The bub is not a big talker. Well, correction, he talks a lot but much of what he says is incomprehensible. He has roughly a dozen or so words that he pronounces (somewhat) clearly and uses (somewhat) correctly in context.
What does the doggy say? “Woof woof.” What does the duck say? “Quack. Quack.” We are coming along with cat, pig, and cow noises. All in good time. He is also fairly consistent with “mama” and “dada.” He also says “mom,” which is reserved for more urgent situations and roughly translates into something like “Gimme, gimme. Help me now. Pay attention to the bub.” Over the past month or so, he has latched on to “uh-oh.” Chicken tenders end up on the floor? “Uh-oh.” Never mind that he threw them there. No more fruit snacks? Empty juice box? “Uh-oh.” Goldfish crackers crushed into the rug? “Uh-oh.” The “uh-oh” is usually accompanied by an adorable gesture wherein he puts both hands up, palms up, in that universal gesture that indicates “What happened? Don’t look at me.”
Though the bub’s vocabulary is less than expansive, he does have some charming ways of letting us know what he wants and needs. He does not hesitate to grab someone’s hand and lead him/her straight to the coloring table or the basement door. For reasons I cannot explain, he is still a fan of Gerber baby food peas. If he is hungry, he lets us know by walking to the drawer where they are stored and bringing them over. When he wants to watch Barney (and yes, he loves Barney, a phenomenon that deserves its own post), he grabs the remote and starts stomping his foot. NTB, but he has his own dance that he does during the opening credits of Barney that is pretty darn adorable. Jiggling on the bathroom door means “I want to go play in the toilet and/or wash my hands for twenty minutes while mom holds me up to the sink.”
As a nice bonus, he seems to understand what we want as well. If we hand him a dirty diaper (rolled up, of course) and say, “Throw the diaper in the garbage,” he does it with a smile. If we say, “It’s time to brush your teeth,” he reports to the spot where his toothbruth is stored. If we say, “Time for night night,” he accepts his sippy cup of milk and heads to the child gate by the stairs.
Do we wish the bub could say more? Sure, but I would not say we are worried. We talk to him. We read to him. Yes, he watches television, but not so much that we could be accused of being neglectful parents. Everyone says, “He’s a boy. It takes boys longer to talk.” I don’t know if that’s true or not. Apparently though, the bub’s dad said little else but “rup,” “nope,” and “juice” for the first two years of his life. He's turned out just fine.
Yesterday I got a taste of just how our life will change as the bub’s vocabulary expands. As I wrestled the bub into clothes and a clean diaper in preparation for a trip to the park, I said, “Let’s put your shoes on.” And what did I hear . . . “No.” Not angry, not defiant, but quite clear. I temporarily gave up on the shoes and said, “Let’s go downstairs.” The response once again . . . “No.”
Today, the bub said almost nothing but “no.” Can daddy have his blackberry back? “No.” Come here so mommy can change your diaper. “No.” No more flushing. “No.” There were also “no’s” that left us scratching our heads. Do you want yogurt? “No.” Do you want more ketchup? “No.” And, as a test case, Do you want to watch Barney? “No.”
So now, “no” means “no,” but “no” apparently also means “yes.”
