And because today is extra special...another Bear picture. Today may be the 'da-da' book...but next week we start Chaucer.
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The Bear is actually asleep (!!) and I have a few moments to write...
At Scotty's last ped appointment, Dr. Awesome told me to hold off on starting rice cereal until he was at least six months old. I'm certainly in no hurry to start solids, so I was okay with this. She felt as though rice cereal helps to bulk up smaller babies (not necessary in this case) and it can sometimes have constipating effects, which is not a good thing for seldom-pooping child. Based on everything I've read, delaying solids until 6 months is ultimately a good thing. It lessens the chance of developing allergies and besides, most babies still lack the digestive enzymes it takes to process foods appropriately. Scotty is still getting breast milk, so I feel as though we have really stacked the odds in his favor to minimize the chances for potential digestive issues in the future. Not to mention, logistically, solids are a whole new ball game. We have to set up the high chair (thus meaning we need to find a new home for one of our dining room chairs), I have to re-schedule his feedings, and yes, because I'm that mom, I need to learn how to make my own baby food. (why can't I ever do anything simply? I'm not even going to fight myself on this one; I'm just going to submit. Cue the steamer and food processor.) I wasn't sure how or when to introduce solids into Scotty's daily life (does it take over a feeding? Is it considered a meal? Dessert? How much do I actually offer him?), but with almost a month to prepare, I'm confident I can figure it out. A few weeks ago, I was reading my baby tome "Baby 411" in bed one night when Brian came up. He asked what I was reading about. "Solids," I replied. 'Why are you reading about salads?" he asked innocently. I guess my Chicago accent kicked in again after our brief trip back to the Midwest. :-) No sooner did I post about my new books and guess what? Our dear Bear launched an all-offensive sleep strike. It's almost as though he sensed my excitement and felt the need to quash it, immediately.
His new favorite thing to do is sleep for ten minutes, be cheerful for about 20 minutes, turn into screaming/nasty baby for 20 minutes, and then pass out again. This means every forty to fifty minutes (during the day), he is sleeping. Think about this: it is nearly impossible to get ANYTHING accomplished when you literally have about ten minutes on your hands, max. I feel like banging my head against the wall out of sheer frustration. It was so bad that this morning, I was already crying even BEFORE Brian left for work (I can usually hold it together until at least 10am, when I see the sink full of dirty bottles and my breast pump, sitting next to the couch, just smirking at me). Brian had a morning breakfast meeting and I think my tears scared him so much that he actually came home after the meeting (and scared the beejeezus out of me) and brought me bacon. Aw, so sweet. Bacon makes everything better. I have mentally been composing a blog in my head for the last few weeks about the joys and trials of being a stay-at-home mom...I don't mean to open a can of worms, since I know the topic is very, very controversial, but I really can't figure out what is better: staying at home or working. I think working moms have a greater appreciation for their babies since they are so excited to see them at the end of the day. But staying at home certainly is no picnic, either, and I feel like I am Bear-ed-out by about 6pm. Don't get me wrong...I feel so lucky to be able to stay at home, but my goodness, it never, EVER, ever EVER ends. Bear this, Bear that...all Bear, all the time. And if Scotty is sleeping, it usually means Brian's home. So when exactly do I get Kim time? Not like going to work sounds any better, but at least you can go out to lunch with co-workers without having to tote a 35 lb car seat and worry about the baby waking up during lunch, thus meaning you eat yet another meal cold. I don't know...it's a lot to think about. Either you slice it, it seems like children are just lots of work, whether you are home with them all day or not. Speaking of which, someone is SCREAMING upstairs again. Must. Go. Comfort. Am so tired. Soooooo tired. I have books to review! Really, truly! The blog will live up to its name, finally! It only took about five months to get back on track.
