Sunday, December 10, 2006


While the rest of blogland was busily posting once a day, OLP became officially known as OLB. Maybe I'll try NaBloPoMo next year.

Everything is fab in the house of Pi. The first Christmas tree that he is mobile enough to "enjoy" (read: destroy) is up with lights, but we are still working out our ornament strategy. Pi and I had a very nice conversation last night about gentle touch on the tree, only touching the tree when Mama and Daddy are nearby, and not pulling on the lights. Retention quiz upon wake-up this AM.

Tantrums abound as he realizes that we control most of his daily activities and he lacks the full communication ability to negotiate. Diaper changes, where once fairly pleasant, now resemble the tenth circle of hell. There have been some memorable Hat and Coat Battles (both putting on and taking off), but the absolute worst tantrums come when he is forced to go inside the house. We had our first snow of the season recently, and we took him out in 15-degree weather to experience it for the first time. He was completely bundled up, but it was really too cold to be out for any length of time. After thoroughly investigating the snow - he scooped it up onto his mittens and then shook it off vigorously, saying "uck! uck!" - we decided that he was turning into a popsicle and it was time to come inside. Suffice it to say that frostbite and hypothermia would have been preferable to Pi.

Pi says about 30 words now (and I have once again earned a Worry-Lympics medal in the Unnecessary Freakout category), including "snow", which is one of my favorites - the way he says it is just too cute, and a brand-new one that he busted out on me yesterday when we were watching Caillou (my least favorite of the PBS Sprout shows - so annoying). Caillou and his grandpa were at an apple orchard, and as they picked apples from the tree, Pi pulled his bottle out of his mouth long enough to declare "App-po!" We have a picture book with a green apple in it, but I never thought he'd actually say the word for the first time while looking at red animated apples. The connections in his little brain never cease to amaze me. Of course, we had "App-pos" for every meal yesterday, because he asked for them by name!

The other day he started rythmically banging on the couch with his little hammer and screwdriver, over and over and over again, and then he would turn away, bend at the waist, and then collapse forward onto the couch. Lather, rinse, repeat. Of course, after I freaked out about repetitive movements = behavioral disorder (God, I'm such a dork), Smitty solved the mystery. We have these Time Life DVDs of the old Muppet Show (yes, we watch a lot of television, and yes, I freak out about that from time to time too) and Pi loves the episode that Harry Belafonte hosts. Turns out he was imitating the drum duel between Harry Belafonte and Animal - Harry plays a big kettle drum and Animal has his Electric Mayhem kit, and they spar with increasing intensity until finally they play a cool jam together with a big finish. Harry turns to the audience, bows, and then he and Animal both collapse forward onto their drums.

After a bit of nasal congestion that flummoxed Pi when he tried to suck his thumb and made both of us quite sleep-deprived, we seem to be fully mended. I realized after over eight glorious hours of sleep this morning that I hadn't heard a peep out of Pi all night, which is unusual even when he's completely well. He sleeps through the night about 90% of the time, but moans and groans and flips around in his sleep, and our bedroom is right next to his so we can hear everything. After a completely silent night, I (sing it with me now) freaked out, went to check on him, and of course he's happily snoozing away, thumb firmly ensconced in mouth. He's such a dear, my Pi.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Few and Far Between

Yikes. Two posts a month. Even the "easy" way out is hard for me. Now we see why I chose this method instead of the paper baby books - I think Pi's has maybe two completed pages.

So, anyway, lots to tell - we had professional photos taken of Pi last week and I've been watching the photographer's slide show on a continuous loop with the sappy music on full blast and treating myself to a good old-fashioned weepfest. He is, as the little song I've composed for him says, the sweetest little man in the whole wide world, and the pictures of him with his daddy are too much for my heart to bear.

Pi is saying "cat" and "duck" completely without prompting now, and is repeating new and fabulous words like "dirty" and "poop". I'm tempted to make one of those word clouds with Pi's current vocabulary and hang it on his wall.

He marches over to our little CD player in the kitchen and demands "La La", and when we put the music on he dances like Jennifer Beals' dance double did when "Maniac" was playing in "Flashdance". He is also aces now at the Hokey Pokey, and when we say "somersault" he puts his head on the couch, bed or floor between his feet and waits for us to flip him all the way over.