Uh-oh.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Live in the light
Before my Aunt Patty had children of her own, I have a memory of spending an afternoon in her kitchen. I don't know if she had offered/agreed to babysit or if perhaps she had invited us over for the express purpose of helping my sister and me bake Valentine's Day cookies for our mom and dad. What I remember is making a mess and being allowed to be generous with the red hots when decorating the cookies. Fast forward a few years and Patty has children of her own. In the locker room at the YMCA one evening when both of our families were there for swim lessons or swim practice or something, I took it upon myself to curl and style the hair of her oldest daughter, then about five or six. Yes, her hair looked pretty good when I was finished but at a price. Still a novice at hair-curling, I burned my cousin's forehead with the curling iron and not just a little bit. Though my aunt could have scolded me or made me feel even worse about what I had done, I have no memories of her doing so. She was the kind of person who understood good intentions and the everyday reality that people make mistakes. I have many other wonderful memories of my Aunt Patty. The rock hard vegetable pizza she made and then gleefully served on the beach in Destin is now legendary. I still laugh thinking about the memorable game of Trivial Pursuit one Christmas when her answer for every question was the hilarious "Lard Ass Jeans." My favorite photograph ever taken of my sister LAP was snapped by my Aunt Patty. It features my sister as a toddler, digging in the dirt while wearing sunglasses and only remnants--tights and an undershirt--of her Easter finery. I remember my aunt as kind, supportive, loyal, generous, humble, and, when she was feeling good, so much fun.
Five years ago in July, my aunt died of depression. Family members and friends gathered this weekend to celebrate her life. We gathered to laugh, drink, and eat. To catch up and share stories. We also gathered to affirm the importance of learning and educating others about depression and suicide. Her son Dan organized the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's Out of the Darkness Community Walk for Columbus, OH. Though the weather was wet, the event was a huge success. Over $32,000 was raised as of Sunday morning, with more donations expected to trickle in throughout the fall. NTB, but our team, Team Patty, raised over $13,000, earning us a spot among the top teams nationwide. Second place, actually. NTB.
The guest speaker following Sunday's walk stressed the value of the good we do for other people and the gift of time--how important it is to treasure and enjoy the time spent with those we love and how much it means to give of one's time to help and support others. Depression is disease that many people have difficulty understanding, especially if it has not touched their own lives or families. If you would like to learn more about depression and suicide, take a few minutes to get started by reading these facts provided by the AFSP. If you would like to give of your time by participating in an Out of the Darkness walk in your community, look here for a schedule of walks this fall. I would like to send out special thanks to all of the wonderful people in my life who were so generous in supporting this important cause when I asked. I was overwhelmed by your donations and your good wishes.
I have included a few photos of Sunday's event. It was an ugly, rainy day in Columbus, but I am proud to say that Team Patty, clad in orange sherbet, was shining bright. NTB.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
I got an A . . .
I spent this weekend in Columbus, OH. No, I absolutely did not travel to Columbus to watch the Buckeyes play the University of Akron. I was in Columbus to gather with my family and support a great cause. A fuller of account of my visit and its purpose is coming soon to NTB.
My aunt and I flew back to Chicago early this evening via Southwest Airlines. Ever since my husband and I got married and finally began living in the same city after four years of a commuter relationship, I do not fly all that often. Now, with the bub around, I probably take fewer than a dozen flights a year. I generally don't participate in conversations about airlines miles, status, or upgrades (since I have never bothered to change my miles accounts to my married name, I have not earned a single mile since 2003, not that I had any airline "status" then either). In my mind, the better the food options in the concourse, the better the airport. In my limited recent experience, I have positive feelings about Southwest. The flights seem reasonably priced even if one is booking last minute, and things tend to run on time. The fact that Southwest does not assign seats but rather boarding groups does not really bother me either. My aunt and I printed our boarding passes yesterday evening and both were assigned A's. NTB.
So anyway, I'm no travel expert, but I am little confused. We arrive at the airport early because our ride to the airport needed to hit the road and head to Cincinnati. We have at least an hour and a half to read magazines and wait to board. No problem. I look at the labeled lines for groups A, B, and C. What do I see? Passengers already forming lines according to boarding groups for a flight that will not be boarding for over an hour. Now, I understand that some seats are better than others. I prefer an aisle seat if I can nab one. I like to be as far away from the lavatory as possible (due to the smell and the hovering that sometimes occurs when there is a line). And sure, I would rather be closer to the front of the plane than the back. I guess that I cannot imagine being so worried about getting an undesirable seat that I would be willing to sit on dirty, airport carpet for over an hour in order to improve my seating options. Now, I understand that being in group A, I did have the luxury of knowing that I would have the best third of the seats from which to choose. Indeed, without getting into line A until it was time to board, my aunt and I managed to nab seats in a two-seat exit row. I was pleased. She got the window she desired and I my aisle seat with no one in the middle. NTB. But even if I was in group B, I think I would feel fairly positive about my chances of getting an acceptable seat. And, if I was in group C, I certainly would not sit on dirty carpet for an hour (or even for twenty minutes) to have first dibs on the, so to speak, best of the worst. Plus, I need to point out that this was a 44-minute flight we were taking. Some passengers sat on the carpet longer than they sat in their seats.