The books, however, are not yet read....give me about a week or two. Scotty and I hit our local Borders today, and my cart screamed, "New mom, mid-life crisis, and just a little curious." It contained: "Committed" by Elizabeth Gilbert, famed author of one of my favorite books of all time, "Eat, Pray, Love." I like to call it literary Xanax. "Nuture Shock" by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman. An in-depth look at cultural truths that may or may not be valid. Subjects covered: praise = higher self-esteem; aggressive kids, acquisition of language (a personal pet subject that I adore), and lying in children. "The Tipping Point," by Malcolm Gladwell. Again, I am a curious looky-loo...I love a good book that delves into analysis of cultural phenomenons. (I read 'Outliers' in December 2008 and highly recommend it.) I don't really always care about the what...but I sure love a good story about the how. And then I bought a bunch of board books for the Bear. So, YAY! I am super excited about my purchases. I love good research sandwiched between a compelling story (thank you, Elizabeth Gilbert) and just some delicious, hearty research stats. If we lived in a more academic town, I would totally be one of those mothers that offered her child to Psychology experiments (not the scary ones, but the safe ones). Give me a two-way mirror any day and I'm happy as a clam. And yes, I saw the Bachelor last night but am still mentally composing my review. I will say this: I was about to give up on the show after Jake turned into a complete and total baby during the bungee jump. Seriously, dude? My five-month old baby just did the same thing (crying, burying his head in my neck) when I tried to put him to bed. I really don't want to watch a 30-something pilot turn into a whimpering bag of jelly. But then he totally redeemed himself by calling Elizabeth out on her game playing (woot!) and then KICKING her off of the show (!!). You go, Jake! That took some major cajones. And thus, I am addicted again. Reviews coming soon! So excited! Maybe I won't blather on about Motherhood for the rest of eternity and will regain some semblance of normalcy in the near future... (and finally, not a post about breast milk!) The blog is currently experiencing technical difficulties...am trying to work out the kinks.
In the meantime, please enjoy the Bear's 5 month picture: Ahh, football in the desert. Is there nothing better? Actually, there are SO many more things that are better…I’m not a huge football fan to begin with, and football with a baby? Not so much. As I described to dear friend Courtney, going to a football game is like a max 7 on the Fun Scale (from one to ten). Seven is the highest the scale goes when sports are involved. And, as I mentioned, throw in a baby and you have an automatic minus ten. So really, on the Fun Scale, we are looking at a maximum of -3 total points. Not good, friends, not good. And yet, it was a surprisingly enjoyable weekend. I do have to offer this caveat, though, in the spirit of honesty - the weekend had nothing to do with fun or football. It was fun because it was a success. And success is defined as 'we survived and the child slept.' I remember when fun was defined as something else...something much truer to the actual Webster definition, but what can you do? Brian and I drove down to Phoenix on Saturday morning, and I will admit, I was insanely excited to spend 5 full hours with my husband without the possibility of firm phone calls and/or a screaming baby. We could actually talk! What would we talk about? It was like a date! Only in a car! And although we had to navigate through some dangerous territory (Hoover Dam, anyone?), it was a surprisingly scenic drive, resplendent with large rock formations and desert cacti. The Bear slept, Brian and I dined on Starbucks (skinny vanilla latte for him, regular drip with soy milk for me, muffins all around), and we talked as though we were a couple without kids. Which was refreshingly delicious. We went to a Packer rally at a local Sports bar on Saturday night, and all of the green and gold made Brian almost giddy. It was cute to watch. This is a much-needed change from his demeanor earlier that afternoon when we were in Kingman, AZ. I seriously yelled at Brian for about 30 miles. Why? you ask. Well, let's just describe it like this: we had just pulled into a gas station. Brian got out to pump gas. I went inside to get drinks. While inside, I decided it would be prudent to also use the restroom. Upon leaving the restroom, I found a very nonchalant Brian standing next to the soda fountain selection, perusing the choices. Sans baby. Let me say that again; Sans baby. I gasped as soon as I saw him. "Where is the Bear?" I hissed. He looked over at me. He gestured over his shoulder. "In the car. Totally asleep." He smiled confidently. I about had a heart attack. I kid you not. I'm sure my posture dropped to crouch-like status and I immediately began running towards the car. "You can't do that!" I shrieked. "You CAN'T DO THAT!" He caught me at the door. "What? Huh? He's fine." I stuttered, barely able to contain my emotions. "No! You can't do that! He's not