People had begun commenting that it looked like Little P was sporting a mullet. While acknowledging these comments as hyperbolic, Mama was aware that Little P's hair was definitely heading in that direction. So this afternoon Mama tackled the P with the scissors.
Now the Papa is telling Little P that Mama gave him a bowl cut. That is not true, no matter how insistent he is. And, frankly, it was hardly a real cut as Little P kept reaching for the comb and trying to stick it in his mouth. With all the head turning and squawking, Mama nearly chopped clear off the skin on one of her knuckles.
Here we see Little P with slightly more shaping to the hair around his ears. Mama is not responsible for the bald parts in the midsection - that's the sole responsibility of his DNA.
Here you can almost see the bottom/back part where some of Little P's curls had to be cut off. Sniff, says the Mama.
December 23, 2008
Why the P-Pod Doesn't Do Santa
Er...that headline sounds like it means more than it was meant to...but, ha, ha! The Mama's going to leave it anyway.
So, besides the obvious observation that Little P doesn't even understand what presents are yet, Santa is not a part of our household for several reasons. And while Mama is going to share these reasons, she does not mean to spoil anyone else's fun or to cause any family rifts over the holidays. In addition, believe it or not, Mama is not even on her soapbox (she's been known to inhabit a few soapboxes in her day, but this is not one of those times).
Not really a reason #1) Santa never came to Mama's house when she was growing up. I know - that sounds cruel, but really, she didn't miss it. In fact, she remembers how proud she was about having certain information that her younger cousin did not have when, at one Christmas Eve large family gathering, she informed said cousin, two years her junior, that Santa was a made up story. This was truly devasatating for said cousin, and the auntie swooped in and informed the young Mama's mother that she would not be welcome at any future Christmas gatherings if she kept telling children the truth.
Well, not exactly. Mama's auntie is a lot nicer than that, but Mama remembers learning that some truths are not allowed to be shared.
#2) Why is Santa necessary? Mama wants to know. For real, wants to know. (Go ahead, leave a comment.) Why does Santa get to be the generous, benevolent guy? Mama has been thrilled to participate in those gift-giving deals for children in foster or group homes, but she always finds this part saddening: the children are told that all those beautiful gifts are from Santa. Now, Mama is not looking for a pat on the back. Rather, Mama thinks that it would be a beautiful statement to those children who feel thrown away and unloved to say - people care about you. People, real, live people want you to feel special on Christmas. Real, live people want to bring you joy, however small. And what if, instead of the kids celebrating by themselves in their group home, the givers of the gifts could join them? What if the givers could form a relationship with a kid and continue giving to the same kid year after year? What if that kid could feel lovable? But no, everyone's more comfortable with those kids thinking the gifts came from Santa, who is not a part of their lives and who can't offer them recurring moments of love and concern.
As for family, why should a child think that the greatest generosity comes from Santa? If Gramma gave the gift, Little P should know and say thank you. If Papa gave the gift, Little P should know and say thank you. Generosity and gratitude are important values that can be reinforced through Christmas.
#3) Christmas is really (according to Mama's faith) about the birth of Jesus - about the whole of God making himself small, vulnerable, and more understandable to humans (if only a tiny bit) in Jesus. Because Mama believes this, Mama prefers to tie gift-giving to this belief rather than to Santa. So we can wait, anticipate, and give generously, because we waited for our God and he gave generously.
#4) Mama loves myths...as literature. Mama is not so much into believing myths. (Funny, Mama grew up without an Easter bunny and a tooth fairy, too.) So, Mama will happily teach Little P about the mythology of various cultures and eras. Mama hopes Little P will enjoy and value those stories. But Mama will always be clear about which stories are myths, fairytales, fiction, and true accounts.
At the P-Pod, we try to be intentional in the choices we make rearing Little P and any future children. We will surely make mistakes, make poor choices, from time to time, but we intend to at least think these things through and take responsibility for them. So this is part of our thinking...
Readers: Please share your thoughts. How does Santa fit or not fit into your Christmas traditions? Why?
So, besides the obvious observation that Little P doesn't even understand what presents are yet, Santa is not a part of our household for several reasons. And while Mama is going to share these reasons, she does not mean to spoil anyone else's fun or to cause any family rifts over the holidays. In addition, believe it or not, Mama is not even on her soapbox (she's been known to inhabit a few soapboxes in her day, but this is not one of those times).
