Kid Amnesiac

Several months ago Britney Spears had an unfortunate string of mommy mishaps. She drove with her baby in her lap. Her baby fell out of a high chair and had to be evaluated. She nearly dropped her baby on a concrete sidewalk. After the third mishap, the media pounced on her and pronounced her a bad mother. Since then she has had a complete, well documented melt-down, and the Britney bashing has gotten to be less fun.

Even were that not the case, I’m currently feeling a bit more sympathetic as I have just had my very own Britney moment. Last night, I dropped Simon. Unlike Britney, I wasn’t teetering in unstable shoes at the time. Alas, also unlike Britney, there was no nanny to catch the baby before almost dropping became plain ole dropping.

Let me now interrupt my story to say that we’re all OK. The pediatrician was called, procedures were followed, observation was close, and we’re all OK. OK?

The accident happened as I went to sit down with Simon to read him a story. He squirmed hard, I tried to tighten my grip, and he slid through my hands like silk. He fell about a foot or so and landed flat on his face on a thin rug on top of a hardwood floor. I heard a sickening thud, equally sickening silence for a few seconds, and then then hysterical crying for a good five to ten minutes. As awful as hearing him cry was, not hearing him cry was even worse. I nearly threw up and was shaky for much of the night.

The worst part of this is that I wasn’t doing anything careless, so I can’t ensure it will never happen again. The best part of this is that Simon himself seemed fine, was back to smiling, and even played with his ice bag shortly after the fall. Still, I’m hoping to avoid a repeat and therefore held Simon in a vice-like grip all day. I may have sqeazed the breath out of him, but he sure wasn’t going to fall again!

You know the arechetypical stress dream where you discover that you have to take a final exam for a class you never went to all semester? It might have been because you could never find the room. Or perhaps you meant to drop the class and simply forgot. Whatever the case, there’s always an exam and a totally unprepared you. I have this dream often.

I’ve decided that new motherhood is the inverse of that dream. It’s like studying for months for an exam only to have it be canceled or to find out that you never signed up for the class in the first place. Not at first of course.

At first they hand you a helpless infant and you panic. When I was handed my son, I had held exactly one (1) newborn in my entire life. I knew nothing about baby care and considered it an act of criminal negligence on the part of the state that they let me take Simon home unsupervised.

Then the crash course began. There is nothing in the world like taking care of an infant for 18 weeks or so around the clock to teach you an awful lot about babies in a hurry. It’s the ultimate immersion class.

I think this is why new parents can be so strident about what parents-to-be should do and buy for their baby. After all, it took us 18 weeks to figure out which toys are really good, what we need for the nursery, what we don’t need for the nursery, which diaper system or carrier works the best, etc. And now that we have this hard-won knowledge, we are dying to apply it elsewhere.

I noticed this trend in other new moms when I was expecting, and now I find myself “helping” a few moms-to-be in the same way. I hear myself saying a lot of “You must do X” or “You have to have Y”. It’s obnoxious! I hated it when people told me what I had to do or have, but I can’t stop myself now. It’s a flat out compulsion, fueled in part by tendency to over-research everything and in part by my being terribly opinionated in the first place.

Right now my knowledge is possibly useful and relevant. In a few years, on the other hand, it will be out-of-date and possibly dangerous. So I’ve decided to indulge my compulsion for “help” now and risk being an irritant in exhange for stifling it down the road when I might be a hazard. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. He he he…

There’s a Philip Larkin poem I remember well from college, not least in part because of a celebrated four-letter word in the opening line. It goes like this:

“They mess* you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were messed* up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.”

Uplifting, isn’t it? So will I avoid messing Simon up? Unlikely. I can already see the projection of my own faults and vulnerabilities onto him, and it will be a miracle if Simon can dodge them all.

Last Friday, I was talking to an old high school friend of mine, Jennifer, and telling her about Simon’s trip to the pediatrician and how happy the doctor seemed with Simon’s general progress and care. At the end of my little speech, she looked at me and gently teased, “Are you getting an ‘A’ in motherhood, Jessica?”

