To the Mother Who Didn't Experience Love at First Sight

I understand. I know you might be hiding those feelings--even from yourself, perhaps--but I want you to know that they are okay. It's okay that you didn't feel a flood of love and joy wash over for you at the moment you saw your little baby for the first time. You don't have to feel guilty. It's normal.

I vaguely remember seeing Q for the first time--in the operating room, after 3 hours of pushing and a c-section, the nurse held her up for me to see. And I didn't care. I looked because I knew I was supposed to, but I was spent. I felt exhausted, empty, in shock, and very little of myself was left to care for this little human being. I was wheeled into the recovery room, where I begged the nurse not to leave me alone. Then I was wheeled to my own room, where the nurse would check my bleeding, frown, and give me a new medication to try. Every time I tried to fall asleep, I was gripped by panic. I eventually was given a medicine for that, too. So the next day, I very slowly climbed into a wheelchair and went to meet my daughter in the NICU.

I didn't feel the instant mother-child bond then, either. She was hooked up to an IV and had a little red light blinking on her toe. She was swollen and a dark red/purple color. And my feelings for her were very mixed. When I look at the photos of myself holding her for the first time, I don't look like I'm in love. I look like someone who knows she's been beaten.

I still feel sadness and regret for how poorly I attached to Q in the beginning. Even as the weeks in the hospital crawled by, I vaguely felt like I was taking care of someone else's baby. But I also know that it wasn't my fault. And it's not yours, either.

To the mothers who didn't feel the surge of well-being and connection the first time they were shown their babies or cradled them in their arms, it is perfectly all right. Because you did all you could. And your feelings will grow. You didn't get that special, built in flood of emotions that many mothers get to help form that initial attachment to your child. But you can do it manually. It will come more slowly, but it will come.

And a couple years down the road, when they are running pellmell down the hallway with smudges of food on their faces, laughing hysterically and making you smile with their kid antics, you will remember that little, newborn baby and love it with all your heart.

Q Turns Two

Q's 2nd birthday was low-key to a fault. She and I had the flu about 36 hours prior, so the morning of her birthday, I jumped out of bed and realized that:

1. I felt much better!
2. I had neither purchased her a present nor wrapped the presents from her Florida grandparents and Uncle Tom. I hurriedly stuffed them into gift bags as I ascended the stairs to rescue her from her crib.

Basically, the majority of Q's birthday was spent disinfecting and cleansing the house from the veritable plague to which it had recently been subjected. Around lunchtime, I packed her off to Walmart and picked out three new books for her in lieu of a birthday present--I also had a toddler-sized infinity scarf that I had made for her out of one of my old scarves. She got a jungle animal puzzle from Uncle Tom and a small wooden train from her Florida grandparents, which they watched her open on Skype.

Q's birthday party had been postponed until Saturday due to our recent brush with death (a little drama never hurt anyone's blog, right?), and that day was thankfully more festive! At her request, Q was presented with a beautiful Mario cake made by her Nana (it was a toss up between Mario and cats). Two of Q's second cousins and their mamas attended, along with her great aunt, and there were helium balloons, fake mustaches, finger foods, and minor meltdowns. Q got the sweetest, most bashful smile on her face when everyone sang her "happy birthday."

If Q asks me what she was like at age 2, this is what I'd say: The duck fluff on the top of your head has finally started to come in, which is why we got you your first haircut just a month shy of your second birthday. You know the ABCs--I have heard you sing the entire song in your car seat as I drive--but refuse to say them on command for anybody. You know colors and numbers too. You're definitely NOT a people pleaser. Sometimes all that my yelling and fuming gets me is a big, impish grin on your face. We gave up on time outs because you would sit quietly in your chair amusing yourself and singing until the timer rang, then run delightedly into my arms with a smile. You still won't give strangers the time of day. You comfort yourself by constantly putting your hands in your mouth, which has translated into a LOT of sickness coming into the house (despite the fact that I'm one of "those moms" who busts out the disinfectant wipes to wipe down the grocery cart).

