Five Months

Dear Zoë,

I have to tell you, little girl: you are five months old. I know you would like to think you’re more like 7 or 8 months. But, I’m sorry. You’re five. So, slow down.

Everyone says it just keeps getting better. Well, until you’re about twelve years old, but I’m sure I will be senile by that point. So, we’re good. Where was I? This past month has been one of the best, despite the fact that I have had to return to work. What your dad said about you being a little person is right on.



You have developed interests beyond eating and sleeping. They tend to center around your toes, but hey, progress is progress! You are always grabbing your feet. Put you down for a diaper change, set you on the floor—even nursing—and your foot is in your hand. Sometimes you just kick and stretch (girl, if I was this flexible I could be in the circus), but usually you’re sticking your big toe in your mouth. I’m not sure how it tastes—probably salty, with your sweaty little monkey feet—but it must be fun!



When your feet, or your hands, aren’t in your mouth something is. Tuesday morning it was the jug of orange juice on Gram’s countertop. Last night, it was the back of my arm (that tickled, by the way). Can we say “oral stage”? I’ve got to be careful not to damage you psychologically or you’ll take up nasty habits like overeating, smoking, or other things we won’t talk about until you’re 30.

It’s a stitch, but you just love to get your clothes off. As soon as your diaper comes off, you’ve got both feet in your hands—ta da! Like you’re airing out. It’s now become a bedtime ritual to feed you dinner, give you a clean diaper, and let you play on your bedroom floor in your bare skin. You don’t fight the clothes when they’re on, but “nakey-play-time” seems to be one of your favorite times.



I’m afraid to tell you this—I don’t want it to go to your head—you are so funny. Sometimes I’ll catch you smiling, or you’ll just start to giggle, with no apparent reason like you just heard a good joke. You delight in so many things around you, like your Uncle Dave (he’s a pretty silly guy, huh?), Hailey-dog, and Good Night Moon. But nothing makes you laugh more these days than bouncing. As soon as you get your feet under you—in your exersaucer, on momma’s lap, the floor—you want to BOUNCE. Even if I am just holding you, you scrunch up your body and bop up and down. I don’t know where you get your energy!

Every day, your dad and I marvel at what you can do. It seems like you’re mastering new tasks hourly. You can sit up by yourself, roll all over the place (from one end of the family room to the other, missy), bounce in your Johnny-Jump-Up, and now you’re figuring out how to army crawl. You would rather have water from a sippy cup (“Bottles are for milk or formula, thank you very much!”) and you can do it yourself. You are learning so fast. The other night, dad showed you how to take the rings off your Rock & Stack one-by-one, instead of dumping the whole thing over. Next day, you did it all on your own! When I put you in your high chair, you now know “Hands up” and put your hands on top of the tray as I slide it into place.



I miss you during the day, but every time I look over at your pictures I smile. And, when I get to Gram’s house after work, your smile and reaching arms are the best greeting I could ever get. Your dimples are the first thing your dad looks for when he gets home. We’re so glad you get to know your grandparents and your uncle, but we’re even gladder when we get you home and can have nakey-play-time before bed. You are a delight, Zoë!

I love you,

Momma

Grudge Baby

One of the first things that Zoë did to crack us up was perform a little scene out of the movie The Grudge. You know, where the chick is in the bed and creeps up to get the white chick? When we were still in the hospital, I did a lot of holding her on my chest. Late one evening, she begins wiggling her way towards my face, eyes wide, mouth open, all herky-jerky. A little creepy, but utterly hysterical. As the days went by, and we came home, she continued this weird little habit and, to our amazement, added the “Eh-eh-eh-eh . . .” guttural noise. Who was this baby?

Well, now, Zoë is completely proving her Grudge-iness. She has recently discovered that she can not only make cute, sweet, mourning dove cooing sounds. Oh no. Why such innocent utterances when one can bleat like a dying cat? At ear-splitting volumes, no less. Honest to goodness, she sounds exactly like the kid/cat from the movie.

I want to make it clear: she is not upset when she makes these noises. She wants something, yes, but isn’t crying by any means. At first, she’d let out long, loud “pleas”. But, of course, being sensitive parents, we found it to be riotous. Even at 3:00 AM, if you can believe it! This delights her to no end. So, now, she has begun talking in dead-cat-eese.

It’s delightful.

Dad's Say the Darndest Things

So, we’re sitting on the floor and Zoë’s playing with my “Ask Me More Eeyore” (yes, I had a talking Eeyore before I had children—what of it?). BJ pops his head in and says, “She’s so cute now that she sits! She’s like a little person instead of this flailing blob.”