Not really a reason #1) Santa never came to Mama's house when she was growing up. I know - that sounds cruel, but really, she didn't miss it. In fact, she remembers how proud she was about having certain information that her younger cousin did not have when, at one Christmas Eve large family gathering, she informed said cousin, two years her junior, that Santa was a made up story. This was truly devasatating for said cousin, and the auntie swooped in and informed the young Mama's mother that she would not be welcome at any future Christmas gatherings if she kept telling children the truth.
Well, not exactly. Mama's auntie is a lot nicer than that, but Mama remembers learning that some truths are not allowed to be shared.
#2) Why is Santa necessary? Mama wants to know. For real, wants to know. (Go ahead, leave a comment.) Why does Santa get to be the generous, benevolent guy? Mama has been thrilled to participate in those gift-giving deals for children in foster or group homes, but she always finds this part saddening: the children are told that all those beautiful gifts are from Santa. Now, Mama is not looking for a pat on the back. Rather, Mama thinks that it would be a beautiful statement to those children who feel thrown away and unloved to say - people care about you. People, real, live people want you to feel special on Christmas. Real, live people want to bring you joy, however small. And what if, instead of the kids celebrating by themselves in their group home, the givers of the gifts could join them? What if the givers could form a relationship with a kid and continue giving to the same kid year after year? What if that kid could feel lovable? But no, everyone's more comfortable with those kids thinking the gifts came from Santa, who is not a part of their lives and who can't offer them recurring moments of love and concern.
As for family, why should a child think that the greatest generosity comes from Santa? If Gramma gave the gift, Little P should know and say thank you. If Papa gave the gift, Little P should know and say thank you. Generosity and gratitude are important values that can be reinforced through Christmas.
#3) Christmas is really (according to Mama's faith) about the birth of Jesus - about the whole of God making himself small, vulnerable, and more understandable to humans (if only a tiny bit) in Jesus. Because Mama believes this, Mama prefers to tie gift-giving to this belief rather than to Santa. So we can wait, anticipate, and give generously, because we waited for our God and he gave generously.
#4) Mama loves myths...as literature. Mama is not so much into believing myths. (Funny, Mama grew up without an Easter bunny and a tooth fairy, too.) So, Mama will happily teach Little P about the mythology of various cultures and eras. Mama hopes Little P will enjoy and value those stories. But Mama will always be clear about which stories are myths, fairytales, fiction, and true accounts.
At the P-Pod, we try to be intentional in the choices we make rearing Little P and any future children. We will surely make mistakes, make poor choices, from time to time, but we intend to at least think these things through and take responsibility for them. So this is part of our thinking...
Readers: Please share your thoughts. How does Santa fit or not fit into your Christmas traditions? Why?
December 22, 2008
Grandpa's Visit

Little P had the pleasure of hanging out this week with Grandpa Richard who resides in Florida. This was a lot of fun because Benjamin is at an interactive stage. Grandpa could actually play with him! Last time Grandpa saw the Little P, he was mostly a cute lump in a blanket that cried a lot. What a great Christmas present!
December 20, 2008
New Skillz
Yesterday Benjamin pulled a few more tricks out of his sleeves. For starters, he played peek-a-boo with Mama. He stood up next to a chair and rapidly poked his head up over the arm of it grinning from ear to ear. Then he dropped down and poked his head out from the side of the chair, again, grinning like a little clown. Mama started saying peek-a-boo for him, as he doesn't say anything intelligible yet. This went on for a good five minutes.
Then, Little P stood up by himself for 6 or 7 seconds. That's a record so far. He also started waving for real. It's totally a wave, and he waves when he is socially supposed to.
If that were not enough, he grabbed his toy car and started rolling it. In fact, he can now crawl while using one arm to scoot the car. Simply amazing. Not amazing that a kid can do this, but amazing how he goes from zero to proficient in the matter of an afternoon. What?!
Then, Little P stood up by himself for 6 or 7 seconds. That's a record so far. He also started waving for real. It's totally a wave, and he waves when he is socially supposed to.
If that were not enough, he grabbed his toy car and started rolling it. In fact, he can now crawl while using one arm to scoot the car. Simply amazing. Not amazing that a kid can do this, but amazing how he goes from zero to proficient in the matter of an afternoon. What?!