Busted. Whether it be feeding, diapering, or playing with Simon, I am always concerned with getting it right. And I am very defensive about the things I know I do wrong. Tummy time? Well, I know I am supposed to be doing this, but Simon gets so upset and then barfs all over the place. I’ll do it later… It’s not just that I feel bad for getting a ‘C’ at tummy time, it’s that I really want to petition for a higher grade or an excused absence on this count. Can we audit tummy time? Take it pass/fail? It’s bringing my average down…

So that covers perfectionism. Shall we move on to anxiety? I hate it when Simon is fussy in front of others. Not because I think it makes him a bad baby, but because I don’t want others judging him harshly. When Steve and Stacy first offered to babysit for me, I wasn’t as interested as you’d have thought. They were free at 8 p.m. or so, that was Simon’s worst time of day, and I didn’t want him to seem like a difficult or “bad” baby. I wanted him to be liked.

Then there were the episodes with the grandmothers. When Simon has a fussy day while my mom or Evie is taking care of him, my skin crawls, my back stiffens, and I am all apologies and anxiety. They are doing me such a favor, what if watching Simon begins to be a burden? What if it’s not fun? What if they think he doesn’t like them? Worse, what if they don’t like him?!

My rational mind knows that babies cry and that grandmothers of all people know that babies cry. This reaction and worry, of course, has nothing to do with my rational mind. It may not even have much to do with poor Simon. It’s more likely all about me. Me wanting to be liked. Me wanting to be “good”. Me being anxious about being liked and being good.

I can just about get a handle on these feelings when new worries appear: How can I keep Simon from smoking when he’s a teen? How can I keep him off drugs? How can I make him really understand the dangers of drinking and driving? What will I say to him the first time a friend hurts his feelings? The first time his heart gets broken?

I’m counting on Matt’s much less anxious and perfectionistic personality to help us out here. I’m sure he doesn’t worry about his grade in fatherhood, just as I’m sure he doesn’t worry so much when Simon is fussy. Simon will have much less test anxiety and sleep better at night if he can take after Matt. The thought of Matt’s mellowing genes calms me down for a while. But then other thoughts crowd my mind. What if Simon is as messy as his father? What if, like Matt, he never does his homework in seventh grade?

The list goes on. Looks like I’ll be messing Simon up now matter how hard I try not to.

But I wonder, what new faults will I throw in just for him?

* The celebrated four letter word was more vulgar than “mess”, but this is a family blog.

Just heard back from the office at the Kaplan Barron Pediatric Group. Simon’s urine culture came back negative, so there is no need for further treatment or diagnosis. Yay!

Last Friday, Simon had a urine culture taken as part of his four-month check up. They found bacteria and white blood cells, meaning we either had a contaminated sample or Simon has a UTI.

So yesterday we repeated the operation. Unfortunately, we got the same results. Some bacteria. Some white blood cells. Can we come back in and try a third time?

Do we have a choice? Off we went again today to the Kaplan Barron pediatric group for our now standing date with Dr. Newstadt. Only today, it was time to “stop messing around” and make sure we got a clean sample. And that means catheter. Oh boy.

Simon was not amused. In fact, he screamed pretty good. Thankfully, though, the entire process was fast and Simon rallied as soon as they could get the tube out and I could pick him up and comfort him. Amusingly, Dr. Newstadt asked if I was OK.

Hey, I’m not the one who just had a catheter run up to my bladder. But assuming I was not giving a command performance of December’s lunatic mom matinee show, I can only assume that they get lots of lunatic moms. (Though I’m sure I looked somewhat agitated.)

We get the results tomorrow. If more bacteria and white cells are found, that will mean treatment with an antibiotic and lots of tests to diagnose and/or rule out kidney or bladder problems. As Simon has been in a good mood and does not have a fever, the bladder is the more likely culprit. Which is cool, because kidney troubles are much more serious potentially.

Results at around 11:00 tomorrow. Stay tuned!

Mom and I went to see Venus yesterday afternoon, a rather crass movie in which an old stage actor Maurice (Peter O’Toole) has a discussion about beauty with the young object of his lust, Jessie. In trying to justify or at least soften his leachery, Maurice explains to Jessie that the site of the unclothed female form is, to most men, the most beautiful thing they will ever see.

