Happy Birthday Bean

Three years ago today, I entered the hospital a bloated, fat, waddling woman and left, several days later, a mother.

In those 1,095.75 days she has gone from She-Blob, to Otter, to Chicken Otter, to Booty, to Bean. She has grown 39 inches, learned to talk, and count, and feed herself. She's made friends. She's lost a grandfather. She's learned to count, and have picnics (at which she serves wine), to recognize letters, avoid potty training and get chocolate out of us. She is smart and feisty and frustrating and willful and the most amazing creature I've ever met, who owns my heart even on the days I'm at the end of my rope. She cracks me up with her jokes. She shocks me with her insights. She confuses and confounds me with her questions. I am in awe of her.

Long before she became, my mother told me that until I had a child of my own, I would never understand what it means to have one. That the way you love your child can never be predicted or replicated or even imagined. I didn't understand it then, but I do now - which is exactly as she told me it would be. I am both privileged and humbled by the awesome responsibility that is being her parent.

As you embark on the 4th year or you life Bean, I will tell you what I tell you every night: I adore you. Happy birthday.

Sneak Preview or Daddy's Girl

I usually joke that Otter is almost 3 going on 13. And it might more true than I want to believe. In the last few weeks, I've been progressively getting previews of what's to come some ten years in the future, or now - whichever comes sooner.

It started innocently enough - being told to come back when she wasn't quite ready to get up in the morning. Then came the day I was sent away while she was playing train ride with Bree. Last week, when I accidentally nudged her with the door, she ran off, sobbing and burying her head in the guest room bed. She screamed, "Go away!" while I vainly tried to apologize. Eventually I had to retreat, only enticing her out by loudly telling the rubber duckies how sorry and sad I was, and reading them the bedtime story meant for SB.

And today the beginning of the end...well, began. After 2 nights of being late - an event that usually requires extra attention - I came home early enough for someone to go to the grocery store. But when she heard that Bree was heading out, she freaked. And when I asked her if she wanted her Papa to stay and put her down (again) while I left, she quickly, and happily, agreed. And why shouldn't she? Papa plays Elevator, Train Ride, Airplane Ride, and Picnic better than I ever will.

My place in the sun is temporarily (or permanently?) eclipsed.

And it's weird, and surprising, and a little liberating. Good luck, Papa!

Keeping Score

Parenthood is a balance sheet, your victories listed on the blood-strewn, tattered side in an all-too-short list, your defeats stretching from the distant past into the equally distant future. On the better days, you find yourself philosophically assessing the the invaluable lessons you learned on this long and winding road. On the bad days you just fight back tears and blinding rage.

This weekend proved a fertile battleground - an array of skirmishes with no clear victor, and many wounded. And so, on to the scorecard...

1) Otter chooses not to poop. SB has long battled with digestive issues but now it appears that we've shifted gears. And while I am grateful for mankind's ability to control certain bodily functions, this same capacity has left me completely out of my depth. How does one reason with a 2-year-old, who is unhappy with how her past experiences have gone and seems determined to never repeat them? This was SO not in the manual - not even in the fine print. After pleading, cajoling, bribery, guilt-trips and self-deprecation had all failed, we resorted to medicine, and pathetic whimpering.

2) Otter refused to nap. Largely due to point #1, we were robbed of our downtime. Because let's face it - at this point we need her nap more than she does.

3) Otter challenged our plan for walking Foster. Now that Foz is back on the walk circuit, SB naturally expects to be included. Unfortunately, the novelty of walking doggie lasted approximately 5 minutes, until Otter decided that their path in the urban jungle diverged. When I didn't back her plan to follow the one less traveled, she responded by lying down on the sidewalk. Unlike my usual response at home, I could not just leave her there. Though I did consider it.

4) Jumping in puddles. Judging from the above, anyone would surmise that this day of combat belonged to Otter. But wait - before you judge... After the pouring rain, SB insisted on going outside. At first, we - the reasonable parents - resisted, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. Donning some boots we went outside, where I tried to control the mad dashes up and down the rainy street. Of particular fascination was the knee deep puddle near our neighbor's driveway. Initially, I firmly insisted that SB avoid the cold water. But then I said, why do I care? Clothes can be changed, after all. So there she was, wading into cold water, happy as a clam. I even flirted with the water's edge myself.

