Night Night

I go into Lucy's room every night before I go to bed. I turn on the hallway light, open her door and creep in. She is almost always asleep on her stomach, blanket and Duck wadded beneath her. When I try to straighten them, she snorts and smacks and draws her knees under her. Or sometimes she flops onto her back, irritated and frowning in her sleep. It's impossible to love her one bit more in these moments. I want to wake her up and eat her.

I don't wake her up, because even now, her sleep seems precious, though consistent. She goes to sleep at 7:30 every night, sleeps until 7 or so, and has done this regularly since she was about 5 months old. I am told to be thankful, that lots of babies don't start sleeping through the night until, well, they are not babies. I credit Jason with Lucy's sleeping (both through the night and not in our bed). His mantra: "You just have to have confidence in her. She can do it." And she did.

But until she did, I was a wreck. I read so much on the topic, I became convinced that sleep was the central issue in her (our?) well-being. She would be maladjusted, low-performing, angry if she didn't get enough rest. Not unlike her mother. Back in those early, weary days, her sleep was as fragile as a spiderweb. Naps could fall apart with the breeze. Jason says that when the baby monitor crackled to life, I would look at it in horror, like Satan herself was stirring. I would have done — and did — anything to get Lucy to sleep, and happily murdered anyone who awoke her. I once stood in the yard and shook my fist at a teenager riding his unmufflered motorcycle through the neighborhood in the middle of the afternoon. I considered calling the police. PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP AROUND HERE.

I am grateful that period was relatively brief, and that she has learned to sleep like a champ. Sometimes she dives into her crib before Jason can finish one verse of "American Pie." Other times, she talks and sings to Duck for awhile. But there is no crying, and sleep always comes. At least, for Lucy. Just like I am told to be thankful she sleeps, I am told I won't sleep the same ever again — me who snored my way through Central America by bus. But so far, what markedly less sleep I get is a little sweeter with one last peek at her.

The Interpreter

I like to brag a lot about all the words Lucy can say, but I realize that most of them are intelligible only to me and Jason. For those of you who care, here is a brief translation of the Lucy lexicon.

Words she says:
• Dadada = Jason, Father, the black hair sticking up from beneath the covers
• Mamama = Kate, Mother, the most important person in the world
• Dah = dog
• Duh = Duck
• Buh = book
• Wa-wa (plus a hand motion that looks like a stereotypical Native American war cry) = water
• Ooh-ooh-ooh = the sound a dog makes
• Mlah-mlah = the sound a kittycat makes (say "kittycat," not "cat" which sounds like "cow" the sound below)
• Moo (quietly) = the sound a cow makes
• Uh = up
• Uh oh = uh oh or I just fed something to the dogs
• Gogogo = Go? (from a TMBG song. We're not sure she knows it's a word, but she says it a lot.)
• Dye-dye = bye-bye

Words she signs:
Cheese or anything that rhymes with cheese
Eat
All done/all gone
Water (see hand motion above)
Good
Hook 'em Horns (this is enthusiastic pointing with some help from Dadada)

Her report card from school keeps saying she's talkative: "Lucy talked all afternoon, then she talked herself to sleep, then we knew she was awake because she was talking again." Enamored of the sound of her own voice at 13 months, 17 days. Nothing like her quiet parents.

Taming the Beast

We seem to have reached an exciting and stormy new phase in Lucy's development, about 11 months early by my count: tantrums. Wednesday morning, she repeatedly pointed to something high on a shelf, her lips pursed and blowing. Hark! She wanted the container of bubbles up there. Genius baby, I thought. So I took her outside on the front lawn to blow the bubbles. But the special container designed to keep her from spilling the bubbles also prevented her from being able to get the wand in and out of the container, which she wanted to do HERSELF. Unsuccessful, and uninterested in my help, she threw herself onto the grass in a screaming, snotty rage. The hysterics grew and she could only be calmed after several minutes of Baby Einstein.