We've also had our first few earth-shattering tantrums. He was trying to put his shoes on by himself one rare day when I was home alone with him, and when I tried to help, he freaked completely out and screamed with anger and frustration for about 20 minutes. Nothing I did helped, and in fact, all my attempts to approach him made it worse. Finally, I just took off all his clothes and plopped him into the bathtub in the middle of the day, which seemed to calm him down, kind of like in the movies when they drag hysterical people into a cold shower and their woes magically disappear. My Pi does love his bath (which was warm, not cold).

He's going through a little bit of separation anxiety, too. Yesterday when Smitty woke up I got in the shower and Pi was not pleased. He usually sleeps right through my getting-ready-to-go-to work routine on the weekdays, but on the rare days when he wakes up early enough to see me in the morning, he's starting to recognize when I'm leaving and doesn't like it too much. I don't like to see him so sad, but the dark part of my soul is totally happy that he doesn't want me to leave.

And speaking of the dark part of my soul, I had a very interesting experience with a brand-new mom when I was in Baltimore traveling for work. Her husband is a colleague of mine in a different region of the company, and they had driven from Boston to Baltimore with their four-week-old so that the family could be together.

Now, a little background: when Smitty and I first started trying to have kids, I got a lot of lovely supportive feedback about what a great mom I was going to be, yadda yadda yadda. I had always wanted to have kids and had always looked forward to it. Then we lost my first pregnancy and I allowed myself to dwell on what life might be like if we couldn't have kids. I painted a pretty bleak existence for myself, so we kept on trying and of course, eventually had Pi. Now we had not only the "you'll be such great parents" foundation, but the "long-awaited baby" first floor in the building of our little family. I was going to nurse, babywear, co-sleep, and be the crunchiest-granola, most blissfully happy earth-mama you ever did see.

Except it was so freaking hard. I don't think I ever had full-blown PPD, but there were quite a few moments when I worried that we had made a huge mistake, that I wasn't up to this, that I would completely scar this new little person for life, that I was doing everything wrong, and that everybody in the world was a better parent than me. It helped me to talk to my girlfriends about their struggles, to commiserate about the early newborn stages and how hard they were, so that I could see that I wasn't alone. Now, of course, things are so much better, but I'll never forget how knocked flat I was by new motherhood.

So, back to the Boston mama - after cooing over the baby, I asked her how she was doing. After getting the typical sunshine-and-roses answer (which I always gave too, until someone asked, "no really, how are you doing?"), I said something like, "It's a big adjustment, isn't it?", to which she replied, "Oh no, I feel like I've been doing this my whole life - I can't believe my little baby's four weeks old already - it's gone by so fast!" Everything I asked about was going perfectly well - she loved getting up in the middle of the night to have her "special time" with him, she had a home-water-birth with no tearing after which her son latched on perfectly, his poop smelled like a freshly mown field of lavender, etc. For a while, I was able to indulge the generous part of my soul and celebrate the good time she was having, but eventually the dark side took over and I ended up wanting to punch her lights out.

I just wish that we women could talk to each other more about how hard mothering truly is. Who knows, maybe the Boston mama had her own support system and didn't feel comfortable opening up to a total stranger. Maybe she really was perfectly fine and didn't want someone like me trying to rain on her parade. But maybe she really was struggling, really battling to keep it together, but felt like she couldn't be honest about how hard it is because Moms are supposed to be perfectly happy and content with all things baby.

Well, this has veered so far from the original posting path that I think I need to thumb a ride back to the main Pi highway. He's beautiful, he's wonderful, time really is flying by as he discovers more and more about his world, but his poop definitely does not smell like lavender.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

The Voice of Pi

My boy is finding his voice, and I am enthralled by the sound.

Whenever we go to the park, surrounding ourselves with state-of-the-art equipment that stimulates both the brain and body, my boy eschews all in favor of hunting and gathering sticks. The best toys for Pi are those found in nature...and Hokey-Pokey Elmo, of course.

Yesterday we had a semi-successful stick-gathering session, but we always say "bye-bye sticks" before getting back in the car or the stroller. While we were walking back to the car, Pi said something that sounded like "stick", and obliged again and again when I asked him to repeat it. Later on at dinner, when I warned him of the high temperature of the sticky rice he wanted, he performed his Buster Poindexter impression, sayin' "Hot! Hot! Hot!"

He does say "Mama" and "Dada" when prompted, but asks specifically for "Bub" - his Bob the Builder toolbox with screwdriver, wrench, hammer and saw board books that Mama and Dada read in sequence eighty-six bazillion times a day. I swear I've awoken in the midst of reciting "Today is a busy day for Bob! What will he need to do the job?"

