Say with with me now, N-A-P

I'm sure you are all dying for a sleep update. I mean it's been eons since I talked about the crappy sleeping. I know you're on pins and needles wondering how it's going.

Well, that, and you're also probably wondering how Lance Bass and that dude from "The Amazing Race" hooked up in the first place. Like how does a reality show contestant meet up with a former boy-bander? Are there special Match.com areas for that?

Moving on.

The sleeping has improved minimally. I think it really hasn't changed, but I have, because now I am beaten down and go with the flow. You want to sleep on my bed? Be my guest. Here's some pillows to surround you. Naps on my lap? Super! No really, I don't mind my leg falling asleep. And I have the bladder of steel! You want a two-hour nap at 4 p.m.? Sounds delightful.

So that's how we roll now. Beds and laps. He's sleeping longer and everyone is happy.

I have attempted the crib for naps twice in the last two weeks. Both times he was asleep when I lifted him into the crib and his eyes popped open as one small strand of hair on the back of his head barely brushed the surface of the crib sheet.

He looked around, realized where he was, and yelped. And the yelps turned to crying, which quickly moved into our favorite, screaming. I refuse to listen to this behavior, so both times I took him out and tried to nurse him back to sleep.

And he was having none of that. Nope, he was awake. Smiling. Babbling. Looking around. Trying to sit up. And that ended that for the next two hours.

So to recap what I have learned: if we don't lie down with him during the 15.2 seconds when he deems us worthy of his nap, and stay lying down with him, he will scream his fool head off and not nap at all.

My baby is the boss of me. I am his bitch.

He's fallen and he can't get up

So this is a post you hope you never have to write.

This weekend, Jack and his stroller fell down a flight of stairs outside our front door. It was terrifying and awful and is still hard to talk about. One minute Josh was unlocking the front door and the next he turned to see Jack's stroller flipping end over end down the five steps, landing upside down, with our baby boy inside of it.

I was coming in the back of the house as they were coming in the front and I instinctively knew what happened. We have a set of stained-glass windows in our front door and you can see when someone is outside. I heard Josh's keys and then I didn't hear the alarm chime and I saw him move away from the door and I just knew.

By the time I got to the porch, Josh and a passerby had the stroller back upright and were trying to get Jack unstrapped. I grabbed the stroller straps and lifted him out and looked him over.

He was fine to the eye, crying, but not a screaming-bloody-murder cry, more of a scared cry. Josh looked as pale as a ghost and was badly shaken. I was remarkably calm, thanking the man and his son who helped Josh and getting him into the house and calming the crying.

I could see a bump on the back of Jack's head and it was starting to turn red. I calmed him down in the house and took charge. I told Josh where the pediatrician's phone number was, instructed him to call and tell them what happened and to get a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer to ice his head.

The on-call doctor asked if he had lost consciousness and if he seemed himself. We said he was awake the whole time and had stopped crying. He was a little quiet, but we attributed that to his surprise at the fall, more than anything else.

The doctor said we should keep an eye on him and it sounded like it would be OK. But as we hung up the phone, I looked at what was now a large half-dollar sized bump on his head surrounded by red bruising and I told Josh I thought we should take him to the ER -- better safe than sorry. As first-time parents, we're allowed to be psychos. If this was our second kid, I would have told him to rub a little dirt in it and get on with the day.

So to the Children's Hospital ER we went. Strangely enough, there was not a single person in the waiting room at 5 p.m. on a Saturday. Odd. So we were seen right away.

After checking Jack out and asking us about everything that happened, they decided he was on the cusp of needing a CT scan. All kids with head injuries younger than six months get them, but his injury was not presenting any crazy signs either. They elected to do one -- again, better safe than sorry.

After putting his head into a device that would hold it still and swaddling him so he couldn't move, they stuck a pacifier dipped in sugar water in his screaming mouth.

Seriously? WE NEED TO GET THIS SUGAR WATER FOR HOME USE. I could bottle this shit as a tonic for crying and fussing and be a gazillionaire.