“What’s the most beautiful thing for women?” Jessie asks.

“The site of their first child,” Maurice answers.

I’ve been thinking about this line ever since. Part of me was annoyed by it, as it seemed like a cheap cliche–the sort beautification of motherhood that isolates or insults those who choose to not have children, a group that included me until not very long ago. Another part of me was struck by the question and immediately debated its truth in my experience. Is Simon really the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen?

I can think of a handful of times in my life when something I saw or heard so overwhelmed me with its beauty that I teared up. I remember feeling comtemplative and plainly stunned when I first saw Venice. It was twilight, the street-lights cast an amethyst glaze in the city and the water, and I was astounded at how beautiful a city could be. I had similar experiences when visiting Cyprus, Israel, and Oxford. In all cases, the temporal nature of my experience added to its impact. It wasn’t just the thing itself that was so beautiful, but also the fleeting nature of the moment in which I experienced it.

I also teared up the first time I saw Hiroshige’s “Kambara Night Snow”, a woodblock print that depicts a single figure in a snowy nightime landscape. The place (Japan) and the time (nineteenth century) are foreign to me, but the beauty of the landscape and loneliness of the central figure seem universal. I saw this at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco and had a hard time walking away from it. I also had a hard time hiding the fact that I was crying in public. I think I must have looked a bit mad.

So do I really think Simon is more beautiful than any of these? I understand that others wouldn’t, but I think I honestly do. I have images of these other scenes clearly imprinted in my brain, but I’m not obsessed with them the same way I am with Simon. It’s not just that I love looking at Simon–it’s that I literally have a hard time taking my eyes off of him. In a crowd, my eyes follow him. When he’s asleep, I often look at pictures at him. Every now and then I even tip-toe into the nursery to get a final peek at his sleeping features before turning in myself.

I’m not sure if this is common or healthy, but it’s true. It also surprises me. I expected motherhood to be an emotionally and physically overhwhelming experience. I did not expect it to be a profoundly aethetic experience as well. I also wonder how long at will last. Because frankly–and perhaps unkindly–its difficult to imagine feeling this way when Simon is a pimply, sweaty teen. So maybe the fleeting nature of babyhood is what adds to this perception as well. I also note that Maurice did not include subsequent children in his assessment, a fact that offends me on behalf of all third-borns.

Simon was four months old yesterday. We celebrated by going to the pediatrician, where we confirmed that he is 14 pounds, 10 ounces of rotten. And 25 inches long of rotten. And rotten with a head circumference of 17 1/8 inches.

That puts him in the 50th percentile for weight, same as his two month visit, and the 50th percentile for height, up from 25% at his last visit. Amusingly, his noggin is now in the 80th percentile, up from the 75th at his two-month check-up.

If this pattern holds, the middle name Wolfson will suit Simon well. For while I personally have a pin-head, the Wolfsons in my lineage tend to have big ole’ Charlie Brown heads. At present, Simon is holding his own with his cousin Nathan, uncle Perry, Bubbie, and grand-Zadie Lester (alava shalom). Which is fine by me, as large heads photograph better and look better in hats–assuming you can find ones that fit.

In other signs of progress, when Simon got his shots today only one of us cried. I was not a lunatic mom this trip. Simon screamed bloody murder, but I held it together while he got four shots and his oral vaccine. Turns out shots are much less traumatic when all parties have had better days and more sleep leading up to them.

Tonight Matt and I dressed Simon in his “Be Mine” shirt and “My first Valentine” pants and loaded him up to the Whitworth’s for dinner.

Here’s how I envisioned the evening: I was going to arrive at the house at around 5:00 or so, feed Simon, watch him melt down as by then he would have been awake for as long as he can go (three hours), and then get him to sleep. He’d wake around 8:00, and we’d repeat the process then. The night would be fine, but there would be little time for socializing.