December 17, 2008
11 months statistics
It's been a while since I posted Little P's stats. So in the spirit of Harper's Index, here 'tis:
- number of fully visible teeth: 6
- weight, in pounds: 21.4
- size in toddler clothing: 18 months
- size shoes: 4
- favorite stuffed animal: Lamby, a beenie baby given by Aunt Gerri
- most commonly said word: da-da
- top three favorite activities: drumming, bouncing, exploring
- greatest accomplishment to date: climbing seven stairs flawlessly
- favorite food: applesauce, bananas, pumpkin
- number of coherent baby signs: 1
- primary mode of travel: crawling
- currently practiced mode of travel: walking
- number of times he's been babysat: 11
- number of times his babysitter was a non-family member: 3
- number of times he's pulled someone's hair: 6
- favorite songs to be sung to him: Old MacDonald, Twinkle Little Star, Dona Nobis Pacem
- bedtime: 6:45
- number of naps per day: 2
December 16, 2008
Journal from October 2007
So I’ve made my decision to not go back to teaching next year. The demand on my life is one that interferes with our plans to have a family, and Brent and I have decided that should be our first priority at this time. For us, it appears, having a child means going through the adoption process, and we are now about knee deep into it…having been cleared by the State and now putting together our story with photographs and words. Our adoption counselor showed us scrapbooks created by other seeking parents and they were full of pink hearts and tropical flowers and butterflies…so not us. But the adoption counselor loves these things and believes that her birth mothers do too. I am compromising – creating our book in Photoshop and using brushes with vintage animal images, the kind one might have found in original printings of a Rudyard Kipling book, perhaps, if his books had illustrations. And I have included a bright pink among the olives and browns. But no hearts, ducks, or butterflies! We are who we are, after all, and some birth mother has got to like that.
We cannot offer the white picket fence or a nice new vehicle or even a fantastic school district; we hope that a mother will appreciate that a child raised in our family will have an appreciation for many cultures, will be read to prolifically, will grow up around turntables and mountain bikes, will be given the freedom to explore his or her own talents in any direction, and will be supported in the funky church family of musicians and artists and poets and government workers that has enfolded us here.
The adoption counselor told us that there are lots of White couples who want to adopt White children. The need, domestically, is for the adoption of mixed race children. We are willing to take a baby of any race. The counselor did say that Black children, while the hardest to adopt out, are not seen as frequently due to the cultural fabric of their families where relatives step in and take over when the mother can’t. We see this in the children in our school where, many times, a student is living with an older sibling or grandparent.
The dreams come frequently enough to be disturbing – me shrinking away from my own malformed and hideous infant, or going for a week and discovering that I forgot to feed my baby. Recently I dreamt my beloved dog had a horrible accident and I was alone, struggling to pick up a mortally bleeding animal while balancing in my arms a bobble-headed baby. I couldn’t support his neck and carry my dog at the same time. I don’t need a psychologist to tell me that my subconscious harbors fear that I will not be able to love and care for a child!
This whole motherhood thing has really hit me in a place I didn’t know would make me struggle. Brent has been ready since the day we wed to have kids. It’s taken me longer to get around to the reality of children. At the age of 25, I saw a future where I lived on a little country farm, surrounded by half a dozen barefoot and dusty children with wild hair and no shirts. But we still live in the city and I still have this dream of doing something great, this feeling of unfulfilled potential. I put being a mother off in my mind as something I would do after I accomplished something noteworthy in some form of career. I wanted to establish myself somewhere before giving it up to stay home and be a mom.
But that will not be the case. I have bounced along doing all sorts of interesting things in my life, and have nothing (a well-developed character and the first grains of what might be wisdom one day, perhaps) but an indigenous art collection, some of which has already succumbed to moth or rust. But my giving to humanity? My legacy? Naught!
And then I stand of the graves of those who have lived and died in anonymity except, perhaps, to their living descendants. Every little hamlet or village in New York has a graveyard and many of their headstones boast dates that West Coast graveyards could only dream of. I weave from one stone to another, from a child who died at the age of three or six (what of? Tuberculosis? Fever?) to a man of 32 (an accident at the local mill?), a woman of 25 (childbearing?). And then, the person who saw the turn of the century and died in his 60’s or 70’s. And I wonder…what has it mattered what this fellow accomplished or who he was in his time? He lived, he had family, he was likely a pillar in his community. He lived to a ripe old age in an age when most people ripened too early. Surely this gave him an edge in the contribution to the world category.
