Sunday, April 11, 2010
Another Weekend In The Books
Nothing big to report here -- just had a very nice, relaxing three-day weekend with NJ and The Wife. About to uncork a bottle of some of Washington state's finest, tear into a pot roast and hunker down in front of HBO's once-again stellar Sunday night programming before another work week smacks us all in the face. Somewhere, in the midst of all that middle-aged excitement, this angel will be washed, nourished and tucked into bed.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Mother and Child Reunion
The Wife comes home tonight after leaving town Monday morning, and she's returning to a calm, peaceful household. NJ and I got along famously, adjusting our routines to account for her 
mother's absence. There are only two real changes: One is that NJ's evening bath/meal/bed routine is a little different because she finishes a bottle a lot faster than she nurses. The other, of course, is that I have to get up early, when NJ does, instead of relying on The Wife to do that and waking me later. A small sacrifice for the sake of the child's welfare, but make no mistake -- a small, happily made sacrifice is still a sacrifice.
The only threat of driving off the metaphorical cliff came Tuesday afternoon, when the kid awoke from her nap very early and threw a hysterical fit. It took about thirty minutes just to get her settled down. I don't know if she had the world's worst nightmare or if, despite there being no obvious visual evidence, teething has finally hit (seven and a half months and no teeth yet!) A little kitchen dancing soothed her, as did Dad Solo's singing. At last, I'm not the only person who appreciates -- or has even heard -- my Van Morrison impression.
Unfortunately for NJ, her mother won't be getting home until after her bedtime tonight. And unfortunately for The Wife, she won't be getting home until after NJ's bedtime tonight. So their reunion will have to take place tomorrow. It would be a lot of fun to watch, because NJ lights up like a Christmas tree when either one of us is gone for a while and then reappears. I'll miss that, though. I'm sleeping in.
mother's absence. There are only two real changes: One is that NJ's evening bath/meal/bed routine is a little different because she finishes a bottle a lot faster than she nurses. The other, of course, is that I have to get up early, when NJ does, instead of relying on The Wife to do that and waking me later. A small sacrifice for the sake of the child's welfare, but make no mistake -- a small, happily made sacrifice is still a sacrifice.The only threat of driving off the metaphorical cliff came Tuesday afternoon, when the kid awoke from her nap very early and threw a hysterical fit. It took about thirty minutes just to get her settled down. I don't know if she had the world's worst nightmare or if, despite there being no obvious visual evidence, teething has finally hit (seven and a half months and no teeth yet!) A little kitchen dancing soothed her, as did Dad Solo's singing. At last, I'm not the only person who appreciates -- or has even heard -- my Van Morrison impression.
Unfortunately for NJ, her mother won't be getting home until after her bedtime tonight. And unfortunately for The Wife, she won't be getting home until after NJ's bedtime tonight. So their reunion will have to take place tomorrow. It would be a lot of fun to watch, because NJ lights up like a Christmas tree when either one of us is gone for a while and then reappears. I'll miss that, though. I'm sleeping in.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Food Revolution
Sure, you're having a hard time getting me to eat vegetables, but I can't get enough of sweet, delicious fruits like this applesauce. Look at how I've cleaned out this bowl. I'll be needing something new and different for my next meal. What else ya got?
Is that one of those quick-dissolving rice cracker thingies? Fork it over! (And I say 'fork' ironically, Mommy and Daddy, because it's finger food. No utensils needed. Get it? Sheesh -- tough room.)
Oh. Oh my. Uh, are you sure this is right? I'm supposed to be eating this, consuming it? And not, say, lining the inside of my shoes with it? Huh.
OK, I'll just jump right in with both feet then, even though I'd feel safer jumping if my feet were protected by a shoe liner made out of this. Here goes nothin'.
