Alice and the Mad Hatter

I & H 1
Originally uploaded by Hoops_.

Click here for a slideshow of Harrison and Cousin Ivy's Tea Party.

Waiting for Planet Blisstonia

Hearing this story on the drive to work really did nothing to help the 2005 Campaign to Reduce Public Crying. It also made me a lot more sympathetic to my Aunt's insistence on chauffering my 10-year-old cousin to and from school, pressuring him to be a priest, and not letting him play outside on the street or partake in other pre-teen activities like going to birthday parties or wandering the mall with a chaperone (because of The Terrorists! You know they are totally targeting Buffalo malls.). Before I had my own son, I used to think she was crazy--now I'm not so sure.

Listen to the audio.

I need to either gather up my family and go live in an Appalachian lean-to or find a charismatic leader and wait for the mothership.

He's finally got a piece of the pie

On Friday, I walked into daycare briskly, ready to swoop up Harrison, cover him with special "Yay! It's the weekend!" kisses, get home, and pack for the dreaded 5-hour car ride that would take us to Northampton and our weekend with Val and Tara. So there I was, happily moving in for the kisses, when the manager bounded in to hand me a "Move Up" Slip. As in, movin' on up from Infant Two to the next classroom: Toddler One.

It was one of those times when I really had to stop myself from crying in public. (Yes, I really do try and exercise self-restraint in the public-crying department. Can you imagine how much crying there would be if I didn't!?) It was also one of the moments when I really hate daycare. I hate that Harrison is being shuffled up a little early because they need to make room for more money--er--babies, in the Infant rooms. I hate that he's inevitably going to get less attention there, because the child to teacher ratio is going to go up by two. I hate that he has to be reunited with Jackie the Bully*. I hate that he has to once again leave his familiar teachers and classroom and develop whole new relationships and trust and learn a whole new routine.

I think part of the problem is that I also hate having my attention drawn to the fact that my baby is growing up so quickly and will actually be fine in the big kids' room, where there are more structured and scheduled activities and naps and mealtimes.

The good news is that the Toddler tuition is actually $15 a week cheaper than the Infant tuition--only come September they are raising the rates in all the rooms by $10, so we'll actually be paying only $5 less, but, hey, as my dad says, "That's better than a poke in the eye."

But I don't know. Maybe I'd rather be poked in the eye than have to pay for a service that I don't even want, if it meant I could spend my days with my boy.

I just need to get over it. I'm getting over it.

Oh, Guilt of the Working Mother--bane of my existence--be gone!!!

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*Some random background on Jackie the Bully:

• Jackie's preferred method of greeting is pushing Harrison down or tapping him on the head.
• Doug and I thought Jackie was a girl for the first six months, so we always referred to him as "she" when talking to the daycare teachers, who must have thought we were nuts.
• Jackie only has one arm.
• Jackie's clothes are often dirty, which is sad.
• Doug and I sometimes privately call Jackie "The One-Armed Nelson." Get it?! Because of the bullying, and the wrestling move, and the one arm, and the Simpsons!? Oh, we are so clever and mean!

See, saw, seen

S: Did you know that ***** only pays $520 a month for both of her boys to attend Catholic school?
D: Really?
S: Yeah, that's CHEAP. Almost $1000 less than daycare for two kids.
D: Well, that is cheap, but they do say stuff like "I seen it on TV."

Maestro

Watermelon Ball

Last night Harrison returned from another three-day visit to Grandma and Grandpa H's house. He was supposed to be returned shortly after I got home from work, around 3:30, but, apparently oblivious to my aching heart, my parents didn't pull into the driveway until 5:30! My mom says they couldn't leave because he was napping, but Doug's convinced that she wanted to keep him just a little bit longer, so maybe the word she meant to use was kidnapping. (Yes, this is the same grandma that last summer suggested that she take Harrison to her house during the week, since Doug and I would be at work anyway, and she would bring him back on the weekends.)

So yesterday evening, Doug and I just wandering around our yard, waiting, pulling weeds, and looking up like dogs every time a car drove past: "Is it them?"