Now, like I said, I don't fly all that often anymore. Perhaps I am over-simplifying the issue or judging too quickly. Perhaps Southwest oversells the flights and that my same attitude paired with a C boarding card would have left me without a seat at all. Maybe the C stragglers have to arm wrestle for the one middle seat that is left. I don't know, but I do know that I am not going to camp out for a seat on a flight for which I have purchased a ticket.
My aunt and I flew back to Chicago early this evening via Southwest Airlines. Ever since my husband and I got married and finally began living in the same city after four years of a commuter relationship, I do not fly all that often. Now, with the bub around, I probably take fewer than a dozen flights a year. I generally don't participate in conversations about airlines miles, status, or upgrades (since I have never bothered to change my miles accounts to my married name, I have not earned a single mile since 2003, not that I had any airline "status" then either). In my mind, the better the food options in the concourse, the better the airport. In my limited recent experience, I have positive feelings about Southwest. The flights seem reasonably priced even if one is booking last minute, and things tend to run on time. The fact that Southwest does not assign seats but rather boarding groups does not really bother me either. My aunt and I printed our boarding passes yesterday evening and both were assigned A's. NTB.
So anyway, I'm no travel expert, but I am little confused. We arrive at the airport early because our ride to the airport needed to hit the road and head to Cincinnati. We have at least an hour and a half to read magazines and wait to board. No problem. I look at the labeled lines for groups A, B, and C. What do I see? Passengers already forming lines according to boarding groups for a flight that will not be boarding for over an hour. Now, I understand that some seats are better than others. I prefer an aisle seat if I can nab one. I like to be as far away from the lavatory as possible (due to the smell and the hovering that sometimes occurs when there is a line). And sure, I would rather be closer to the front of the plane than the back. I guess that I cannot imagine being so worried about getting an undesirable seat that I would be willing to sit on dirty, airport carpet for over an hour in order to improve my seating options. Now, I understand that being in group A, I did have the luxury of knowing that I would have the best third of the seats from which to choose. Indeed, without getting into line A until it was time to board, my aunt and I managed to nab seats in a two-seat exit row. I was pleased. She got the window she desired and I my aisle seat with no one in the middle. NTB. But even if I was in group B, I think I would feel fairly positive about my chances of getting an acceptable seat. And, if I was in group C, I certainly would not sit on dirty carpet for an hour (or even for twenty minutes) to have first dibs on the, so to speak, best of the worst. Plus, I need to point out that this was a 44-minute flight we were taking. Some passengers sat on the carpet longer than they sat in their seats.
Now, like I said, I don't fly all that often anymore. Perhaps I am over-simplifying the issue or judging too quickly. Perhaps Southwest oversells the flights and that my same attitude paired with a C boarding card would have left me without a seat at all. Maybe the C stragglers have to arm wrestle for the one middle seat that is left. I don't know, but I do know that I am not going to camp out for a seat on a flight for which I have purchased a ticket.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Cliff Bar and a Banana
Last night, I went to the Jewel to stock up on the Lean Cuisine pizzas I have already written too much about. I bought about twenty-five of them, in addition to some Hot/Lean Pockets for my husband and a couple of Tombstones. Basically, except for my bub's yogurt, everything in my cart was frozen. I am not apologizing for this nutritional imbalance because the sole purpose of this trip was to stock up on the pizzas before they go off sale on Sunday.
