Saturday will mark Michael's 9 month birthday. We've all come a long way in that period, surmounting obstacles, losing sleep, regaining sleep, losing it again, and finding new adventures.
How did we celebrate Mikey's 9 month birthday? We took him to a Well Baby checkup to be weighed, measured, poked, prodded, and evaluated. Here are the latest technical specs on our finely tuned baby machine:
Weight: 21 pounds and 13 ounces (75th percentile). Doctor Travis assured us that Mikey is not a total butterball, but that I could probably lose a bit of weight.
Head Circumference: 50th percentile.
Length: 29.75 inches (90th percentile). This is great news. I am totally ready to vicariously live through Michael's achievements on the basketball court.
Toughness: Michael received a heel stick and a shot today without shedding a single tear.
Cuteness: Michael was mobbed by the nurses and office staff. We heard, "Get over here, you need to see this baby. He's precious. Look at that smile and all those teeth!"
Toothiness: With 8 teeth, Mikey is still leading the league in teeth per capita among all babies we know.
Stethoscopability: Dr. Travis warned us that Michael would probably object and freak out at being examined. Michael's response? Laughing and trying to grab the stethoscope.
As you can see, I'm quite proud of my son. He aced his pediatric doctor's visit. It wasn't all great news. He hasn't started waving "bye bye", so he got a black mark in that section of his development evaluation. We'll have to work on that.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Night Times
We've made it through another day. Mikey has ceased his crawling, grabbing, gumming, pulling up, and otherwise creating mischief for the day. He has polished off his 6 ounce bottle, supplemented with organic rice cereal, and stopped rubbing his eyes. The tireless baby has finally tired. The infant sleeps.
After a brief negotiation with Shannon, it is up to me now to attempt a high-stakes maneuver, the transfer to crib. I smoothly stand up and hold the baby to my chest. He stirs but does not wake. I move with exagerated care like a ninja carrying a jar of nitroglycerin or a crate of Faberge eggs. To wake him and shatter the serenity would be a disaster. With a sigh, he nestles his sweaty little head (for he is a certified sweat-sleeper) into my chest and falls back asleep. We have passed the first obstacle.
This is one of the best feelings in the world, the feeling of your little monster, warm and drowsy, nestling against you. It lasts for a scant minute, the time it takes to get up the stairs and gingerly lower him into his crib (another treacherous step in the process). I linger for a moment at the rail of his stylish espresso crib and pause to look at him. I remember seeing this exact Hallmark glurge moment on television many times: the beaming parent staring down at the sleeping baby while a heartwarming orchestral score poignantly plays. The younger me would have gagged a little or apathetically flipped the channel, but the current me gets it. It's more than just a cliché. It really does happen. And, if there's anything sweeter and more deeply good than the visage of a sleeping infant, I don't know what it is.
I flash back to all the difficult sleepless nights: the crying, the failed crib transfers followed by hours of anxious rocking, reading, and cajoling. I'm relieved that tonight turned out differently. This was a perfect transfer. I must be getting pretty good at this parenting business. I turn and tiptoe out, closing the door behind me to keep the no-good cat from sleeping on Mikey's head or scratching up our rocking chair. The dishes wait for no man, so I head back downstairs toward the kitchen with a smile on my face..
After a brief negotiation with Shannon, it is up to me now to attempt a high-stakes maneuver, the transfer to crib. I smoothly stand up and hold the baby to my chest. He stirs but does not wake. I move with exagerated care like a ninja carrying a jar of nitroglycerin or a crate of Faberge eggs. To wake him and shatter the serenity would be a disaster. With a sigh, he nestles his sweaty little head (for he is a certified sweat-sleeper) into my chest and falls back asleep. We have passed the first obstacle.