I'm still not sold on the taste of rice cracker -- unless it's not supposed to have any taste at all, in which case I say, 'Bravo, well done.' But just look at all these little pieces. The capacity to make a mess with these things seems limitless, and that's enough to earn the NJ stamp of approval. Good job. Now, make me laugh.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
NJ's David Lynch to My Warren Zevon
The Wife was out of town Tuesday night, and my second round of Super Soloing with NJ went well, up to a point -- that point being mid-afternoon Wednesday. That's when things turned a little bit David Lynchian. Odd, steady whimpering. Angry eating. Refusal to eat. Wild mood swings. Sweeping, seemingly arbitrary rejection of previously established norms. It only lasted about four hours, but it seemed like an eternity.
Sure, there was a delightful moment in the midst of the Meltdown that involved fart noises, stomach-poking and infectious baby laughter (see: Wild mood swings, above), but overall it was like running clean for the first two-thirds of a NASCAR race before getting rammed and sliding around the oval for the rest of the race. By the end of it all I was happy to drive into a wall just to end it. That wall was The Wife, finally coming through the door. NJ was so happy to see her that I had a hard time convincing The Wife how bad it all was. Their reunion was sweet enough under normal circumstances; to me, The Wife's arrival was akin to that of a Marine kicking in the door and releasing the hostages.
A lot of it is her missing her mom, of course, and there's also a gradual weaning process in progress. ('Process in progress' -- say it five times, fast!) I think NJ's not too happy with gradual dominance of formula over breast milk, and I'm not sure I blame her because this formula stinks something terrible. Her formula burps are almost as bad as our dog's.
The other thing at play is NJ's recent realization that sometimes, when she's being put in her crib or on the floor mat on her own, she can elicit the beginnings of a crying jag and one of her parents will swoop in to her rescue, picking her back up and lavishing her with love and attention. I'm wise to this and have started to ignore it, so now there's the initial bleat of crying at being put down, then another as she realizes that the first bleat isn't bending me to her will. Then (I imagine) she sighs and shrugs her shoulders, because almost instantly she's shaking a rattle or batting a squeaky bird around. But I still think there's resentment there. It'll probably finally boil over when she's 35.
The weaning and the manipulation ("The Weaning and the Manipulation" -- isn't that an old Truffaut film?) have me a little worried about next week, when The Wife goes to New York City (the town so nice they named it twice -- the other name is "Manhattan") for four days. Call it Super Solo: Armageddon. If I haven't blogged my guts out after two days, pray to your god and send lawyers, guns and money.
The face of cruel, unyielding defiance
Sure, there was a delightful moment in the midst of the Meltdown that involved fart noises, stomach-poking and infectious baby laughter (see: Wild mood swings, above), but overall it was like running clean for the first two-thirds of a NASCAR race before getting rammed and sliding around the oval for the rest of the race. By the end of it all I was happy to drive into a wall just to end it. That wall was The Wife, finally coming through the door. NJ was so happy to see her that I had a hard time convincing The Wife how bad it all was. Their reunion was sweet enough under normal circumstances; to me, The Wife's arrival was akin to that of a Marine kicking in the door and releasing the hostages.
A lot of it is her missing her mom, of course, and there's also a gradual weaning process in progress. ('Process in progress' -- say it five times, fast!) I think NJ's not too happy with gradual dominance of formula over breast milk, and I'm not sure I blame her because this formula stinks something terrible. Her formula burps are almost as bad as our dog's.
The other thing at play is NJ's recent realization that sometimes, when she's being put in her crib or on the floor mat on her own, she can elicit the beginnings of a crying jag and one of her parents will swoop in to her rescue, picking her back up and lavishing her with love and attention. I'm wise to this and have started to ignore it, so now there's the initial bleat of crying at being put down, then another as she realizes that the first bleat isn't bending me to her will. Then (I imagine) she sighs and shrugs her shoulders, because almost instantly she's shaking a rattle or batting a squeaky bird around. But I still think there's resentment there. It'll probably finally boil over when she's 35.
The weaning and the manipulation ("The Weaning and the Manipulation" -- isn't that an old Truffaut film?) have me a little worried about next week, when The Wife goes to New York City (the town so nice they named it twice -- the other name is "Manhattan") for four days. Call it Super Solo: Armageddon. If I haven't blogged my guts out after two days, pray to your god and send lawyers, guns and money.
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