The Holidays Begin

My Wednesday before Thanksgiving included the following:

• Baby with miserable, miserable case of diaper rash who howled every time you changed his diaper;
• Rain, rain everywhere, and my umbrella mysteriously missing from my car (perhaps one of the cats took it?);
• Being forced to skip lunch because of an inane conference call with fifteen people all talking over each other at ever-increasing levels of both volume and indignation;
• Sneaking out of work to rescue my little dumpling from daycare so we could "miss the traffic" and head to my parents' house for dinner;
• Being caught as I snuck out by a senior lawyer (although in an act of kindness, he simply wished me a good holiday weekend and then decided to sneak out early with me);
• Discovering upon arrival at daycare that Mr. Chubkin's diaper rash was much worse (so bad that he would howl if you so much as approached him holding a clean diaper), and that as a result he planned to fuss intermittently all day;
• That we had not, in fact, missed traffic, and that the drive to my parents' house would take upwards of two hours with aforesaid miserable diaper rash baby in the backseat;
• The wailing and the moaning that escalated to nearly inhuman levels after approximately one hour and forty minutes in the car;

And then, when nearly all hope was lost...

• Seeing my grandparents (Gabe's great-grandparents) standing in my mother's kitchen, literally welcoming us with open arms, so thrilled to see me and the baby that they could hardly speak, but instead could only kiss and hug us; and lastly,
  
• Watching my grandparents take turns reading "Pat the Bunny" as Gabe gazed up at them with his sweet, serious eyes.
  

In short, Wednesday was a great, great day. Truly, a great day.

Talent

All moms think their kids are talented, I know. But it turns out that my baby really does have a special talent. Can you guess what it is? Nope, it's not speaking, or walking, or composing sonnets. It's pooping! (You may remember that in my very first post, I threatened to write about baby poop. It was not an idle threat. You'll know to take me seriously from here on out!)

That's right, Gabe's pooping skills are prodigious. It's not just me who thinks so; his daycare teachers agree. Every single day last week, he came home from daycare in a different outfit than I had dressed him in that morning. Why, you ask? Because every single day he managed to have a poop huge enough to stain his outfit! That's right, he's the baby that diapers cannot contain!

At Gabe's daycare, each child has a "daily sheet" on which the teachers track bottles and food consumed, naps taken, and diapers changed. On Thursday his poop was so big that the teacher who changed his diaper remarked, "Wow!" on his daily sheet. She also drew a little smiley face. I sort of wish I had been there; I've personally never seen a dirty diaper that inspired me to draw any kind of illustration.

I wonder what other talents lie dormant in my little lamb! Perhaps I'll discover that he's capable of projectile spitting mashed bananas? (Of course, I would probably need to convince him to ingest more than an eighteenth of a teaspoon of bananas at any one sitting in order for him to hone this skill.) In any case, I am so proud of my little poop machine. He really is quite charming, you know.

A Brief Love Letter

Upon re-reading my first post I realized two things: (1) I may have accidentally depicted my husband Matt as unhelpful and disengaged; and (2) those were some really unflattering pictures of Gabriel.

The second item is easily remedied: here, everyone, look at my preshus wittle baybee! He is sooooo cute! I mean seriously, do you see those fat little cheeks? Don't you just want to smooch them? And trust me, the back of his neck smells so good. It makes me a little giddy just thinking about that powdery, slighly milky smell.

The first item is perhaps not so easily remedied, but I am going to try. The thing is, Matt is pretty much the best dad ever. Seriously. We have many friends who also have small children, so I have observed many, many dads in action. And these guys are good dads; they help with midnight feedings, they read books to their kids and do all of the voices, they coach winless AYSO soccer teams.

Matt just smokes them all.

It began while I was in labor (a rather drawn-out affair, lasting approximately forty-seven hours and followed by an unplanned c-section). Matt spent two solid days and nights in my hospital room perched on the most uncomfortable bench in all existence, rising only to bring me ice water when I needed it, to hold my hand when I felt scared, or to update our parents on my progress ("Three centimeters dilated." "Three centimeters dilated." "Three centimeters dilated." "OK, they give up, they're going to cut her open now."). He was brave for me during the c-section itself, making little jokes to keep me calm and cheerful.

When they actually lifted Gabe over the surgical draping so that we could see him for the first time, that was it. Matt was a goner. I have never seen a daddy so thoroughly entranced by his child. While I recovered, he spent that first evening trailing along behind a nurse as Gabe was weighed, measured, and bathed, all the while with this crazy, goofy grin on his face, his eyes locked on this new little person.

Six and a half months later, that grin still hasn't gone away. Every morning, when Gabe begins stirring in his crib, Matt is up like a flash to go see him and kiss him and change his wet diaper. Matt has replaced all the "rock en Espanol" CDs in his car with children's music (including a particularly painful "Mickey Mouse Sings the Hits" CD that I purchased on a whim and found unlistenable), and he sings along heartily because "Gabe likes to hear my voice in the car." Matt, formerly the biggest social butterfly I've ever met, who used to have dinner plans with various friends no less than six nights a week, now dashes home just on the hope that Gabe will still be awake and ready for a bedtime story.