On Saturday, she spied another container of bubbles, which Jason handed to her. On finding it empty, the beast emerged again — she dramatically collapsed on the kitchen floor in a full-on, wall-eyed fit. This was an illustrative moment about our different parenting styles: I was practically in tears myself, saying "What do we do? Look at her, she's acting like an asshole." Jason just stood there and laughed his ass off.

The thing is, we're both right. On the one hand, it's just plain hysterical — both the idea that anything in this loved, well-fed child's life merits such melodrama and that she's capable of expressing it. On the other hand, at some point we have to figure out what to do. We were out a few times this weekend, and I could see a little storm stirring in Lu's head. I wished I had some kind of plan, some technique besides "give the beast whatever it wants, anything to stop the screaming." That feeble technique won't work because these fits seem to be borne of frustration about something she can't say or do herself, not something she wants that I could give her. And if I could always give it to her, wouldn't that turn her into an asshole?

The answer to these questions, or at least some varied, published opinions, are in the parenting section of the bookstore, which I haven't visited since the simpler times when sleeping and eating were our main concerns. I hadn't expected to be back there until she was closer to the terrible twos. Maybe the early appearance of tantrums is just further evidence of her accelerated development, the bratty little genius.

3 is the Loneliest Number

When I was little, my mom had a rule: "You can have one friend over, or you can have three friends over, but you can't have two friends over. With three, somebody always goes home crying."

I have a long list of who went home crying. All too often it was me. Early memories of the Bizarre Friend Love Triangle include (with most likely to cry appearing first):
• me, Molly Peterson, some other girl from Brownies
• Nicki Ferraro, Jenny Cole, me
• Jackie Karr, me, Andrea Holder
• me, John Livington, Laurie Foreman
• me, Emily Davenport, some other friend from camp
• Emily Davenport, me, John Livingston

The list, pathetically, continues into adulthood, but I won't embarrass myself by sharing the overgrown playground politics. Suffice it to say, my mother was right.

So when I heard that the Stephens and the Websters were BOTH having girls, I immediately came up with...three. Small Person Stephens, Merriam Webster (the baby girls' respective prenatal nicknames) and Lucy will be spending a lot of time together, whether they like it or not.

Lucy will have an advantage because of her age and her bossiness, which is a trait she seems more certain to inherit from us than her height. Jason was legendarily bossy; his mother tells of him feeding specific lines of dialog to the other kids in their Star Wars role playing games. And me, well, I was that losing combination of bossy and dorky. I could rule for awhile, until it dawned on the other children what a woeful spaz I was: "Wait a minute, we're eight years old, we should be watching cartoons, not acting out Greek myths with our Barbies." Then they sent me home...crying. Maybe the bossy/oldest combination will work for Lucy, and she can successfully dominate little S.P. and Merriam.

It's paradoxical to wish for her to be the boss, much like it's hard to wish for her to be cool. I want to mitigate her suffering at all costs, yet I want her to be someone I would like (i.e. someone who has suffered a little). Mostly, I guess I should just wish for peace as we parents drink beer and have semi-adult conversations, while Lucy, S.P. and Merriam quietly torture each other, whoever the ruler is.

In Like a Bunny, out Like a Bear

Lucy has graduated from the Bunny room at school. They didn't have a ceremony or anything, but I did get a little teary as I hugged her teacher Rokeya on the last day. Lu was oblivious, desperate to eat some abandoned Cheerios she'd discovered under a high chair, which mysteriously grossed me out (or just embarrassed me? Maybe because they were someone else's Cheerios?).

So now she is Bear. Raaar! At first, the move seemed like going from first grade to high school. They sleep on mats on the floor during naptime. Are they kidding? They sit at little tables and chairs and eat their snacks off a tray. Like...people. I'm so sure. I was certain she'd be demoted back to the Bunny room within days.