Anyway, we are so happy to have him home, because, you know, even though we say that we can't wait to have some time alone with each other before he's gone, and we always make big exciting plans to go to R-rated movies and restaurants that don't have kids' menus, once he's actually gone, we spend a lot of time sitting around and saying, "I miss my bubby," calling grandma for real-time updates, looking at pictures of him, and in my case this week, actually crying over some old baby photos that I hadn't seen before--an episode I'm blaming on premenstrual hormones. (In my defense, and as Ash and Suzanne can attest, I've cried over much less. Let's just say the last incident involved shedding tears over a dairy product and leave it at that.).

And no matter how much Doug and I try to endear ourselves to each other with affectionate gestures and witty repartee, we can't even begin to compete with the charm of a one-year old rolling a watermelon around the kitchen floor, saying "Ba! Ba!" (Ball! Ball!) and farting every time he tries to pick it up because it's heavier than a bowling ball and four times bigger than his head.

Which is exactly what happened as soon as we brought Harrison into the house.

Could this morning get any more gross?

In reverse chronological order:

7:15 AM- Drove in to this Morning Edition piece about prison dentistry and the phenomenon of "meth mouth." It was no classic driveway moment, but I sat in the parking garage and could not stop listening. Following this, I'm sure my recurring tooth-disaster nightmares will be starting up again.
6:50 AM- Got peed on 10 minutes after getting out of shower, while prepping Harrison for an emergency morning bath (see below).
6:40 AM- Noticed a smell coming from Harrison's room, which we determined upon entry to be puke: hours-old puke consisting of barely chewed chicken and carrot bits. The scatter pattern and presence of bits in hair revealed that pukee rolled around in puke in his sleep.

Contrary to popular belief, there is a downside to having a child that sleeps through the night.

Image: "We don't bite our friends"

Image: Ed Grimley

Changes

Despite the usually early hour (6:30ish), Harrison's morning feedings on weekends are a treat. We bring him into our bed and snooze and cuddle while he lies on pillows between us, drinking his milk. He usually takes a break midway through the bottle and roams around the bed, attacking and snuggling, head butting and kissing, burying his face into pillows, getting off the bed, getting back up, throwing things between the headboard and the wall, and fishing them out again. After a bit, he finishes his bottle and then the bed-roaming continues.

Yesterday, after Harrison's morning feeding, Doug and I made the long-procrastinated move to retire all of Harrison's bottles. It's something we had been moving toward for a few months. At daycare, he's on the cup full time, and at home, for juice and water, but we were still giving him his morning and nighttime milk from his avent bottle with the nipple attachment.

The bottle is one of the last remaining baby vestiges, and I've been reluctant to let it go. It's the only time I can get Harrison to snuggle and sit (relatively) still. Doug feeds him every weekday morning, so I get the bedtime feeding and always look forward to that quiet time. We snuggle into the nursery chair and read bedtime stories while Harrison lazily sucks. He's able to hold the bottle with one hand and the other he uses to run his fingers through his own hair and point (grunting) at the book stack when the current book ends.

Anyway, yesterday during Harrison's nap, I put away all of the bottles and nipples. Doug suggested we keep a few out, but I felt that we needed to quit cold turkey. Harrison is fully capable of drinking from the cup, so it's not like he would starve, and I knew that because I am not eager to come to terms with the fact that Harrison is no longer a baby, if we kept any out it would be too easy for me to regress to the bottle. So they're all away, and Harrison is not pleased.

Every night after I get Harrison dressed in the living room after his bath, he gets down off my lap and walks into his room and picks up his bottle which Doug has set on the window seat cushion. Last night, he looked from Doug to me to the sippy cup that was there instead, pointed at it, made a questioning noise, and then decided that rather than eat, he'd like to play with the fan.

This morning, Doug reports that he flew into a rage at being presented with the cup.

I guess change is hard for everyone.

I heart Target

Ashley blogged yesterday about boring her imaginary friend Jesus with stories about her (mis)adventures with Emma, and I just can't stop laughing at this bit of dialogue: no! please! stay!! i haven't told you about what happened the other day at target yet!!

