Operation Fatten Up

For months, it was my dirty little secret. And revealing it now probably won't win me many friends. But in the interest of honesty and posterity and all that jazz, I have convinced myself that it is my obligation to share as much of my adventures with She-Blob as socially acceptable. Besides, my main purpose in avoiding the topic was to prevent my parents from needlessly worrying. Now that they've seen me in person, the cat is out of the proverbial bag, so here goes.

After having Otter, I lost my baby weight quite quickly. In fact, two months in, I was back to my original pre-birthing weight. It happened without me noticing, and I figured a helpfully good metabolism and breastfeeding (which burns something crazy like 500 extra calories) were to thank. "Go me," I thought, once again reclaiming my pre-baby wardrobe.

I ate what I wanted, in the quantities I wanted, but the weight loss continued. And by January, when I had dipped about 10 lbs. below my pre-pregnancy weight, my friend conducted an intervention. I was told in no uncertain terms that I better start gaining back flesh, or else. It was like reliving my high school days (when I had my obligatory bout of not eating), except for the part where I WAS eating, and still losing weight.

Thus began "Operation Fatten Up," Bree's valiant attempt to put some meet back on my boney ass. It required the consumption of burgers and shakes. The pounds stayed off. I realized there isn't a whole lot of information out there on excessive post-pregnancy weight loss. The Internet was overrun with methods on losing your baby weight, but none on gaining some of it back. Apparently the world thinks mine is a non-problem with a very simple solution: eat more.

Returning to work made me even more self concious. As I dipped into double figures (a neighborhood I hadn't lived in since, like, 9th grade), I found myself hiding in loose, shapeless clothes while co-workers eyed me with a mix of concern, certain suspicions, and absolutely no interest in hearing my "problem." Seriously, people who complain about being too thin are annoying. I know exactly what they were thinking, 'cause frankly, I instantly think it about underweight women too. Even when I don't know they'd just had a baby.

I began avoiding photos which would reveal too much body, stopped wearing anything with a v-cut neckline, and actually acquired a few clothing items that fit, which helped somewhat. Still, on the days I got careless, and wore something a bit too form or skin-revealing, I was bound to have the "Are you ok?"/"Yes, I AM eating," conversation at some point.

So here I am, 10 months later. Operation Fatten Up has been sporadic, but finally may be starting to have an effect. I've managed to put on about 5 lbs., and though I am still hovering about 6 lbs. below my starting weight, it seems that once I'm done nursing it should all come back on its own. In the meantime, maybe I can start a support group for the underfed...

Kiddie Party

It seems that we are now on the kid party circuit. In fact, I think we've had more kiddie party invites in the last 6 months than we've had adult gatherings in the past 2 years. And we're quickly learning that other holidays (like Father's or Valentine's Day) take a back seat when it comes to accommodating your child's birthday fantasies.

Otter, after a crazy 3-hour nap, was ready to party like it was 1999. Dressed to impress, she wowed me by displaying absolutely none of the stranger anxiety she has recently exhibited. Instead, she happily scooted around the floor, allowed herself to be picked up, snacked on some crackers and even checked out the Bouncy Castle - the de rigueur accessory to every kiddie party.

Which leads me to wonder (as we sneak ever closer to Otter's 1-year mark) what the expectations for a baby celebration are. Clearly, whether your child grasps the concept of their birthday or not, a party is mandatory. To not have one would be tantamount to admitting you don't really care that your baby survived its first 12 months in this world. Some may argue, it even implies that you regret your child's existence, what with the not celebrating and all. Not that I'm being judgey.

So then, who do you invite? If all of your friends have bred, the solution is simple. But for most of us, a kid-related event means that the social group is broken into 2 camps - the crazed, glassy-eyed parents (oh, just say it - mothers) chasing their sugar-amped toddlers around the yard, hoping they don't hang themselves on the bouncy castle's inflator hose, and the childless couples, standing around awkwardly and avoiding making eye contact with anyone involved on the "family fun" side of the yard.

Of course, let's not forget the presence of Entertainment and its close cousin, Theme. As we've seen, the Bouncy Castle is a gimme, but beyond that the field is wide open. In our travels, we've run the gamut from the way cool (that guy who brought lizards) to the vaguely unsettling (I know it's a cliche, but clowns are just creepy).

Drinks (the alcoholic kind) are mandatory - if not for the kids, then at least for their haggard parents and their uncomfortable childless friends. And of course there must be cake. How else are you going to get for adorable photo of your baby sticking his whole face into the biggest expanse of icing while all the other rug-rats gather so close that they risk catching on fire from the lone candle in the middle?