You continue to be a voracious reader--we probably average between 10 and 20 books a day, and that's with me limiting it. You LOVE "Mr. Brown Can Moo" and "Hop on Pop" and ask me to read them multiple times per day, but you're sitting still for longer books, too. You can recite most of your books by yourself--I've heard you! You believe that your daddy was set on this earth for the sole purpose of amusing you. I have never heard such loud, boisterous, utterly delighted laughs as when he is playing with you--usually something silly like tossing your stuffed owls against a wall, chasing you with a ducky, or "boinging" you by your arms up and down the hallway. People always comment on your blue eyes. You STILL get mistaken for a boy. You have recently begun singing, and hearing your soft little baby voice singing a familiar song completely out of tune is my favorite thing in the world. You like bunnies and owls.

I can tell you "no" about a hundred times, and you still won't get it (examples include: messing with the garbage can/recycling bin, taking cereal out of the cabinet, and grabbing the cat). You're just starting to get the hang of doing things on your own, such as putting on your shoes, putting on clothes (sort of), emptying your forks and spoons from the dishwasher, and brushing your teeth. You appear to be the indoorsy type, and I suspect that you might have inherited my utter lack of patience (you'll try to do something for yourself for about 3 seconds before you ask me to help you, at which point I usually decline). You are under the mistaken impression that I am a human jungle gym. You are your parents' most darling daughter, and we take delight in watching your personality take shape as you blossom into a "kyad" (as you say "kid").

To Pierce or not to Pierce?

I might get my daughter's ears pierced, and you should not give a damn.

I'm finding that people have very strong opinions about things that do not matter one whit. If she doesn't want to wear earrings when she's older, guess what? She won't wear earrings. In fact, I don't wear earrings. I got my ears pierced when I was 12, but I really have no opinion about it. I could do with or without.

Also, did you know that in some countries, such as Columbia, they pierce all newborn girls' ears in the hospital unless you ask them not to?

This definitely falls into the category of, "Things that people make a big deal about that really do not matter." There is abuse happening. There is starvation happening. There is sexual abuse happening. Trafficking. Terminal illness. All of these are things that afflict children of the world and that you should care deeply about. Don't waste time worrying about whether my 2-year-old has pierced ears or not. It will literally have no effect on her future outcome as a human being.

The Terrible Twos Commence

Q climbs on top of the slick faux-leather sofa and perches precariously, flashing a big smile at me. "You are trouble!" she exclaims (she really can't get this talking-in-first-person thing down). She looks at me expectantly, eyes sparkling, waiting for me to reprimand her. "Time out!" I say, because this is the 10th time she's climbed on top of the couch after I told her not to. She tumbles gracefully to the floor and runs lickety-split to her little plastic green lawn chair that's facing the corner of the hallway. She sits in it obediently as I wind the owl timer and gives a plaintive little whine, but it's just lip service. She spends the remainder of her 2-minute time out singing the animal alphabet to herself and taking off her socks.

I kept thinking, "Maybe now is the beginning of the terrible twos," whenever any new parenting challenge arose. But I didn't know. Now I KNOW. The terrible twos are her taking absolute pleasure in disobeying my every request. The terrible twos are an onslaught of "no"s because it's something I suggested. The terrible tantrums are random meltdowns when I insist that shes washes her hands or brushes her teeth. The terrible twos are her pronouncing words incorrectly on purpose or telling me the wrong colors of things as she grins at me, daring me to correct her. I had the audacity to take her outside to play in the backyard today, and stood bewildered as she rattled the gate lock and cried, snot running down her face, crying to go back in. Exasperated, I said, "Fine! We'll go inside!" and opened the gate to lead the way, at which point she instantly sniffled a high-pitched, "No!" and backed away from the gate, saying, "You wanna play outside." "Okay," I said, and closed the gate once more. The crying resumed, and all I could do was shrug my shoulders and go relax on the porch swing while I waited for my toddler to realize that I wasn't listening to her and go sneak into a corner to eat little rocks.