This is one of the best feelings in the world, the feeling of your little monster, warm and drowsy, nestling against you. It lasts for a scant minute, the time it takes to get up the stairs and gingerly lower him into his crib (another treacherous step in the process). I linger for a moment at the rail of his stylish espresso crib and pause to look at him. I remember seeing this exact Hallmark glurge moment on television many times: the beaming parent staring down at the sleeping baby while a heartwarming orchestral score poignantly plays. The younger me would have gagged a little or apathetically flipped the channel, but the current me gets it. It's more than just a cliché. It really does happen. And, if there's anything sweeter and more deeply good than the visage of a sleeping infant, I don't know what it is.
I flash back to all the difficult sleepless nights: the crying, the failed crib transfers followed by hours of anxious rocking, reading, and cajoling. I'm relieved that tonight turned out differently. This was a perfect transfer. I must be getting pretty good at this parenting business. I turn and tiptoe out, closing the door behind me to keep the no-good cat from sleeping on Mikey's head or scratching up our rocking chair. The dishes wait for no man, so I head back downstairs toward the kitchen with a smile on my face..
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Preemptive Cry Interception
All is right in the kitchen. Little Michael is playing happily on the tile floor. He's long since mastered the art of sitting up, so there is no need to place a protective ring of pillows around him. Enter the dog, 35 pounds of rolicking, oblivious Corgidor. She dances sideways, hoping for a morsel of food, and runs solidly into the baby.
He topples backward onto the cruel hard floor. The impact doesn't look too terrible, but the tell-tale signs of a huge cry are already appearing on his little face.
Little eyes squeeze shut in a grimace. His mouth opens and twists itself into a pitiful litle upside-down U. His lungs are expanding, taking in the huge breath that will fuel the hellish sonic fury that will soon follow. Little cheeks have reddened. The table is set for an explosion of infantile grief.
This is where quick thinking and parenting can save the day. Before he even hitsthe floor, I am in motion. I scoop Mikey up and begin the emergency preemptive cry interdiction procedure. The basic steps are: Pick up, hug, bounce, shush, and say "you're ok" over and over again. This can normally stabilize the situation, but there will probably be some residual screaming.
The next phase of intercepting a serious cry is the happiness distraction gambit. It's amazing that a hurt little baby can go from screeching to laughing and playing in mere seconds if the happiness gambit is applied correctly. For this one, I raise my voice into the horrifying falsetto that babies seem to enjoy and repeat the celebratory words, "YAY YAY! That was fun! YAY YAY!"
I quickly try to find something interesting like a mirror, a terrified cat named Velcro, or a colorful toy. The combination of the happy sounds and the new, interesting object defuses the situation, and the happy laughing baby returns. All memories of being bodyslammed by the dog have faded away.
This post is based on a true story.
He topples backward onto the cruel hard floor. The impact doesn't look too terrible, but the tell-tale signs of a huge cry are already appearing on his little face.
Little eyes squeeze shut in a grimace. His mouth opens and twists itself into a pitiful litle upside-down U. His lungs are expanding, taking in the huge breath that will fuel the hellish sonic fury that will soon follow. Little cheeks have reddened. The table is set for an explosion of infantile grief.
This is where quick thinking and parenting can save the day. Before he even hitsthe floor, I am in motion. I scoop Mikey up and begin the emergency preemptive cry interdiction procedure. The basic steps are: Pick up, hug, bounce, shush, and say "you're ok" over and over again. This can normally stabilize the situation, but there will probably be some residual screaming.
The next phase of intercepting a serious cry is the happiness distraction gambit. It's amazing that a hurt little baby can go from screeching to laughing and playing in mere seconds if the happiness gambit is applied correctly. For this one, I raise my voice into the horrifying falsetto that babies seem to enjoy and repeat the celebratory words, "YAY YAY! That was fun! YAY YAY!"
I quickly try to find something interesting like a mirror, a terrified cat named Velcro, or a colorful toy. The combination of the happy sounds and the new, interesting object defuses the situation, and the happy laughing baby returns. All memories of being bodyslammed by the dog have faded away.
This post is based on a true story.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Skills...
We certainly live in interesting times. Our little progeny is in the midst of a period of accelerating change and progress. This is like a golden age of baby milestones, a "Pax Infantus" if you will.