But none of it matters in the anonymity of the grave. For I, a century later, standing in front of his weathered gravestone, can only guess at the richness of his life. And I, one day in a grave myself, will be the same mystery to a woman standing over my dust, and it is merely hubris that makes me think that it should be otherwise. It could be otherwise, but not should be.
So I weave back and forth between feeling that I am meant for more and feeling the guilt of not achieving it, and grasping that really, it is all nothing and it is silly of me to think I am anything more than human, bound eventually for the earth.
We cannot offer the white picket fence or a nice new vehicle or even a fantastic school district; we hope that a mother will appreciate that a child raised in our family will have an appreciation for many cultures, will be read to prolifically, will grow up around turntables and mountain bikes, will be given the freedom to explore his or her own talents in any direction, and will be supported in the funky church family of musicians and artists and poets and government workers that has enfolded us here.
The adoption counselor told us that there are lots of White couples who want to adopt White children. The need, domestically, is for the adoption of mixed race children. We are willing to take a baby of any race. The counselor did say that Black children, while the hardest to adopt out, are not seen as frequently due to the cultural fabric of their families where relatives step in and take over when the mother can’t. We see this in the children in our school where, many times, a student is living with an older sibling or grandparent.
The dreams come frequently enough to be disturbing – me shrinking away from my own malformed and hideous infant, or going for a week and discovering that I forgot to feed my baby. Recently I dreamt my beloved dog had a horrible accident and I was alone, struggling to pick up a mortally bleeding animal while balancing in my arms a bobble-headed baby. I couldn’t support his neck and carry my dog at the same time. I don’t need a psychologist to tell me that my subconscious harbors fear that I will not be able to love and care for a child!
This whole motherhood thing has really hit me in a place I didn’t know would make me struggle. Brent has been ready since the day we wed to have kids. It’s taken me longer to get around to the reality of children. At the age of 25, I saw a future where I lived on a little country farm, surrounded by half a dozen barefoot and dusty children with wild hair and no shirts. But we still live in the city and I still have this dream of doing something great, this feeling of unfulfilled potential. I put being a mother off in my mind as something I would do after I accomplished something noteworthy in some form of career. I wanted to establish myself somewhere before giving it up to stay home and be a mom.
But that will not be the case. I have bounced along doing all sorts of interesting things in my life, and have nothing (a well-developed character and the first grains of what might be wisdom one day, perhaps) but an indigenous art collection, some of which has already succumbed to moth or rust. But my giving to humanity? My legacy? Naught!
And then I stand of the graves of those who have lived and died in anonymity except, perhaps, to their living descendants. Every little hamlet or village in New York has a graveyard and many of their headstones boast dates that West Coast graveyards could only dream of. I weave from one stone to another, from a child who died at the age of three or six (what of? Tuberculosis? Fever?) to a man of 32 (an accident at the local mill?), a woman of 25 (childbearing?). And then, the person who saw the turn of the century and died in his 60’s or 70’s. And I wonder…what has it mattered what this fellow accomplished or who he was in his time? He lived, he had family, he was likely a pillar in his community. He lived to a ripe old age in an age when most people ripened too early. Surely this gave him an edge in the contribution to the world category.
But none of it matters in the anonymity of the grave. For I, a century later, standing in front of his weathered gravestone, can only guess at the richness of his life. And I, one day in a grave myself, will be the same mystery to a woman standing over my dust, and it is merely hubris that makes me think that it should be otherwise. It could be otherwise, but not should be.
So I weave back and forth between feeling that I am meant for more and feeling the guilt of not achieving it, and grasping that really, it is all nothing and it is silly of me to think I am anything more than human, bound eventually for the earth.
December 10, 2008
Been a Little Distracted Lately
I am sorry for the lack of posting these days. Mama has been busy. When the weather turned cold and rainy (yes, dadgummit, the house is 60 degrees when I wake up in the morning!), I decided it was time to transform our family room, the only room in the house with a fireplace, from a tools, ladders, and paint storage facility into something warm and cozy. As this room adjoins the kitchen, it just made sense. Little P could play in there while I did laundry, cooked dinner, or unloaded the dishwasher. I could even put in a little table desk in order to work from my laptop or listen to Pandora. No stairs. No wine bottles. No bathrooms. And the whole room could be babyproofed - no open outlets or cords.
