Thanks a Latte, mom...

I suppose it was cruel. But my regular travel mug is way too big and clunky for easy playground use. And Otter does have 2 distinctly colored, perfect size thermos sippy cups. And I did warn her.

Still, the look on her face as she grabbed for "my" cup and took her first big old swig of coffee was, as the commercial says, priceless.

Maturing Palate

This morning when I asked SB what she wants for breakfast, she told me quesadilla.

And coffee.

The Stages of Weekend Feeding

Everyone has a multi-step program - AA, Weight Watchers, those grieving. And now I, too, have joined in, as each weekend I go through the stages of feeding Otter.

Stage 1 - Certainty

Saturday breakfast, our first meal without our nanny to run interference begins peacefully enough. Breakfasts are relatively easy, as they are chock full of carby baked items which go down the hatch with speed and ease. I am full of hope and positive energy.

Stage 2 - Creeping Doubt

Saturday lunch begins with cautious optimism, which quickly disintegrates as reality sets in. On a good day the first offering will be accepted. More often than not, it'll take three different tries before I give in and give Otter a slice of toast.

Stage 3 - Righteous Rage

Saturday dinner is usually our worst meal. I am at the midpoint of my weekend of culinary hell - 3 meals away from any hope of reprieve. As course after course is rejected I become angry. I make speeches about how Otter is testing us, and how we should stay strong. Occasionally I declare that we're NOT operating a restaurant and that if she doesn't want to eat what we have on offer, then she can eat nothing. Eventually I offer her a dinner roll and call it a night.

Stage 4 - Cautious Optimism

Sunday breakfast, and we're back on Easy Street. What's that Otter? You want toast again? The PERFECT breakfast food, if I do say so myself.

Stage 5 - Ambivalence

Sunday lunch, I start reminding myself that this, too, shall pass. At this point I can usually sneak in some chicken along with the bread, and convince myself that this qualifies as a well - balanced meal.

Stage 6 - Apathy

Sunday dinner, I am SO done with this. Let's be honest here. Otter eats healthy, well-rounded meals with our nanny 5 days a week. Starting tomorrow, she'll be on her way up and down the food pyramid. So I do not pass go, I do not collect $100. I hand her a piece of bread and chase it with a granola bar. The weekend is over.

Giving Thanks at 15 Months

Otter is 15 months today, an event we're celebrating as family joins us for an over-ambitious meal. So much has happened in the past 15 months.

We are thankful for our family, whom we love and who are close to us, some in person, others in spirit.

We are grateful for our friends, who comfort us when the aforementioned family drives us nuts.

We are thankful for every day that Otter sleeps until 7.

We are thankful for our nanny, who has magic.

We give thanks to our home, while asking humbly that the roof not leak to badly this winter.

We are overjoyed at our health.

We are grateful for all that we have seen, all the places we've been, and for the vivid memories of those things, which will hopefully sustain us for the next 16 1/2 years, until Otter goes off to college.

I, personally, am thankful for good food and good booze. Mostly good booze.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Otter Takes Her Game Up a Notch

For a while now, feeding the Otter has been a challenge, to put it mildly. The list of foods that are deemed unacceptable changes rapidly, and with little warning. One day, zucchini is the belle of the ball. The next, it's the redheaded bastard stepchild of the weird cousins.

To our credit, we've learned to navigate the murky waters with some finesse (which usually translates into us folding like a deck of cards at her dietary whims, but that's besides the point). We plead and trick, but manage to shove a portion of what we originally intended her to eat into her mouth - at least half the time.

This weekend, sensing that we were gaining the upper hand, Otter decided to up the ante. Clearly shaking her head violently, crying and trying to hit the offending food out of our hands wasn't delivering her message sufficiently. So, as I attempted to feed her the same spoonful of yellow squash (a favorite of prior meals) for the 8th time, SB changed the delivery of her complaints. No sooner did squash meet tongue, Otter began to choke (old trick). Then gag (seen it before). Followed by promptly barfing up the contents of her stomach. This. Was. New. And highly effective, I might add.