In short, Matt's entire universe has shifted to put this one tiny person at the center. And sometimes I look at them in the mornings as they sit on our bed, Matt and Gabe both bent over the sports section (Matt not even trying to read about his beloved USC football, but instead letting Gabe crumple up the newspaper because "Gabe loves paper, isn't that funny?"), and I am so overwhelmed with love and gratitude that I can hardly breath.

I am blessed to have this wonderful man as my husband, and Gabe is blessed to have him as a father. We are so very, very lucky.

Hi, Internets!

Well, well, I am starting a blog. I hope no one at work finds out. They're kind of mean and they would mock me relentlessly for this. (Kidding, work people! You're all awesome! You know I love you! Please don't make fun of me! Seriously, don't make fun of me. Please?)

I'd like to tell you that I'm starting this blog because I am a great literary talent, and have many lofty things I want to post about, but neither of those things are true.

I'm starting this blog because I have a baby and that means I'm totally obsessed with my baby and I want to write about him.

And lofty topics? Well, I really just want to talk about solid foods. (Oh come on, it could be worse. I could want to talk about baby poo or something. Maybe I will talk about baby poo, now that I think about it. Maybe next week.)

More specifically, I want to talk about the fact that my baby (Gabriel, six months old, requisite chubby cheeks and delicious baby thighs and big blue puppy-dog-style eyes) hates solids and refuses to eat them. Haaaaates them. Refuuuuuuses to eat them. Clamps his tiny, tooth-free gums together and purses his lips and turns his head and tries to swat the spoon away every time I come at him making airplane noises and smiling encouragingly.

You should have seen how excited I was on his six-month birthday, the very first day that I was allowed to give him solid food, per his pediatrician's instruction. I researched exactly what kind of food we should try first (organic brown rice cereal with probiotics, of course), and I went to three different stores before I found the exact right brand. Then, with great fanfare, I mixed it up exactly according to the directions on the label for "baby's first feeding." A chemist whipping up a batch of life-saving cancer-fighting miracle drugs could not have been more precise than I was mixing the serving of rice cereal. I even used a charming dinosaur-themed bowl that I'd purchased especially for this occasion.

Finally, practically trembling with anticipation, I put a brand-new bib around Gabe's chubby neck and sat him down in his gleaming high chair. Then I dipped the rubber-tipped safety spoon in the cereal and guided it towards his mouth.

Gabe, who is a pretty easygoing little guy, decided to give me the benefit of the doubt, and after a few moments of watching me make ridiculous cheerleader-type faces he obligingly opened his mouth.

I felt so happy, and even a little smug, as I fed him the first bite. "He's going to love solid foods!" I thought, mentally congratulating myself on my excellent mothering skills. "His weight gain will be excellent this month, and his pediatrician will be so thrilled!" I began to have visions of feeding him vegetables and fruits (all homemade, and organic of course), and then medleys, and meats, and finger foods, and eventually we'd work up to gourmet dinners from Melisse, the fabulous French restaurant on 11th and Wilshire! He was going to be such a great eater, and love food so much!

It was at this point that Gabe made a face I can only describe as "horrified" as he spit out every last molecule of the cereal.


My husband, who had been watching the entire production with a poorly concealed air of amusement and disdain, now began openly laughing at me. "What did you think was going to happen?" he asked. "You didn't think he was going to eat it all, did you?"

"Go get the video camera," I snapped. "We need to be recording this moment for posterity."

"OK," he replied, gamely going off to find the video camera so he could preserve our baby's rejection of organic brown rice cereal in digital high-definition. I could hear him chuckling as he fished the camera bag out of our storage closet.

I tried for fifteen full minutes to get Gabe to eat just a tiny, little, bitsy bit more of cereal. It went something like this:

Me: [smiles] "Gabe! Here's some delicious cereal for you!" [waves spoon enticingly]

Gabe: [presses lips together, grimaces]

Me: "Here comes the airplane into the hanger! Open wi-i-ide!!!"

Gabe: [smacks spoon away with angry fist]

Me: [cereal now splattered on shoulder and in hair] "Let's sing a song! You love to sing songs! How about the ABC song? A-B-C-D-E-F-G..."

Gabe: [fussing a little now]

Me: "...H-I-J-K-LMNOP..." [sees a tiny opening between lips, rushes in with cereal-coated spoon]

Gabe: [gags, begins to cry]


At this point an immense wave of guilt hit - I had made my baby gag and cry! - so I gave up, scooped him out of the high chair, and unceremoniously dumped the tyrannosaurus bowl in the sink. I apologized to Gabe about fourteen times while I tried to calm him down, distract him with an elephant rattle, and wipe cereal off of his face, chest, and hands all at the same time.

Of course, my husband managed to capture all of this with the video camera, right down to the cereal crusted into every fold of the brand-new high chair. Because, really, we wouldn't want to forget these magical memories.

Rice cereal was a failure, people. A FAILURE. And sweet potatoes have been a failure, and oatmeal and carrots. Why won't the baby eat???

OK, that was far too long for an initial entry. Welcome to my blog. More soon! Aren't you excited?