Along with the physical formation of words, I see so much going on behind his eyes now. He was so happy to get such a response from me when he said "Stick", and he has such an opinion and will about the way his world should be organized. I have to go away for work tomorrow for five days, and I would rather sharpen Pi's playground scavengings and plunge them into my ocular cavities than miss anything that happens during such a crucial time in his development. Thank Whatever that Smitty is so quick and adept with our digital camera and computer.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

TV Shows

I love to watch Lost, The Sopranos, Monk, and quite a few other shows. I don't think I've ever been as entertained by a video clip as I've been by this one. I'm on a business trip this weekend and Smitty sent this to me last night. I've watched it 7500 times.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Pi by Numbers

479 - days on the planet.

2 - home addresses, but both in the same city and state.

4 - plane rides he's enjoyed (he's a wonderful traveler, my Pi) to see Grandmom & Grandpop on Mom's side.

2 - road trips he's taken to see Grandma and Grandpa on Dad's side.

1 - wedding attended - Smitty's cousin.

1 - funeral attended - Mommy's Grandpop, Pi's Great-Grandpop, died of Alzheimer's 1/15/06.

24 - ounces of milk a day, still in bottles. He likes them, and will only drink a little milk from a sippy cup before turning it into a rocket ship or other projectile. If he's to get any nutrition at all, we need to keep the bottles around.

6 - days since he's had a decent solid-food meal. Love that assertion of independence.

2 - bites of each food before it ends up on the floor.

4 - stories at bedtime - current rotation: Go, Dog, Go; Kitten's First Full Moon, Time for Bed, The Greedy Python.

4 - songs at bedtime - current rotation: The Rainbow Connection, It's in Every One of Us, You've Got a Friend, Baby Mine (the Bonnie Raitt version).

10.5 - current hours of sleep - he's been sleeping like a teenager lately, up at 9:00 am or later. Lovin' it!

1 - birthday so far.

1 - Halloween so far - he was an octopus. Not sure what his costume's going to be this year - Smitty really likes this Green Lantern costume, but we're having trouble finding it in his size.

2 - September 11th's so far - it hit me really hard this year. Last year I was too hormonal and sleep-deprived and covered in excrement to deal with the anniversary in any kind of meditative or respectful way. I have been very depressed that my son will never know a world in which this event didn't happen, and have been remembering all the lives and families destroyed by a single act of hatred. I am praying, praying that we get our collective poo in our diapers so that he can still be proud of his America.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

The Worry-Lympics

I once read a post on another blog about The Pain Olympics.

It was a terrific post, breaking down emotional pain into point systems and categories based on length of time in pain, severity of incident, etc, and eventually concluding that everyone's pain is unique and valid, and simply could not be compared quantitatively.

I'm going to demonstrate my superior skills in reading comprehension and miss the point entirely to declare that thanks to Whatever Almighty, I would not even medal in the Pain Olympics. I've had one early first-trimester pregnancy loss, which was indeed painful, but in the grand scheme of things, I am the Eric Moussambani of the Pain Olympics, with zero aspiration to become Michael Phelps.

The Worry-Lympics, on the other hand, are my kind of games. I am the Jenny Thompson of the Worry-Lympics, and have none other than my little Pi to thank for being the source and inspiration of all my astonishing accomplishments on this global stage. To wit:

August 2004 - May 2005 - The Games of the Pregnancy Worr-lympiad

Bronze Medal - Food Police - "OMG I ate a chocolate from that Whitman's sampler that had RUM in it - I spit it out immediately, but I'm sure my baby's brain-damaged now."

Silver Medal - High Maintenance Patient - "Hi Midwife Kathy, umm listen, I noticed that my left breast feels much less sore today at 2:00 pm than it did yesterday at 8:00 am. My right breast is still sore, but I'm still kind of anxious - do you think I could come in this afternoon for a quick ultrasound check?"

Gold Medal - Self-Fulfilling Prophecy - "OK, Kathy said at my 38-week appointment that if I went past 40 weeks the baby would probably be too big and we'd have to do a c-section. That's it, I'm getting cut."

May 22, 2005 - September 2005 - The Games of the Newborn Worr-Lympiad

Bronze Medal - Sleep - "OK, so that book said that if I don't get him into bed by the time he yawns three times, the naptime will be completely jacked. I know he just woke up, but I think that was a yawn - that's one. Wait, was that another one? OK, here we go, back to naptime. Why is he screaming?"

Silver Medal - Food - "He only nursed for five minutes on this breast and then ten minutes on the other one. He's pooped seven times today, and shot pee onto the window blinds every time I've changed a poopy diaper, but I don't think he's getting enough."