Fathers.

Boobs, Revisited

I haven’t said a lot lately about my “adventures in breastfeeding” and I wanted to update and whole-heartedly thank all of you who have supported me through it all. But, I also wanted to reassure those women out there who are contemplating nursing.

It has been a completely surreal trip along the breastfeeding road. I’ve not been shy about the heartache and difficulties. Yet, I persevered. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure why myself. I can say for certain that there have been more emotions wrapped up in my decision and desire to breastfeed than I ever thought possible. I can also say, with pride, that it is the best, most difficult thing I’ve ever tackled. Aside from, you know, actually parenting.

Yes, I am still nursing. For most of June and July, BJ wasn’t even giving her a bottle—we simply had too much going on (and Zoë was sleeping so well!) for me to pump extra for him. Does it still hurt? Yes and no. I still have let-down pain, which I will probably always experience even with subsequent children. But, when Zoë is actually eating, it no longer hurts. I sure as heck feel it (how else would I know, in the middle of the night, in the dark, that she’s latched on?), but it doesn’t hurt.

I have discovered a new pain, however. The pain of an alert, interested, socially aware baby. Zoë has this charming habit of taking my nipple with her when she’s nursing and wants to look around the room. Holy cow! I will say it definitely pales in comparison to the earlier pain (more like, “Hey, knock it off!” than “Holy Mother of God Get This Child Off Me!”). In fact, she sometimes makes me chuckle. I mean, I can’t have a conversation with BJ while she’s nursing because she wants to talk to him!

Zoë is thriving. At her last doctor’s appointment (19 weeks old), she was 16 lbs, 2 oz. (the 90th percentile!) and 24 ½ inches long. She is happy, loves her milk and her food, and only gets up once at night. I am now back to work, so the pump has once again become my constant companion. It’s a new challenge to make sure I’m near a decent private spot frequently enough, but its fun to make male colleagues all uncomfortable around you.
It may be silly, but I feel like a superwoman for staying on track and clearing all the hurdles. I have learned so much about my own strength and BJ’s unwavering support. I’m glad I didn’t give up. But, most of all, I’m glad I’ve shared my story because, just maybe, it will help someone else through their own dark nursing days regardless of what they choose in the end.

PS--The above photo is certainly not me nor Zoe, but was acquired from the American Academy of Pediatrics website.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Aw, who am I kidding? Absence tends to make the world forget you even wrote a blog in the first place.

BJ and I have these dear friends, the P’s. The P’s are very busy people. Whenever one attempts to make plans with the P’s it is like watching a master sculptor with a block of raw marble as they try to arrange their calendar. Over this summer, BJ and I have been living life as the P’s. Now, normally, we are homebodies. While we enjoy getting out and seeing friends, we also really love to sit around on our behinds watching television, doing domestic stuff, or, well . . . you know. So, living life as the P’s has got us in quite a tizzy.

But, it’s even better, because the P’s don’t have a baby. We do (just in case you hadn’t noticed). God bless it, I wasn’t working! Fortunately, life as the P’s culminated in a grand finale over the weekend with Katie and Steve’s wedding. We were so glad to be a part of their day, and we had a complete blast. But, I’ve got to say—thank goodness that’s over and done!

Unfortunately, I’ve started back to work. My mom commented the other day that “that’s gotta put a crunch on your blogging.” Hmm, ya’ think? I knew I’d been remiss when BJ prodded me this evening, “Why don’t you go blog something?” And, the funny thing is, I’ve been composing posts in my head for the past couple of weeks. (Actually, I’m almost always writing blog posts in my head. What a dweeby, blog-addicted little ‘net nerd I am!) I feel like I’ve had so much to share or report that I can’t get it all down. And that’s a strange feeling for me. Have I really become—dare I say it?—a writer?

Nah. After all, my freshman English teacher told me definitively that I “cannot write.”

Signs

As if there was any doubt that she would forever be with us, Nala keeps sending us signs that she's here. When we were first walking out the door of the vet on Saturday--pretty late in the day, I might add, and the place was empty--a couple is walking towards us with their dog. A beautiful, proud Siberian Husky. I just about lost it, but smiled as well.

Yesterday morning, I decided to get some fresh air before it got too unbearable. Eighty-five degrees at 7:30 in the morning--uck! Anyway, Zoe and I took a long stroll together down the path. We didn't see a soul outside. It was pretty hot already, so not surprising. But, as we made our way back up the path towards home, an older man came walking towards us with a dog. A beautiful, proud Siberian Husky.

All dogs do go to Heaven.