Never have I witnessed such pure, unadulterated pleasure as when I find her doing something she knows she's not allowed to do: salvaging food scraps from the trash can, elbow-deep in the recycling bin, or climbing the changing table in her room like it's a jungle gym. The prospect of discipline doesn't deter her--I have yet to find a form of discipline that's remotely effective against this phase. As I barely cling to scraps of my sanity, all I can do is redirect, raise my voice, or just tune her out.

I love the kid, but MAN do I breathe a big sigh of relief every night as I tuck her into her crib, turn off the lights, say a prayer, and tiptoe out the door.

Why You Should Get Rid of 100 Items

I'm really getting into a minimalism thing lately. I've been discovering the power behind the words, “Less is more.” I think most of us would agree that we have too much stuff. Almost all of us would acknowledge that we have items that have no sentimental value to us and have been sitting hidden away somewhere in our house for years, unused. I saw an Internet challenge going around recently that encouraged people to get rid of 100 things this month. Sound like a lot? You'd probably be surprised how easy it is. I've been going through my house bit by bit and throwing away or donating the things I've been holding onto unnecessarily. So to encourage you to take on this challenge, I present to you four benefits of having an uncluttered house:

1. You will get more out of what you own if it is accessible and easy-to-see.

This is nearly impossible to do if you have so much stuff that it is crammed into closets or stacked in large, impossible piles. I discovered this recently when I was cleaning out my kitchen and found a casserole dish I didn't know I had because it had been shoved in a dark corner of my kitchen cabinets. Interestingly enough, I had been looking for just such a casserole dish the night before while I was making dinner. It had probably been sitting in that cabinet for years, untouched.

2. Minimalism leads to easier upkeep and more frequent cleaning (because it's easier).

Do you have that one space that you HATE dusting? It's probably because it has dozens of miniscule trinkets to move and dust individually. Minimize these areas. It's okay to have some. It's even better if they're displayed in a china cabinet where they won't collect as much dust. I find that the less I have, the more likely I am to clean. If you have so much stuff that you feel like it's controlling you, it's time to purge.

3. You will buy more purposefully.

As you clean out, you'll come across things you bought on a whim and never used. You'll discover you have multiples of something that you bought on different occasions because you thought the other one was lost. And you'll find stuff that looked good on the shelves but that lost their appeal after you brought them home. You will learn to ask yourself questions as you shop, such as: “Where will this item be in 5 years?” “How often will I use this item?” “Will this item be difficult to clean?”, etc. I am still working on this, personally. I get the “I Wants,” as my mother used to call them. But I am slowly realizing that the less I buy, the more years there will be between “decluttering phases.” And you better believe you'll save some coin!

4. Future generations will be left with memories, not endless piles of stuff to sort through.

Okay, this one is slightly gloomy, but consider what things are precious and will be handed down to your children when you die, and what things they will go through and say, “What is this? I don't remember Mom or Dad having this. Is it important?” Maybe you ended up with 4 sets of china, but one set belonged to your great-great grandmother when she immigrated from Germany. The easiest way to denote the importance of that china set is by getting rid of the other ones (if you don't use them, of course). I have more tips regarding this, but I'll save that for a future entry!

Well, I hope that's sufficient motivation for you to get rid of 100 items! It doesn't have to be 100—set a goal that's reasonable for you. In my next entry, I'll give you some tips on decluttering. Aaaand this has officially become a Mom Blog. (Okay, it was probably official a long time ago.)

Exhibit A. The contents of my "toiletries shelf" in the linen closet, most of which I couldn't see and hadn't touched in years, BEFORE:

And AFTER:

Reflections as I Wake Up

I sit at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee, with generous cream. If I tilted my head at a certain angle, I could see the clouds outside skimming the dark liquid in my cup. It isn't too often that we have clouds--more commonly, the sky is a vast, endless expanse stretching over miles of unbroken golden grasses. I never imagined myself living in the prairie, 3 hours from a big city and even longer to the nearest mountain range. I'm tired this morning, trying to shrug off the fog of sleep that hasn't lifted since I was awoken by calls of "Mama!" over the baby monitor at 8am.