He sucked like he had the nectar of the Gods in his mouth. I think I have never seen him quiet down so quickly. They said we could stay in the room with him, and had us don some jaunty lead aprons. The technician paused before handing me mine and asked "Are you pregnant?" "BWAHAHAHAHAHA. Ummm. NO. Just, ha, no."

So we stood next to the machine and Josh sang to Jack while the scanner whirred and clicked around his head. In two minutes it was over and we were heading back downstairs to the ER room.

So we were just chilling in the room, entertaining Jack, aka "Mr. McFlirty Flirt of The Chicago Flirters," when the nurse came in to take his vitals again and dropped this casual line on us.

"So, I don't know if they told you that he does have a slight skull fracture, so we'll be keeping him overnight."

Whaaaaa? Are you kidding me? Josh looked like someone had shot him, my breath caught in my throat, Jack screeched because I would not let him bend down and lick the dirty hospital bed.

The doctors came in a short time later and said there was a small fracture on the CT scan, but it was in the sutures between the plates of his skull, so a relatively good place for it to happen. They did not see any bleeding in his brain on the scan, which was good news, so he did not need surgery.

The fact he might have needed neurosurgery hit us like a ton of bricks. I mean he fell down some steps, yes it was awful, but you never think about needed to cut your child's skull open because of that.

So up for overnight observation we went. The father who looked like he was having flashbacks of the fall every 15 seconds, the mother who was trying to keep it together and the baby who was smiling at every passerby like he was their long-lost best friend.

We stayed overnight, I next to the crib in a very uncomfy chair/bed, Josh in a cot across the hall. Jack slept well for the most part, completely fascinated by the wires protruding from his jammies that monitored his heart and breathing.

The next morning, they pronounced him fine and we were able to go home. But even during his short stay, I was able to get some perspective on things. Jack's roommate was definitely under a year old, but had a surgical scar that ran across the top of his tiny skull from one ear to the other, held closed by metal staples in his skull. My baby might have fallen, but at least he didn't have brain surgery. My heart went out to his mother, who did not speak very good English, and sounded like she struggled to communicate with the doctors and nurses. She was also alone. Josh and I wondered where the baby's father was or if she was doing this all alone. I felt awful.

The neurologist assured us they see this all the time in kids who fall. They are resilient and bounce back quickly. As evidenced by the fact Jack didn't even have the bump on his head anymore the next morning.

They told us it will heal on it's own in eight weeks and we should follow up with their office in two weeks just to be sure everything is fine.

All in all, a completely terrifying ordeal that could have been MUCH MUCH worse. We have gone over a million what-ifs since Saturday. What if we had bought a cheaply-constructed stroller and it collapsed in the fall? What if he had been facing forward instead of backward and fallen face-first down the steps? What if he had not been strapped in to the stroller and fallen out?

So here's my public service message for the day. No matter how close you think you are standing to the stroller or how stable you think it is or whether you have done it a million times before and nothing bad ever happened, always always ALWAYS lock your stroller wheels when you take your hands off it.

Every. single. time.

It takes two seconds to lock it and another two seconds to unlock it, but you can save your baby from a cracked noggin. Trust us, we will never make this mistake again.

Recognition

Yesterday afternoon, I got my reward.

For all the 3 a.m. feedings.
For all the dirty diapers.
For all the times I sat on a public restroom floor to breastfeed.
For all the times I suffered through 30-minute naps.

Jack was sitting on the floor in the living room when I walked over to him. He smiled, lifted his arms and said "Ma!"

One-day stand

Recently, Josh, Jack and I were at lunch at a new place in our hood. It was an overcast Sunday and it seemed like a good afternoon to get out for a walk and grab a bite.

We were seated in the back with our stroller when another couple came in, toting a baby carrier. I used to eye up other women's engagement rings, now I check out their strollers and babies.

Jack was being his usual charming self, screeching and laughing and refusing to sit nicely in his stroller, instead insisting on standing in one of our laps.