And, the fireplace. Did I mention how much I love having a working fireplace?
But guess who had to do all the work? Mama. Because Papa is so dedicatedly going in to work elsewhere on behalf of our humble family. (And I am grateful...for that's what allows me to stay home with my baby and work on the house.) I took down the ugly plastic vertical blinds and installed those wood roll-down shades. I painted the french door and the trim. I took out the eyeball light and installed a more attractive trim on the downlights. I replaced all the outlet and switchplates as well as the really tired lampshade on the dorky wall sconce.
Then I moved most of the furniture from the living room into the family room. (We do not have the budget at present to actually buy a complete set of furniture for both rooms...though I did find a really cool trunk-coffee table on Craigslist for $30. Score.)
As if that wasn't enough...I decided to take on some writing assignments. Ah, ha, ha, ha. And Papa had to work a week of 12-hour days (a temporary, seasonal condition...now past), leaving me to total baby duty in the evenings when I prefer to let Little P have Papa time.
Ah well. The Pod has been abuzz...humming like a hive..busy, busy bees we are.
That is a dumb thing to say.
So you're looking for updates on Little P, not me. I understand. He's a lot cuter, and he's busy growing vertically, while I am growing horizontally (to my chagrin) which is not as much fun to write or hear about. Let's get on to the point of this post.
Benjamin is on the move. He's really smart. You have to be careful what you let him see you do, because if he sees it once, and he's motivated, he'll figure it out. Case in point. He loves the dog kennel. While Papa thinks it's hilarious to put Little P in the kennel, I don't feel like monitoring it. So when I get ready in the mornings and Benjamin is playing around in my room and our extraordinarily large master bathroom, I close and latch the kennel. I've been careful to position my legs between Benjamin's eyeballs and the kennel so he could not see how the latch operates.
That worked, for a while. But yesterday he managed to open the kennel on his own. He crawled in with a maniacal sounding "Ha!" (the sound of excitement when he accomplishes or discovers something). Stinker.
He also likes to get into trashcans, piles of cords (can't there be a more efficient way to hook up all one's office paraphernalia?!), outlets, toilet bowls, bathtub faucets, wine bottle storage units, fireplace screens, cookbooks, dresser drawers, closets, and the shower. He likes to chase the dog (still on hands and knees), and if you leave the back door open, he'll bolt straight for the great outdoors.
Fortunately he is not a naughty child. He does have the typical baby impulsiveness, but we are working on "uh-uh" and "leave it" and "let go" and "one finger touch." He's clearly coming along in the following directions department. At the very least, he stops in his tracks, sits down, and turns to look at the speaker. Now whether or not he resumes his business is another story. My unscientific guess is that he obeys on the first or second admonition probably half the time. If he doesn't obey, I just pick him up and move him far, far away from the temptation. Occasionally he protests...but mostly he finds something interesting about his new environment.
Benjamin is developing a real sense of humor. He is very observant and will frequently watch until something tickles (metaphorically-speaking) him. He lets out a funny, squeaky laugh that just melts Mama's heart. Auntie Bek said yesterday that he seems like he's got a very mischievous spirit about him. I have to say I'm to blame for some of that. We play a lot. I sneak up on him and let him anticipate tickles (literally-speaking) which is always more fun than actually tickling him. He gets so amped up with the anticipation!
For entertainment, Benjamin is into his blocks, peek-a-boo, scooting his toy table around the house so that he can walk, and making faces at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in our family room. Oh, yes. He can occupy himself for up to an hour. Any such session inevitably ends in him making a dart toward the stairs, the seven stairs which he has pretty much mastered in ascent. Descent will take a while because he does not like to turn around and hang his toes off where he can't see them.
He is still a pretty good eater, though he usually does not like something I'm feeding him until he can put it into his mouth himself. Asserting his independence, he is. He eats, in roughly cut chunks, stuff like cantaloupe, bananas, grapes, dried apricots, prunes, raisins, bread with cream cheese or avocado on it, leftover Thanksgiving turkey, cucumber, red bell pepper. He's not too keen on cheese - and I have tried several mild forms of it. I would love to turn his eating over to him completely, but I can never tell how much of the food is actually making it down the esophagus until I move the tray and examine the pocket on his bib. If I am to be sure he ate enough to ward off the crankies, I usually have to feed him something myself - applesauce or yogurt or pumpkin or something just to be sure he consumed a minimal amount of food.