But my daughter watches me with sparkling eyes and firmly grasps her sippy cup of milk in front of her, chattering away. "Mama has coffee. Baby has milk!" She smiles a wide smile that could only be the result of deep, dreamless sleep. Sometimes I peak in her room before I head to bed for the night, and I usually find her pressed up against the slats of the crib with a pacifier in her mouth. A path of light shines across the floor of the room, but she rarely stirs.

Morningtime is a drawn-out ritual of drinks, breakfast, dishes, vitamins, tooth brushing, and dressing. We take it slowly, and it is often a 2-hour affair between the time she first stirs to the time we are dressed, pressed, and ready to head out on errands (or adventures). Her little bare feet beat an uneven rhythm on the laminate floor as she runs from hallway to living room, from living room to kitchen. I know that Daddy can hear it as he dozes downstairs.

I don't recall ever being ambitious. Not in the sense that people today mean it, anyway. I used to think that was a fault in myself, but now I see it as a blessing. It's not that I don't lead a productive life. I just feel utterly content in my role as wife and mother, and nothing else appeals to me as desperately as that does. I love the chattering and the cuddles and the cats that have to constantly be taken off the counter-tops. I love the slow-paced driving in a city where no one is in a terrible hurry. I love the prairie skies and the coulees and the muddy, unpredictable river. I love the cool berries sitting in my fridge and the crumbs that have to be swept up after almost EVERY meal, along with the expectant face that has to be scrubbed down, too. All of it is beautiful and satisfying to me.

I wonder if we've lost something by always reaching for something greater. If that desire is in your heart, follow it. But if you are content and filled with joy from details and crayon drawings and dirty dishes in the sink after a well-cooked meal, follow that, too. Don't let anyone tell you that motherhood is an occupation for second-class citizens. Anyone may be able to do it, but not everyone can do it well. Take pride in it, and take a deep draft of your morning cup of coffee for me, because goodness knows that I need another one.

10 Minutes of Chatter in the Life of a 20-month-old

On August 4, 2014 at approximately 9:35am, I grabbed a pen and decided, on a whim, to write down everything my child said for the next 10 minutes. I decided that the resulting monologue was interesting in a weird sort of way, so I'm posting it for posterity. Q is particularly chatty in the morning. My input during her monologue is minimal--I occasionally repeat things back to her so that she'll finally stop saying them. The writer's comments are in brackets.

[Q comments on her surroundings.]

Baby on the chair.
Bella on the table.
Bella on the counter.
Baby on the chair.

[Q comments on Mama "coloring," referring to Mama writing down Q's words.]

Mama color it.

[Q takes a swift deviation to discuss hotdogs, which are not visible nor were previously discussed that day.]

Mama hotdog.
Dada hotdog.
Baby hotdog.

[Back to noticing Mama's list-writing.]

That's Mama color. x5

[Q decides that Bella-the-cat's name needs to be repeated out loud a couple dozen times, most commonly in groupings of three.]

Bella. x23

[Q discusses her drinks on the table.]

You spilled it.
Want milk. x3
Want water.

[Q continues to be flummoxed by Mama's continual note-taking.]

That's Mama color. x3
That's Mama pen. x8
Mama color.
That's Mama color.

[Back to drinks.]

Water. x2
Milk. x6
You spilled it.

[Babbling. Q decides she wants to play with her robot blocks.]

You want robots. x3

[She decides to answer her own demand in the affirmative.]

Okay.
I'll get you robots.
Stay on your chair.

[Mama obediently brings the robots, and Q ups the ante. She is not only the director, but the narrator as well. She tells Mama to build, gives Mama her due praise, and holds both sides of a conversation with herself.]

Mama make a tower robots. x2
Mama get it the black robot.
Mama get it.
Okay.
Dump 'em out.
Black robot. x4
Mama make a tower robots.
Okay.
Give me 'nother one.
Dump 'em out.
Mama do it.
Yay.
Mama do it.
Yay baby.
Yay.
Mama do it.
It fell over.
Mama do it.

