Crime of Fashion

There are some very questionable outfits out there for babies. My theory is that since infants have no control over the crap evil parents choose to put on them, they are the perfect target for trying out all those hideous ensembles we'd be far to embarassed to wear ourselves.

By way of proof, I offer you skants, the product of that unholy union between skirt and pants. Mind you, my mother wore skants to my wedding, but those were actually nice. Seriously. I can't believe I just said that.

But back to baby skants. Back when Otter was born, some friends (who shall remain nameless, so as to protect the guilty) bought us a set with a perfectly cute shirt and matching bottoms that just couldn't commit to being one thing or the other. Before you crucify me, I am extremely greatful for their generosity.

My question is, why? Why make them? Why buy them? Why (knowing how I feel about them) did I put them on Otter? Rest assured, SB looked very sweet from shoulders to waist, and perfectly ridiculous from there on down.

Guilt-ridden, I've taken up knitting, and am trying to create a baby version of this sweater. Hopefully, I'm not creating a new reason for the fashion police to crack down.

Sophie Goes For a Walk

When I was little, my mom had a plush toy named Cheburashka. One day after playing outside, I returned home sans toy. When my mom asked me where he went, I told her Cheburashka went for a walk.

Sophie is a giraffe. She is made of soft rubber and squeaks. Her horns are perfect for sucking and chewing and she has bravely stood up to an array of abuse, from gnawing to being mercilessly bashed against the table with little more than a squeaky whimper. She's been subjected to peas, baby barf and crusty sweet potatoes. She's had to take numerous baths to undo the damage and one day I found her head inexplicably wedged under Otter's little chair. Well, apparently Sophie had suffered her last injustice and this weekend joined Cheburashka in his jaunt around the world.

At first, Sophie did, quite literally, go for a walk. Yesterday, as we strolled along our neighborhood streets, Sophie was once again the hapless victim of Otter's abuse. All went well until this morning when I realized that Sophie was nowhere to be found.

We turned the house upside down, checking every conceivable corner and several inconceivable ones. Though I continued to maintain that Sophie had not been thrown overboard, I agreed retrace my steps from the previous day.

Unlike the previous day, it was about 100 degrees outside. I began walking, admiring our the spring flowers while keeping my eyes peeled. Ten minutes later, I realized I was walking up the wrong street. My enjoyment of my neighbors' plant life was beginning to wane. Retracing my steps and course-correcting, I quietly cursed myself for taking such a long walk on Saturday. As I surveyed the neighborhood ground, I had to admit it was marked by a distinct lack of anything remotely giraffe-like. The Valley sun beat down mercilessly. I was starting to hallucinate.

Returning home in a sweaty delirium, I continued to cling to the hope that in some ironic twist of fate, while I hiked around the neighborhood, Sophie would have been found in the most obvious of places. Oh how we'd laugh. But it was not to be. Sophie is still MIA. My only consolation is that I seem to be much more distraught by this turn of events than Otter.

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)

Oh, And You

I've always understood that once a baby entered the picture she would instantly be the center of attention. And I'm not so naive or so vain as to have expected anything else but, truth be told, the degree and speed with which I became a footnote in my own life took me a tad by surprise.

I won't bother enumerating the times my parents have called to ask if "she's doing anything new." A reasonable question until you realize that their last call was one day prior. More recently, I've been talking about my parents coming out to visit. Understandably, they're chomping at the bit to see Otter, whom they haven't laid eyes on since she was 2 months old. (For the record, they haven't seen me in that long either, but I digress...)

In trying to work out the timing of the trip, I made what I thought was a splendid suggestion that they come when I have some time off from work.
"But we could just hang out with Otter while you're working," said my mother.
"Well, I kind of wanted to see you guys too..." I said.
"Oh, you see us all the time," she responded. Yes, it sounded that sad and lame.

This past weekend I realized that the SB has pulled the last of my staunch supporters over to her camp. The Bay Hill golf tournament was coming to a close and Bree, the resident golf enthusiast was watching intently. Otter was hanging out, watching vaguely as Tiger Woods was making his final charge for a victory. As she sat in her dad's lap, Tiger came from behind and won. Bree was ecstatic.

"Otter and I have just shared our first sports moment," he said. I pointed out to him that the girl had zero idea of what had transpired and moreover, she'd "watched" golf before.

"But I just watched Tiger win with her," Bree insisted. "Oh," he added after a pause. "And you."

Bassinets are SO Passe

The time has come for Otter to leave the snug comfort of her bassinet and move into the wide, uncertain world of the crib. For most babies, this step down the road towards independent living comes at 3-4 months, when they outgrow the tiny, portable bed. Otter, being a petite young lass, has lasted 7 months.

But for the past few weeks, we've been noticing the bassinet tilt precariously as she shifted her weight. And with her not-so-feeble attempts to sit up on her own, its only a matter of time before the bough was to break and the cradle was to fall.

The process began with the undoing of a lot of hard work: clothes needed to be removed from Bree's dresser and the crib, which had been meticulously assembled in Otter's room before she arrived in this world, had to be disassembled, having never been used for sleep.

Then, furniture musical chairs began. The dresser had to depart for greener pastures, making room for crib (which would then have to be put together again). And since all of our doorways cannot accomdate human sized furniture passing through, the game had to be played with a detour through the living room and out into the back yard.

Bree was in charge of all things furniture, while I made helpful suggestions from a safe distance. To his credit, Bree both demolished and re-molished like a champ. The rooms were repurposed (Otter's for clothes, ours for housing even more beds) and then it was my turn to convince SB that this new space, where she'd formerly enjoyed rolling around and playing, was now to be considered ideal for her afternoon siesta.

It took some convincing. The first few times, I came back to find SB rolled to the other end of the crib, lying on her stomach, while screaming at the top of her lungs. But, after wedging her so tightly into her sleep positioner that breathing, let alone turning was a challenge we achieved success. Either tiredness or lack of oxygen overtook her and after a few more plaintive moans she fell asleep (or passed out, whatever).

Now, we have a few more weeks to get her used to her bigger-girl bed before ousting her from our room. At which point Musical Chairs will have to be performed in reverse. Rest up, Bree.

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.