It instantly changed the dynamic of our meal, for as much as one can "nyum nyum," "look at horsey eat yogurt," and "look Otter, bread (while shoving in chicken)" through a meal, a puke covered child cannot simply be ignored or cajoled into taking another bite. But I was not to be defeated that easily. What I needed is to divert and distract while planning my next offensive. So after changing and cleaning her up, I ended the meal, lulling her into complacency.

I bided my time, waiting until Sunday night dinner to strike again. Originally, when discussing our dinner plan (something Bree and I do regularly, like a coach planning the football game) we'd decided on fish and (when that undoubtedly failed) going straight to pumpkin pie. But I just couldn't resist. After fish was promptly rejected, I needed to try one more thing before succumbing to dessert-for-dinner. I chose baba ganoush - Middle-eastern eggplant salad for the uncultured among you.

The spoon went in. A full meal came back out. Dinner was over.

In retrospect, this was not the best plan ever, a fact that I got to mull over as I changed a barfy child for the 3rd time that day. Another thing I got to think about? It's on. Otter's thrown down the gauntlet. And this is a brand new world, with all new rules of engagement. May the best woman win.

Choked Up

Otter's a choker. Even before she started eating solid food, she'd find ways to take in too much, too fast and pay the price of coughing, tearing up, and, on the odd occasion turning slightly blue before hurling.

While the first few episodes were incredibly frightening, I've got to admit that with repeated practice, Bree and I have become rather blase about the event. Lest you think we're heartless monsters, I'd argue that keeping a calm, matter-of-fact demeanor has actually helped us deal with the episodes. We don't panic, but simply deal with the obstruction, reassure SB, and go on with our day.

Two mornings ago, Otter decided to up the ante. While feeding her breakfast, I turned my back for a moment to wash Foster's bowls. My attention was drawn back by wheezing and panting, which I soon discovered was my child suffocating on a piece of cereal. The usual routine of tipping forward and rubbing the back resulted in some Exorcist-style vomiting, and, after being reassured and changed, Otter was good as new.

My friend once told me that Cheerios did a test and proved it was impossible to choke on their cereal. I shudder to think what they did to determine this, and all I have to say to the makers of the cereal is this:

Either my friend was mistaken, or I've got a helluva lawsuit on my hands. If I was the litigious type...

Food For Thought

All in all, I consider myself a pretty laid back mother, perhaps too much so. I don't mind reinserting the pacifier after it's hit the floor, or if my kid eats Cheerios from under the table. I can live with the knowledge that she's going to fall, sometimes hard and it doesn't stop me from letting Otter crawl into other rooms, only following behind after some time has passed.

But I admit it - I have stress triggers regarding SB. I suspect that all parents have them, and that they vary for each of us, depending on both external circumstances and personality. So whether it's my inner Jewish Mother rearing her head, or the fact that Otter's in the 5% for weight, but feeding her, and more specifically, making sure she's getting enough food, has been the bane of my existence for the past 12 months.

It was hard enough when Otter was on a liquid diet. Figuring out how much milk she was actually taking in (and, in her pukey case, keeping down) was wild guess-work on the best of days. Once we added in solid food, I thought it would get easier, as I could now somewhat control the variety and amounts of food that she consumed. And it was, initially.

But as Otter has grown, her once adventurous eating spirit has been curbed. And now we are once again negotiating through the 5 acceptable foods in all their limited combinations. On the GOOD list are:

bananas, yogurt, cereal, Cheerios, rice, apple and pear sauce, lentils, tofu (mostly), bread, pancakes, scones, muffins, peas, corn, and, inexplicably, almost anything with Indian style spicing (curry, cumin)

On the BAD list is:

Pretty much anything else. But especially meats, cheeses, eggs, other veggies, other fruits.