a DOG! People STEAL babies! Babies DIE in CARS! Go to the car! Go to the CAR!" Brian hightailed it out of the gas station and with shaking hands, I purchased a water and a Gatorade. Shaking. Shaking. And thus, for the next thirty miles, I berated Brian about how/why it is bad to leave a baby in the car. He honestly did not know he could not leave a baby in the car. In his defense, it's not like this is mentioned in any baby books. Nor had it been a topic of discussion between us, so...who knew? I think he got the point after the first .5 miles, but I continued for the next 25.5 for good measure. Needless to say, Brian will not be leaving the child in the car any time soon. So, yeah, Packer rally on Saturday night. Again, when you have a baby with you, you don't get to drink beer and hang with the other Wisconsin folk. You don't get to stand in line to get signed souveniers from former Packer players. And with a baby, you eat as quickly as you can because your child has woken up and you know you are 2.1 seconds away from a total meltdown. Which is exactly what we did. I am happy to report the Bear slept (!!) from 10pm until 7am on Saturday night. Mind you, our teeny-tiny bar area looked like this: so it's not like we were living large. I washed bottles while Brian rocked the Bear to sleep. We had ordered a crib from the hotel (along with a room far, far away from other patrons) and it reminded us of an orphanage crib in Romaina. White bars, thin mattress, etc. Scotty looked so sad in it that I couldn't bring myself to take a picture, but it worked. He slept. God bless the sleeping baby.
Brian and I were seriously afraid to move after he fell asleep, and I must have woken about 10 times upon hearing the cries of the baby next door. Yes, some other couple must have asked for a room far, far away because they, too, had a sleep-striking infant. I didn't even want to cough out of fear of waking Scotty. Yet, miraculously, when I looked at my watch for the first time that morning, it read 7:04am. God bless us all. Scotty slept through the night in a different zip code. And that football game we were supposed to attend? Practically an afterthought after a night of Sleepy Scotty. Let's just say it like this: I'm fairly certain we have traumatized Scotty to crazy people wearing red waving towels. The minute we sat down, I knew it was going to be a long day. He immediately looked around at the screaming Cardinal fans and began howling. The damn Cardinal fans wouldn't shut up (it was the National Anthem! Stop screaming! Your team isn't that good!) and I realized quickly that I would not be able to shush 90,000 fans, so I hightailed it out of the arena. Which began...the walking. And more walking. And then...more walking. I think I might be able to give Jillian Michaels a run for her money. Last-chance work-out? Yeah, try strapping a 20-lb infant to your body and climbing stadium stairs for two hours. Brian looked so cute and so happy in his seat (along with the other Packer fans that were in our row) that i couldn't bring myself to ask him to help out with the baby. And so, I accepted my lot in life: miss the entire time, tend to my child, and walk the Earth like Cain from Kung Fu. Or at least, University of Phoenix Stadium for four, long quarters. Oh, and let's not forget: overtime, too. Yeeeeeah, me. On my second lap around the stadium, vendors started smiling at me. I stopped to chat with them. Ditto for security. And some other folks even found Scotty so cute that they asked me to pose for pictures for them. I felt like the Paris Hilton of the Packer game - I was a bona fide celebrity! People LOVED my baby. This was great! Nothing boosts a mood like some ego-stroking. Though it wasn't me that was generating the buzz, it was still fun to pose with the Bear. As long as we don't end up on some random website or Facebook page. (please keep an eye out for me.) So, yeah, it was fun. I ate a soft pretzel while Scotty vomited on me. I grabbed a Coke during one of my laps and strongly considered doing leg lunges. It was like my own personal gym, but with yummy snacks. When the whole arena erupted into joyous celebration (thus confirming my fears that the Packers lost), I stood stoically by a large pillar and prayed the Bear and I didn't get trampled. We didn't. But we were greeted by a very sad, forelorn Brian carrying a diaper bag. He looked like someone just took his puppy. Poor guy. Needless to say, it was a quiet ride home. And so, football season for our family is over. No more GanstaBoy standing hopefully on our doorstep, no more Sunday mornings with Uncle Jim (and Starbucks doughnuts!), and no more Scotty in his Packer onesie. Which, by the way, he fills in VERY well. Considering he started football season a mere 8-9lbs, he is pushing 20 at this point. Which, in my opinion, makes the whole season a success. I've been such a bad blogger lately...it seems like (for the hundredth time, I'll say it) time is flying...on the wings of love? (::giggle::) No, it's just really moving quickly. Between the Bear, house-hunting, pumping, and football games in Arizona (yes, you read that correctly), I can't keep straight what day it is.