Finally, there is the question of what to wear - both as the baby-of-honor and the guest. I thought this was fairly straight forward (their crappy clothes that you won't care about when they ruin them with cake, grass, soda and whatever other sticky substance they manage to fall into) until this weekend; at our latest kiddie fete, an 8-month old baby was donned in designer white jeans, a hot pink Diesel shirt, rhinestone sandals, and a silver charm bracelet. WTF are you thinking, baby's parents???

Things That Will Too Soon Be Forgotten, Part 2

I wonder what we've forgotten already...

1. Otter's favorite place to sit is on top of the refrigerator.

2. For a while, when she laughed, she used to stick her tongue out.

3. Now when she laughs, she wrinkles her nose. My friend calls it the "I smell something bad face."

4. She has a hard time eating anything with texture. She just doesn't like it.

5. She can flip her tongue over, and does it often.

6. If she really doesn't like a food, she'll make herself gag. At least one time, to the point of throwing up. It's extremely, overly dramatic.

7. She's recently learned to shake her head no. It's her favorite new non-word.

8. If she's eating something good, she'll make a "Nyum, nyum" noise. I wonder if we can consider it her first word.

9. She loves strings and adores playing with her stuffed giraffe, Guiermo's string tail.

10. She loves paper - crumpling, folding or just holding. She destroys magazines, holds labels tightly.

11. She's begun sharing. This is usually done by shoving whatever she wants to split with me into my mouth, as forcefully as possible.

12. She adores, and is fascinated by the dog. She'll look for him, babble to him and try to feed him her crackers. When he licks her hands, she shrieks.

13. She loves the "Shaken Baby" game. Hold the baby in your arms, and shake lightly but quickly while calling out "shaken baby, shaken baby, shaken baby!" My FIL is alarmed. Having written this, just waiting for Child Services to show up at my door.

14. Otter loves to hang, swing, be thrown and turned upside down.

15. She loves high-pitched noises like "Wheeeee!"

16. We often have shrieking contests.

17. If you laugh to hard at something she did, she may take it personally and cry. We've all offended the Otter this way.

18. She hates getting any part of her face cleaned.

Ousted

Bree and I have been evicted. It all began innocently enough a few weeks back, while my mother was in town. Like all life changes that we don't want to accept, instead of seeing the writing on the wall and admitting what was actually happening, we first wrote it off as a fluke, a one-off.

As we came to bed, Otter, who had been sleeping blissfully, stirred (as she often does) and my heart began pounding hard enough for her (and all of our neighbors) to hear it. I struggled to calm myself, since I'm weirdly convinced that Otter can feel my adrenaliney panics that she will wake. It seemed to work.

But I was fooled - after lulling us into complacency by settling back down, Otter did the unthinkable. An hour later she woke, screaming bloody murder for no apparent reason. And now there was no settling her back down. We walked and comforted, we rocked, we sang. We pretended we didn't notice the hysterical sobbing.

It seems that the only acceptable position was hovering over her crib. After 20 minutes of me standing doubled over the bar, wondering if it was humanly possible to sleep like this, she settled into what I thought was sleep. I gingerly shifted my weight back. Not took a step. Not moved a foot. Just shifted my weight. It was all over - and the screaming redoubled at twice the volume.

Bree and I had a two options. Put her into bed with us - which we've tried, resulting in only Otter getting any sleep, as she somehow manages to use her 2' 4" frame to push me entirely out of bed, leaving me clinging for dear life. Or leave the room. Which is what we did. Guiltily, we skulked out, leaving Otter to scream her lungs out, and us to pretend it didn't bother us. 15 minutes later (after over an hour of our unsuccessful intervention) Otter was out. The only evidence of her ordeal was a general puffiness the next day. But hey, we were ALL puffy.

Thus the plan was hatched - when Otter bawls, we comfort first, flee soon thereafter. For a while, we camped out on the couch. Now, since the the guest room is vacant, we've moved there. Last night, Otter didn't even bother to seem upset after we left - within a minute, she was asleep.

It seems our little girl is telling us she wants a room of her own. Or rather, that she has her own room, and we better get the F out of it...

Father's Day

There's nothing like the love and devotion of a dad, and it's an important bond to nurture. So much so that Hallmark has decreed a holiday, to remind us of the gravity of the father-figure situation. No matter how dubious we find the whole observance to be, there's little we can do but step in line and pay homage.

(Which is not to imply that I undervalue the immense contribution, or make light of recognizing it, father of Otter, if you are actually reading my blog.) So with much ado, I set forth to commemorate Bree's first Dad's Day.