What complicates matters is that on top of the lack of variety, should an offending food be introduced, Otter may go on strike, refusing ALL food.

For a while, I thought this feeding dynamic was my fight to fight. It seemed that when it came to others, Otter was far more accommodating in what she considered an acceptable lunch, accepting potatoes from my mother, allowing Bree to feed her things she had squarely rejected when I fed her, and eating virtually anything given to her by Susana. But this past weekend proved that I am not alone in my struggle. Saturday afternoon, I got the following text from Bree:

"We're freaking done! Now after three spoons she won't eat PEAR sauce. Whatever kid..."

Shiner Whiner Chunker Chicken

Shiner

Yesterday, during one of her exploratory treks around the living room, Otter's right cheekbone had an up close and personal meeting with the base of her swing. Before you start calling the authorities, let me point out that I actually tried to stop the swinging. And had I not succeeded, at least partially so, the damage would have been much worse. But alas and alack, be it the advancing age or the heavy drinking, but my reflexes are not what they used to be.

I console myself by asserting that a certain number of falls and bruises are inevitable. Nay, necessary. How else will she learn about gravity and all those other funky laws of physics? Sure, my kid has a black eye - but you should see the other guy.

Whiner

We've begun a new phase in Otter's emotional life. The lady not only knows what she wants, but also how quickly she wants it. Which is usually like, immediately. And should you not jump at her command, you are met with a with a wailing protest of the most serious kind. You object to her opinion that yanking the curtain around violently is not entertaining enough and she wants to hit the window as hard as she can? WHAAAAA! She threw her koala toy from her chair and you didn't leap over the dining room table to pick it up (so she can toss it again)? WHAAAAAA! You think she shouldn't be using the dog as a step stool as she attempts to mountaineer over the headboard? WHAAA! WHAAA! WHAAAAAA!

Let the games begin.

Chunker

At a recent dinner party we attended with Otter, everyone kept commenting on what a good eater she is. And we're happy to say, it's definitely true. For our part, we try to keep Otter's dining options interesting - forgoing homogeneous, off-beige canned baby food in lieu of beets, quinoa and sauteed squash, farmers market nectarines and goat yogurt. For her part, Otter has obliged us by eating quite a variety of food, and finally embracing texture. We don't find out for a while, but we're thinking the days of desperately trying to make weight are over.

Chicken

One of her numerous nicknames. It's amazing she knows her name at all...

I Poopied!!!

Yesterday, Otter took her first step down a road that can one day lead to wet t-shirt contests or, worse, MTV Spring Break exposes. That's right - she went to her first pool party. Donning her Elmo Splash Pants, pink swimsuit (the last one in her size on sale at Target) and enough sunblock to withstand a trip to the surface of the sun, she made her grand entrance.

For my part, I initially considered the modest Mom Suit - you know, the one that covers more flesh that it exposes. The Mom Suit has many pros. For one, this would be the proper thing for a lady in my position to wear. For another, without string ties, one of Otter's favorite playthings, a Mom Suit would certainly save me from unplanned wardrobe malfunctions, courtesy of SB. But when have details like unplanned exposed boobs at my nephew's 9th birthday party stopped me? So, with nary a concern that my zombie white ass would blind all those around me, I pulled out a bikini. Since Operation Fatten Up has yet to live up to it's full potential, I might as well take advantage.

Sucking in for all it's worth, I bravely entered a pool chock full of splashing, screaming pre-teen boys. Not quite what my pool parties used to be, to be certain. Otter looked skeptical. We stepped further in and she quickly decided that this had about as much to do with her bath, which she loves, as an ocean resembles a puddle. The face soured, the mouth turned down, and the baby began emitting whining noises. Still, since she wasn't crying outright, I persevered a bit longer. But, when it became apparent that SB preferred the feel of dry land under her feet, we decided to hit the food instead and tried pizza (approved), cupcakes (very approved) and ice cream (not so much).