Gold Medal - Development - "Dr M, three-month-old Pi kicks his legs repeatedly every time he lays down on his back - do you think that's an early sign of autism?"

May 22, 2006 - Present - The Games of the Toddler Worr-Lympiad

Bronze Medal - Teeth
- "He's 15 months old - why is he not getting his molars? Everyone else all over the world with babies the same age has talked about molars! Where are his molars, for Pete's sake?" Note - he got his first one three days after I spewed this medal-winning worry onto my poor, unsuspecting office friend. At 3:00 am on the third day of cutting this tooth, the sound of me kicking my own behind for wishing this upon myself could be heard 'round the world.

Silver Medal - Walking - "He's been standing and cruising since he was seven months old. He's almost a year now - why isn't he walking? Does he have inner ear problems? Can he not balance himself? His pinky toe on the left curls under his foot - could that be why he won't walk?" Note - again, one week after this crazed tirade, Pi toddled away from me and hasn't looked back. And again, I can't believe I wished for this.

Gold Medal - Talking - "Why doesn't he talk? He kind of repeats things we say, but there's no consistency, and I can count on one hand the number of times he's asked for things by name. I know that language he's using means something to him, but I simply cannot figure it out. Aren't mothers supposed to be fluent in their own Toddler-ese? OK, the countdown is on - if he isn't using words I can understand by 18 months, we're going to early intervention." Note: if the above patterns continue, I'm in for it big time in a week or so. Listen for the sound of my foot meeting my ass, over and over and over again.

So there it is - my Worry-Lympics box score. This is my life now. More stunning feats of worry prowess to come in the upcoming Pre-School, Driver's Ed, and College Application Games.

Friday, August 18, 2006

A Red Letter Day

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday to my Daddy,
Happy Birthday to you!

There's cake, and I get to eat some...this is the best day EVER!


Saturday, August 12, 2006

The Land of Milk and Honey

I've been meaning to post about this, and with the recent brouhaha, it seems especially timely.

I loved nursing. Absolutely loved it. Pi was great at it from day one, and we had a great postpartum nurse, Laura, who stayed with us for over an hour while he fed and made sure our mechanics were right. Even though I worried incessantly (of course) about my supply, his latch, his weight gain, the length of time he spent on each boob, etc, etc, etc, deep down I knew it was the only thing that was going according to plan. I loved the time that it gave us together, I loved that my body was able to nourish a little human - it was a wonderful experience.

If you're getting a sense of how much I loved nursing, amplify that sense by about 86 bazillion, and reverse it into pure, unadulterated hate. That's how I felt about pumping. Even though I knew it was for a good cause, and I had it so easy with the 100% support of my employer, it was a godawful chore and I hated it. I was never really able to pump enough to sustain Pi on a boob-juice-only diet. He had a couple of bottles of formula a week from about 7 months on, and about one a day when I went back to traveling for work. In March, I was away for five nights, and even though I flagellated myself with that confounded medieval torture device the whole time, my supply never recovered. Our last nursing session was the morning before his first birthday, and then we weaned cold turkey. We didn't wean because he was ready, we weaned because I just didn't feel like I could keep it going. To his credit and true to his easygoing style, Pi took it like a champ. He was mainly a nutrition nurser, and rarely nursed for comfort alone, so I don't think it affected our bond or made him feel unsteady. I just wish he could have rejected me outright in his own time.

Ah, well, I can "woulda coulda shoulda" myself into a rubber room, but the fact is that my boy loves his cow's milk, is healthy and thriving, and seems none the worse for wear in the absence of nip. I wanted to breastfeed, I was lucky enough to have a relatively easy time of it, and I did what I could for almost a year. I'm sure there are a million things that'll haunt me about my parenting decisions with Pi, I'm going to try not to let this be one of them.

This whole kerfuffle about the magazine cover, though - gah! I never thought twice about nursing in public, and no one said boo to me or even threw a dirty look my way. The only issue I had was when my father-in-law and his wife (Smitty's stepmother) came to visit while we were still in the hospital, during Pi's first crucial days of learning to latch. He definitely got an eyeful, but I wasn't going to compromise my kid's mealtimes just because someone might witness a nip-slip. I thought nothing of it until Smitty's stepmother covered me during a session. Luckily, I didn't allow myself to dwell too heavily on it and kept focusing on Pi.

Whenever I think we've come a long way as a society, something like this magazine craziness happens and I'm abruptly reminded that there are still many miles to go.