Ahem...yes, we shall be traveling this weekend. Because Scotty did such a great job in Indiana (snort), we decided to chance it again and take him to Phoenix for the Packers/Cardinals game. Actually, the conversation went something like this: B: I'd like to go the playoff game this weekend. K: Please don't leave me alone with our sleep-striking child. B: I'll take him with me K: Really? (seriously contemplates this) But what would he eat? B: Pretzels? Beer? K: I'm coming with you. Get the car seat. And thus, it was determined that we, as a family, will be making the trek through the desert to the University of Phoenix Stadium. I mean, the last time we went to Phoenix, it was nothing short of a disaster. It was September (which means the temperature hovered right around 115 degrees), our tickets in the then-outdoor-stadium were directly in the sun, the concession stand ran out of water, and someone, who shall go nameless (::cough, cough, PURPLE, cough, cough::) left her purse in the ladies room and almost had a panic attack and died. And then we almost missed our plane. Ahh, family fun. This time, however, we vow to make it different. For one, Brian and I are now seasoned travelers with the Bear. I am anticipating he will not sleep. Likewise, I have already requested a room at the hotel far from other guests. I also have a car adapter for my pump (woot! Thanks, Court) so I can pump in the car and travel with ease. And of course, let us not forget what Phoenix is home to: Chick-Fil-A, aka Brian's favorite restaurant. And so, I have no doubt that I will be sleep-deprived and exhausted by the time I heft the 20-lb child in the Baby Bjorn (shout out to my own personal Babies-R-Us - Courtney again!), but at least I have a cute Aaron Rodgers jersey to wear under it. So be sure to look for us on TV! I have no doubt, too, that Scotty's adorable mug will likely be featured on the Jumbo-Tron, thus jumpstarting his baby modeling career. My only regret is that we don't have a wee cheesehead for him to wear... Go Pack! I'm back...and back to blogging. How were the holidays? Well, let's just say they didn't go quite as expected.
I think the best way to handle this is to let the numbers do the talking... 3: # of hours of sleep I got the night before we left for Chicago, mainly due to someone (::cough, cough::) waking up, inexplicably, at 2:30am and then staying up until 3:30am. 4:15: the time of day (am) that my alarm went off on the day we left 30: # of minutes Scotty decided to sleep on the plane out of a 3.5 hour flight, yet was remarkably well-behaved. Me, on the other hand? A stress-bucket. 1: # of methed-out Vegas party dudes that also sat in our row on the plane approximately 2,215: # of Christmas cookies I consumed during the course of the week 130: amount (in pounds) of dog that lived in my parents house during our one week stay. 1: # of people who cried it out during our second day in Indiana. Scotty went on an all-offensive sleep strike for the first 72 hours of our trip, leaving me in tears and Brian having to deal with two, helpless, crying humans. I cried it out, Scotty got rocked to sleep. 2: # of snow storms we endured while in Indiana 86: # of pictures I took when Cousin Ben arrived 45: # of minutes Scotty howled during Christmas Eve dinner 6: # of different sleep options we tried when the little monkey went on his sleep strike. Pack 'n' Play bassinet (weight limit: 15 lbs), bottom of the Pack 'n' Play, Pack 'n' Play in my sister's room, Pack 'n' Play in my closet, sleeping on the floor in my closet (I nixed this one as soon as I realized his sleeping accommodations rivaled a POW's), and finally, stuffing the Pack 'n' Play with a bunch of pillows, putting the bassinet part back on, and calling a day. 10: # of degrees the old rocking chair actually moved when attempting to rock. I was all nostalgic about this ("I am going to rock my son to sleep in the same rocker my mom used when I was an infant!") until I realized that 31 years ago, baby stuff really sucked. After this rocking chair, I practically vaulted both Scotty and I out of our state-of-the-art glider that we have in Vegas upon our return. Our glider requires little to no leg action; the rocking chair: let's just say it was worse than spin class. 