Friday, July 29, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Harry Palm
Harrison has a new friend. We'll call that friend "Little Harrison." Little Harrison's been around since the beginning, but Harrison never paid much attention to him before. For some reason, lately Harrison really likes Little Harrison. He's quite enamoured with him and spends a lot of time and attention on him.
Doug and I don't want Harrison to think that there's anything wrong with being affectionate toward his friend, but somehow we just can't stop ourselves from pointing and laughing hysterically whenever those two are...er...hanging out.
Doug and I don't want Harrison to think that there's anything wrong with being affectionate toward his friend, but somehow we just can't stop ourselves from pointing and laughing hysterically whenever those two are...er...hanging out.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Narcoleptic
Can anyone tell me why, say, a person would spend forty minutes at bedtime in his crib singing, playing with his music box, flinging himself about, jabbering, and decidedly not sleeping when just a few minutes earlier said person was so exhausted at the dinner table that he was chewing watermelon with his eyes closed and his cheek resting in a pile of sliced carrots?
It's just a hypothetical question, of course.
It's just a hypothetical question, of course.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Childless Again
Harrison left yesterday for a two-day trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house--his first overnight without us. Dinner was quiet and the conversation consisted of Doug and I repeating over and over "This is weird" and then cackling gleefully because we didn't have to pick up 70% of Harrison's dinner off of the floor and scrape smooshed cheese from the highchair. But then we ended up staying in and watching Six Feet Under because we forgot we were capable of actually leaving the house together after 7 PM.
I kept forgetting that Harrison wasn't asleep in his room. I believe I now how some sense of what it feels like to be an amputee with a phantom limb.
Tonight we're going to take naps after work and then go on a HOT DATE--to a restaurant, hopefully one without booster seats or high chairs or screaming babies or children's menus. And then a movie! And then a walk! And then out for ice cream! And then drinking and dancing! And then to a strip joint!
Actually, I don't think we could possibly squeeze it all in after work and before the bars close at 2 AM, but goddamn it--we could do it all if we wanted to!
The freedom is positively intoxicating!
I kept forgetting that Harrison wasn't asleep in his room. I believe I now how some sense of what it feels like to be an amputee with a phantom limb.
Tonight we're going to take naps after work and then go on a HOT DATE--to a restaurant, hopefully one without booster seats or high chairs or screaming babies or children's menus. And then a movie! And then a walk! And then out for ice cream! And then drinking and dancing! And then to a strip joint!
Actually, I don't think we could possibly squeeze it all in after work and before the bars close at 2 AM, but goddamn it--we could do it all if we wanted to!
The freedom is positively intoxicating!
Monday, July 18, 2005
Wizard Worries
I really should have timed this child-bearing thing better, because having to feed, clothe, and keep Harrison from maiming himself on household objects is seriously hampering my Harry Potter reading.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Night and day
My Type-A personality has always made me one of those people that obsesses over what was going on ____ ago. You may have gleaned that from this blog here, here, and here, for example.
Let me illustrate:
Just an hour ago, I was snuggling my sweet baboo.
Four years ago, Doug and I were in Spain, on our honeymoon.
Six years ago, we were on the beach in Thailand.
Things have been awesome lately: Harrison has been pumped up with antibiotics (resistant bacteria—here we come!), so he's been free of the various Day Care Plagues. We've been marveling at his mind. He understands so much now, and it's amazing to see it working. The words that we know he understands are mama, dada, kitty cat, sit down, no, and kiss. He loves splashing around in his pool. He laughs and smiles all the time. He's starting to wave. He goes to get his shoes when he wants to go outside (which is always), then he bangs on the screen door. He's also taken to going into my closet, picking out a handbag, and then carrying it around the house. The handbag that he chooses on any particular day doesn't seem to coordinate with his outfit, so I don't know what his criteria are. He stalks the giant towers that we build for him out of blocks and books, and then smashes into them like Godzilla destroying Tokyo. He also likes taking his extra blankies out of the wicker basket in his room and dragging them around the house. And didn't you know how fun it is to look back at them as they trail behind? Just walk looking over your shoulder and throw caution to the wind that there might be objects looming ahead that you might crash into, like, say, walls!