I'm waiting in line when this nice young man gets in line behind me. He is a cute kid with a nice smile, likely fresh out of college. He is wearing a t-shirt that says "Ireland," and I am disposed to like him. Glancing at the towers of white and orange boxes on the conveyor, he tactfully observes, "That's a lot of Lean Cuisines." I decide on explanation in favor of testimony: "I'm stocking up before they go off sale. " I then add weakly, "I really like them. I have a freezer." Now, this is a sweet kid. He says, "No worries. I do the same thing when Clif bars are on sale." I glance at his groceries and see exactly one Clif Bar, two 12-packs of beer, and a bottle of wine. Wanting to turn the attention away from my pizzas, I make an obvious inference, "Looks like you have a more exciting night ahead of you than I do." He reveals that he is hosting a Nintendo Wii tournament at his apartment that he just found out about. I am sad to report that in his sweetness and deference, he started this explanation by asking, "Have you ever heard of the Nintendo Wii?" How old do I look?
Soon enough though, the kid is back to the pizzas, asking, "Just how big is this freezer of yours?" Just to be clear, I want to affirm that I really like this kid. He is not flirting with me, just being friendly. I reply, "It's a big chest freezer, probably like the one your parents have." NTB. He then asks, "What about the sodium in those things?" I explain that sure the sodium is a bit high but that I really appreciate the portion control. I briefly consider directing him to my blog to read all about it. He is clearly still confused about the pizza situation so I helpfully add, "I eat them for breakfast every morning." Confusion morphs into concern, and he becomes quite earnest, "I eat a Clif Bar and a banana every morning. It's an awesome breakfast. You should try it." I am ashamed to admit my response to his advice. I say, "How do you think that would go with a Diet Coke?" Now he just looks sad, maybe even disappointed in me. I am sorry about this because he is, like I have repeatedly said, a sweet kid. I start to ramble a bit, "Don't worry, I eat real food too. Like salads and avocados." What I should have said was, "Thanks for the suggestion. I bet that breakfast would give me more energy and be better for me than a Lean Cuisine pizza would."
As I loaded the bags of frozen food into my cart, I wished him luck in his tournament. He hoped I would enjoy all my Lean Cuisines. We parted amicably. I left feeling happy about today's youth and have even decided I will try his breakfast of champions one day and give you all a little report about it.
I'm waiting in line when this nice young man gets in line behind me. He is a cute kid with a nice smile, likely fresh out of college. He is wearing a t-shirt that says "Ireland," and I am disposed to like him. Glancing at the towers of white and orange boxes on the conveyor, he tactfully observes, "That's a lot of Lean Cuisines." I decide on explanation in favor of testimony: "I'm stocking up before they go off sale. " I then add weakly, "I really like them. I have a freezer." Now, this is a sweet kid. He says, "No worries. I do the same thing when Clif bars are on sale." I glance at his groceries and see exactly one Clif Bar, two 12-packs of beer, and a bottle of wine. Wanting to turn the attention away from my pizzas, I make an obvious inference, "Looks like you have a more exciting night ahead of you than I do." He reveals that he is hosting a Nintendo Wii tournament at his apartment that he just found out about. I am sad to report that in his sweetness and deference, he started this explanation by asking, "Have you ever heard of the Nintendo Wii?" How old do I look?