Benjamin is trying his darndest to walk. He proficiently pulls himself up, cruises the furniture, and walks holding onto our fingers. Now he is working on the balancing part. Grandpa likes to help him get steady and then to take his fingers away to see how long he can stand. It ain't long, but there is the passage of a few seconds before he lands on his tush. We're thinking he'll take his first unassisted step around Christmas.
Travelling is pretty easy with Benjamin (not plane travel, mind you). He likes the car seat (or at least likes that it leads to adventure). He's happy cruising around in a stroller or a grocery cart. When we're in public he is a charmer. Older women always think he's flirting with them. I dunno. Is it the smile? The eyes?
He is starting to sign and to wave. Unfortunately, the sign he makes for "milk" and for a wave is the same. I generally tell the difference by the amount of whining that accompanies the sign - no whining = wave, whining = sign for milk. He appears to understand "food" and "water" and "all done." I need to get cracking on more signs in case he actually is going to use them to communicate. The whining is getting on my nerves - it seems to have really, really, REALLY picked up the past few weeks and this needs to be curbed before Mama pulls out all her hair in order to stuff it into her ears. Seriously.
The funny thing about the whining is that he usually does it just for me. Sigh. I'll be at home in the late afternoon, his crankiest time of day (and, yes, he still gets two naps a day so don't tell me he needs a nap) he'll be crawling all over the house whimpering "ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma" in the most pathetic, and loud, tone. Or sometimes it's just a long, drawn out "waaaaaaaaaaa, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa." And then, my mom decides to stop by on her way home from work.
Well, let me tell you, he is pleased as peaches to see Grandma. And Grandma looks at me like I'm such a wuss, and I'm so dramatic, and she says things like, "Maybe I should take him. He doesn't whine for me." And then she smiles a mushy smile at Little P and feeds him pear juice. Because Mama doesn't give him juice yet.
Now I love my own Mama and exaggerated just a little bit in that last paragraph. But just a little.
The thing is, he really does prefer other people over me. I'm boring, day in and day out, which apparently causes this whiny whimper that so makes the back of my neck creep up to the part on my scalp. He does prefer other people, until he doesn't, and then nothing but a dose of Mama-love will do the trick. It's just a matter of his whim, and at ten and three-quarters months of age, that whim is fickle indeed!
His vocabulary at this time is still "mama" and "dada". We say, "Say Papa." And he replies, "Dada." Every time. The p-b sound is a hard one right now. But he is aware of the beginning consonants that he hears. So, "dog" or "Buckley" is also "dada" (the d stand for p-b sounds as well). Milk gets "mamama." He knows exactly what he's talking about. I can ask him (when I get him up in the morning), "Where's Papa?" And he'll go crawling down the hallway to look for Brent in the bedroom, muttering "Dada" all the way.
He's also playing with vocal expression. He will mimic high and squeaky, long and drawn out, low and growly, sing-songy. We play little games where we repeat the same thing, dada, in a bunch of different tones and styles. He says them right back at us. It's hilarious. But maybe that's just because I'm a mom.
Benjamin loves Grandma and Grandpa. My dad makes a clicking sound (like what you would do to a horse) and Benjamin knows that's Grandpa when he hears it. You can also see the wheels spinning in his head as he tries to figure out how to make that sound. He's spent enough time over there recently that he knows and has bonded with them. It's really cute.
Stranger fear - Benjamin doesn't have it. He doesn't throw himself at people, he just responds. I think that's pretty healthy...but he may yet go through that phase (don't kids do that more like between 18 and 24 months? I don't know.) He genuinely enjoys people and attention, but he's equally as content observing his surroundings. In public, so long as he's not hungry, he's a truly pleasant kid.
I'm sure there are other things I could say, but my head is ready for bed. Let's do this...if you have any questions about him, add them to the comments section of this post. I'll follow up this week!
And, the fireplace. Did I mention how much I love having a working fireplace?