Saturday, August 05, 2006


Pi adores our kitties, Emmet and Jasper. They tolerate him as well as cats can be expected to tolerate someone who screams in their ears, chases them all over the house, bats at their tails, and buries his heavy head into their hindquarters in the name of lurve.

He's not quite as enamored of dogs. He is remarkably good-natured about their slobbery kisses, being knocked over with their exuberant love, and their constant desire to play, but it seems like every time he starts enjoying a dog, the fun is ruined by a sharp bark which reduces Pi to blubbery rubble. Pi is not a fan of the loud, unexpected noises, and the dogs just can't help it - it's what they're supposed to do. Hopefully we can reach some sort of detente with the canines soon, because I really like dogs and would like to get one someday. Yes, it has become my mission to create sworn enemies of my poor cats. I can't imagine what they'd do to me if I threw a puppy into this crazy mix. Maybe it's good that Pi's scared of dogs.

In keeping with the title of this blog, we let Pi watch TV sometimes. He really loves Puss in Boots from Shrek 2, the one cat who doesn't cringe in fear at his grubby, drooly approach. Puss coughs up a hairball at one point, which sends Pi into paroxysms of glee every time. He enjoys it when Smitty and I perform our renditions of the hairball expulsion, and the other night we were regaling him at dinner, when he busted out with a version of his own. He flattened his tongue against his bottom teeth, curled his lips, and gasped out something that sounded like "hhhhhheeeessssshhhh, hhhhheeeeesshhhhh, hhhhheeeeeeessssshhh", before leaning over the side of his high chair and pretending to vomit. Perhaps we should put the kibosh on public dining for a while. Notice how the obvious solution of limiting the TV is completely glossed over - I haven't laughed so hard at dinner in months.

Pi Stats

Every good baby book has that stats page, right?

Here's Pi's:

Born - 5/22/05 at 7:06 am

Doctors: started with midwife Kathy and ended up with Dr. CP performing c-section (after 19 hours of labor, GAH!)

Length - 21 inches

Weight - 8 lb 10 oz

Left hospital on 5/26/05, did great in car seat, promptly peed all over his going-home outfit and we realized just how unprepared we were. We had no separate hamper for the baby's dirty clothes, didn't really have the changing table set up with everything at our fingertips, didn't have his clothes organized the way we should have. His first diaper change at home was quite the comedy of errors. At least that's how I view it now - when it was happening it was some seriously high drama. The first of many unseemly freak-outs from Mama.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Word Up

So far, the child care arrangement we have has worked out pretty well - it's been challenging for both Smitty and I to get used our new roles, but the fact that Pi has spent his first 14 months (today - happy month-day, Pi!) of life under the care of a parent is invaluable to us. I feel very lucky that we even have this as an option.

I will admit, however, to feeling a bit of a pang when the arrangement first began. When I went back to work and Smitty started full-time child care, I imagined a time in the future when my heart would break because Pi would choose Daddy over me when he got hurt, or a big developmental event that I would miss because of work.

I have to say that so far, none of those fears have come to pass. When Pi gets hurt, he doesn't want to be comforted by ANYONE. He just wants to scream it out and find something else to do immediately. And thanks to the technological advances of the age, I get up-to-the-minute reports and video of all of Pi's adorableness during the day.

The one thing I hadn't counted on, however, is that we would get to 14 months without a "mama". He has never, not once, deliberately referred to me as Mama. Smitty walks in the room, or smiles at Pi, or clears his throat at the other end of the house, and Pi busts into choruses of "Dada! Dada!" Pi says "book", "cat", and something that kinda sounds like "bottle". He babbles non-stop, has good consonant sounds, and knows a couple of signs. But "mama" remains elusive, the Holy Grail of development, something that would make this WOTH mom feel a hell of a lot better about her choices.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Forty Winks

Few things have shaken me to my very core as the early months of parenting. Now that we're firmly entrenched in The Life of Pi, I cringe a bit at how completely rocked and rattled I was by every. little. thing, but what really threw me for the biggest loop was, of course, the sleeping.

A brief history of Pi's slumbering habits, and how ineptly I handled them:

The first few nights at home, he nursed from 1:00 am - 4:00 am, non-stop. The only way I could get him to sleep was by swaddling him, propping him in a Boppy (horrified gasp) on the couch (double horrified gasp) and sitting up next to him with my head lolled on my arm, jerking myself awake every five minutes. Bad scene.