Soon enough though, the kid is back to the pizzas, asking, "Just how big is this freezer of yours?" Just to be clear, I want to affirm that I really like this kid. He is not flirting with me, just being friendly. I reply, "It's a big chest freezer, probably like the one your parents have." NTB. He then asks, "What about the sodium in those things?" I explain that sure the sodium is a bit high but that I really appreciate the portion control. I briefly consider directing him to my blog to read all about it. He is clearly still confused about the pizza situation so I helpfully add, "I eat them for breakfast every morning." Confusion morphs into concern, and he becomes quite earnest, "I eat a Clif Bar and a banana every morning. It's an awesome breakfast. You should try it." I am ashamed to admit my response to his advice. I say, "How do you think that would go with a Diet Coke?" Now he just looks sad, maybe even disappointed in me. I am sorry about this because he is, like I have repeatedly said, a sweet kid. I start to ramble a bit, "Don't worry, I eat real food too. Like salads and avocados." What I should have said was, "Thanks for the suggestion. I bet that breakfast would give me more energy and be better for me than a Lean Cuisine pizza would."
As I loaded the bags of frozen food into my cart, I wished him luck in his tournament. He hoped I would enjoy all my Lean Cuisines. We parted amicably. I left feeling happy about today's youth and have even decided I will try his breakfast of champions one day and give you all a little report about it.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Success Story
Because this week's postings covered the challenges of professional photography when children are involved as well as my lifelong struggle to choose clothes to wear, this photo seems worth sharing. A professional photographer came to our house to take this photo, and for a photo that had to capture five children (all of whom, I might add, were eager to be at Surf Cincinnati for our neighborhood pool's once-a-summer outing at the waterpark, complete with discounted admission), I think it is fairly successful. I am sharing it as well because although this may be hard to believe, it captures a rare occasion on which I was completely satisfied with the outfit I was wearing. NTB. The paint-splattered terry-cloth top I am wearing belonged to my mom, and I was so excited that she allowed me to wear it for the photo. I remember wanting to wear it to Surf Cincinnati as well, but believe that request was denied. I look at the photo now and think what a shame it was that all that hair sprayed and feathered perfection (note also the artful spike in my oldest brother's hair) would soon be destroyed by the waterslides and the wave pool. This photo is also making me smile today because I see in my little brother Boo (aka The Intern) something that reminds me of my bub--not only the cute smile but the friendly, open, sweet disposition. I feel so fortunate to have had and to still have so many reasons to smile. NTB.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Khakis and a golf shirt?
NTB, but I am going out tonight. My husband and I are attending an event with some of his colleagues and their wives. The event is being held at a bar (not a lounge or a club) in my neighborhood--a comfortable, unpretentious place that offers a delicious hot pretzel appetizer on its menu in addition to other excellent bar food. I am not intimidated by the venue nor by the prospect of meeting some of my hubby's new colleagues and their wives. Indeed, I look forward to meeting them and and anticipate liking them very much. I look forward to entrusting the bub's evening bathtime and bedtime routines to our trusted babysitter. I look forward to being delighted by whatever is offered to me on a tray, hot pretzel or not. I look forward to enjoying a cold beverage or two of the alcoholic variety.
As ever when these sorts of occasions arise (i.e., any social occasion that is not a football game, barbecue, or wedding), I do not look forward to getting dressed. My husband and I have the same series of frustrating exchanges before many social outings. I ask days in advance if there is a dress code, and he says he will look into it. He warns me that he will be frustrated if I get worked up about choosing an outfit, cautions me to try to figure it out before the day before in order to avoid any sort of panic situation in which I become unreasonable about something we both know is no big deal. He knows me pretty well. This morning's exchange was fairly typical. "What should I wear tonight?" I query. He replies (after sighing), "I don't know. Just wear the female equivalent of what I'm wearing." He is wearing tan dress pants and a button-down shirt. He then adds the phrase I have been dreading, "It's probably business casual."