Things are good and I experience many, many moments of absolutely pure joy.
A year ago I could not have imagined being at this point. It was around this time last year that we began to get an inkling that the little, leaky dimple on Harrison's forehead was something serious. Something that turned out to be a nasal dermal sinus tract with an accompanying cyst. A year ago we began the seemingly endless string of visits to the hospital for the MRI, the CT scan, and consultations with the pediatric neurosurgeon and the plastic surgeon. And worst of all, a year ago, we began the tortuous waiting (waiting waiting) for an unscheduled surgery that (in the end) would result in 70 stitches, the removal of the cyst, and (thankfully) the determination that the doctors did not have to saw my little baby's skull in order to excise the tract because it ended just beyond the skin on his forehead.
The specter of this surgery and its endless dark possibilities hung over us a year ago and lingered until September 20. It clouded the entire summer and early fall, and everything that we did.
A year ago, I was angry and terrified, and there were whole months where I was unable to be completely present as Harrison's mama, because this anger and terror were constantly flickering in the back of my mind and in the depths of my heart.
What a difference a year makes.
Let me illustrate:
Just an hour ago, I was snuggling my sweet baboo.
Four years ago, Doug and I were in Spain, on our honeymoon.
Six years ago, we were on the beach in Thailand.
Things have been awesome lately: Harrison has been pumped up with antibiotics (resistant bacteria—here we come!), so he's been free of the various Day Care Plagues. We've been marveling at his mind. He understands so much now, and it's amazing to see it working. The words that we know he understands are mama, dada, kitty cat, sit down, no, and kiss. He loves splashing around in his pool. He laughs and smiles all the time. He's starting to wave. He goes to get his shoes when he wants to go outside (which is always), then he bangs on the screen door. He's also taken to going into my closet, picking out a handbag, and then carrying it around the house. The handbag that he chooses on any particular day doesn't seem to coordinate with his outfit, so I don't know what his criteria are. He stalks the giant towers that we build for him out of blocks and books, and then smashes into them like Godzilla destroying Tokyo. He also likes taking his extra blankies out of the wicker basket in his room and dragging them around the house. And didn't you know how fun it is to look back at them as they trail behind? Just walk looking over your shoulder and throw caution to the wind that there might be objects looming ahead that you might crash into, like, say, walls!
Things are good and I experience many, many moments of absolutely pure joy.
A year ago I could not have imagined being at this point. It was around this time last year that we began to get an inkling that the little, leaky dimple on Harrison's forehead was something serious. Something that turned out to be a nasal dermal sinus tract with an accompanying cyst. A year ago we began the seemingly endless string of visits to the hospital for the MRI, the CT scan, and consultations with the pediatric neurosurgeon and the plastic surgeon. And worst of all, a year ago, we began the tortuous waiting (waiting waiting) for an unscheduled surgery that (in the end) would result in 70 stitches, the removal of the cyst, and (thankfully) the determination that the doctors did not have to saw my little baby's skull in order to excise the tract because it ended just beyond the skin on his forehead.
The specter of this surgery and its endless dark possibilities hung over us a year ago and lingered until September 20. It clouded the entire summer and early fall, and everything that we did.
A year ago, I was angry and terrified, and there were whole months where I was unable to be completely present as Harrison's mama, because this anger and terror were constantly flickering in the back of my mind and in the depths of my heart.
What a difference a year makes.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Feed me with your kiss
Harrison has learned how to kiss us on command--big, sloppy, opened-mouth kisses aimed in the general direction of our faces. So of course Doug and I spent the bulk of the weekend requesting kisses at a frequency normally seen only at a kissing booth. By the end, Harrison was pretty much just ignoring us or giving us a look like (sigh) "You want me to kiss you AGAIN?!?!"