65: degrees, in Fahrenheit, that my room was constantly at. Mind you, we only had Vegas-ized pjs for the Bear (snap-ups with no feet) and the Bear insisted on kicking off his socks on a nightly (hell, hourly) basis. All of this equals....one very cold baby and one over-tired mother. .5: # of thumbnails lost during an over-zealous nail clipping session with a well-intentioned aunt 15: # of minutes I cried when I saw Scotty's bloody thumbnail 4: # of hours it took me to drive Brian back to Midway during a blizzard 3: # of times a night the Bear decided to wake up during our entire vacation 4: # of days earlier I returned to Vegas, tail between my legs, consumed only with the idea of having my once-pleasant, sweet, well-mannered child return to his normal self 1: # of pieces of luggage Southwest Airlines lost upon my return home 15: # of tears shed to the woman at the Southwest counter when I told her my breast pump was in my lost luggage 3: # of people at Southwest Airlines who had to listen to my whole sordid tale about why I have to pump, how Scotty never really latched on, how my milk came in late and why I never went to 'just formula.' $50: amount of money Southwest Airlines refunded us. Probably to just shut me up so I would stop blathering on about my damn breast feeding issues. 101: my temperature upon my return 4: number of joints in my body that did not work (mainly, both elbows and knees) when my temp was up, causing me to howl to Brian that I cannot do this without his help, he cannot go off to work and leave Scotty and I to fend for ourselves, and please, please, please stay home. 2: # of minutes it took Brian to decide that he was still going to work that day, mainly to escape a hysterical wife and screaming infant ************* So, yeah, Christmas didn't go exactly as planned. My visions of everyone wearing matching pajamas singing along to Christmas carols as I played the piano did not materialize. But, I guess the take-home point is that we survived, Scotty survived his first (and second) plane ride, and I realized (sadly, as noted my mom) that I have 'acclimated' to Vegas weather. I am, however, so happy that Scotty and Ben had a chance to meet. It was Jake, my brother-in-law, who pointed out that they could easily be fraternal twins; their facial structure is different, but they are very similar in terms of height, weight, head size, etc. They were so sweet together and I am so happy we got some really great pictures. We did a little 'family photo shoot' on Saturday morning, and Scotty and Ben were definitely stars of the show. I will post the professional pictures soon -- there is a picture of them, kind of in a baby pile-up, that is so adorable. Scotty is posing on the bottom, with his arms crossed, and cousin Ben is on top, head up, grinning at the camera. I still can't believe the photographer managed to get both of them smiling. In the meantime, though, enjoy some Bear and Benjamuffin shots: Whoops. Forgot to mention Scotty's four month stats -- and of course, the obligatory picture. The little bear weighed in at a hefty 18lbs, 7 oz. He is now 26 inches long and his head circumference is 17 and 3/4 inches. Whatever we are feeding this child seems to be working! Although I think his major growth spurt (like the one from months 2 to 3) is now over, for the most part. He was 17lbs, 3oz at 3 months, so he really only put on about 20oz in the last thirty-one days or so. *only* 20oz.
And, this one is for the ladies...Scotty really seemed to like his shirt. I kept telling him to put it down, but he really wants to show off those washboard abs. (haha). Future Chippendale? Let's hope not. Again, I can't believe it's been so long since I've blogged. I'm blaming this on the holiday season. If I'm not hanging the stockings by the chimney with care, I'm probably roasting chestnuts on an open fire, leaving very little time to write. Ha! Actually, none of that is true. We have neither a chimney nor a fire to roast chestnuts. No, my time has been taken up with posing the little guy for ridiculous Christmas cards (see below) and attempting to tease my hair into a beehive (ala Betty Draper) for Brian's Christmas party. Lots' o 'fun, let me tell you. In all seriousness, things here have been business as usual. I made a huge *HUGE* gaffe with breastmilk the other day. In September, this would have sent me over the edge. But now that I'm sleeping better (i.e. Scotty is sleeping better), I'm only reducing to a weeping mess for about 3 minutes. This is a 27-minute improvement.