The couple remarked how cute he was and asked how old. We answered and asked about their baby, and hey how about that, they were born a week apart! We peered into the carrier and saw an equally cute little boy and said how cute he was too.

We got down to the nitty gritty as the entrees arrived at the tables. The boys weighed almost the same at birth. They were the same length. The couple used the "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child" book. They even got married two weeks before we did.

After we all joined hands and sang "Kumbaya" across the tables, I started shooting Josh looks. I had just told him the day before that I was making it my mission to meet other moms in our neighborhood with babies around Jack's age. I needed him to be my wingman.

Now, I was nervous. My hands were sweaty, I kept glancing at my reflection in the mirror to make sure I didn't have anything in my teeth, I was sucking my stomach in so I didn't look fat. In short, I really wanted this girl to like me.

I bantered with them, putting forth my wittiest observations and sarcasm. They laughed! They liked me!

So I nervously got up the courage and just laid it out there. I think my voice may have cracked a little as I got the words out.

"You know, this might sound really weird, seeing as we just met, but would you like to get together for a playdate sometime? I'd love to get together."

She paused. I think my heart was beating a little too fast.

"Yeah, that would be great. Here, let me give you my email."

As we dragged ourselves away from the table because SOMEONE was fussy, I almost skipped down the street in joy. But it quickly turned to doubt.

Did she really like me? Was I too forward? Should I have played it cooler? What if she gave me her fake email she gives out to all the playdates she doesn't really want to see?

I waited the customary three days and emailed her, keeping it casual, suggesting a little playground I knew of. I edited, deleted, re-typed and proofread like it was my resume. I hit "send" and hoped I didn't say something stupid.

Then I waited. I obsessively asked Josh if he thought she would email back. I dissected all of the conversation at lunch. I replayed the meeting in my head. And I waited and waited and waited some more.

Nothing.

I was crushed. Clearly, I was not cool enough. It wasn't her, it was me. I finally tried to put it out of my mind.

And then when I had finally gotten over it, an email popped up on my phone while I was out of town. I couldn't believe it. She apologized for taking so long. Said they had been busy. They were moving. Family in town. But that when things settled down she would like to get together.

Score!

Thank God I resisted the urge to drunk email her. I think she might be The One.

Nonstop fun in this house

I nursed my child 15 times in a 24-hour period yesterday.

That's F-I-F-T-E-E-N.

Let the martyrdom begin.

I nursed him lying down, sitting up, awake, asleep, crying, smiling, at my desk, eating a bowl of soup, during the day, during the night.

Seriously people. This is insane. I think I still have nipples. But I can't ever see them because the child is always covering them with his mouth.

It's my own fault too. I nurse him when he's fussy because hey, if you're fussin' you must be hungry. I nurse him to sleep so he'll take naps without crying. (Yesterday, I got three straight hours out of him. Unprecedented.) I nurse him because he frantically pecks at my boob, THROUGH MY SHIRT.

So he equates calming down with the boob. And because I need the peace and quiet in order to get some damn work done, I just pop him on the boob and type over his head. I have gotten quiet adept at it. Need some html code? No problem -- I gotchya covered. But wouldn't you like the mental picture of me breastfeeding while I do it?

But all this milk must be doing something. At Jack's six-month doctor visit he was 27 inches long (75th percentile) and weighed 15.7 pounds (still the 25th percentile) and his noggin was once again average, in the 50th percentile.

He's up to eating two meals of solids a day and hit all the milestones they asked about.

Oh, and he likes to walk holding on to your hands. Seriously. Not kidding. He toddles around the living room with us holding his arms. Probably 25 steps at a time. He's a quick one too. And if you make him sit down before he's ready, he refuses to bend his legs and defiantly looks at you like "Just try and make me. You can't! Bwahahaha!"

Yesterday, he stood holding on to the coffee table by himself. Cute now, not so cute the first time I come in and see him doing it by himself I am sure.

Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Bah. No blogging for a week? Unacceptable.