But guess who had to do all the work? Mama. Because Papa is so dedicatedly going in to work elsewhere on behalf of our humble family. (And I am grateful...for that's what allows me to stay home with my baby and work on the house.) I took down the ugly plastic vertical blinds and installed those wood roll-down shades. I painted the french door and the trim. I took out the eyeball light and installed a more attractive trim on the downlights. I replaced all the outlet and switchplates as well as the really tired lampshade on the dorky wall sconce.
Then I moved most of the furniture from the living room into the family room. (We do not have the budget at present to actually buy a complete set of furniture for both rooms...though I did find a really cool trunk-coffee table on Craigslist for $30. Score.)
As if that wasn't enough...I decided to take on some writing assignments. Ah, ha, ha, ha. And Papa had to work a week of 12-hour days (a temporary, seasonal condition...now past), leaving me to total baby duty in the evenings when I prefer to let Little P have Papa time.
Ah well. The Pod has been abuzz...humming like a hive..busy, busy bees we are.
That is a dumb thing to say.
So you're looking for updates on Little P, not me. I understand. He's a lot cuter, and he's busy growing vertically, while I am growing horizontally (to my chagrin) which is not as much fun to write or hear about. Let's get on to the point of this post.
Benjamin is on the move. He's really smart. You have to be careful what you let him see you do, because if he sees it once, and he's motivated, he'll figure it out. Case in point. He loves the dog kennel. While Papa thinks it's hilarious to put Little P in the kennel, I don't feel like monitoring it. So when I get ready in the mornings and Benjamin is playing around in my room and our extraordinarily large master bathroom, I close and latch the kennel. I've been careful to position my legs between Benjamin's eyeballs and the kennel so he could not see how the latch operates.
That worked, for a while. But yesterday he managed to open the kennel on his own. He crawled in with a maniacal sounding "Ha!" (the sound of excitement when he accomplishes or discovers something). Stinker.
He also likes to get into trashcans, piles of cords (can't there be a more efficient way to hook up all one's office paraphernalia?!), outlets, toilet bowls, bathtub faucets, wine bottle storage units, fireplace screens, cookbooks, dresser drawers, closets, and the shower. He likes to chase the dog (still on hands and knees), and if you leave the back door open, he'll bolt straight for the great outdoors.
Fortunately he is not a naughty child. He does have the typical baby impulsiveness, but we are working on "uh-uh" and "leave it" and "let go" and "one finger touch." He's clearly coming along in the following directions department. At the very least, he stops in his tracks, sits down, and turns to look at the speaker. Now whether or not he resumes his business is another story. My unscientific guess is that he obeys on the first or second admonition probably half the time. If he doesn't obey, I just pick him up and move him far, far away from the temptation. Occasionally he protests...but mostly he finds something interesting about his new environment.
Benjamin is developing a real sense of humor. He is very observant and will frequently watch until something tickles (metaphorically-speaking) him. He lets out a funny, squeaky laugh that just melts Mama's heart. Auntie Bek said yesterday that he seems like he's got a very mischievous spirit about him. I have to say I'm to blame for some of that. We play a lot. I sneak up on him and let him anticipate tickles (literally-speaking) which is always more fun than actually tickling him. He gets so amped up with the anticipation!
For entertainment, Benjamin is into his blocks, peek-a-boo, scooting his toy table around the house so that he can walk, and making faces at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in our family room. Oh, yes. He can occupy himself for up to an hour. Any such session inevitably ends in him making a dart toward the stairs, the seven stairs which he has pretty much mastered in ascent. Descent will take a while because he does not like to turn around and hang his toes off where he can't see them.
He is still a pretty good eater, though he usually does not like something I'm feeding him until he can put it into his mouth himself. Asserting his independence, he is. He eats, in roughly cut chunks, stuff like cantaloupe, bananas, grapes, dried apricots, prunes, raisins, bread with cream cheese or avocado on it, leftover Thanksgiving turkey, cucumber, red bell pepper. He's not too keen on cheese - and I have tried several mild forms of it. I would love to turn his eating over to him completely, but I can never tell how much of the food is actually making it down the esophagus until I move the tray and examine the pocket on his bib. If I am to be sure he ate enough to ward off the crankies, I usually have to feed him something myself - applesauce or yogurt or pumpkin or something just to be sure he consumed a minimal amount of food.
Benjamin is trying his darndest to walk. He proficiently pulls himself up, cruises the furniture, and walks holding onto our fingers. Now he is working on the balancing part. Grandpa likes to help him get steady and then to take his fingers away to see how long he can stand. It ain't long, but there is the passage of a few seconds before he lands on his tush. We're thinking he'll take his first unassisted step around Christmas.