There are several reasons why his advice is not as helpful as it should or could be. First, I have always struggled with choosing my clothes. I suspect that wearing a school uniform for so many years has, instead of making me indifferent to fashion trends and personal appearance, made me over-emphasize the importance of selecting my clothes. Much as I looked forward to them, out-of-uniform days always threw me for a loop in grade school and high school, often inducing a panic and necessitating a late-evening trip to the mall or, when times were really desperate, the Fashion Bug store in the strip center five minutes away. My mom was as patient and understanding as she could be during such shopping trips. Even now, I think I have responded to the daily challenge of choosing my own outfits by adopting my own uniform. Instead of the plaid skirt and white shirt of my youth, most days I now don some version of a t-shirt (long or short-sleeved as the season demands) and jeans, capris, or some other casual bottom. When some version of my uniform is not appropriate, I struggle.
The second complicating factor is my firm belief that there is no female equivalent to dress pants and a button down, nor is there a female answer to another of my husband's fashion tips, "I'll be wearing khakis and a golf shirt." My intention here is not to criticize my husband or his fashion tips. He has nice clothes. He is always dressed appropriately. I think I am envious of the fact that men have a defacto uniform that women do not. When was the last time you attended an event (that was not a golf tournament) where the majority of women there were wearing khakis and golf shirts?
The final and perhaps most complicating factor is the entire category of business casual. I understand more or less what the category includes (though having never worked in a "business job" I am never quite sure). I understand that for women who work in jobs that have a business casual dress code, there may be a sort of female equivalent of dress pants and a button down. Unfortunately for me, the work I do requires nothing more than t-shirts (though I choose nice ones), casual bottoms, and flip flops/tennis shoes. At one time I had something close to a business casual wardrobe, but now it doesn't seem to make sense for me to go out and purchase blouses and twin sets if my livelihood does not require them. If I am going to choose items to wear out, I want my choices to be motivated by aesthetics not practicality. I also do not want to be, as my friend B described it, a sort of "impostor." I don't want to pretend I just came from work that required business casual attire if I did not.
I feel pretty good about what I am wearing tonight. It involves dress pants and a shirt that, though I wouldn't necessarily wear it to the office, is attractive without being too much of anything (not too feminine, too revealing, or too much like something one would wear to a bachelorette party). I understand that the event tonight is not about me. I understand that likely no one will be really looking at me. I understand that no one will notice (much less care) what I am wearing . . . unless I choose really poorly. I am proud to report that after this morning's exchange with my husband, I vowed not to make choosing an outfit a big deal. Yes, I bought a new shirt, but there was no panic involved. There was, however, a sale. NTB.
As ever when these sorts of occasions arise (i.e., any social occasion that is not a football game, barbecue, or wedding), I do not look forward to getting dressed. My husband and I have the same series of frustrating exchanges before many social outings. I ask days in advance if there is a dress code, and he says he will look into it. He warns me that he will be frustrated if I get worked up about choosing an outfit, cautions me to try to figure it out before the day before in order to avoid any sort of panic situation in which I become unreasonable about something we both know is no big deal. He knows me pretty well. This morning's exchange was fairly typical. "What should I wear tonight?" I query. He replies (after sighing), "I don't know. Just wear the female equivalent of what I'm wearing." He is wearing tan dress pants and a button-down shirt. He then adds the phrase I have been dreading, "It's probably business casual."
There are several reasons why his advice is not as helpful as it should or could be. First, I have always struggled with choosing my clothes. I suspect that wearing a school uniform for so many years has, instead of making me indifferent to fashion trends and personal appearance, made me over-emphasize the importance of selecting my clothes. Much as I looked forward to them, out-of-uniform days always threw me for a loop in grade school and high school, often inducing a panic and necessitating a late-evening trip to the mall or, when times were really desperate, the Fashion Bug store in the strip center five minutes away. My mom was as patient and understanding as she could be during such shopping trips. Even now, I think I have responded to the daily challenge of choosing my own outfits by adopting my own uniform. Instead of the plaid skirt and white shirt of my youth, most days I now don some version of a t-shirt (long or short-sleeved as the season demands) and jeans, capris, or some other casual bottom. When some version of my uniform is not appropriate, I struggle.
