the pieces of my life

I let the two-year anniversary of this blog pass with nary a comment, so I shall rectify that now: I’ve been blogging for two years. There you go.

I started blogging because Eugene and Adam did and if they could do it, so could I. In the beginning, I was so self-conscious about what I wrote. Now, it’s just a free for all. Adam does have veto rights; if I write something I think he might find offensive or embarrassing to him, then he gets to look at it before it’s published. To his credit, he’s never used that veto power.

It seems in the grand scheme of things, my blog is old. Daniella points to a blog survey that reports “66.0% of surveyed blogs had not been updated in two months” (which makes my once a week not so bad). Most blogs, it seems, are abandoned after a bit (although, if you’re like Mike, you may declare you’re abandoning only to cave to the pressure of friends to reactivate). My blog is definitely more of an online diary (created for one of the “nanoaudiences” the survey describes) than the traditional news-gathering blog, but I resist their definition that “the typical blog is written by a teenage girl who uses it twice a month to update her friends and classmates on happenings in her life. It will be written very informally (often in “unicase”: long stretches of lowercase with ALL CAPS used for emphasis) with slang spellings, yet will not be as informal as instant messaging conversations (which are riddled with typos and abbreviations). Underneath the iceberg, blogging is a social phenomenon: persistent messaging for young adults.”

The bottom line is I enjoy blogging. I enjoy reading other people’s blogs when I can and it’s always a thrill to discover a new blog. When blogging stops being fun, I’ll stop blogging.

One thing, though, is that to blog is to open yourself to criticism. I’m not the best with the criticism, so I often tune it out. However, that’s not going to stop me from bashing Eugene for what he wrote in his blog in his critique of bad cell phone manners: “People who make time to see you and then spend half that time on the phone talking to other people. Yes, I’m having a lot of fun sitting here listening to one half of your conversation. Why don’t you get out of here and join them and then call me on the cell phone so I can multi-task while you waste someone else’s time?” This makes me think fondly of the days when Weegie and I would go see movies on a regular basis. We had tickets together to a French Film Noir series at the Seattle Art Museum. Before going to see Purple Noon (and man is that a great film!) we went for dinner at a Japanese restaurant near Pike Place Market. Just seconds after the waiter had taken our order, with nary an “excuse me” or “this will just be a moment,” Weegie whips out his cell phone to call… his entertainment-system salesman. Yes, that’s right, I ate my negisaba roll listening to Weegie discuss–for a solid twenty minutes–woofers (or was it subwoofers–I can’t remember) with a friggin’ salesman while I’m just sitting there. It was the rudest thing I had ever seen, and I feel validated that Weegie is finally acknowledging it as rude behavior. Yes, Weegie does have the most impressive entertainment system I’ve ever seen, but I couldn’t give a hoot about the woofers. Are people who don’t know Eugene going to care about this post? Not a whit. Is it wrong to be using my blog for a revenge post now? Probably. But damn do I feel better now.

Back to my usual blogging.

This is day two of the Pod Baby. I’m not sure what planet he came from or what they’ve done with the real Doodlebug, but I’m loving every second of this alien child. Yesterday, friends (one grown-up and one baby) came over to hang out. We decided to bake cookies (yes, it’s true! I’ve embraced suburban haus-frauism in its entirety) and watch a movie. I put the Doodlebug in his bouncy chair, which is always a risky endeavor because it’s a love/hate thing between the baby and the chair, and he sat quietly and alert for over two hours! He smiled, he cooed, he just stared into space. Today, I wanted to get some writing done, so I crossed my fingers and put the Doodlebug in the bouncy chair in my office. Once again, he just sat and looked around. When he looked like he might fuss, I rocked his chair with my foot, and he’d immediately calm down. I not only got to make a cup of tea… I got to drink it! I finished revising a story I’d been working on. I read a few e-mails (but didn’t respond–that will happen one of these days). I picked up a few things around the house. He did get a little fussy, but calmed when I picked him up. After his feeding, more fussiness ensued. So I put him in his Pack N Play. And amazingly, he got smiley and quite, batting a bit at the mobile, staring some at his crib toy, and when he’d had enough of that, he turned his head and stared at the gray wall of the crib. And now? Now he is happily asleep. It’s a Pod Baby! I hope he stays.

Many thanks to Shannon for forwarding me this link that just reinforces all those negative HBS-sterotypes.

It’s a gym night for me. And I have an overwhelming urge to put a sign on my back that reads, “This is not my real body. It’s just a loaner till my son returns the body he stole from me.”

When a baby cries, the parents try to quiet him. It’s what parents do. That is, unless the baby is the Doodlebug and the parent is me. I know all parents think their baby is the cutest, but when the Doodlebug gets himself into a pout, it just breaks my heart how adorable he is. Right before he’s about to erupt into a fit, his lower lip protrudes and quivers, like a bad cliche of a crying baby. The pouty face just kills me. But what kills me even more is that I haven’t been able to capture the pouty face on film (oh, okay, on digital chip, but that just doesn’t sound the same). So every time I think the pouty face is about to come, I grab my camera and wait a moment. Which means the Doodlebug generally breaks out into wails of misery. And of course, I miss the pouty face because when the tears start, the pouty face quickly dissolves into openmouthed screams. So I have a crying baby on my hands. And I wait a few moments, because sometimes the pouty face returns, but generally only fleetingly enough to whet my appetite. I do pick him up quickly after that (and I never try this when he’s hungry or wet), but I’m determined to get that pouty face. As they tell me in my mom’s group, no baby has ever died from crying. I, on the other hand, may go deaf.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a meeting for some freelance work I’m doing. In all fairness, this company sought me out, and I told them that I was unable to work until January when I would have childcare (the Doodlebug is on a waiting list for part-time day care; we’ve been on the list since last April, and we’re currently number 10. I was told, though, that because most parents want full-time, we have a good shot at a part-time slot in January. I’m not positive we’ll use it, but if I can kick my writing into gear, then the Doodlebug will enter daycare two days a week. I figure everyone wins if we can manage to swing it. He develops better socialization skills and gets a happier, more focused mother and I might actually get my novel finished. But I’m digressing here). But, somehow, I unthinkingly uttered the words, “Although, if you don’t mind me bringing my son to meetings, I could start working in October.” They agreed.