And for my encore performance, I managed to convince my girl that jumping into pretend puddles on our living room rug was just as fun as the real deal, and participated happily as we bounced and "splashed" in the "water."

Sure I endured tantrums, tears, and mineral oil injections. But watching my girl bound around my living room I still think I won.

Early Achievement

The Terrible Twos have arrived with a bang, kick and scream about 6 months early. The most common victim of this new milestone is our long-suffering dog, whose daily regimen of being assaulted with hugs and being force fed various bits Otter finds on the floor (some of it even edible) has been augmented by pokes, smacks and the occasional wheeled toy hit and run.

Attempts at curtailing this barrage of abuse are generally met with kicking, punching and screaming (and that's just MY reaction ;) ). As I searched for a more workable solution, I've run across the gamut of suggestions, everything from Dr. Happy's advice that involved mirroring SB's feelings in Toddlerese, along with some clapping and growling, to Internet boards offering everything from loving hugs and pretending to cry to beating your child with a staff in the name of the Lord. I wish I was kidding.

The dog concedes his defeat before the abuse with a characteristically morose outlook, fleeing when the barrage becomes to intense. Such is his lot, balanced somewhat by nighttime bed privileges and mealtime snacks courtesy of the Otter.

As for me, I'm trying to lovingly acknowledge her emotions while dodging and weaving, holding down the legs with all my might, and starting to research boarding schools.

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.

Sea Changes

There comes a day in each girl's life when she must throw caution to the wind and dive head first into the vast ocean of life. This is a momentous day, filled with fear, trepidation, apprehension, and, if she's lucky, success beyond her wildest measure. The kind of unquestionable achievement that makes any past doubt seem outright foolish.

I'm speaking, of course, about myself. Undertaking the task of moving Otter out of her baby bath and into the real deal. But if rousing success is what I was after, the universe was determined to put me in my place.

I've gotta admit (and this may go far in explaining a great deal) that I am not a bath person. I find the idea of soaking in a tub filled with warm, sudsy water while a day's worth of dirt sloughs off me a bit repellant, on the best of days. I've always felt the strong urge to shower afterwards, and in the name of water conservation have generally just skipped to the chase. In fact, I can only think of one compelling reason to take a bath, but that involves booze, water jets, and is not fit content for this particular blog.

Needless to say, however, that one does not stick a 16-month-old into a shower. And since the baby bathtub has become rather, um, snug, that left me facing a bit of a conundrum. So I did what any parent in similar circumstances would do. Setting brawn before brains, I decided that I was just gonna muscle through the situation. As I fought the sliding shower doors and the vinyl curtains behind them (yes, we have both - don't ask), flickers of doubt lapped around the edges of my consciousness, but I beat them down into temporary submission.

The water was turned on, the temperature checked and a quantity of soap was added to the mix. As the wall of bubbles began to grow, I briefly entertained the thought that I should have probably checked the proportions before blindly dumping in that much bubble-bath (not the first time this has happened, and usually with disastrous results) but it was too late now, wasn't it? No use crying over spilled soap. And who doesn't like some bubbles?

I dumped my kid into the fizzing foam and shut off the water. Immediately I realized that something was terribly wrong. The distinct sound of water escaping down the drain became apparent. I checked the position of the stopper. Up. The way it should be. Right? I pushed it down. The water continued escaping. I pulled it back up. Nothing changed. At this point, SB was sitting in about 2 inches of water covered with 10 inches of soap scum. Time was not on my side. Saying a silent apology to the Earth, the conservationists, and my wallet, I turned the water on full throttle. The goal was to keep the 2 inch-deep "bath" going long enough for me to scrub down my offspring.

Overestimating my abilities, I had also introduces toys into the mix. What I imagined to be a joyous romp in the name of cleansing, became a mad dash of fruitless swathing with a washcloth while staving off the frantic calls for "Elma" and "kak kak kak" - aka rubber duck - who kept drowning in the foamy abyss. After 10 minutes of mad flailing, it was time to throw in the towel (quite literally) and rinse.

Which leads to the question - how the HELL do you rinse in a bathtub? Letting the water go down was clearly not an issue. But that leaves a foot of soap that child is either sitting or standing in. At best, you can keep the faucet running and splash them down to their knees - which is where their legs disappear into the bog of soap suds. I know people. I KNOW I used too much soap.

I splashed water. I made hand motions. I let the bath mat and the towel absorb whatever lather was left.