Fine motor skills, which concern the movement and control of the small muscles in the fingers and hands are coming along nicely. This is evident in watching the remarkable efficacy with which little Mikey stuffs puffed wheat snacks into his little maw. Right hand or left hand doesn't matter. No puff snack escapes the tiny pincer grasp.
The gross motor skills are booming as well. After a visit from Mikey's bromantic fake cousin Austin, Mikey realized that mobility was all the rage among stylish babies this summer. Laying around on the ground is so 6 month-old, so Mikey initiated operation Swiffer. Operation Swiffer involves crawling around on the floor absorbing all dust bunnies, dog hair, and random detritus onto his clothing. Debris too large to stick to his onesie are placed into the mouth of safekeeping and further analysis.
Mikey's next goal focused on attaining a higher vantage point for reconnaissance of the living room tactical situation. Thus began Operation Pullup. The strategy and tactics behind Operation Pullup are quite simple. Approach a tall object, grab it, and use it to pull one's weight upward. This works quite well on certain items such as a pack and play, a crib rail, a coffee table, or Mom/Dad's outstretched hands. Consequently, there have been many successful missions where Mikey has gathered valuable survey data about the living room and Bella's movements.
Unfortunately, Operation Pullup carries risks. Mikey hasn't prepared an exit strategy, so getting back down from a successful stand is often a frightening, white-knuckled boondoggle. Also, not all objects are equipped to support the advances of a 21 pound ball of grasping, squealing baby. In particular, the dvd player has proven to be a very poor launching point for Pullup sorties.
Finally, Mikey has been demonstrating the early evolution of his very own language. As with all babies he combines various syllables and sounds into adorable baby talk. We think it's absolutely adorable, especially when he decides to test the upper volume limits of his talking while we are all enjoying a nice restaurant meal. His thought process must be, "Ok, these vocal cords go up to 10. I want to take the amplifier up to 11".
He's moving fast and growing very quickly. We are documenting as much as we can in pictures and videos. We are also enjoying the thrills, chills, "Oh No's", and laughter that come when motor skills outpace cognitive, coordination, balance, and danger-sensing skills.
Fine motor skills, which concern the movement and control of the small muscles in the fingers and hands are coming along nicely. This is evident in watching the remarkable efficacy with which little Mikey stuffs puffed wheat snacks into his little maw. Right hand or left hand doesn't matter. No puff snack escapes the tiny pincer grasp.
The gross motor skills are booming as well. After a visit from Mikey's bromantic fake cousin Austin, Mikey realized that mobility was all the rage among stylish babies this summer. Laying around on the ground is so 6 month-old, so Mikey initiated operation Swiffer. Operation Swiffer involves crawling around on the floor absorbing all dust bunnies, dog hair, and random detritus onto his clothing. Debris too large to stick to his onesie are placed into the mouth of safekeeping and further analysis.
Mikey's next goal focused on attaining a higher vantage point for reconnaissance of the living room tactical situation. Thus began Operation Pullup. The strategy and tactics behind Operation Pullup are quite simple. Approach a tall object, grab it, and use it to pull one's weight upward. This works quite well on certain items such as a pack and play, a crib rail, a coffee table, or Mom/Dad's outstretched hands. Consequently, there have been many successful missions where Mikey has gathered valuable survey data about the living room and Bella's movements.
Unfortunately, Operation Pullup carries risks. Mikey hasn't prepared an exit strategy, so getting back down from a successful stand is often a frightening, white-knuckled boondoggle. Also, not all objects are equipped to support the advances of a 21 pound ball of grasping, squealing baby. In particular, the dvd player has proven to be a very poor launching point for Pullup sorties.
Finally, Mikey has been demonstrating the early evolution of his very own language. As with all babies he combines various syllables and sounds into adorable baby talk. We think it's absolutely adorable, especially when he decides to test the upper volume limits of his talking while we are all enjoying a nice restaurant meal. His thought process must be, "Ok, these vocal cords go up to 10. I want to take the amplifier up to 11".