Heh. Simon had other plans. He ate, and then he decided it was time to flirt. And coo. And smile. And laugh. And flirt some more. Naps are so for three-month olds, you understand. By evening’s end, my little guy had gone from a 2:15 feeding to an 11:00 p.m. car ride home with only a single, 45-minute nap during the entire night. And he was happy for the vast majority of that time too. He smiled for Grandpa. He smiled for Uncle Dan and his friend Jessica (who seems to have a knack for babies). He smiled for Aunt Bobbie. And he went positively gaga for his grandmother.

He also got very close to rolling over, nearly caught his feet in his hands, and “talked” our ears off. Simon was similarly active and delightful for his Bubbie yesterday. He’s still getting us up in the night, but he’s also clearly growing by leaps and bounds–socially and physically. His last two days may just be his best two ever.

So will I be his? You betcha. He had me at “aguh”.

Simon is four months this Friday and we’ve hit a few milestones. Specifically:

1. On February 4, Simon briefly held a rattle in both hands. He’s spent the last few weeks perfecting his grabbing skills by raking his sharp little nails across my chest while he nurses. Fun! Two weeks ago I could put a soft toy in his hands and he’d hold on to it and put it into his mouth–and spit up on it, of course. But this was the first time he figured out how to really use those hands to hold an object. For that matter, it’s practically the first time he realized that his hands are under his control!

2. He’s outgrown his original swaddle wraps. He has not, however, outgrown the need to be swaddled. Thankfully, the swaddle wraps come in a size to fit babies up to 22 pounds. (Thanks to Lucy for picking these up for me.) We’ll worry about weaning Simon from swaddling when he outgrows these, too. Though I hear blankets and ace bandages can work wonders…

3. Simon has also outgrown his 0-3 month wardrobe, a collection of terry and velour playsuits in white, green, or yellow. They almost all had words or animals on them, and Matt and I called them by name. So farewell Blue Puppies, Ribbit, Vive la Vie, Too Cute for Words, and Baby. We’ll miss you! I’ll especially miss Vis le Vis, which my dad and stepmom brought back from France, and Ribbit, which I bought one evening after a terrible day at work. Both remind me of happy days planning for baby and are now in a storage tub in the nursery closet in case we need them again one day. (And also because I cannot bear to part with them.)

4. Pull-ups. Once or twice a day every day, I lay Simon down and pull him to sitting by his arms. For the last two weeks, he’s smiled and laughed at this game and kept his head even with his back when I pull him up. Those neck muscles are getting stronger!

5. Tummy time. Still not his favorite, but something he can tolerate in short doses these days. Simon can easily hold his head up, and he sometimes gets his upper body propped up on his arms, too.

6. He’s off his meds. Matt and I only gave Simon Reglan for about 3 days. It was a pain to administer and he didn’t spit up any less. What was the point? About 5 weeks ago, we took him off the Zantac just to see what would happen. He was fine. And it’s probably been two weeks or so since we’ve needed to give him Mylanta. The kid still erups like Vesuvius. He’s just used to it and less freaked out these days. In fact, he often will smile widely right before ruining my trousers/top/bedspread/chair cushion/etc.

7. He talks non-stop. The kid is a total motormouth. He just talks and babbles all the time now. E-mbe-bbbrrrrrr-ugah-aaaah. Also, he’s loud. The kid’s got no inside voice at all.

8. His newborn reflexes fading. Simon no longer steps when you stand him in your lap, he startles much less, he no longer roots, and even his tonic neck reflex is waning.

9. He’s an innie. I’m not sure exactly when this happened, but Simon’s umbilical hernia has healed and he’s now sporting a decidedly “innie” belly-button. It is, of course, extremely cute.

10. Finally, a personal milestone. At birth, I could picture Simon as a girl or a boy with a different name. A few weeks in, it was hard to picture him as a girl, but I could see him as a Peter, our second pick for a name. By now, I can picture having no baby but Simon. Can’t imagine having a girl. Can’t imagine having a boy named Peter. Can’t imagine having anything other than the dark eyed, dark haired, weak chinned, button nosed, dimpled baby that I have. By now I know Simon so well that all his features seem not only familiar, but also inevitable. It’s as though I feel destined to have had a boy named Simon who looks and acts the exact way my little guy does.