I realize this probably makes no sense whatsoever to you non parents, but I know just what she is talking about, and I'm not sure whether I'm laughing out of pity or empathy or just a sense of the ridiculousness of the whole burning daylight dilemma.

I remember a coworker telling me on a Monday a year ago that she took her numerous kids to the mall on both Saturday and Sunday, and I had some terribly critical, esoteric, and absurdly naive thoughts that had something to do with conspicuous consumption and "Those poor, poor children. I'm only going to take Harrison to parks and museums--not (gasp) stores!"

The thing is, you can only spend so many hours playing outside in 90 degree heat, and Target has air-conditioning. It's 10 minutes away, which means you can get home quickly if any tantrum or poop-related emergency occurs. Harrison can yell and scream and grab stuff, and no one gives us dirty looks. You don't have to pay to get into Target or park in the parking lot. And there are many pretty, pretty things for mama and baby to look at and play with and yearn for (anti-consumerism be damned!).

Maybe I'm delirious from the heat. Maybe my brain has become completely engulfed by the pulp that is The DaVinci Code (which I cannot bear to put down despite my English literature degree). I know that everyone has read it but me, but I will summarize by saying that one of the recurring themes is that The Truth about divinity is everywhere, in plain sight. We just never see it.

Well, I am here to testify that my preparenthood guilty pleasure of Target shopping has escalated into a postnatal epiphany that I have found God, and I don't care if Jesus finds Target adventures boring, because I know that Target is His Heavenly Throne.

Image: Bed

Supermom

This weekend was spent visiting with our brand new niece, Lili Caroline, who was born on Wednesday, and is a perfect little creature with a nice, round head and the longest baby toes you have ever seen.

My conclusions:

1. Harrison was never that small, no how! I don't care if the hospital scale said that Lili actually weighed one ounce more than he did at birth. It's not possible.

2. Lili was chowing down on mom juice like nobody's bidness. No latch problems. No indecision about whether to instantly fall asleep or to shriek insanely. Just slurp slurp slurp. Apparently, it takes more than a year to get over breast-feeding rejection. Man, am I stockpiling some guilt to unleash on Harrison some day. Whoo hoo!

3. Either Lori has a secret superhero identity or I am the biggest wimp on the planet. She went to the farmer's market Saturday morning and then we visited at her parents all day Saturday, from 1 until 9. And she didn't take a nap. And she and I went for a walk. And she helped with dishes and getting lunch going and fetching cool drinks.

All this three days after pushing a human being out of her vagina--a human being with what the doctors said was a larger than average head circumference.

I'm seriously trying to figure out how this was possible, because at three days postpartum (mind you, the day after getting home from the hospital) I was in no shape physically or mentally to do anything other than (barely) tend to Harrison, sleep as much as possible, and change giant, blood-soaked pads. I certainly wasn't up for 8 hours of socializing at my parent's house or taking a goddamned walk.

Doug suggested that the difference was psychological, that maybe my perception of how delicate I was postpartum was all in my head. After stabbing him repeatedly with a dull blade, and after some reflection, I think now that maybe in some ways, he was right. With your first birth, your postpartum recovery is not only about healing physically and getting back to normal hormonally (a process which is different for every woman and every birth), but also redefining yourself as a mother. And that is a slow and often painful process.

The first few days home from the hospital are so surreal. You take the same car home from the hospital. You return to the same house. You unpack the same bag that you packed with so much anticipation at 36 weeks. But everything is different, and as all those new baby greeting cards remind us, "Your Life will never be the same."

At 64 weeks postpartum, I can honestly say that life is still weird. Things are "normal" now, but normal is constantly different. There's a routine, but it's always changing, because Harrison is constantly changing. And I've gotten used to that flux.

Where does that leave us? Maybe second and subsequent post-partum recoveries are easier, because they are limited to purely physical healing. If you're already a mother, you don't also have to deal with a complete and instant identify transformation. So if you have a relatively easy birth (i.e., quick labor, no tearing, no episiotomy, no stitches), maybe on day 3, you can plan on taking a walk with your sister in law and making a morning trip to the market.

Here's praying. . .