Oh, but I have a list of excuses a mile long. Most of them are weak. Pitiful. The dog ate my computer. But we were moving from our corporate apartment to a new corporate apartment and MY GOD do we have a lot of shit in this place.

We were also busy taking Jack to his first baseball game this weekend.



Screw those losers on the North Side. We went straight for the pennant race. My son, he gets only the best. We took in the White Sox-Tigers game on Saturday afternoon at US Cellular Field.

It was a gorgeous day for baseball: 70s, sunny, not a cloud in the sky.

And of course, the camerman took one look at his cute little face and put Jack on the Jumbotron during the seventh inning stretch. The crowd gave a little "awww" and I heard people around us saying "What a cute baby!"

(Insert proud parents beaming here)

Good thing they didn't catch him on camera a few innings earlier.


Mommy, this doesn't look like a boob. But ooooohhhhhhhhh, it's tasty.

And what's a visit to the game without a frosty beverage?


Burp. You should have seen how smooth the first six went down. Beerman! I need another for my friends here.

Six months

Dear Jack,

Six months ago today, you came into our lives.

Since that time, everything has changed. But I can't remember what it was like before you.



This last month you have changed so much. Your little mohawk has become a thing of the past. Your hair grew just enough on top that it lies flat and it's really filling in on the sides now too. You have grown longer and heavier, but you're still such a skinny man. That means the six-month shirts you have all fit you fine, but the six-month shorts still fall off your little butt.

This is especially problematic when you roll. Over and over and over again. This is your primary mode of transportation. It used to be, many moons ago, you hated tummy time. Now, you will willingly roll onto your stomach to have a better view of a toy you want.

A few times, we have put you down and turned away for a few minutes and come back to find you six feet from where you started. You frequently get stuck under the coffee table and express your displeasure with a high-pitched screech until we come to the rescue. I occasionally find you hanging out on the hardwood, having rolled yourself right off the blanket and the rug.



But the biggest milestone you achieved this month was the ability to sit up on your own. One day you were all wobbly and couldn't even balance yourself in a tripod position, the next you sat all by yourself for 30 seconds.



Just last week you started scooting across the floor. You kind of stretch your body out, then push your face into the floor and bring your knees up under your butt. Then you shove yourself forward, keeping your face in the rug. It's not graceful, but it gets you closer to your beloved crinkly lion so you can stick it in your mouth.

The lion is only one of the many things you put in your mouth these days. Any item you can get your hands on -- toys, blankets, Mommy's hair, Daddy's hand, plastic shovels, cigarettes, beer bottles, you know, the usual suspects -- goes right into the mouth.

And don't think size is a problem. You have been known to grab items bigger than your entire body and bring them to your mouth in the hopes you can just fit it in if you play your cards right.

While you rarely deem us worthy of looking in your mouth, we can sneak a peek every few days. Those teeth are still not poking through, but we can only assume it will be any time now as you drool incessantly and gnaw your fingers nonstop throughout the day.



When you're not trying to eat your hands, you are using them to bang things. You bring your arm above your head and you get this look in your eye like "Watch out Mommy, I am going to really let loose" and then you wave your arm violently up and down. You can get some pretty good velocity worked up there so we have to watch that you don't give yourself a concussion with whatever toy you are holding.

You also mastered the skill of passing a toy from one hand to the other. One of your favorite things to do is to take the pacifier out of your mouth with one hand, turn it around and inspect it, transfer it to the other hand and then try to put it back in -- backwards. This results in much frustration on both your part and mine, since I am trying to get you to sleep when you start this little trick.



You faked us out earlier this month by sleeping through the night several times. But HA! Hahahahaha. That was just to give us a taste of what we might have someday. Because last week you decided to wake up three times a night. Just to eat. You would not be satisfied with rocking or the pacifier, nope, it had to be the milk.

Let me tell you, you can really scream at 3 a.m. You can also really belt it out at 5 a.m., 7 p.m. and pretty much any other time we try to make you do something you do not want to do.