The second complicating factor is my firm belief that there is no female equivalent to dress pants and a button down, nor is there a female answer to another of my husband's fashion tips, "I'll be wearing khakis and a golf shirt." My intention here is not to criticize my husband or his fashion tips. He has nice clothes. He is always dressed appropriately. I think I am envious of the fact that men have a defacto uniform that women do not. When was the last time you attended an event (that was not a golf tournament) where the majority of women there were wearing khakis and golf shirts?
The final and perhaps most complicating factor is the entire category of business casual. I understand more or less what the category includes (though having never worked in a "business job" I am never quite sure). I understand that for women who work in jobs that have a business casual dress code, there may be a sort of female equivalent of dress pants and a button down. Unfortunately for me, the work I do requires nothing more than t-shirts (though I choose nice ones), casual bottoms, and flip flops/tennis shoes. At one time I had something close to a business casual wardrobe, but now it doesn't seem to make sense for me to go out and purchase blouses and twin sets if my livelihood does not require them. If I am going to choose items to wear out, I want my choices to be motivated by aesthetics not practicality. I also do not want to be, as my friend B described it, a sort of "impostor." I don't want to pretend I just came from work that required business casual attire if I did not.
I feel pretty good about what I am wearing tonight. It involves dress pants and a shirt that, though I wouldn't necessarily wear it to the office, is attractive without being too much of anything (not too feminine, too revealing, or too much like something one would wear to a bachelorette party). I understand that the event tonight is not about me. I understand that likely no one will be really looking at me. I understand that no one will notice (much less care) what I am wearing . . . unless I choose really poorly. I am proud to report that after this morning's exchange with my husband, I vowed not to make choosing an outfit a big deal. Yes, I bought a new shirt, but there was no panic involved. There was, however, a sale. NTB.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Bubdate: No Photo & No Limp
Bubdate #1: No Photo
Loyal readers are aware that my mom and I recently took the bub to an appointment with a professional photographer. When recounting the failure that was this photo shoot, I promised an update concerning his rescheduled appointment. This past Sunday morning was the occasion for take two of the photo shoot. As he did during the previous appointment, the bub showed far more interest in the lego table, drinking fountain, and toilet than he did in any of the props offered to him. My husband and I asked again if we might move the lego table into the studio for the session. Again, the photographer dismissed the suggestion (I think she thought we were joking). Instead, she had an epiphany. Why not place a black blanket over the lego table and tell the bub, "The lego table was tired. It had to take a nap." The other families in the studio, whose children had been happily playing with the lego table as their parents perused dozens of digital images of successful photo shoots, seemed delighted at the news that the one item in the studio that was occupying their children was now napping. Things only improved when the bub got territorial about the water fountain (to which he turned his full attention after the photographer put the lego table down for its nap) and took to screaming at another young girl who tried to get a drink and, I am ashamed to admit, even pushed her. The net result of the first visit was about 15 images to at least take a look at. The net result of this visit was zero. The photographer was unable to snap a single photo. Fortunately, my husband and I read the writing on the wall less than ten minutes into the session, made our apologies, and cleared out of there. Upon exiting the studio, we, along with the bub's visiting grandparents, were treated to a fit of colossal proportions. The bub was screaming, refusing to ride in the stroller, twisting out of our embraces, and generally making the kind of scene that causes passer-byers to think, "Wow, those parents must be horrible. What are they doing to that child?" I know this is what they were thinking because that is what I used to think. Now that I have a child, I know better. I know that most tantrums are fairly illogical (and luckily in the case of the bubs, infrequent). This knowledge does not make it any easier to deal with a tantrum as it is happening. The morning was salvaged thanks to an associate at a store called Hot Mama, who noted the trouble and came outside to give the bub a balloon. The juice box from my big mom purse helped as well. The new plan for professional photographs is to see if I can hire my cousin the photojournalist (an awesome photographer, NTB) to capture the bub in his natural environment. I hope she is willing to do so after reading this account.