But last night (yipee! the thought of it still gives me shivers!)--right before I tucked him into bed and sent him off to sleep with wishes of sweet dreams and don't let the bedbugs bite--last night, I got my first goodnight kiss ever.
Oh, golly, am I in love!
But last night (yipee! the thought of it still gives me shivers!)--right before I tucked him into bed and sent him off to sleep with wishes of sweet dreams and don't let the bedbugs bite--last night, I got my first goodnight kiss ever.
Oh, golly, am I in love!
Friday, July 08, 2005
Our Home, the Cuckoo's Nest
I know I've mentioned this before, but I am becoming increasingly convinced that Doug and I are attendants in a looney bin. A looney bin with one patient. The patient is not a cat and his name beings with an H. I bet you can't guess who it is!
Maybe he's not clinically insane. Maybe he's got OCD. Maybe he's doing an impression of Dustin Hoffman with autism. Maybe he's gotta watch Whoppner. Whoppner's on at 7. Gotta watch Whoppner. Gotta watch Whoppner. Gotta watch Whoppner.
Last week, he had to walk over to Doug and touch the cracker he was eating to Doug's lunch plate before he'd take a bite. He'd go play, then come over, tap the cracker against the plate, take a bite, then walk away. A few minutes later he'd do the same thing.
O-kay.
The other day, he was inexplicably compelled to twirl in a little circle at the edge of the rug each time he walked across the room.
Yesterday, he spent 15 minutes in the corner of his room putting a box on top of the hassock. Climbing on the hassock and sitting next to the box. Pushing the box back on the floor. Getting down. Putting the box back on top of the hassock. Climbing on the hassock. Etc. Over and over and over. He was completely absorbed. Doug and I could have gone for a walk around the block and he wouldn't have noticed. Instead, we just sat there staring at him with our eyebrows raised, wondering, "What the HELL IS HE DOING?" And still it continued. Up went the box, up went the kid. Down went the box. Down went the kid. Again and again.
Finally, I had to drag him away to get him ready for bed. It was 7 o'clock.
Had to watch Whoppner.
Maybe he's not clinically insane. Maybe he's got OCD. Maybe he's doing an impression of Dustin Hoffman with autism. Maybe he's gotta watch Whoppner. Whoppner's on at 7. Gotta watch Whoppner. Gotta watch Whoppner. Gotta watch Whoppner.
Last week, he had to walk over to Doug and touch the cracker he was eating to Doug's lunch plate before he'd take a bite. He'd go play, then come over, tap the cracker against the plate, take a bite, then walk away. A few minutes later he'd do the same thing.
O-kay.
The other day, he was inexplicably compelled to twirl in a little circle at the edge of the rug each time he walked across the room.
Yesterday, he spent 15 minutes in the corner of his room putting a box on top of the hassock. Climbing on the hassock and sitting next to the box. Pushing the box back on the floor. Getting down. Putting the box back on top of the hassock. Climbing on the hassock. Etc. Over and over and over. He was completely absorbed. Doug and I could have gone for a walk around the block and he wouldn't have noticed. Instead, we just sat there staring at him with our eyebrows raised, wondering, "What the HELL IS HE DOING?" And still it continued. Up went the box, up went the kid. Down went the box. Down went the kid. Again and again.
Finally, I had to drag him away to get him ready for bed. It was 7 o'clock.
Had to watch Whoppner.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
My, how times have changed
Four years ago I was getting ready to say "I do" when the minister asked me if I would love, honor, and cherish Doug for the rest of my days.
Yesterday, I answered "Blueberries!" when Miss Sandy asked me if I might know why Harrison's poop was black.
Yesterday, I answered "Blueberries!" when Miss Sandy asked me if I might know why Harrison's poop was black.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
A Walking Contradiction
After four straight days of full-time parenting, I'm trying to figure out how it is possible for me to feel both completely in tune with the dread of having to burn daylight and also be on the verge of tears when I had to leave him this morning.
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