Anyways, for those of you who have lactated/are lactating or plan to lactate...read this and weep, too. So on Thursday, I woke up at 5am. Pumped. Managed to eek out 8 ounces (sweet!). Scotty had 4 ounces at 6am and I saved the other four for his next feeding. He was up again at 8am and had another two ounces. I had (another) appointment with George at 10am, so I combined those two ounces with my 9am pump and headed out the door. Well, Scotty fell asleep in his carseat on the way home from the appointment. I mean, totally gone. Sleepy-bear in Sleepyland. We've installed his 'Bundle-Me' in his carseat, and this child went from hating his car seat to loving it. (A Bundle-Me is this soft, fleecy piece of fabric that covers the baby during winter months, so you don't have to dress them in some crazy snow suit/massive blankets. It's like God's gift to car-seat hating babies.) So he slept from 11am until 1:30pm. I started looking at breast milk from 5am with trepidation since this was going on 8+ hours of being un-refridgerated. I'm fairly lenient about breast milk at room temperature - like everything in Motherhood, there is no exact number of hours that it is good for, but lots and lots of speculation. I'll go as long as 5-6 hours, as long as the milk looks and smells okay. But this was really pushing it. So I set the milk I pumped at 12:30pm on the counter and dumped the milk from that morning. I was so caught up in the fact that I had just *sniffle* wasted four precious ounces of breastmilk that I didn't realize I had dumped the 12:30pm milk instead...yes, the milk I just made. Eight wasted ounces. Four ounces that were user error (my fault for not refridgerating them) and another FOUR good OUNCES DOWN THE DRAIN. Literally. It was one of those, 'Oh my god, did I really...I did. I did. I did!" Cue the sobs. In typical form, I called Brian at work, practically hysterical. He talked me off the ledge and then I paced the house for awhile, beating myself up. Thankfully, I got over it. (cookies helped). But then I started thinking about our upcoming trip back home (::squeal!::) and how I was going to cart all of this breast milk on the plane. I mean, after the new security regulations back in 2006, I was almost apprehended at the security checkpoint in the Philadelphia airport due to the massive number of lip glosses in my purse. I'm not joking. I was flying home from Jen's (mom to Rowan) wedding and that whole 'mix-it-on-the-plane' terrorist plot had just happened. The woman at security told me to either dump all 24 of my MAC lipgloss (um, why don't you just rip my fingernails off?) or go back to the counter and CHECK my purse. Again, I credit Brian for this, because although we had arrived at the airport separately (he was on the East Coast for work so we had two rental cars), he, inexplicably, arrived at the security gate right as I was about to give the security woman a piece of my mind. (note to self: not a good idea). He talked me down (again) and convinced me to walk back to the counter and check my purse, thus salvaging the $200 worth of gloss I had accumulated AND saving me from possible jail time. Anyways, I have since reviewed every single TSA website and memorized the 3-1-1 rule (with breast milk, baby formula, and medication being the exception). I'm praying that McCarran security will not make me taste the breast milk (eww) or worse, POUR it out at the gate. As I was telling Brian, "If they make me dump it out, I will seriously go postal." And again, my better half had an appropriate come-back: "Yes, because going postal at an airport security gate is always a good idea." He turned to Scotty and said, "Because we (meaning himself and Scotty) will be visiting Mom in jail on Christmas." I hate it when he's right. |
About Me
Think of this as the epilogue to Bridget Jones' story. Well, mostly. Bridget marries the handsome lawyer, starts a blog while on bedrest, and decides marathon running sounds like fun. Bridget goes through a divorce but keeps running. Hilarity ensues. Archives
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