playing peek-a-boo with them. That’s pretty darn cute. But Sunday and yesterday alike, I watched Simon take the larger box off the stack, look around for a smaller box, and try again with better results. That was downright fascinating.

Whenever Matt and I realize Simon has learned something new, one of us inevitably looks over at the other in amazement, searching for validation. “Did you see what I saw?” we ask each other. Once the new skill is confirmed, there’s a ripple of excitement and a moment of wonder. Watching this baby transform into a little person I can communicate and interact with has to be the most rewarding and fascinating experience I’ve ever had. I have the sense we are now embarking a Very Grand Adventure, and impatient me can’t wait to see where we go to next.

Pictured, Simon scratching his head as he thinks–or at least appears to think–big new thoughts.

No, nothing magical happened overnight; kiddo still ain’t walking. However, as Simon’s Robeez have very thin soles, and as it will be 9 (brrrr) degrees tomorrow, I decided it was time to get a pair of pre-walker or first-walker shoes for him to guard against the cold if nothing else. And who knows, maybe a little support will give him a nudge.

With this goal in mind, I set out to Stride Rite today to buy Simon his first pair of real shoes. I was excited! After all, these are the shoes that will later be bronzed and live with us forever. I pictured myself consulting with an expert over the best type and size of shoe for Simon, and I was genuinely looking forward to the outing.

I should have known better.

Matt and I hit Stride Rite and my happy little image was immediately shattered. The place was crammed, and a single teenage clerk was staffing the shop. When after five to ten minutes I hadn’t even been greeted, I stormed out in a huff.

My backup plan was Von Maur, a Nordstrom like store in Louisville. They aren’t cheap, but they offer great service…. Or at least they usually do. Today I stood in the children’s shoe department surrounded by several other sets of annoyed looking parents as a single clerk tended to a customer making an exchange. It was every bit as bad as Stride Rite, only I didn’t even like the shoes they carried and they had fewer places to sit.

By this point, I was in a totally foul mood. We live in one of the most aggressively consumerist societies that has ever existed on the planet. I take that back; we live in the single most aggressively consumerist society that has ever existed on our planet. Why then, for the love of all that’s right, is it SO BLASTED HARD to get someone to actually help you buy something? It’s maddening.

Before heading back into the cold, I decided to give Stride Rite one more chance. I managed to buy a pair of shoes this time, but the teenager who “helped” me didn’t seem to know much about fitting babies, and I didn’t feel very confident in my selection. So on a whim I stopped by Naturino—a shop selling horribly expensive European children’s shoes—on my way home. There a very nice young woman offered plenty of good advice, helped me select a shoe that will give Simon some ankle support once he starts to move, and then—hilariously—apologized for not being more of an expert. The owner was out today, she explained, but she’d do the best she could for us.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I managed to blow $65 on a pair of shoes for a child who is not yet walking. It’s not something I plan to make a habit out of, but it sure beats spending $50 for a pair of shoes that, as it turns out, didn’t offer the right kind of support and that were sold to me by an under-trained staff. Grrrrrr…….

Simon was 15 months old Wednesday, and we celebrated today by getting poked, prodded, and stuck at the pediatrician’s office. Cake would have probably been more fun…

Our little guy has had a growth spurt these last three months, one I had suspected due to the fact that his 6-12 month pajamas and pants quit fitting within the last 2-4 weeks. This spurt was no doubt fueled in part by the change from breast milk to whole cow’s milk. I’m hoping the regular ingestion of cereal bars is merely coincidental! His current stats are:

• Height: 31 ½ inches, 65^th percentile (up from 40^th last time)
• Weight: 23 pounds, 30^th percentile (way up from 15^th last time)
• Head Circumference: 19 3/8 inches, 92^nd percentile (holding steady)

Matt’s happy to see Simon get a little taller. I’m hoping a little extra weight might make him heartier as winter drags on. And we’ve both pretty much given up on head normalization. Few men buy many hats these days, so as long as we can find shirts that button at the neck or shoulder, we’ll be fine.