Bubdate #2: No Limp
Yesterday morning, my husband and his mom noticed the bub limping a bit. I observed the bub walking, running, and climbing throughout the day and saw no such limp. Then, in the early evening, the limp returned. By bedtime, he was refusing to put weight on his left leg. This morning, he took to crawling instead of walking. After breakfast he started walking again with a slight limp. Obviously very concerned, I called the doctor's office as soon as it opened and we were there by 9:30 a.m. What happened at the doctor's office? The bub ran in circles around the office with nary a limp in sight. He climbed up and down on the chair in the examination room multiple times. He put all his weight on his left foot as he strained to reach the door knob and escape the room. The doctor found nothing to be concerned about. He has no fever and exhibits absolutely no signs of the infection I read about on the internet that I thought may be causing the limp. In other words, he is now fine. I am only out the $20 co-pay. I will keep watching to see if the limp returns, of course.
Loyal readers are aware that my mom and I recently took the bub to an appointment with a professional photographer. When recounting the failure that was this photo shoot, I promised an update concerning his rescheduled appointment. This past Sunday morning was the occasion for take two of the photo shoot. As he did during the previous appointment, the bub showed far more interest in the lego table, drinking fountain, and toilet than he did in any of the props offered to him. My husband and I asked again if we might move the lego table into the studio for the session. Again, the photographer dismissed the suggestion (I think she thought we were joking). Instead, she had an epiphany. Why not place a black blanket over the lego table and tell the bub, "The lego table was tired. It had to take a nap." The other families in the studio, whose children had been happily playing with the lego table as their parents perused dozens of digital images of successful photo shoots, seemed delighted at the news that the one item in the studio that was occupying their children was now napping. Things only improved when the bub got territorial about the water fountain (to which he turned his full attention after the photographer put the lego table down for its nap) and took to screaming at another young girl who tried to get a drink and, I am ashamed to admit, even pushed her. The net result of the first visit was about 15 images to at least take a look at. The net result of this visit was zero. The photographer was unable to snap a single photo. Fortunately, my husband and I read the writing on the wall less than ten minutes into the session, made our apologies, and cleared out of there. Upon exiting the studio, we, along with the bub's visiting grandparents, were treated to a fit of colossal proportions. The bub was screaming, refusing to ride in the stroller, twisting out of our embraces, and generally making the kind of scene that causes passer-byers to think, "Wow, those parents must be horrible. What are they doing to that child?" I know this is what they were thinking because that is what I used to think. Now that I have a child, I know better. I know that most tantrums are fairly illogical (and luckily in the case of the bubs, infrequent). This knowledge does not make it any easier to deal with a tantrum as it is happening. The morning was salvaged thanks to an associate at a store called Hot Mama, who noted the trouble and came outside to give the bub a balloon. The juice box from my big mom purse helped as well. The new plan for professional photographs is to see if I can hire my cousin the photojournalist (an awesome photographer, NTB) to capture the bub in his natural environment. I hope she is willing to do so after reading this account.
Bubdate #2: No Limp
Yesterday morning, my husband and his mom noticed the bub limping a bit. I observed the bub walking, running, and climbing throughout the day and saw no such limp. Then, in the early evening, the limp returned. By bedtime, he was refusing to put weight on his left leg. This morning, he took to crawling instead of walking. After breakfast he started walking again with a slight limp. Obviously very concerned, I called the doctor's office as soon as it opened and we were there by 9:30 a.m. What happened at the doctor's office? The bub ran in circles around the office with nary a limp in sight. He climbed up and down on the chair in the examination room multiple times. He put all his weight on his left foot as he strained to reach the door knob and escape the room. The doctor found nothing to be concerned about. He has no fever and exhibits absolutely no signs of the infection I read about on the internet that I thought may be causing the limp. In other words, he is now fine. I am only out the $20 co-pay. I will keep watching to see if the limp returns, of course.
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