[She abruptly switches to another subject, using the fake British pronunciation of "baby."]

Bobby.
Little bobby.
Little bobby sit on the chair.

[Q drops her milk.]

Mama get it. x2
(Babbling)
Dropped your...
Mama get the milk.

[The rest of her monologue, for the most part, is a rousing account of more robot block building.]

'Nother robot.
Black robot.
Try again.
Oh! Fall downd. x2
Green robot. x5
'Nother green robot. x3
Fall downd.
One robots.
Sit on the table too.
Owl Feathers and Hoot. [Her stuffed owls.]
Mama get that.
Mama.
Mama build a tower robots. x3
Okay.
Give me 'nother one. x5
It fell.
Try againd.
Baby try againd.
Mama try againd.
Mama build a tower robots.
Hang on.
(Squealing)

9:46am.

She said "Mama" 39 times in the span of 10 minutes. I wonder how many times she says it per day??

Why a College Degree Is Still Valuable to a Stay-at-Home Mom

One day, I casually mentioned to a friend that I was still paying off my student loan. "But," I was quick to explain, "It was only for living expenses--Florida has really great scholarships for covering tuition." "That's good," he agreed, "Otherwise going to college would have been a pretty big waste." And something about that offhand remark rubbed me the wrong way. I knew exactly what he meant--paying for a college education would have been a waste because I am a stay-at-home mom not applying my degree to a career. The implication, in fact, was that college degrees are useless to moms in general--a widespread sentiment that I think probably contributes to mothers returning to the workforce after childbirth sooner than they would prefer. I sometimes find myself trying to apologize for or explain away my degree. "I know I'm not using it right now," I say. And that is a lie.

Do you know why a college degree is important? To secure a job, certainly. But many people enter the workforce in areas completely unrelated to their degrees. Some degrees--like English literature--won't help you get a job at all.

For me personally, I suspect that I wouldn't be in Canada at all if I hadn't attended University 2 hours away from my childhood home. Though the distance was relatively small, it was my first experience living on my own--having to scrounge for my own food and get along with roommates (which I wish I'd done a better job of, by the way) and solve some of my own problems. I visited churches, attended counseling with a woman who I still love dearly to this day, navigated my first painful breakup, and just learned how to function as an adult. I don't think these things could have happened in the magnitude that they did if I had stayed in my hometown and gotten a job straight out of high school. And nothing besides school could have convinced me to leave home at that young age.

Cutting the proverbial apron strings aside, though, the knowledge and skills that I obtained in college have been invaluable to my personal growth. I have dissected so many books and articles and written so many papers that require me to organize my thoughts in a rational, coherent manner. I have learned to research whether something or not is true or find out more about a topic that interests me. My curiosity about the world has been aroused. I have learned to pick the important points out of a speech or passage of writing and commit them to memory. I've read great literature--and not-so-great literature. I've studied child psychology and gotten insight into eating disorders. I've learned how language is formed and the different prevailing views upon how it is learned and if there is an age limit to when it can be acquired with fluency. And though I remember very few details across my 4 years of study, the methods and the overarching principles have stayed with me.

But if education only serves one person, it isn't terribly useful. Now I have a daughter (you knew I was going to bring her up, didn't you?), and I am her entire world. For more than a decade, I will be the lens through which she views the world--I will pass on to her my insights, my prejudices, and some of my skill sets. I cannot think of a more compelling reason to have an education.

And truly, if all of my education has taught me anything, it's really that we know very little. Do not make the latest science or psychology or social media or political ideal your god, because they are all continually in flux. I am often amazed by the completely opposite points of view that are presented as "scientifically verified"--and really, unless I am to perform my own, unbiased, longitudinal study on many thousands of people (don't forget the control group!) for every little "fact" I hear, I really can't know anything with certainty. I recall hearing recently that there is new evidence showing that sunscreen can CAUSE cancer. I don't know what is true in that particular case, but it's just another example of the vacillating nature of our knowledge of the universe. Learn to question it.

