Kid Amnesiac

"W" is for Whozit

Just look at that baby in the cute sweater. Or is that the cute baby in the sweater? For sure, the turtleneck is not the most flattering look for those with short necks, double chins, and huge heads, but I still think Simon is doing a great job modeling his cool monogram cable sweater and hip jeans. It’s a very collegiate look.

The jeans are compliments of Claudia, my friend and old boss in the Hebrew publishing business. The sweater is compliments of me; I started knitting it around six weeks before Simon was born. Matt and I picked out the rust colored yarn because it’s gender neutral and looks reasonably good on both of us. I finished the sweater about three weeks before Simon was born, and while I considered embroidering a “W” on it for “Whitworth” or “Whozit” (Simon’s nickname in utero), I ultimately decided to wait until I knew if I had a little Audrey or Simon on my hands and embroider a first initial instead.

That was the plan anyway. But it turns out that “S” is hard to embroider on knitwear, and the combination of the “S” and the reddish color made it look like Superman decided to put on a sweater after it got nippy outside. Just no good at all. So after waiting all these weeks, we’re back at square one with the “W”.

Which, in retrospect, is perfect. Making this sweater was a joy because while I was knitting away I was dreaming about the baby I’d soon have. Now that he’s here, it’s sweet to look at the “W” on his chest and be transplanted back to that time of happy anticipation.

For the past 10 weeks, Simon has slept in a sweet little Moses basket. It was a gift from my Aunt Leona to my sister-in-law Stacy before the birth of her daughter Olivia. Olivia slept in it for several weeks, as did her sister Madeline, brother Benjamin, and cousin Samantha after her.

Once Simon came along, the basket was passed on to me and Simon got to be the fifth baby to slumber within. The first week or so, he slept in the basket between our heads at night and we carried him around inside it during the day. By around the two to three week mark, we were brave enough to move the basket to the foot of our bed at night, and Simon was moved around in it less during the day. Sometime after his first month, we moved him out of our room and started putting the basket inside his crib. At about that time we also quit taking the basket downstairs with us; the little stinkpot weighed so much I was afraid he’d break it.

This morning, Matt and I finally admitted that the basket is too small for Simon and we took it out of his crib. Normally, I’d greet such a milestone with a few tears and a lot of reminiscing. How’d he get so big so fast? That’s been the pattern thus far, anyway.

But you know what? Simon has been a happy baby for a week straight. And last week was better than the week before. Some days have been better than others, but we’ve yet to have a day that taxed us as much as some during weeks 3-8.

I think the little guy is feeling better. He smiles all the time, he makes crazy noises, and we’re still this close to a real laugh. We’ve also settled into something that resembles a schedule and are enjoying more awake time together each day. So I’m OK with this milestone. Bring it on, Simon! Just don’t outgrow your crib too soon, OK?

It’s Christmas Day, and Simon’s arrival has put a decidedly new spin on things.

Like most Jews that I know, I have a complicated history with the holiday. As a kid, I loved that it got me out school for two weeks, but didn’t always relish standing out from the crowd. And believe me, when you are cast as the dreidel that shows up for a two-minute cameo performance in the school Christmas play, you stand out.

By the time I hit my teens or so, I entered a more bitter phase. I was sick of the two-month buildup to the holiday and found Christmas Day itself to be a lot like house arrest: nowhere to go and nothing to do other than hit a Chinese restaurant and bump into all the other bored Jews in the city.

When I went off to college, I began spending Christmas with dear friends and their families and got into the season. It still wasn’t my holiday, but it was a good time. It’s hard to resist pretty evergreen decorations, almond and cranberry studded bread, eggnog, classic carols, cheery midwinter lights, and thoughtful presents. So why try? Instead, I began celebrating Christmas as a bystander, enjoying it while maintaining a safe emotional distance.

Now I have a son with Christian grandparents and my relationship with Christmas is about to get much more intimate. I can’t just let my inlaws do everything–if we’re going to celebrate Christmas as a family, then the Matthew G. Whitworth portion of the family had better step up to the plate and start co-hosting the festivities. And I’m not leaving it all up to Matt, either. I have opinions about trees, decorations, and menus. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way!

Last night was my first forray into the holiday, as we hosted Christmas Eve dessert and present opening. Everything I served was store-bought, which isn’t much fun, but I got out my china and tried to make things look festive. Next year I won’t have an infant in the house and will be able to do it up proper. Next year I will also have a tree, for which I have three brand new ornaments.

So what did Santa bring me last night? So glad you asked. I got a new light fixture for my dining room, a lit mirror that I needed desperately, a wearable blanket, a knitting book…

…and a beautiful menorah.

Merry Christmas!

I learned a new expression from my sister-in-law Stacy yesterday: “It’s easy to heckle from the cheap seats,” meaning roughly that it’s easy to criticize from a distance, be it physical or emotional. She used it in the context of those who judge the parenting of others when they are not parents themselves.

I’ve been a heckler myself in the past. “Who are these crazy women,” I wondered, “who cry when their kids get shots? It doesn’t hurt that much, the kid will never remember it, and a shot sure beats polio.” I thought the same thing about women who cried when their kids went off to school. As my mom would say, “No no. You cry if for some reason they can’t go off to school. That’s when something is really wrong.”

