I've often theorized that raising small children is akin to having a dog. More than theorized, actually, since we have one of each, and the similarities are uncanny (except that we've actually managed to housebreak the dog, and have been far less successful with the toddler). Before anyone gets all up in arms, allow me to draw the parallels:

A domesticated dog is generally pretty helpless, depending on you to feed, bathe, provide water, etc. This does not of course include the times your animal tears apart your kitchen and eats your gift baskets right before Christmas (not that I'm bitter). I get flashbacks of this nearly every morning as I watch SB rifle through our pantry, emptying its contents on the floor in an effort to find an upgrade on the breakfast I'm about to present to her.

My dog understands a lot of what I say, but chooses to ignore most of it. Ditto for Otter.

Foster does best with simple, one-word commands like "sit", "come", and "stop." So does SB.

Foz gets rewarded with dog cookies. SB gets rewarded with human cookies. Though I suspect she'd eat the dog ones too.

Each morning we play the cracker game. As you will see, both participants play very similar roles: I hand each of them a cracker, Foster devouring his immediately, while Otter runs around waving hers, waiting for Foz to chase her, protesting loudly when he does (or worse, steals her cracker) until she finally hands her cracker to him. At which point she promptly demands another cracker so that we can start all over again.

If you're still not convinced, allow me to describe a scene from this afternoon. We were all playing in the back yard, with Otter gleefully chasing her ball around while Bree and his dad played a game of PIG (HORSE's shorter cousin) using wadded up balls of paper and a wastepaper basket. Of course, Otter was obsessed with anything they were doing and kept moving the basket around (which I think messed with the rules). In order to distract her, we started taking the balls out of the basket, throwing them to her and watching as she chased after them and threw them back into the basket.

"You realize we're teaching the girl to fetch, right?" I asked Bree. "And I think with far greater success than when we tried this with the dog." He nodded and threw the balls again - a little further this time.

The Bonds That Tie

A relationship between a parent and child is a forever thing. Regardless of age or distance, the bonds that tie exist, both in their ability to connect and restrain.

For a parent, it is the hope that if we do it half right, our children will grow up to be good people, able to face life's challenges with grace and bravery; that they will find passion in their lives, will not repeat our mistakes, and that the mistakes they are bound to make won't scar them too permanently or deeply.

For the child, there is a tether stretching back through time and generations, connecting us those that came before us, stretching to its maximum capacity on occasion, but holding us back from ever revoking our past completely.

This bond can be a thing of beauty, or an instrument of oppression, and as we stumble along, sometimes blindly, all we can do is hope that we are making the right decisions, nurturing this chord which connects the past to the future.

Chris Martin sings,

Lights will guide you home,

And ignite your bones,

And I will try to fix you.

And these words make me cry every time I hear them, because they are beautiful and true, and they remind me that I am a mother, trying to raise my child in the best way I know how; and that I am also a daughter, and there is someone out there that has wished all that I wish for Otter, for me. And that this connection is forever.

Potty Mouth

Apparently, I was potty trained with ease and at an incredibly early age. By 18 months (as my mother's oft-fuzzy memory serves her) I was peeing and pooping into a potty with wild abandon, and, to hear her tell it, enjoying every minute of it. And, being parent to an only child, my mom has little else to compare this experience to, other than that of her friends, who's lazy, slacker children ran around in all states of incontinence well into their second and sometimes even (heaven forbid) third years.

Unwilling to play grandmother to such a slothy kid, my mother's single-minded mission in life has become to get her peeing in the potty ASAP. A mission which she plans to accomplish from 3ooo miles away by asking everyone who's ever borne a kid for advice on what I can be doing better to hurry this potty training thing the f up.

Each of our conversations now begins or ends with some tale from the streets of one child or another and their pooping habits, along with helpful pointers on what their guardians did to accomplish the Herculean task. "I asked _________ (fill in the name) what (s)he did, and they __________ (fill in helpful hint)."

"That's great mom. I've heard about _______." In fact, we've probably at least attempted some version thereof.

Here are the problems:

Otter is 18 months old, and apparently not the potty prodigy that I was. Her interest in the potty is limited to shoving her dolls into it, taking it apart, or inverting the basin over her face in an attempt to drink (?) from it.

She refuses to sit on it for more than 30 seconds at a time, and I see no way to rectify this short of tying her down to the toilet, which I'm told is illegal.

That helpful potty book we got? SB's mostly exclusively interested in the last page, where Elmo gets his big kid underwear (a current obsession). and much less so in how he got to that elevated state.

The desire to be dry and clean so vital for one to have a stake in going in a potty vs. the convenience of pooping right in your pants? Otter cares not...

So we're left with little to do but wait for nature to take its course and SB to come around to the idea of peeing like a big girl. I can live with this. My mom, having a bit more trouble.