So to all you moms with your "useless" college degrees, be proud of how your education has shaped you and for the difference it makes in how you raise your little ones. Let your own experiences ignite the spark of curiosity in them and never take for granted how fortunate you were to have studied in one of the most privileged countries in one of the most enlightened ages in the world.

Trip to B.C.

We made it through our annual summer excursion to Great Grandma's house in the mountains of B.C.! It is such a beautiful place, but the drive can be made much longer by a baby. I can't begrudge Q the extra stops, though, because they were breathtaking and gave us a chance to stretch our legs and not feel like balls of pent-up energy by the time we arrived.

Do you know how many times you think to yourself, "I should write this down, or I won't remember it"? That's why I am chronicling our vacation. Q is reaching an age where she is so self-possessed, intelligent, sweet, and fiercely insistent on attempting everything on her own, that I want to remember all of it. Photos help, but a few words can't hurt, either.

Day 1: We stopped at Crow's Nest Lake on the way there to eat some lunch, and it was perfect. Q ran around in the grass, sat at a picnic table to eat her sandwich while she looked over the lake, and tested the frigid lake water by dipping her entire shoe in it. I used an outhouse which was something straight out of a horror film, with a cement toilet that dropped unfathomable depths into the ground and a dim, flickering light right above that was guarded by a small cage.

We went straight to Wasa Lake for Great Grandma's 88th birthday picnic. This is one of the few pictures I got because Q was insistent upon running full speed at sandy slopes and unassuming sunbathers. The gophers, I think, delighted her. She was scared of her 10-year-old cousin with his goggles on, and a grand time was had by all.

Day 2: We discovered that our air mattress had a leak in it, which resulted in Steve and I moving to a different bed at around 3am while Q stayed in her port-a-crib in Great Grandpa's old stone workshop. Later that morning, I found Steve cuddling Q to sleep on the slouchy mattress. Next we went downtown to see the big longboarding competition that cousin Dan was in. Steve ate up all the photography opportunities and got some amazing shots of the racers. It was a hot day, so Q and I shared a root beer float. She also took her pacifier out and rubbed it in the sand by the curb, then popped it back into her mouth before I could stop her. It might just be my new measure of grossness ("Well, is it grosser than the time that Q ______?"). Then we explored the little shops around the Platzl, and Nanners bought Q a beautiful hand-sewn dress from Guatemala.

 

Day 3: On our final full day, we took Q to meet her great-great-aunt and eat some pineapple cake. Despite being a little cranky, she did well, and even gave her aunt TWO kisses upon departure. That evening, our little family traveled back to Wasa Lake to swim, and Q ate up every moment of it. She cried the entire car ride back because she wanted to go back in the water. This is the occasion during which I found the fabled aviator sunglasses that fit my gigantic-melon-of-a-head. It's like they were calling me there in the sand.

Day 4: Q woke up and remembered in a creaky morning voice, "Go home. See Charlie and Bella." We had a hearty breakfast of blueberry waffles (which Q quite enjoyed, in part owing to the fact that she now believes her last name is Waffle), said our goodbyes, and headed home. We stopped in Fernie to walk around a small pond and ate our lunch on a little dock. Many-a-goldfish-cracker was dropped through the wooden slats. We also stopped at a playground in Fort Macleod for lunch and a little play, and Bow Island to stretch our legs and get a picture with Pinto the pinto bean.