So, the Doodlebug and I arrive in Cambridge and I park. All is well because he was silent for the journey, and I know that the Doodlebug has only two modes when driving: screaming or asleep (it’s a big fat myth that all babies love car rides. He hates the car). Imagine my surprise when I open the back door, and there’s the Doodlebug, wide-eyed and not the least bit sleepy. Right then, I knew I was sunk. Sure enough, we’re not in the meeting for five minutes (five minutes of me frantically pushing the stroller back and forth in an attempt to get him to fall asleep) when the screams erupt. I pick him up, and–professional person that I am–held him in my arms while attempting to have a grown-up business meeting. He’s still fussy, so I try the pacifier. No luck (he’s since completely rejected the pacifier, which is quite distressing as it was a wonderful way of silencing him). Now, not wanting to whip out my breast in the middle of a meeting, I had cleverly thought to pack a bottle of pumped milk. However, I have never given him a bottle before. So, the bottle goes into his mouth and I look up to continue the conversation. I look back down a few minutes later, and there’s a huge puddle of milk on his front (um, did I remember a bib? That’s a negative). I’m trying to adjust the bottle without interrupting my train of thought and making a bungle of the whole thing. Finally, after what feels an impossibly long time and after having made a gigantic mess, the Doodlebug falls asleep in my arms in his usual, comfortable head-thrown-back body sprawled position (and of course I don’t dare to put him down because that only leads to waking up). I finish the meeting fairly upset because I feel like I’ve done a half-assed job at being a professional and I’ve done a half-assed job at being a mother. I swear it will never happen again.

Okay, so while in my mind the meeting was a disaster, I know that in reality it went okay. However, for our next meeting, I make sure to arrange it for a time when Adam won’t be in class and can take the baby. So, at 1 p.m. last Thursday, I dropped the Doodlebug off at HBS so Adam could take him to his entrepreneurship club meeting and I could go baby-free to my meeting. My meeting went just fine, and I returned home gleefully, excited to hear of the disruption the Doodlebug caused in Adam’s meeting.

You know where this is going, right? He was perfectly well behaved. He was quiet and cute and slept almost the entire time. Everyone raved at how adorable he is. There was no spit-up, no screaming, and he didn’t even get hungry enough for Adam to give him the bottle. When I expressed my dismay at this, Adam asked, “What, did you want him to completely misbehave and cry during my meeting?” Finally! My husband understands me! Of course I wanted him to disrupt the meeting. It was essential so that Adam could see what it’s like for me.

I am a bitter, bitter woman. Plain and simple.

Today was the Doodlebug’s two-month doctor visit. He’s now 21 1/4 inches long and 11 pounds, 11 ounces. Happily, while he’s still short and fat (5th percentile for length, 50th percentile for weight), he’s gaining brain power. He’s up from the 5th percentile on his head circumference to the 25th percentile. On his way to being brainy!

Somehow, our very fussy baby turned quite smiley after his shots (four of them, in fact). Adam came with me to the appointment because there was no way I was going to stay in the room as the nurse gave the Doodlebug his shots. Sure enough, he screamed at the top of his lungs, but only for a moment. He got back into his car seat with nary a fuss, slept for three hours, and then woke up with plenty of big smiles. I’m not sure if it’s because we dosed him first (ah, a budding druggie; nothing like infant Tylenol) or if he’s just a masochist in training, but I’d be quite happy if he were this quiet and content every night.

At first I was concerned by the premise of The Nurture Assumption: Why Children Turn Out the Way They Do, a book I’m in the middle of that Eugene sent me, which is that a child is more affected by his peers than his parents (to ridiculously simplify it). Of course, I had thought, I want Adam and I to have the greatest influence on our Doodlebug. But then, something happened that made me change my mind. Adam used–in a non-ironic, totally unintentional way–the word wicked as an adjective. The Doodlebug will learn better English on the streets.

So, the Doodlebug is no longer having such spit up problems (and thanks for the reflux suggestions–the doc said as long as he didn’t appear in pain when he spit up, it was okay). He has a new thing. It’s the “must… stay… awake… no… matter… how… tired… I… am…” Those eyelids get heavy, closing to tiny slits. The head begins to nod. The yawns come fast and furious. But, then, suddenly, he realizes, “I could miss something! Must stay awake at all costs!” And, smart little monkey that he is, he understands that the easiest way to stay awake is to scream at the top of his lungs. And the more he screams, the more tired he gets, and the more tired he gets, the more he wants to stay awake, so the more he screams. It’s a joy and an honor to be a part of. I can’t wait to get even when he’s sixteen.