And we left not a moment too soon. As Otter and I were stuffing our faces at the table, a wail went up from the pool. "I poopied! I poopied!" screamed one of the little party guests. And indeed, she had. Bree and I plastered overzealous smiles on our faces - the kind designed to not let the other party-goers know just how traumatized you are in that moment. Perhaps Miss Pool Poopie would have benefited from some Elmo Splash Pants herself...

No Puffy Poopy Otter

Our usual battle with Otter's digestive tract has taken an unexpected turn. Perhaps our efforts to fiberize the baby were a little too thorough, or maybe the mythic lore about teething side effects is true, but the long and the short of it is that anything that goes into SB very quickly emerges out the other end.

Having spent months devising countermeasures for a different problem, I am completely at a loss as to how to tackle this present dilemma. The Internet and guide books (yes, all those things I scoffed at) provide little by way of uniform guidance. While some extol the virtues of the B.R.A.T. diet (bananas, rice, apples and toast), others maintain that piling on the fat and fiber is most effective. This latter approach seems completely counter-intuitive, so I am choosing to ignore the advice, scientific studies be damned.

What I've ultimately arrived at is the modified B.R.A.Y. menu - replacing toast with goat yogurt. All those Activia commercials advertising yogurts digestive benefits can't be wrong. So fingers crossed, noses plugged, I'm forging ahead. At least this completely texture-less diet is bound to live up to Otter's sophisticated palate.

On the Downhill

This morning we unexpectedly found ourselves at our pediatrician's. Though Otter's 9 month appointment was scheduled for the following Friday, she decided that she had better things to do that day. So after being suspiciously itchy, we landed at the doctor's office.

Of course, Dr. L found nothing wrong with her. If you read a note of disappointment, it's only because I knew she was fine, but, being a good parent called the nurse at the office and was told to come in anyway. Now I couldn't not go in, lest I be labeled "irresponsible," authorities be called and Otter be raised in foster care. (As a side note, I am becoming increasingly confused by the function of an on-call nurse, if all the advice ends with "You should bring her in." Though, to play my own devil's advocate, they were quite helpful during the poopy embargo.)

On the upside, after confirming Otter was in perfect health and telling me to soak her in a bath, Dr. L did kindly agree to do her 9 month exam at the same time, saving me a trip next Friday. So after a late start, I finally headed off to the office.

It's hard to believe, but come 6 pm today (or 4:15 pm, let's be honest) I am once again a lady of leisure. While I'm making the necessary noises about looking for work, the truth is I'm looking forward to a little time to hang out with Otter.

More importantly, I've made it over the hump - not only am I 3/4 of the way through the American Academy of Pediatrics' recommended year of breast-feeding, I have survived the struggle of exclusively nursing while at work. Since I've oft-detailed the trials and tribulations of that arrangement, I won't bore you with the petty details. Suffice it to say, after endlessly stressing over whether I'd produce enough, pump enough, survive long enough, etc., I return to the leisure life with 13 packets of backup milk still hanging out in the freezer.

Not to toot my own horn (since I'm not done just yet, and it's obnoxious...) but, go me.

No Accounting for Taste

We all know the saying about assuming, and most of us have had it proven true too many times not to know better. But despite our best intentions, we invariably find ourselves going back to our old ways. Or at least I do, anyway.

Motherhood has proven to be an open forum in which to test and fail swimmingly at my various assumptions. Let us recap:

I had always assumed (for reasons that are unclear even to me) that I would have a hard time getting pregnant. Fortunately I had backed up this claim with years of fervent contraception. Once I stopped, I found out I was woefully mistaken.

I was sure that once knocked up, I would quickly resemble the broad side of a barn. Thankfully, here too I was wrong - at 8 1/2 months I looked like I was hiding a basketball under my clothes.

The baby weight came off, and quickly. Strike three. But I'm definitely not complaining.

As to Otter herself, it's been an endless stream of being proven wrong. How much she eats, how she sleeps, predictions about her teething, sitting up, rolling over or just generally breathing have often been incorrect. And now, with her foray into solid foods, the margin of error has increased a million-fold.