For the first few months he slept, well, like a baby. Very unpredictable, sometimes napping for three hours, sometimes for 20 minutes, awake every two hours during the night. Why does the "sleeping like a baby" cliche mean exactly the opposite of reality? Aren't cliches supposed to evolve from universal truths? I read all the books about how much sleep he was supposed to be getting and freaked right out. Someone should have locked all my books in a strongbox and buried them under Lake Michigan until I was able to think rationally. Those stupid books made me doubt, even more, every little thing I was doing, and convinced me that I was scarring him for life if I allowed him to fall asleep nursing, or rocking, or bouncing, or within 60 feet of the sound of my voice.

We finally got into a sort of routine - he had two naps during the day, always on my chest, and would sleep for almost two hours at each nap. At three months, he slept 10 hours straight through the night, and this utter bliss continued for exactly three weeks, and didn't return until he was 11 months old.

When I went back to work and Smitty took over as primary caregiver, Pi learned how to take naps in his crib. We co-slept at night, but we would put him down in the crib for the first evening stretch, and then bring him into bed after his first wake-up. Between three and 11 months, he usually only woke up once or twice a night, except when he was teething or when the stars were misaligned.

Now, he has one nap during the day, usually two - three hours, goes to bed at around 9:30 and sleeps till about 7:30. He hardly ever goes down for naps or nighttime when he's drowsy - we rock him and sing to him until he's asleep, and then we put him in the crib.

I just had to get all of this out of the way, because, like it or not, this is the conversation I had most often as a new mom. How is he sleeping? What about the sleeping? Are you getting any sleep? Is he a good sleeper? I try so hard not to bombard new parents with any of these ridiculous questions, but our American high-achievement instant-gratification lives are so consumed with this topic - it's so ingrained. All we have to do is look around at all of our adult friends to realize that no one needs to be rocked to sleep in their mother's arms anymore, and they are all perfectly capable of deciding for themselves that they are tired and need to go to bed, but new parents manage to convince themselves (and let everyone else's judgments and assvice convince them) that this will never happen for their children because of all the "bad habits" they've encouraged. I bought all of it hook, line, and sinker, and let myself get way too frustrated with Pi when he wouldn't go to sleep. Every time my worry got to an absolute fever pitch, when I was convinced that things would never change and he would always be taking naps on my chest or waking up at 2:00 am, he made a transition and things got better. He showed me.

I just put him down for his nap, rocking and singing his naptime lullabies, and when he wiggles into his comfortable position, and Velcroes his head into the nook between my shoulder and breast, sucking his thumb and holding his blankie, there is absolutely nothing sweeter. His baby smell (which is already changing from that just-baked, heady aroma he had when he was newborn), his cute little sleepy smiles, his playing with my hair and lips as we rocked - it just moved me to tears this morning. I wished it all away in the early months, and now I know that one day it will be gone and I'll yearn for it back.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Librarian or Arctic Animal Research Specialist?

Pi has a favorite book called “Bathtime Peekaboo” – we used to read it every night, but it hasn’t been part of the regular bedtime rotation for about two months. Smitty (aka DH, aka Daddy) started reading it to him during the day this past week.

There’s a line in there about a cuddly penguin – “can you flap like the penguins do?” Today, after breakfast, Smitty said to Pi, “can you flap like the penguins do?”, and Pi went to his bookshelf, pulled out the Bathtime Peekaboo book, and opened directly to the page with the penguins.

Our son is a genius.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Pix of Pi

What a difference a year makes. I've just noticed, in Pi's newborn picture, how hard they must have scrubbed him during his first bath. He has really sensitive skin.

And Away We Go...

I've resisted the siren call of the blogosphere for a while. There are so many people who do this, and so many that do it better than I could ever hope to. But this is a completely selfish adventure. My son, Pi, is 13 months old and has no baby book. Well, he has one - a few, actually - I just can't get it together to write in any of them. These electronic ruminations will have to take the place of poring through lovingly organized mementos and excruciatingly detailed descriptions of his first word, first steps, first food he flung at us, etc. I've got to get something committed to writing before it all just flies right out of my head.

Because that lie that everyone tells you? That lie that you find completely impossible to believe in those first crazy months when your life is consumed by nursing, crying, trying unsuccessfully to get the baby to sleep, feed, stop that horrible noise already, watching the clock and counting the never-ending minutes till that guy who got you into this mess (hell, it could be any guy at that point, just so I can have two seconds to pee) gets the hell home? That completely bullshit story that "it all goes by so fast"? Turns out that lie, that bullshit story - it's all true.