"I really can't do this any more," I told her during our last potty stand-off. "I'm not worried. We have plenty of time."

"That's all relative," came the curt reply. "Some people are ok with their 5-year-olds running around in diapers."

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.

Pretty As a Picture

So what I'm supposed to be blogging about is Otter's successful 1st birthday party, filled with cake, pizza, friends and new toys (all of which doubtless make some kind of battery-fueled noise). But alas, due to an unexpectedly under-the-weather dog, we've had to postpone...

Instead, let me share my tale of professional baby photos. I know, you're probably saying "What? Isn't that just so mother-of-the-yeary?" And it's true - most photo sessions (my wedding included) send me into an anxiety-ridden tailspin. Granted, my exposure to professional photography has been limited to the school picture/Sears/Babies R Us set. And while I applaud their efforts, pictures of my offspring lying blissfully on pink fluffy pillows or looking mischievous wearing nothing but some angel wings and a bow in her hair are decidedly not for me.

But through friends we found (what we hope is) a really great photographer, Jamie. And since I'd decided to forgo both the requisite pregnancy and newborn photos, a 1-year portrait seemed to be in order.

We arrived at the Santa Monica beach promptly at 9am, Otter in her picture-day best, Bree and I in whatever we had time to throw on, and our beach-illegal dog in his best red collar. SB loved the sand, was mesmerised by the ocean. "This will be so easy!" I thought. Our worst problem was going to be keeping the lifeguards from throwing Foz off the un-pet-friendly beach. Otter took one look at Jamie and frowned.

As the session progressed, so did Otter's displeasure, and what began as uncertainty, quickly turned into loud wailing and a refusal to let go of me. For his part, Foster allowed us to position him with a look of grim resignation, and a silent regret that he had not been adopted by a different family. We struggled through photo after photo of Otter looking despondent, while Jamie valiantly tried to entertain and distract our pouty baby.

"Maybe there's a song she likes?" she suggested, helpfully.
The Poopy Otter Song didn't seem appropriate.

"What happens if you blow on her, or tickle her?"
A whole lot of nothing, apparently.

"Does she like the water?"
Why yes, she does. Until the wave comes in and freaks her out, as she didn't expect her entire bottom to get soaked.

"Does she know the Happy Birthday song?"
No.

"Any games that make her smile?"
Yes, yes there are: throwing her in the air, throwing her on the bed, pelting her with pillows (PILLOW AVALANCHE!!!!), chasing her around on all fours while fiercely growling, shoving Monkey in her face (MONKEY ATTACK!!! THEY GO FOR THE FACE!!!!!). All of which didn't seem right to mention, let alone do in public.

In the end, it was a combo of granola bar and being allowed to climb all over Foster (who lay down morosely as sand was liberally sprinkled on him) that brought Otter out of her tailspin. And we may even have gotten a few photos with a smile. But as we made our way home, all Bree and I could think about was, apparently families have songs and games that make their toddlers giggle. What's wrong with us, that all of our go-to stunts run the risk of getting us taken in for child endangerment?

Almost Birthday

Being in the NYC afforded Otter a chance to milk the birthday thing for all it's worth. Which I am a strong proponent of any day.

We gathered at my aunt/grandmother's and plied SB with gifts, toys and the world's biggest piece of chocolate cake. Which, Otter-fashion, she rejected. After a rousing rendition of off-key Happy Birthday, SB busied herself with crawling around and pulling things off the tables.

Of course at this stage she can do no wrong and the manic beating a banana took at her hands was met with oooh's and ahhh's of familial appreciation.

Going home, Otter passed out in the car, perhaps dreaming of what goodies her other birthday celebrations will bring.

Scrapbooking

From what I gather, there comes a time in every mother's life when she begins to scrapbook. This often begins with filling out a baby book and then spirals out of control, until entire rooms in the house are devoted to accommodating this hobby.

While I stand guilty as charged of keeping the obligatory baby album, I have only been dragged into full Monty scrap booking by family. In my defense, I say that this isn't even for me, but for a cousin who's expecting his own child.

After putting it off as long as I could, and getting the admonitory e-mail that I was slacking, I dragged myself to craft store heaven Michael's. The plan was simple - get the properly sized page, a few festive stickers and high-tail it out of there for some gluing fun.

How naive I was...

Michael's swallowed me up like the Bermuda Triangle, leaving me lost in a sea of paper patterns, stickers, appliques, ribbons and all sorts of other doo-dads I know not the name or function of. And the cost of it all! Who are these millionaires with no responsibilities who find the time and the unlimited funds seemingly necessary to pursue this unnatural hobby?

I looked at some of the (unbelievably expensive) scrap booking idea books for inspiration, and learned that to do this correctly, I must be prepared to build lots of layers on my page, print sappy one-liners in funky fonts on newsprint and, most importantly, buy lots and lots of the expensive crap that one glues to the pages to make them more "meaningful."