Take, for example, the seemingly arbitrary acceptance or rejection of food. That any new food is greeted with suspicion was actually the only thing that did not surprised me. That she likes prunes, did. Now comes the quiz part of the program...

Listed below are some foods that have been offered to the girl. Pick out the 2 that have been categorically rejected:

Apples
Broccoflower (the mad, bastard lovechild of broccoli and cauliflower)
Green Beans
Pears
Cantaloupe
Spinach
Peas

But wait, you say. I see at least 4 that I'd never eat...

Here's a hint - I recently tasted one of the offerings that was wholeheartedly embraced. It tasted like my lawn had been mixed with sand and put through a blender. Yummy.



(answer: broccoflower and cantaloupe)

Happy 7 Months, Otter!

In spite of me trying to kill you with peas, you've made it - only 5 months to go 'til you get cake!

On a side note, parsnips blow hard. Apples, on the other hand, are amazing...

Near Death Experience

Every family has anecdotes about nearly killing their baby. At least that's what I choose to believe, lest I feel like my family was more flippant than average in their approach to my care.

For me, it was the time my mother let me fall off the dining table. Or when my father fell asleep with me on the couch and I crawled off the edge, earning a concussion.

Well, today the baton of near-death has been passed from the older generation to me. In an effort not to follow too closely in my parents' footsteps, I decided to forgo furniture mishaps and focused instead on peas.

Otter had just settled down to lunch when I made my move. Since she had a month and a half of solids, we've been slowly moving towards more texture in her food. So after cooking and mashing the peas, I skipped the step of running them through a strainer. I wouldn't want SB thinking I was treating her like a baby.

The first few spoonfuls went down the hatch without a hitch. And I was just starting to feel quite self-satisfied when Otter choked. I don't mean the kind of gagging that leads to some polite coughing and a few dabs of the napkin. I'm talking no air going in or out, turning bright red, eyes popping out of her head kind of chocking.

We didn't panic. We instantly leaned her forward, and firmly tapped her on the back. And nothing happened. Otter stayed red and un-breathey. My Cool Hand Luke demeanor went out the window as I tried to extricate her from her chair while simultaneously ransacking my brain for any useful information on the Heimlich maneuver. The only readily available facts were these: I had half-assed learned the Heimlich in 9th grade health class. No one pays attention in health class. We never actually tried the Heimlich on anyone, rendering my barely there knowledge hypothetical. Oh and, assuming we were not parents at age 14 (incorrectly for some of us, I think), the school failed to instruct us in performing the technique on a baby. In a word, Otter was screwed.

But before I had a chance to publicly and tragically prove my lack of baby first aid (followed by my nonexistent of knowledge of Baby CPR) SB did me the favor of vomiting voluminously and thus dislodging the pea obstruction.

Lucky for us both, I suppose.

Food Update

Sweet Potatoes - even better than carrots!

Broccoflower - the crazed love child of broccoli and cauliflower was met with an utter lack of enthusiasm. Otter did make up for it by barfing up the few spoons she manage to swallow with some gusto.

Parsnips - today's culinary adventure. The verdict is still out.

photo by Gaetan Lee

Breastfeeding is Kicking My Ass

Do a search on the Internet, and you will surely find posting after posting exalting the virtues of breastfeeding. Aside from the obvious benefit of not having your baby starve, the pluses of becoming a food group for your child are many: they get your antibodies and (as personal, anecdotal evidence suggests) can survive the bubonic plague that knocks mom on her ass; using human milk to feed a human makes more sense than using altered, powdered, reconstituted cow milk to feed a human; it's free; and as the life is (quite literally) sucked out of you, those baby pounds just melt away.

Yet by 6 months, less than half of all babies are still being nursed. And the reason why is apparent to me - no one tells you about the fine print...