Well, I’ve had my comeuppance because it turns out I’m one of those crazy women. Simon went to the pediatrician yesterday for his two-month (two month!) check-up and got three shots while he was there. He cried when he got them, and like an absolute lunatic I cried along with him.

In my defense, Simon was coming off a very bad previous day in which he had trouble with his reflux and had gas pains that kept him from feeding or sleeping well. So I was a little strung out and overly worried about my little boy when the technician showed up with the needle. I wanted to come back another day. I wanted the vaccines to be oral. I wanted to be able to take them myself. Anything. I just didn’t want Simon to have to cry or be unhappy any more.

Having been so humbled I will be slower to pass judgment on other lunatic mothers who cry at things I don’t understand. I feel your pain, lunatic moms of the world. Now that I’ve scored courtside seats for the parenthood game I think I’ll keep my mouth shut.

On the medical front, Simon will be going on Reglan for his reflux as soon as Matt and I reluctantly fill the prescription. We had hoped that Zantac and Mylanta would keep things in check, as Reglan can have some unpleasant side effects. But Simon’s spitting up is excessive, and the pediatrician (and Bubbie) thinks we need to curb it.

His spitting up is not so excessive that it is preventing growth, however. Yesterday Simon weighed in at 11 1/2 pounds, measured 22 1/2 inches long, and now has a head circumference of 16 1/8 inches. Amusingly, that puts him in the 50th percentile for weight, the 25th for height, and the 75th for head size. Doesn’t that sound frighfully like Napoleon or Danny DeVito? Before you answer, just remember, it’s easy to heckle from the cheap seats.

Yesterday was Simon’s first Chanukah party and his two-month birthday. The party was at my mom’s house and included all four nieces and nephews, who each had a present for Simon. He got Spiderman pajamas from his Spiderman-obsessed cousin Ben (age 4), socks knitted by his crafty cousin Olivia (age 8), and a book that plays music from musically-minded Maddie (age almost 6).

It was adorable, and Simon chose this occasion to be the most awake and happy I’ve ever seen him. He smiled right on through all the chaos of present opening, seemed duly appreciative of his stash, was stoic about missing out on the latkes, and was perfectly happy to be held by the entire family, including Olivia and Madeline.

After several hours of this he had the inevitable breakdown, but it was nothing a trip home, a quiet nurse, and a little dancing couldn’t take care of quickly. He then slept for a five-hour stretch. Good baby!

This morning he’s resting up because his second Chanukah party is about to begin in about two hours over at Zadie and Nana’s house. If he’s half as awake and happy it will be a smashing success.

Based on results from a small, unscientific poll, I have decided that mothers must have ears that rival those of bats or a post-surgery Jaime Sommers.

While Matt can happily snore on, I hear every sound Simon makes at night. I will wake up when he sneezes, wake up when he coughs, wake up when he snorts, and wake up for his pre-cry whimpers. It’s crazy.

And it reminds me of an essay I read years ago in a German class about “der angst” of the small animals, the gist of which is that mice and rabbits sleep lightly, and then for only a few minutes at a stretch, lest they be swept up by a predator before trying to escape. I now look at the rabbits in my back yard with much more sympathy. They must be so tired all the time!

My super-light sleeping also reminds me of a favorite family story. Years ago, before my brother Perry was of drinking age, he came home in the wee hours of the morning with a friend. They had pizza and beer, and as they carried their snack into the basement, two bottles made the tiniest of clicks as they touched each other.

This should not have been cause for alarm. And yet my mother–a woman who can sleep through trains and did sleep through the evening news and the 11:30 rerun of MASH every night when I was in high school–immediately awoke and asked, “Perry, are you with Joey? Do you have beer with you?” And there poor Perry was, pizza in hand, busted by a sound that no normal waking human would ever hear–much less a sleeping one.

I now understand whence come the bionic ears. It’s a mother thing that my mom hung on to for an extra 44 years or so. Which is kinda cool, except it means I may be sleeping like mice and rabbits for the rest of my life while Matt snores on.

Just a week ago, Simon got his days and nights upside down and kept Matt and me up all night. We were fried the next day, and more than a little scared that this pattern would hold.

Starting Sunday night–thank goodness–Simon settled into a new pattern of sleeping from 10:00 or so until 3:00, and again from around 4:00 or so until proper morning. I liked this schedule; Matt took over burping and rocking duties for the middle-of-the-night feeding in exchange for my handling the early morning one on my own. That way, we both got decent chunks of sleep and felt well rested (relatively speaking) the next day. In fact, I was sleeping so much better than than I had for the previous two months or so that I even began to dream again.

Last night Simon cleared another hurdle. He fed at 9:00, was asleep in his crib by 10:30, and did not wake up until 6:00 this morning. Delightful!

The only kink is that I woke up at around 4:30 confused as to why I wasn’t already up, then worried something might be wrong with Simon. Torn between my desire to confirm he was breathing and my worry I’d wake him up checking, I settled for the happy medium of tip-toeing into the nursery and checking on him with the lights still out and while holding my breath. He was fine of course.

And I have to say–as I’m sure any parent reading this understands all too well–Simon has never looked more beautiful than he did at 6:00 a.m. this morning after sleeping for so long. His cheeks were pink, his eyes were bright, his bed-head cuter than ever. I think his eye-lashes were even a tad longer! Beauty, after all, is in the eye of the beholder, and for a nice change the beholder wasn’t bleary-eyed from fatigue.