Things I want to remember: Q would become full of energy in the evening, invigorated by all the new people and places. She loved to take the cushions off of the wicker furniture on the porch, set them on the floor, then plop onto them on her bum, laughing. She stomped her feet in silliness. She ate everything offered to her--she's in the middle of a major growth spurt, I think. She dragged the big, stuffed, orange kitty around. Her older cousins made little bracelets for her out of their rainbow loom kits. All the cousins and grandparents and aunts/uncles, etc. gathered on the porch for a big family picture, and we were vaguely concerned that that corner of the porch might not hold us all. Great Grandma would often dissolve into a fit of giggles when Q said something particularly funny. We taught her to say, "Onomatopoeia," which she said as clear as a bell. She spent copious amounts of time trying to put on her own clothes and other people's shoes, at which she was never quite successful. She would pitch a fit if anyone tried to help her (the shirts would hang limply around her neck and her legs would be shoved into a single leg hole in her shorts). Nana's sandals were her favorite to try on. She slept quite well at night, though she woke up early, and her naps were much shorter than usual. She was also much more sociable than she has historically been, and warmed up to various family members quickly, taking strangers in stride (she even gave a very cautious hug to her grown-up distant cousin, whom she'd never met before). We all enjoyed making family vacation memories together. It feels like the best parts of our lives are just beginning.

Grandma's Ill-Fated Visit

High hopes: Car ride to Calgary

I'm pretty sure my mother is having the best time of her life. I know this, because she just walked in to tell me, "A spider just fell on my neck while I was downstairs. I'm looking up natural remedies to get rid of spiders." I like to treat my guests right.

But if we were to go back to the beginning, we'd take a trip down memory lane to Monday, when S, Q, and I made the 3-hour-drive to Calgary (P.S. It's a 4-hour-drive when you have a baby) to pick Mom up from the airport. Everything went pretty smoothly--we had planned a stay in a nice hotel so that we could go to the zoo the next day. The Hampton Inn of our choice was beautiful--it was only 7 months old, everything felt clean, the pool was nice, they provided a great little crib for Q, had ample free coffee, etc.

Playing on the hotel bed

We ate dinner (which involved driving around aimlessly in an attempt to find a decent restaurant before dejectedly settling on Subway), played in the pool, took showers, and then drew the black-out curtains and set Q in her crib at a little after 8pm. We all sat quietly in the dark on our various electronic devices or simply laid on the fluffy bedding. 9pm. Q is babbling to herself. She's singing little bits of "Barbara Ann" and counting ("1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 6, 9, 6..."). She's fussing and insisting on cuddles (I have to acquiesce, because I don't know how much her crying is disturbing our hotel neighbors). 10pm. I had wanted to perhaps have another quick swim, and the pool closes at 11. The babbling voice in the crib is silent. By this time, Mom has gotten ready for bed and is ready to doze, herself.

10:15pm. The most inhuman, earsplitting, bone-rattling, screeching fire alarm blares through our hotel room. Q wakes up wailing. The sound is so terrible that I can't even think, except for, "Get the baby, leave the building." Mom throws on a robe over her nightgown, and I scoop a pajamaed Q out of her crib and head out the door. Just as we get down the stairs (we're only on the 2nd floor, thankfully) and outside, the alarm stops. We stand around, dazed, and eventually shuffle back inside with all the rest of the people. My hopes of getting any pool time are crushed.

Lobby, 5am

We'll just shorten this up a bit and say that Q fussed on and off all night before waking up bright and early at 4:30am, at which point she and I wandered around the hotel for a couple of hours before coming back for a nap. So on very little sleep, but after a delicious continental breakfast, we checked out of our hotel room (which we got for FREE, believe it or not, after Mom casually mentioned to the front desk that the fire alarm possibly resulted in a bad sleep for the baby) and embarked upon our zoo adventure...

...Which really wasn't all that adventurous. It was crowded with school groups, hot, and we wandered for quite a distance before we were actually able to find any animals. An hour and a half into our outing, and Q was no longer impressed. So we called it a morning, grabbed some lunch, and headed toward home.

One hour from home, Q lost her lunch. We pulled over to the side of the road and spent the next 20 minutes trying to clean up the car seat, changing her clothes, discovering she has the runs, changing her diaper, RE-changing her clothes, etc. She had, unfortunately, deposited some of her bodily fluids on my pants, so I was very stinky for the remainder of the ride. I sat in the backseat with her and caught her stomach contents in whatever blankets or dirty clothes I could find. We finally made it home.