But "raar" indeed! She has slept on a mat for four days in a row. Every successive day, she eats more and more of her snack, less distracted by the novelty of a tray to dump on the floor. The best part about the Bear room is the playground, where they spend most of their time. Lu has never even been to the park! She's afraid of grass! Yet every afternoon, about she and 9 other Bears can be seen wandering around the grubby, sandy playground. They dig, climb, push carts around, eat sand, observe the dog in the neighboring yard. They even paint on big sheets of paper taped to the side of the building. On Wednesday, I watched one Bear, smocked in an adult-sized t-shirt to cover her already sand- and snack-soiled clothes, stick a chubby paint brush in her mouth, then flash me a neon-green grin. They assure me the paint is non-toxic.

My own little Bear seems to be adjusting well. Yesterday, she protested when I picked up her sandy, sticky body to go home, the once-docile Bunny now ferocious in her opinion. For now, the mama Bear is bigger and has the car keys, so we went home.

Ambitious Toddler Seeks Exciting Opportunities

Lucy's not a baby anymore. I won't write sappily about how much I miss my baby (at least, not in this entry), because for the moment, I am in love with my new toddler. Her level of engagement with the world, with us, is so entertaining that I can't believe I tolerated having a worthless little newborn lump. I'm just kidding. Kind of.

As her toddler resume grows, I make plans for her future...
--She loves to read, whether it's one of her books, or the menu at a restaurant. She seems to understand words on a printed page. Pulitzer-prize winning author!
--She tries to count, pointing rhythmically to one thing after another the way we count out her Cheerios at breakfast. Mathematician/future checkbook-balancer (equally ambitious goals in my mind)!
--She knows where her ears, mouth and nose are, and can sometimes identify those same parts on other people. Physician!
--She can pick her nose and eat her boogers. Sometimes she will pick her nose and offer you one of her boogers. Um, McDonald's employee?
--When you give her a brush, she brushes her hair (or at least rubs the brush on her head, but she doesn't have much to work with). She also likes to brush your hair. Salon owner or celebrity stylist.
--She also knows what sunglasses are and where they go, though she refuses to wear her own. Secret service agent/very famous person.
--She is enamored with light switches and cabinets -- on/off, open/close. Cause and effect is satisfying. Scientist/inventor!
--She toddles. Her first stumble has become drunken little steps. She weaves around without help for a long time, and she gets more confident every day. Olympic athlete! Alvin Ailey dancer!
--When music comes on, she dances and bangs her hands. One of her current favorite toys is a xylophone. Jazz musician!
--Other current favorite toy: talking telephone. Receptionist.

My own goals and dreams aside, she can be whatever kind of person she wants to be. What's amazing is that she is a person! (By the way, Jason has now shown me how to make things bold on the blog, so you'll be seeing much more emphatic writing from me.)

362 Days

One year ago today, I went home from work early because I was feeling kind of sick. But when I got home, industriousness overtook me, and I tidied and folded and busied myself with soon-to-be-baby chores. I also made Jason take my picture, telling him I wouldn't be pregnant much longer. We met with Shelly, our doula, to talk about details of the impending birth. All week, I had that mixture of feelings I get before I go on a trip: excitement, anxiety, a mildly manic sense of purpose. Even though I still had two weeks to go, I guess I could just feel that the baby was coming.

The year has flown by, despite the fact that some of the days and nights were the longest of my life. I can barely remember the world before Lucy was in it. Here is a brief inventory of how things have changed for us:

Before Lu (BL): movies, together, at the theater
After Lu (AL): Jason, Netflix, while Kate falls asleep.

BL: Tuesday Karaoke at Club Deville
AL: Karaoke Revolution on the Playstation

BL: Saturday morning cartoons
AL: Saturday morning cartoons

BL: Friday happy hour fades into late dinner with friends
AL: Friday happy hour lasts until 7:30, the unhappy hour

BL: Sunday dinner, served at 10
AL: Sunday dinner, served at 6:30, consisting of very mushy foods

BL: 15 minutes late for everything
AL: 30 minutes late for everyting, but with a better excuse

BL: read important fiction, hip magazines, current events
AL: read books about making the baby sleep, feeding the baby, improving the baby, US magazine, or simply watch "West Wing" marathon after baby has finally gone to sleep.