He's moving fast and growing very quickly. We are documenting as much as we can in pictures and videos. We are also enjoying the thrills, chills, "Oh No's", and laughter that come when motor skills outpace cognitive, coordination, balance, and danger-sensing skills.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Once a Jag, Always a Jag
I once heard that many teachers quit after their first 5 years of teaching. I've tried to find a valid source that actually confirms this rumor, but I've yet to see any evidence to support what I've heard. I do have my own experience as well as those of my friends and colleagues who happen to be teachers. Many of my very good friends made it to the five year mark, some made it even less. I made it a little past the statistic. I made it to 5 1/2 years (technically my record says, 6 years, but I started in the middle of the year).
In a matter of a couple of weeks, I was convinced to apply, interviewed for, and was offered the position of an Instructional Technology Specialist or "ITS" in my district. I accepted and in short, my new job will be to show teachers what kinds of technology that they have available for their classrooms, and to try to help them integrate that technology whenever and where ever possible. The other portion of my position will be to troubleshoot teachers' computer problems. That's the part I'm not looking forward to. In my eyes, I see this job as an opportunity to use the restroom at other times besides the four minute passing periods I've come accustom to. It should allow me to the time to savor and enjoy my lunch since I will have longer than 18 minutes to devour my leftovers from the night before. I will no longer have to spend hours the night before grades are due catching up on all of the grading that I procrastinated on for the three weeks prior, and I will no longer have to listen to the complaints of angry parents who often forget that teachers are human beings too. Most of all, I see this new job as an opportunity to be able to leave work at work, and evenings can be completely devoted to my husband and son.
With all the freedoms that I foresee my new position bestowing upon me, I know that I will have a serious learning curve, and I know that not everything will be easy. I know there will be times that I will miss the relationships that I often build with students over the year. I will miss seeing the look on a kid's face when he accomplishes more that he ever expected to accomplish, or that B student making a 100 on the last test and the excitement you have when you tell her how well she did. There is a sense of respect and admiration that most people (excluding the parents mentioned above) have for teachers that I will also miss, but nothing as much as the kids.
When I married Christopher, we vowed to go on many adventures together. Hopefully this new adventure will give me just as fond of memories as the past five years of my life as a Jaguar has given me.
So long Cedar Valley, I will always miss you, and you hold a very dear place in my heart. Once a Jag, always a Jag.
In a matter of a couple of weeks, I was convinced to apply, interviewed for, and was offered the position of an Instructional Technology Specialist or "ITS" in my district. I accepted and in short, my new job will be to show teachers what kinds of technology that they have available for their classrooms, and to try to help them integrate that technology whenever and where ever possible. The other portion of my position will be to troubleshoot teachers' computer problems. That's the part I'm not looking forward to. In my eyes, I see this job as an opportunity to use the restroom at other times besides the four minute passing periods I've come accustom to. It should allow me to the time to savor and enjoy my lunch since I will have longer than 18 minutes to devour my leftovers from the night before. I will no longer have to spend hours the night before grades are due catching up on all of the grading that I procrastinated on for the three weeks prior, and I will no longer have to listen to the complaints of angry parents who often forget that teachers are human beings too. Most of all, I see this new job as an opportunity to be able to leave work at work, and evenings can be completely devoted to my husband and son.
With all the freedoms that I foresee my new position bestowing upon me, I know that I will have a serious learning curve, and I know that not everything will be easy. I know there will be times that I will miss the relationships that I often build with students over the year. I will miss seeing the look on a kid's face when he accomplishes more that he ever expected to accomplish, or that B student making a 100 on the last test and the excitement you have when you tell her how well she did. There is a sense of respect and admiration that most people (excluding the parents mentioned above) have for teachers that I will also miss, but nothing as much as the kids.
When I married Christopher, we vowed to go on many adventures together. Hopefully this new adventure will give me just as fond of memories as the past five years of my life as a Jaguar has given me.
So long Cedar Valley, I will always miss you, and you hold a very dear place in my heart. Once a Jag, always a Jag.
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