After drying, lotioning, and pajama-ing my slick-with-soap-scum child (and scrubbing down any less-than-thoroughly-washed areas with baby wipes), I returned to the crime scene to try and get rid of the evidence. While fighting back the wall of soap, one of the shower hooks (the one cleverly shaped like a sea horse) came flying off, the hook missing my eye by 1/2 inch. That about summed up the evening.

You say I have to wash my kid every day?

I have reason to believe that potty training may not go exactly according to plan...

Whatever

Anyone who tells you they know the tricks to raising kids is a liar.

Otter-tionary

An updated dictionary of SB's growing vocabulary, as well as her interpretations of the English language:

gaga - tiger

mama - 1) mama; 2) lemon

papa - papa

doggie - any and all animals

baba/nyumy nyumy nyumy - bottle with milk

mooo - what cows say

up - up

appa - apple

ba - ball

neow - what cats say

constipated poopy noise impossible to spell - what horses say (also what sea horses say)

mouth opening and closing - what fish say

sniffing - what rabbits say; also the smell of socks, clothes etc.

nana - banana

ni-ni - good night

naaaa - nose

maaa - mouth

agua - water

gabtey gabtey - what turkeys say

neena - nina (little girl)

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.

Things I Miss While At Work

Bath time.

Otter is undressed, ready to go.

Susana realizes the bath is in backwards, and puts Otter down so she can fix it.

Otter uses this time to pee on the floor.

She then takes our blue kitchen towel and starts wiping the floor.

Dumb

We'd all like to believe that our kids are, at the very least, bright. No one wants to think their child is the dim bulb in the lamp. And yet, I've encountered a substantial number of unintelligent adults throughout my life. I have a hard time believing they were born with genius potential and simply grew...well, more simple with each passing year. It stands to reason then, that they were born stupid.

So what do you do if you realize your kid (the one you enrolled in Japanese for Babies) isn't bright?

Small Steps, Giant Leaps

Today, Otter turned 13 months and is officially into her 2nd year of life. Kinda crazy and wild. The last month has been a series of leaps that seem huge in retrospect, but which snuck up on us so that we barely noticed they happened.

Somewhere down the line, SB was weaned. It happened gradually, beginning, perhaps, when I first went back to work (when she was 5 months old) and she began getting her milk from the bottle rather than from the tap. Sure, it was still breast milk, but the separation of boob and food had begun. Then came the days of milk cocktail, with cow milk gradually gaining a presence until finally, all that remained was a morning feeding that was symbolic at most. Once Otter realized that she could get the good stuff much faster out of bottle we now offered in the morning, she dumped the boob like yesterday's newspaper. Suddenly, I had my body back.

Our breast feeding journey ("journey" - how La Leche League of me) had been at times painful, frustrating, at times shockingly bonding, often humbling, occasionally hilarious. We've made it a year, weaning on Otter's schedule without her ever having tasted formula.

In other breaking news, Otter took her first unassisted step today. Initially, she tried walking on the bed while holding a pillow, which led to a long debate as to what exactly constituted a first step. Were pillows allowed? Did it have to be on the floor? But Otter saved us from further argument by repeating her milestone on the floor. Lest we get too excited though, she promptly fell to the floor and continued crawling.

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..."

Pumped Up

I should know better than to expect the indignities to stop just because I'm quickly coming round the 1-year bend with Otter. And after the flight over, I figured karma owed me. And while nothing quite beats the airplane bathroom fiasco, SB is by no means letting me coast.

For the past 3 days she's been adjusting to her new surroundings by having replaced my normally crazy-independent, easy-going kid with a needy, clingy alien who has suctioned herself on to my legs, begging to be held 24/7 and crying dramatically if I so much as go out of sight-line.

I shouldn't be too hard on her - I get her confusion of being in a new place with new people while her dad and dog have inexplicably disappeared. I am her only constant and she'll be damned if she falls for the blink and miss it trap. Still, after living for close to 12 months with a baby who happily crawls off to a different room to entertain herself, it's a bit unsettling to suddenly spend time with a child who falls into hysterics if I go to the bathroom (which, I'm sad to say, I can't seem to do alone any more) without her.

But the coup de grace came today, as I valiantly tried to begin prepping milk bottles for our return journey. With my mother and aunt sitting on the bed to keep SB from exploring her way over the edge, I pumped, while attempting to keep up the nonchalant banter that was supposed to distract them from the fact that I am sitting on a bed with my boob attached to a mechanically whirring suction cup.