Q threw up a number of times that evening/night (10 total?), and it was a flurry of unpacking, hosing off soiled linens, changing her crib sheets, sending S out to buy more waterproof mattress pads, and all manner of disinfecting. She was burning up with a fever the next day and very lethargic, insisting that I hold her the entire day. The following days she has begun to get slowly better, but she is still not able to keep much food down, and we are having to coax fluids into her (she had her first popsicle today and appeared to be a big fan). In the meantime, my mother has been doing all of the cooking and dishes and many loads of soiled laundry, as well as mopping all of the floors after Q's sickest day. I have, for the most part, been stuck under a very sick baby who only wants her mama to hold her.

Thankfully, Q had perked up considerably today. She was still not able to keep down food, but she was cheerful and talking and playing. We were able to leave her with S so that Mom and I could go shopping and out to lunch. We have not, sadly, been able to do any of the little outings I had hoped to do with Q (such as the library and butterfly garden). Tomorrow is Mom's last day here, and it's pretty much been a wash for her. Perhaps that spider was merely dropping by to express his condolences.

Another Post About the Short Person Who Lives in My House

So many of my posts are problem-focused, I would like to take some space to tell you how much I freakin' love this kid. Seriously.

One of the things I love about children is how RANDOM they are. I was reminded of that today when Q wrapped her hair bow around the old insulin pen I gave her (don't worry, it's empty) and said, "Pretty shot!" (She recently had her 18-month-old shots and made a MUCH bigger deal about getting weighed and measured than she did about receiving the actual needle. Now no more immunizations until age 4!) She's also beginning to be able to speak about things that happened in the past. "Teepee!" she said today, alluding to our trip to visit the teepees that are temporarily set up in the empty field along Maple Ave. She thought a moment and said, "Inside teepee." (I made a big deal about us going inside the teepees and not just playing on the nearby playground.) It is a new experience for me to hear her remember things and be able to vocalize them.

 

She makes me laugh every day. When she's being bad and I take a stern tone with her, she starts yelling, "Time out! Time out!" I haven't tried to implement a time out in over a month, I think. She runs away from me at bedtime, toddling awkwardly down the hall while she cries, "Run away!" She also likes to hide now, and always announces it beforehand by saying, "Hiding." Hiding, to her, can be as simple as turning her head away so she can't see us. Of course we play along.

We are spending time in the backyard every day, and it has become our little sanctuary. It's a small, rectangular yard with a slide, a baby pool (when it's not too cold), and a couple of little outdoor toys. I sit in the grass and weed while she explores. Sometimes she comes up beside me and pulls out a handful of grass with her fist. "Weed," she informs me. She also INSISTS that I put on my "suncream." And if I try to get away with only putting it on my arms, she says, "Chest! Neck!" and helps me rub it in. She appears to be mildly afraid of bugs. And she takes great pleasure in drinking from the sprinkler.

Oh, and she's a great eater. My brother says she traded in being sociable for being a good eater. She'll try almost anything, and even if she doesn't like it for the first one or two bites, she'll try again. She eats almost everything we eat. Tonight she ate pork chops with rhubarb relish. I recall being quite a picky eater as a kid, so I think I just got lucky with that one! She doesn't seem to require much snacking, so she chows down at mealtime. I hope this adventurousness in eating and healthy appetite continue indefinitely!

She is now at an age where she will tolerate having her toenails painted, and I think it helps contribute to a more "girly" look, which we sometimes struggle to achieve because I don't like too much pink and she doesn't have long hair. Not that it really matters, but the number of times she has been called a boy despite wearing frilly clothing (just because of her hair, I assume) is startling. Plus, painted toenails are dang cute on a baby.

Oh, and I thank you all very much for your comments on my last post about her excessive shyness. I have come to the conclusion that you're right. She is who she is. And she's still extremely young, so she might grow out of it. I'm not going to "force" her to be friendly. I will always encourage her to be polite, but I won't make a big deal out of her clinginess and will simply spend my time enjoying the close bond that we have. These slow days of routine and exploring and errands and cleaning are special to me. I thank God for lending Q to me--she helps me see the world through different eyes.