That would include napping in your crib. I tried to fight the good fight, but I gave up three weeks ago and we're all a lot happier now. I lie down with you on the bed and nurse you until you fall asleep. Then you just nap on our bed surrounded by a forcefield of pillows.

We're gone from 30-minute naps in your crib to one- and two-hour naps on the bed. Perhaps you like a nice down featherbed. Whatever it is, it's helping everyone have a little more sanity in this house. And we're all about the sanity.

You still sleep in your crib at night, and there doesn't seem to be an issue with that. So hopefully we can work on the length of your naps now and the place you nap in a few weeks.

We've found that you love to sing and dance. When you cry in the car, Daddy can stop you cold in your tracks with a rousing rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." (Yes, he was a poor black slave in a previous life apparently. I asked him how he knew all the words and he said "I dunno. Doesn't everyone?")

This month you started eating solids. We've given you oatmeal, sweet potatoes, peas, carrots, peaches and squash. You've enjoyed them all and seem to like dinnertime. You tolerate the oatmeal and get upset when we don't shovel the veggies in fast enough. You wear about as much as you eat, and you'd think we were causing you bodily harm when we have to wipe your face off after you're done.



Other than the solids at dinner, you're still exclusively breastfed. I am so proud that we made it to the six-month mark. There were some dark days last week when I thought my supply was taking a nosedive after we left you with Grandma and Grandpa overnight so we could go away for our anniversary. I didn't pump as much as I should have and you seemed so frustrated when you were eating the next few days. I briefly considered formula when the fussing and crying didn't seem to end. But we worked through it and things got back to normal within a day or two.

I can't believe how far we've come in this half year.

Six months ago I met you for the first time. I look back at the pictures from the day you were born and I can't believe that teeny-tiny baby is you. You have changed so much. I have changed so much.



You smile and laugh and sit. You insist on standing with our assistance and you love to practice walking with Daddy helping you. You are in perpetual motion and if there's no sound coming out of your mouth, it's only because you're sleeping. Your eyes pop open when you wake up and don't shut until you've fought sleep with the last ounce of your being. But when you do sleep, you look so peaceful.

I sneak into your room every night before I go to bed and watch you sleep for a moment or two. These have become my favorite times -- these stolen moments -- because I can see you completely relaxed. Your little mouth sucks on some unseen thing every few seconds and I watch your chest as it rises and falls.



In the darkness I realize you are my entire life. I would do anything to keep you safe and happy. I would go to the ends of the earth to make things easy for you. I love you more than life itself. Someday, you will understand what I mean. You might think you love a car, or a pet, or a girl when you grow up. But someday, when you have a child of your own, you'll stand and watch that baby sleep and you'll know what I am talking about.

Love,
Mommy

Oh how the mighty have fallen

Hot damn it hurts when you fall and pretty much bend your ankle juuuust to the breaking point before it fails to snap.

In what could only be termed a miracle that I was not carrying Jack at the time, I bit it on the concrete stairs tonight. There was flying of objects, a sickening sound of flesh scraping the concrete, bruising of the knee and the aforementioned ankle fun.

Josh was holding Jack out on the sidewalk and I was walking in front of them on my way to the car when it happened. Of course, my first inclination was to cry. Then it was to laugh. Then I alternated both while writhing in pain on the ground.

My husband showed great concern. My son? Not so much.

"Look at that, Mommy fell. Oh but there are my hands! Let's put them in my mouth. Why is Mommy on the ground? She must be trying to learn to crawl. She's silly. Oh and look! My feet are here too. Wait, are the boobs OK? Did she injure the boobs? No? OK great. Now let's play with my toes."

Josh has been battling a nasty case of tendinitis in both wrists for the last month and is just now starting to see some progress from his physical therapy and regimen of ice and Advil.

So we're just getting him back from 15-day DL and I'll be listed as day-to-day with a high ankle sprain. Please refrain from whispering about our use of performance-enhancing drugs. I have never injected him in the ass with human growth hormone.

It was a B-12 shot, I swear.

Riverdance

Jack will now be auditioning for a role in Lord of the Dance. Watch out Michael Flatley.