After what seemed like hours, I limped out with 2 sheets of paper and 3 packages of stickers, leaving my pride and nearly $15 inside the store. What followed at home was another 2 hours of laying out and printing photos, assembling all my design elements, a few Internet searches on how we are actually related to the baby-to-be (Is my husband's cousin's future kid my second cousin? My first cousin once removed? My cousin-in-law? And what about Otter's relationship to all these folks? Thank god for Wikipedia!), and finally, some double face photo tape gluing fun!!! All for ONE PAGE!!!

Lest I sound too bitter, I was happy to do it. I think it's a great idea for the baby to have these pages to look back on, to actually know how his or her father's cousin's baby is related, and to know that an entire extended family put in the work and creativity to welcome him/her to the world. And truth be told, I at the end of the day, I kind of enjoyed putting the page together.

Hmmmm.... Perhaps I should take out a home equity loan and start Otter's scrapbook next...

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...

Travel At Your Own Risk

With so many new adventures around the bend, I was curious to see what BabyCenter, my online bible to all things child-related, had to say about Otter's potential reactions. So often, it's as if BabyCenter is looking into my soul, or at least my date book, when it comes to pinpointing upcoming events. And here's what they had to say:

Because of separation anxiety, ... it may ... be hard to travel with your baby right now. He's become used to his surroundings and familiar faces, and he likes predictability. So being on the road can disrupt his sense of security and routine, especially when visiting a new place or meeting lots of strangers.

Great news, considering my parents (virtual strangers to Otter) were joining us on a trip to Central California. At least there was going to be wine in Cambria/Paso Robles, so I could drink away my sorrows while SB screamed her disapproval.

Still, we decided to soldier on, packing baby, parents, dog, ourselves, and enough provisions for a month-long nomadic trek into our SUV for a 4-day weekend getaway. Prior to the trip, we purchase even more semi-necessary baby things, including a travel bed and umbrella stroller, justifying the insane price gouging by vaguely reassuring ourselves that we like to travel a lot, so the porta-crib (which cost nearly as much as Otter's actual bed) and it's $40 custom fit sheet were necessary evils.

Otter took the 4-hour drive up like a man, only complaining occassionally and being quickly comforted by her bottle. We briefly stopped at a winery, letting our girl know how her parents like to get down - she seemed to enjoy the experience...

Appropriately, we stayed at Otter Cove. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by a deer in the back yard of our rental house, and we knew it would be a magical visit.

We took walks by the ocean, saw elephant seals, pelicans, birds, cows, otters and horses (not all at once - that would have been weird), visited some beautiful wineries and landscapes, and generally had a grand old time just sitting out and looking at the water.

The rest of this tale can be told in pictures - since nothing I can write will capture the beauty of the ocean...

SB lapped it all up. Turns out, traveling with a separation-anxiety-ridden 9-month-old isn't that hard after all. You just gotta keep them busy with all the beauty in the world.

Ima Mama

This Sunday I celebrated my first official Mother's Day. Unlike last year, when I was simply a storage compartment, this time it's fo' real. Otter and I commemorated by donning what will be the closest we'll ever come to "Mommy & Me" outfits - matching t-shirts...

Congratulatory phone calls were exchanged, the appropriate people texted, and my Facebook status updated to reflect the glorious day of all thing mother. My FIL gifted me with flowers and extravagant praise. Bree, in a bid for super husband actually began the celebration early, with a card and half dozen Crumbs Cupcakes delivered to my work on Friday afternoon. I think Crumbs can be effectively used as enticement for sectors of the population where birthrates are falling off. I challenge my most child-phobic of friends to not get knocked up if the promise of these cupcakes were to be offered as a prize for birthing.

Indeed, the rewards for mothering are many. I know - you're thinking I'm referring to the mystery of a new life created, the satisfaction of nurturing a small being, the joy of seeing your Dear Child laughing with glee at the wondrous world around it. But being a literal lass, I'm actually talking about the shwag you get, be it of the pastry, floral or bejeweled variety. Childed friends everywhere were discussing their acquisitions - luggage, diamonds and electric toothbrushes.

My own Mother's Day began with homemade strawberry pancakes and mimosas and ended with scrubbing down the kitchen before collapsing on the couch for my unavoidable, late-night pumping session. All was as it should be.

A (Very) Belated Easter

Ok, so in terms of getting photos up, I've kinda sucked. But in my defence, we were battling swine flu. So here, much belated, are our Easter pics...

Easter morning...

Grand-Diggy arrives...

A basket, for me?

B-U-N-N-Y-!-!-!

I'll get you, yet, you Wascally Wabbit!

Yeah, I like Easter.

Happy Anniversary!