Travelling is pretty easy with Benjamin (not plane travel, mind you). He likes the car seat (or at least likes that it leads to adventure). He's happy cruising around in a stroller or a grocery cart. When we're in public he is a charmer. Older women always think he's flirting with them. I dunno. Is it the smile? The eyes?
He is starting to sign and to wave. Unfortunately, the sign he makes for "milk" and for a wave is the same. I generally tell the difference by the amount of whining that accompanies the sign - no whining = wave, whining = sign for milk. He appears to understand "food" and "water" and "all done." I need to get cracking on more signs in case he actually is going to use them to communicate. The whining is getting on my nerves - it seems to have really, really, REALLY picked up the past few weeks and this needs to be curbed before Mama pulls out all her hair in order to stuff it into her ears. Seriously.
The funny thing about the whining is that he usually does it just for me. Sigh. I'll be at home in the late afternoon, his crankiest time of day (and, yes, he still gets two naps a day so don't tell me he needs a nap) he'll be crawling all over the house whimpering "ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma" in the most pathetic, and loud, tone. Or sometimes it's just a long, drawn out "waaaaaaaaaaa, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa." And then, my mom decides to stop by on her way home from work.
Well, let me tell you, he is pleased as peaches to see Grandma. And Grandma looks at me like I'm such a wuss, and I'm so dramatic, and she says things like, "Maybe I should take him. He doesn't whine for me." And then she smiles a mushy smile at Little P and feeds him pear juice. Because Mama doesn't give him juice yet.
Now I love my own Mama and exaggerated just a little bit in that last paragraph. But just a little.
The thing is, he really does prefer other people over me. I'm boring, day in and day out, which apparently causes this whiny whimper that so makes the back of my neck creep up to the part on my scalp. He does prefer other people, until he doesn't, and then nothing but a dose of Mama-love will do the trick. It's just a matter of his whim, and at ten and three-quarters months of age, that whim is fickle indeed!
His vocabulary at this time is still "mama" and "dada". We say, "Say Papa." And he replies, "Dada." Every time. The p-b sound is a hard one right now. But he is aware of the beginning consonants that he hears. So, "dog" or "Buckley" is also "dada" (the d stand for p-b sounds as well). Milk gets "mamama." He knows exactly what he's talking about. I can ask him (when I get him up in the morning), "Where's Papa?" And he'll go crawling down the hallway to look for Brent in the bedroom, muttering "Dada" all the way.
He's also playing with vocal expression. He will mimic high and squeaky, long and drawn out, low and growly, sing-songy. We play little games where we repeat the same thing, dada, in a bunch of different tones and styles. He says them right back at us. It's hilarious. But maybe that's just because I'm a mom.
Benjamin loves Grandma and Grandpa. My dad makes a clicking sound (like what you would do to a horse) and Benjamin knows that's Grandpa when he hears it. You can also see the wheels spinning in his head as he tries to figure out how to make that sound. He's spent enough time over there recently that he knows and has bonded with them. It's really cute.
Stranger fear - Benjamin doesn't have it. He doesn't throw himself at people, he just responds. I think that's pretty healthy...but he may yet go through that phase (don't kids do that more like between 18 and 24 months? I don't know.) He genuinely enjoys people and attention, but he's equally as content observing his surroundings. In public, so long as he's not hungry, he's a truly pleasant kid.
I'm sure there are other things I could say, but my head is ready for bed. Let's do this...if you have any questions about him, add them to the comments section of this post. I'll follow up this week!
December 8, 2008
All I want for Christmas...
It's been too long since you've all had a teeth update. Actually, I probably did an update last week. But GET THIS. Benjamin now has five really visible teeth, three on the bottom, two on top...AND he's breaking in three more as I write. This guy is going to have all eight front teeth by Christmas.
Unfortunately, he has not been cooperative about letting me get pictures of these alleged teeth, so you're just going to have to take my word for it. I've already sacrificed a finger in my attempts.
Unfortunately, he has not been cooperative about letting me get pictures of these alleged teeth, so you're just going to have to take my word for it. I've already sacrificed a finger in my attempts.
December 3, 2008
Laundry's Not Just for Mamas Anymore
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