Before Lucy, we were cool and smart and led a vaguely interesting life. After Lucy, we are almost everything we feared we'd be as parents, minus the minivan and public beatings in Wal-mart (so far). And to our surprise, we love it. Life after Lucy is magic.

Sick

Lucy has a virus. It's been two days of puking, diarrhea, fever, and misery at our house. After little more than drops of Pedialite and water in 48 hours, her pot belly has flattened out, her round cheeks hollowed. She is limp and heartwrenching.

Just hours before she began projectile vomiting at Claudia and Hauke's dinner table, she took her first steps. A barely controlled stumble, but three distinct steps toward me. I was so excited — and almost immediately, selfishly, a little sad. Those were really her first steps away from me. I got nostalgic for her tiny babyhood.

Well, her illness has brought us back to those early days. As Jason paces the floor, holding her while she cries inconsolably, I have a familiar thud of anxiety with every wail. The only difference is that in the early months, we had no idea how to soothe her. I often begged her, "What do you want, Lucy?" Yet now, thanks to Jason's recent efforts at teaching her sign language, we know exactly what she wants. Because she distinctly makes the sign for "water." Yet we can only give her cruel little sips so she doesn't overwhelm her fragile stomach.

Jason's heart is breaking over it. This is his first fatherly lesson in the difficulty of saying no to his little girl — even harder when she's speaking their special language.

The one blessing of her sickness has been her desire to be held. She crawls onto our chests like she did when she was tiny, her body hot and weak. She sucks her thumb fervently as though milk might manifest. Every once in a while she will give a little moan and look up, plaintively. It hurts that we can't make her better. But I know that soon enough she will be fat and busy again, walking away from me, too adventurous to be held.

Sign of the times

So over the weekend I decided that I should teach Lucy sign language. Up until now, I knew two signs. Hook 'em, which apparently is the sign of the devil in Norway or something like that. The other is, well, I think you can imagine what the other one is.

Who knew that sign language would be so fun? The sign for milk is like tugging on a giant imaginary...udder. Bath? Try rubbing your fists against your nipples. Oh and the hits keep coming. You can practice your own signs here. Amaze your friends. Talk to our baby. Learn a trade!

So the next time you see me and Lucy. It's not the sign for "loser" I'm trying to teach. Strangely, it's the sign for "daddy."

Danger!

Lucy is not walking...yet. But every day, she gets more daring and coordinated. I think it could happen soon. For now, she is content to crawl — fast — to her intended destination, and there is always an intended destination. She isn't out for a leisurely crawl; she's got bookshelves to empty, lint to eat. "Very busy girl" is what they call her at school.

At school, all this investigation and activity is fabulously safe. Everything is soft-cornered, carpeted, and closely supervised.
But our house is a minefield. Electrical wires, chokeable objects, sharp edges, tile floors, to name a few. The other day, I had the iron (not hot) on a dresser, the cord dangling off the edge within her reach. One yank and it would have been a Wile E. Coyote situation, only not funny. At all. The real hazards are those moments of inattention. A pamphlet from the pediatrician's office cautioned that the phone is the most dangerous object in the house. Lately, I know I am far too cavalier about leaving her unwatched in seemingly safe places.

When she was first born, I became morbid, obsessed with danger and death. This was a huge shift for someone who regularly leaves the house unlocked, goes running at night, talks to strangers, and crosses against the light. I am famously, stupidly careless with my person and my possessions. But the world suddenly got more dangerous once Lu was in it. My own sense of personal safety sharpened: I feared leaving her motherless. And what I feared might happen to her? I literally shudder to think.

Yet my sense of safety has dulled after 11 injury-free months. Yesterday on the town lake trail, we stopped with the jogging stroller to let Lu get a good look at a goose, and as the goose hissed and honked agressively, Maggie got nervous. She is the safety-conscious type. Her almost baby (Small Person Stephens) won't have to worry about being attacked by a goose or pulling an iron onto its head.

I must recommit to fear! Conjure up those morbid visions of Lu's newborn days! I have something more important than car keys to lose, after all.