Today is Bree's and my 5th wedding anniversary.  Otter offered her congratulations and gave us the gift of further baby development by sitting up unsupported, wobbling like crazy and toppling over 10 seconds later.  But it was a glorious 10 seconds.

We decided to celebrate by going out to dinner at a nice restaurant.  The kind with linen tablecloths, extensive wine lists and a zero-tolerance policy for babies.  To accomplish this wild night of adult dining, we asked Pat to babysit.  

I came up with a brilliant plan: the reservation would be made late so that I could go through Otter's routine, put her to bed, and Bree and I could sneak off and dine, SB none-the-wiser.  It started off well enough - Otter went down easily, Pat arrived and, after changing and even putting on some makeup, we were off to dinner.

The call came in at 10pm.  It appears that about 15 minutes after we left, Otter woke up only to discover that her mom and dad had inexplicably disappeared, replaced by a complete stranger (their previous meetings non-withstanding).  This turn of events made Otter decidedly unhappy - which she expressed loudly for the next 2 hours as Pat struggled to settle her down. Apparently, by this point, SB'd cried so hard that she'd thrown up, and she was looking for a change of clothes for her.

This marked the end of dinner.  Grabbing what we could in to go bags and abandoning a carafe of very good (and very expensive) wine, Bree and I raced home, breaking some speed limits, and possibly the sound barrier.

As we burst through the door we found Pat slumped in our armchair with a tearstained Otter passed out in her lap.  Hearing us come in, Otter opened her eyes, and with a look of immeasurable relief welcomed us home.  Pat, with a similar look, took off for her house before hell had a chance to break loose again.

Putting Otter to bed for the second time that night, I was once again struck by Pat's heroism in the face of inconsolable baby.  And how strangely appropriate this ending seems in light of our new life.  Happy Anniversary to us.

Happy Birthday!!!

It's Grandpa Vlad's birthday today!  Sending an Otter shout-out (quite literally) his way!

Merry Christmas!

This Christmas season has been weirdness to the nth degree.  People who should have shown up didn't, having gotten stranded due to weather.  People who weren't expected, came knocking on doors only to leave again before Christmas actually came.  But here is the long and the short of it, or rather, the long-winded story in Cliff Notes shorthand...

Otter went for a checkup and got more vaccines.  She also got weighed and is now 11 lbs., 8 1/2 oz. Though after 15 minutes of carrying her, she seems much, much heavier.

Bree's sister Erica drove in from Colorado unexpectedly with her husband and baby.  Bree didn't get to see them, but Otter did get to meet her cousin.

Bree's mom and step-dad, on the other hand, got stranded at the airport, had to spend the night, and then went home having never departed for LA.  When they got to their house, their power was out.

We spent Christmas Eve with Bree's sister Alicia.  Erica and fam had left by this point.

On the way to Christmas Eve...

Hangin' with Dad and Aunt Alicia...

Otter hung out with Frosty the Snowman.  She may be in love.

A letter to Santa was written, cookies were left.

Christmas Day - Otter made out like a BAN-dit.  Clothes, toys, more clothes, more toys.  A freakin' kick-ass ExcerSaucer.  Thank you Santa Tien!!!  

Somewhere in the mix, Bree and I exchanged our presents, he went off to pick up his dad and I crawled off to the couch to sleep.  

For the second year in a row, Santa brought me Christmas Flu.

Giving Thanks

After a week of cooking like the wind while Otter slept, and making several dishes twice (the potatoes 'cause we wanted more, the stuffing 'cause there was a dreadful salt incident) and completing an needlessly complicated tart, it was time to greet the family and settled down for our Thanksgiving meal.

The cousins kept a careful ear out for Otter while she napped, alerting me at the first hint of sound emanating from her room. It was touching to see them carry her around and play with her, volunteering to babysit. And the meal was none too shabby either.

The men carved the turkey...

While hope sprang eternal for Foster...

Otter snoozed while we ate...

Otter enjoyed some playtime with her cousins...

Then, Aunt Alicia and Bree posed with all their kids...

More playtime...

Before settling down with Uncle Jeremy and Grand-Diggy...

And passing out at night's end.

3 Months Down...

Today, Otter's reached a benchmark - she's made it through a quarter of a year without any serious injury, maiming, or death. It's hard to believe that she's made it this far already - and how much more of a human she's become in this time...

She holds her head up and (almost) smiles...

Looks milk-drunk and very pudgy (kinda like she ate herself)...

Yeah, milk-drunk... (Damn, I should back off the hooch, huh?)

Unsure of how she feels about this photo session...

Yet still pretty tiny... So many months still to go!

Space, the Final Frontier

After 11 weeks, 5 days, and about 5 hours (give or take), Grand-Diggy has gone where he has not gone before. In a word, he picked up Otter.


Not only that, he read her a book.

Not only that, she really enjoyed it and hung (hanged?) out happily in his arms.

Now, if I can only teach him to change diapers...