And I would have pulled it off too, had Otter not seen the pump, and gotten terribly concerned at the destination of the milk (which was clearly not going to her mouth). She voiced her displeasure by rather vigorously climbing into my lap and giving the invasive pump some light pushes. In bar culture, this should have been a sign to the offending pump to get the fuck out of dodge, before things got really, really serious. For my part, I wasn't willing to be put off my goal by a pissy baby (since it'll take several sessions to reach my 6-hour flight quota as it is). Some mediation was clearly needed.

Like a skilled diplomat, I assessed the situation: baby wants boob (for proprietary, not nutritional reasons); pump needs boob; baby willing to kick the living daylights out of pump to get boob; me unwilling to lose drops of milk literally wrung from my body by some territoriality. It looked dire.

Solution? Keep pumping the full boob while giving Otter access to the other one. Continue to remind self that this isn't for ever, and I'm doing a good thing by donating my body to others. Be interrupted from self-congratulatory musings by baby who, annoyed by the fact that the pump still seems to be coming out the winner, uses her 2 rather sizable bottom teeth to deliver her message. Watch as aunt flees the room. Refrain from cursing. Plan drunk-fest for the day I'm done nursing. Keep chatting with mom.

So, whatchya gonna throw at me next world?

Safety Update

I spent the better part of the afternoon tooling around with my new baby safety crap. I've suffered from baby proofing backlash -

Every thing you put in, plug up, or lock to keep baby safe, needs to be taken out, unplugged or unlocked for human use. This gets old. FAST. After taking the damn cabinet lock off the trash about 10 times in an hour, I removed the lock entirely, promising myself I'd put it back on for the night. You know, in case at 2 am she wakes up, climbs out of her crib, crawls from the bedroom to the kitchen and decides to go hog wild in the garbage can. "Ha!" I'll say then. "Got ya! Who's the smart one now?"

Of course by bedtime, I'd completely forgotten to re-lock anything.

Also, I HATE HATE HATE these safety corners. The only part that seems to be working is the adhesive to the wood of my furniture, which seems to have now melded on a chemical level. This leaves me highly doubtful of their claims that some water will remove the glue, once I'm ready to de-corner. This could even be a good thing if the adhesive showed half that commitment to staying attached to the actual padded corner. In reality, I spend my days collecting corners that fall off if you look at them too long and slamming them back onto the gummy, corroded corners of my once-decent wood furniture.

I have yet to try the bifold door locks, though I fear they won't fit.

Oh, and I came in this afternoon to see Otter blissfully playing with the socket plugs...

Safe

After months of lying to my pediatrician I was finally shamed into action by my own post. How could I say I love my child if I had yet to protect her from the calamity of getting into the trash or the certain death of sticking her finger into a socket? What is to prevent Otter from sneaking into the under-sink cabinet and guzzling a surface cleaner and swiffer wet wipe cocktail? Sure the cleaner claims to be non-toxic, but do I really want my daughter to provide me with material for a "truth in advertising" lawsuit by proving them wrong? Apparently so.

It's not that I have anything against baby-proofing (even though entire generations managed to grow into adulthood with only the most minor of electrocutions), it's that the process is so damn daunting. Like any other industry, the baby safety market is a sea of products, seemingly identical in nature (that being, they serve a mysterious, not easily identifiable purpose) yet vastly different in price point. And since your local Super Mart rarely carries socket plugs, a specialty store is in order. So it was with a heavy heart that I ventured back into the hell that is Babies R Us and began my journey.

When I say journey, I mean it in the most literal sense. It began with the drive, followed by the trek across the 100+ degree parking lot and ended in the labyrinth of the store. Somewhere between bottles and high chairs, I began feeling a bit like Harry Potter looking for the goblet of fire. Yeah, I know. I just referenced Harry Potter.

But I pressed on, eventually finding myself in the Baby Safety aisle. There were at least 4 different brands competing to save my baby from almost certain death. And within each line, there was a plethora of products, from the obvious to the obscure. Here, in general, is what I found:

1. The majority of these "safety devices" need to be screwed into one of your surfaces in order to work properly. Now you may call me shallow and materialistic for what I'm about to say, but here it is: We paid more money than I like to think about to refurbish our kitchen. So the idea of putting the screws to my already-suffering, nearly new cabinets is beyond unpleasant.