We brunched, we toasted, we opened gifts. In Otter's case, we ripped up wrapping paper and set off for a nap. We even got a call from my dad (who has long ago written off the whole FD sham as bunk) to congratulate Bree. "This is the most important Father's Day you'll ever have," said my dad sagely. 'Cause he knows.

"That's right," I jumped in. "I hope you're not expecting any of this crap next year..."

Parenting With Fear

Raising a baby is a scary, scary endeavor. There's the day-to-day business of not starving, maiming or depriving your child of sleep. Not to mention all that nurturing crap you're supposed to do. What, with all the reading you and your infant should be doing, the developmental toys to explore, and the socialization to keep up on, it's not surprising that many of us find parenting downright terrifying.

But there's a fine line between protecting your helpless charge from harm and bringing up a terrified hypochondriac who is afraid to venture 3 feet away from home for fear of tragic accident, plague, or an unexpected new ice cream flavor. And too many of us fall into the trap of parenting from a place of fear.

I recently heard a story of a mother who was so terrified that her child would have food allergies that she forbade her to eat anything even marginally allergenic until she was nearly five years old. Moreover, she would tell her girl along the way that she couldn't eat a given food because "she was allergic" to it. At age 5, she did a FULL allergy workup on her child, only to discover that her kid was completely fine.

Now granted, allergies (especially food ones) can be very, very serious. And I'm not suggesting you load up your infant on peanuts just to see what happens. But is it right not only to deprive your child of a whole variety of foods, but to simultaneously instill an unfounded fear and false understanding of what constitutes an allergy? Should your toddler be afraid to try strawberries, dairy, nuts, citrus, shellfish and wheat, believing she will potentially die if the offending food meets her lips?

On another occasion, while walking my very large dog (yes, the dangerous pit bull who is cleverly pretending to grow fat and lazy while secretly plotting to eat us in our sleep) I watched a mother pull her toddler to her at the mere sight of us 50 feet away. In that moment, she taught her child, who's jury was still clearly out regarding large dogs, that she SHOULD fear. It broke my heart.

I realize many would accuse me of being too cavalier regrading Otter. But here's the way I see it:

Food - Sure, some people have allergies, and if you're one of them, it bu-lows. So with that in mind, I am holding off on some things as our Pediatricians suggest. But I could not deny Otter the joy of her first cupcake crumbs because I didn't know every ingredient in the batter.

Dirt - exists to build up our immunity. If you have doubts of that, I urge you to look into the parents who manically sanitize every surface in their home only to send their kids to school and encounter and have them come back with crazy, mutant, super-strong strains of EVERY childhood disease because 1) the rug rats never built up their own immune system, and 2) the bacteria have had years to grow resistant to the myriad antibiotics mom was needlessly pumping into her child via anti-bacterial sprays, soaps and wipes.

Pets - should be respected. I don't let Otter stick her hands into Foz's face, play with his toys, or yank his fur. I don't leave them unattended or in situations where he can accidentally hurt her. But she's growing up with this fantastic, furry, giant creature that makes every other dog look like a guinea pig and she can't get enough of him. Nor he of her.

She's going to fall, get cut, sick, hurt, have stomach flues and colds. Perhaps she'll break something one day. But if I have anything to do with it, she'll learn that you can swing W-A-Y higher if you just stand up on the swing...

Otter Hates Sophie

After living down the guilt of losing Sophie I and assuaging my feelings of parental incompetence by going out to purchase an overpriced replacement giraffe (Sophie II), I've come to an unsettling thought. Faced with undeniable evidence I can draw no other conclusion that Sophie I's loss was no accident.   

I tried to turn a blind eye to the fact that every time the rubber giraffe was left within SB's reach, she would invariable end up on the floor.  I wrote off the numerous times I've found her stuffed under the kiddie chair, behind tables or under the toy basket as mere coincidence. However I can no longer ignore what should have been obvious from the start:  Otter HATES Sophie.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that what I'd mistaken for SB's obsession with the giraffe was actually her trying desperately to get rid of her from the get-go.

It was during a walk at the park with Otter and my mother that the truth became apparent to me.  One moment, the baby was playing with Sophie with great interest.  And in the blink of an eye, the giraffe was gone - launched with force and stealth from the stroller.  I ran back and dutifully retrieved the toy, only to watch Otter repeatedly attempt to send her packing.

Since discovering this ugly truth, I've come to reevaluate all of Otter and Sophie's interactions. And there is little doubt that there is no love lost between the girl and the long-suffering giraffe.  But if Otter thinks she's going to get rid of Sophie II this easily, she's got another thing coming.  After what we went through to procure her, I'll be damned if Sophie II gets 86ed.  In fact, I plan to check Otter's luggage as she goes off to college, just to make sure the giraffe is still there.