As I've already addressed the indignities of pumping, I won't rehash that here. But here are some new tidbits that I hadn't been aware of when I signed on the dotted line...

1) Since returning to work I've been on breastfeeding twice daily, and pumping 3 times. That means that 5 times a day, I have to stick my boob into either mouth or machinery. During the day, when I just want to finish my work, I have to stop down, find a quiet space (with an electrical outlet) and stick my boob into machinery. At 11 pm, when all I want to do is sleep, I have to stick my boob into machinery.

2) I can't speak for other babies, but Otter is a very goal-oriented infant. She approaches nursing with a very pragmatic, get in - get out viewpoint. SB's not just going to hang out at the breast waiting for some meager droplets to come. Nor will she work too hard to get what she wants - immediate gratification, and then she's on to the next activity. Which leads to...

3) At least once a week, I am now suffering from blocked ducts. This is what occurs when milk isn't thoroughly removed from the breast and the ducts get, well, blocked. What then happens in the real world is the formation of a rock-hard, excruciatingly painful lump (or lumps) that varies in size from pebble to a rock about 3 finger widths across. Yeah, look at your hand. that's a LOT of lump. Of course, the likelihood of getting the pebble sized version is about 1 in a million.

There are numerous suggestions for the treatment of recurrent blocked ducts from cabbage leaves stuffed into your bra to hot showers, massage and ultrasound waves. And I have tried nearly all, with a consistent lack of results. All I can do is hope that Otter does the job while nursing, at which point milk will again flow freely and abundantly and the cycle can start all over again.

It is during these weekly bouts of feeling like my boob is permanently squeezed into a vice that I question how long I'll actually breast feed. Nearly all the babies I know have not made it this far - I myself was a formula baby from 2 months, Bree from 4. Yet I've made it past the half-way point... And maybe I can last out 5 more months. Though right now, the pump whirring away as I write this, that sounds like a lot of months to go...

photo by blmurch

No Poopy Puffy Otter

According to all the conversations I've had, certain things are inevitable once you become a parent. For one, you begin giving cutesy names to things. This would have caused bouts of nausea in you a mere year ago, but now you're embracing it and pushing ahead, full throttle. Note the name of this post as evidence thereof. Second, is the inescapable topic of baby poop. Apparently, the day-to-day workings of Otter's intestines have become the yardstick against which all other events are measured. And so, with a feeling of impotence tinged with shame, I bow before the unavoidable...

Assaulted by a plethora of new food sensations, Otter's digestive system has gone on strike. While her intestines were willing to play ball with rice cereal, carrots and peas, the introduction of bananas was more than they could handle, so they closed up shop, picked up the signs and are walking the picket line for the 4th day now.

It should be noted that the situation was not helped by a certain someone who gave Otter a double portion of both cereal and carrots (neither of which is poopy-friendly) when he used the wrong size bowl over the weekend, while I was at work. Not that I'm placing blame or naming names. Be that as it may, Otter may as well be wearing a "Not A Through Street" sign by her mouth.

Operation Poopy Otter is now in effect. All food groups have been replaced by prunes, which SB is lukewarm about, at best. Cereal is not diluted with the water the prunes were stewed in. Prune juice will be added to the repertoire starting tomorrow. Leg circles and stomach massages have also been incorporated, with little immediate effect.

Through all of this, Otter's remained surprisingly good-natured. She smiles away, seemingly oblivious to her own plight. Perhaps the blithe mood can be attributed to another inevitability: sooner or later, Otter will explode. And then the joke will be on us.

Food Update

Here's what the Otter's had so far...

Rice Cereal - after spitting it back at us for two days, she's accepted it, though she still prefers it with flavor "mix-ins."

Carrots - rocked Otter's world. She tries to grab the spoon out of our hands which invariably results in her hurting her gums and crying.

Peas - sadly, not carrots.

Bananas - the mouth end of the Otter was thrilled. The business end suffered, which leads us to...

Prunes - intriguing. And extra messy, which garners bonus points.