Simon was massively unhappy with today’s visit. The office was a little cold, we had a long wait between the doctor’s visit and the nurse’s follow-up, and he got four shots (Hep A, Measles/Mumps/Rubella, Flu part II, and Chicken Pox). Nearly all of these can cause various skin reactions, fever, and fussiness. Toss in the fact that he’s now cutting three molars (upping his tooth count to 11), and you have a recipe for one crabby, crabby baby.

At one point, Simon’s crying escalated from normal baby crying and hysterical baby crying all the way to sounds best described as animal. He was snotty, blotchy, and generally out of control. It reminded me of a time my mom took our cat Sidney to the vet, and the poor thing wailed so miserably that a woman in the same reception area asked her what kind of animal she had in her carrier. I suppose everyone knew today it was a baby making those awful noises, but that’s only because pediatricians don’t treat other species!

Finally, please cross your fingers that we see some major gross motor developments in the next three months. Simon’s verbal skills are slightly ahead of track. Ditto his fine motor skills. But his gross motor skills are “borderline”, which means we don’t have to intervene just yet, but we will this April if he doesn’t pull himself up and start walking by then. I am uncharacteristically calm about this, as I can see no physical or mental problems with Simon, and I was a late walker myself. Throw in the fact that he’s a boy, the first born, and generally mellow and content, and I think we have many non-worrisome reasons for his tardiness. He’ll walk when he’s ready, I just hope he’ll get himself ready before we have to start going to the occupational therapist.

Sometime last summer, my assistant began to send out emails with “singing out” in the subject line. It was just a simple typo; she was letting everyone know she was signing out for the day when no one was around to see her leave. My boss thought this typo was pretty funny, and I also enjoyed the image of a grown woman singing about her day as she shut down her computer, picked up her purse, and turned out the lights behind her. It was very Disney—or Mr. Rogers. Although, to be honest, I have sung a little song as I shut down my computer, picked up my bag, and turned the lights out behind me at the end of a work day before, so it didn’t ever seem that odd to me.

At the same time Romny was “singing out” on a regular basis, Simon began an interesting habit himself: When we’d put him down for naps or for bed, we’d hear him talk softly to himself. Usually, the talking was very sing-songy and featured lots of “da-da-da”s or “ooooooooh”s. Evie began to suspect Simon was singing to himself on occasions when his caretakers were not, and I began to think that my assistant and son were both “singing out” at the end of their days.

Flash forward about six months, and Simon still sings out pretty often. Only now it typically happens when he’s getting sleepy. We can tell it’s bedtime or naptime when he begins to nestle his head into our neck, when he quite literally folds himself over while sitting, and when he begins to make soft singing sounds to himself. It’s pretty adorable, and often leaves me in a mood to nap or snuggle under the covers myself.

At last we are are feeling pretty normal over here at 1642 Cowling. No one has thrown up in nearly 72 hours, everyone is peeing OK, I’m feeling bullish.

I also have three new theories as to the cause of our recent domestic distress. Theory 1 covers Tristan: As a Whitworth male (when we flew from SF to Louisville, Tristan was added to Matt’s ticket, thus making him an official Whitworth), it was his destiny to suffer stones. Don’t you think it suspicious that Percival, my Goldstein cat, is OK?

Theory 2 covers Simon: See picture at right. Don’t you think it suspicious he threw up the very next day?

And theory 3 covers me: Twenty-four hours before falling ill, I recklessly bragged to my mother that I had not been ill in nearly two years. She yelled “Don’t give it a getoich! Don’t give it a g’toich!” which is misspelled Yiddish for “Don’t tempt fate and curse yourself!” I normally discount such superstition, but don’t you think it suspicious I immediately got sick?

Whatever the causes of our misfortune, today we were all feeling much better. Even our piano is feeling better, as I finally realized it was not “broken” or “suffering a short” but just needed new batteries. Yes, I am a genius. Once we got it fixed up, Simon enjoyed listening to tunes and rocking out, getting especially enthused when “Mary Had a Little Lamb” played. If I squinted, I could just about imagine him dancing at a prom in 17 years.