2. There is a huge difference in price from line to line - from $1.99/20 socket protectors, to $4.99 for 10 of the same product. I WANT to buy the two buck set, but the paranoia sets in - what am I not getting that the 5 buck set must provide? Is Otter 2.5 times more likely to send a live current through her body if I cheap out?

3. There are a number of items with a very specific function. Take for example, the toilet lid lock. How many of these gadgets are they really selling? Are people actually unlocking and locking their toilet lids after every use or does my doubt of this just peg me as a crappy parent who doesn't care if my baby drowns?

After several hours of staring and taking different combinations of boxes into my basket, only to put them back and start again, I finally came away with what I hope will at least forestall injury and death:

A 20-pack of socket plugs. Yeah, at the end of the day I cheaped out. If she does electrocute herself, the hospital bills will be high enough. This way I can look back and say, "Well, at least I saved $3 on the plugs..."

2 packs of cabinet locks. Glass half full - I found locks you don't need to screw in! Glass half empty - they only work on double doors. So my single door cabinets and drawers are still fraught with danger.

2 packs of bi-fold door locks.

A gazillion packs of stick-on padded furniture corners.

I still think my house is a veritable minefield of baby dangers, but at least I got started. In retrospect, however, I wonder if I should have just purchased the child leash that they were hocking in the same aisle...

Bad Mommy Syndrome

Do a Google search for "Bad Mommy" and dozens of links pop up, from confess-it-all blogs of the barely literate, to well composed essays by professional writers. Mostly it's tongue-in-cheek, written by and for women who don't take themselves too seriously and have thicker skins. But it made me wonder why we have a compulsive need to confess our perceived wrongdoings? And where the line is drawn - what defines you as a "bad mommy"?

So here, without further ado, is the short list of why I might qualify, though I will staunchly defend my behavior to the end of time.

1. I have left my baby sitting on the bed, even after she started crawling. I push her to the middle of the bed and run like mad to hang up the towel, pull out the forgotten pajamas, or grab the missing pacifier. Sure, I could take her with me, and take 3 times as long to do the task. Or I can trust that she can occupy herself with whatever toy I'd shoved in her hands for the 10 seconds I'll be gone.

2. I believe in the 5 second rule. When the pacifier hits the floor at 2 a.m., I can turn on the lights, stomp out, wash it, stomp back in, and spend the next 2 hours trying to get Otter back to sleep. Or I can feel around for it with my hand and, realizing she probably spent part of the day licking the floor anyway, entrust her well being to her immune system. Sometimes the rule can be stretched to 10 or even 15 seconds.

3. In a shocking disregard for all baby guide warnings, I've offered Otter strawberry before she turned 1. I've always been bit confused by what magical switch gets turned on August 26 that will minimize allergic reactions, and strawberries are so good right now. For the record, she's not allergic. Same goes for egg whites.

4. I've offered Otter a taste of cupcake and a bit of frozen yogurt. She liked the former, and not so much the latter. All lived to tell the tale, and she went back to eating her healthy, homemade food.

5. My kid falls occasionally, even when I'm watching her. She even got a shiner. But she's a tough baby and more than ready to explore her world - and I want to encourage that exploration, not stifle her. Falling is just part of exploring the force of gravity.

6. When Otter starts shrieking, I respond by shrieking back. It's a language she seems to understand, and it calms her, or at least entertains her.

7. I let her crawl around - even to the "dangerous" parts of the house. My FIL is very vigilant about which toys and furniture can cause SB irreparable harm, and is very fond of pointing out all the terrible things that "can" happen. I can't live in fear of the maybe's and might's. I'd rather watchfully assume she'll be ok.

8. I haven't baby-proofed. And even when I do, I plan to keep it minimal. The best form of baby proofing is to keep an eye on Otter and simply erecting caged areas for her won't keep her out of trouble.

9. I throw her in the air, swing her around and play the "shaken baby" game with her. She loves it and screams with glee. I have yet to rattle any brains.

10. I've been known to disregard the nap schedule when we need to attend an event. No, I don't plan my days around skipping naps, but come on people - it's not like sleep's going to run out and she'll have no more. She can sleep longer tomorrow.

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...

Rabies Baby

It snarls. It hisses. It shoots spit everywhere. Occassionally it bites. It's Rabies Baby, and it's all ours.