Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Audrey Penelope Hay
Turned one this past Sunday.
We were in Central Park, made it nearly til dark.
I plan to go back one fine day.
Cutest moment of the century coming up:
But as often happens with young love, things quickly got complicated:
If I had a dollar for every relationship I ruined by poking them in the eye and trying to eat their head....
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Who says you can't still have fun with a baby?
Infant splashback can be a real bitch.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
We interrupt these Michigan photos for an important announcement...
BREAKING --- ELLIOT SLEEPS THROUGH THE NIGHT --- BREAKING --- NARY A CRY UNTIL DAWN --- BREAKING
On Saturday night, we got tickets to a play that some friends of mine were producing. (It turned out to be a kind of Sophocles-meets-David Rabe elegy to the soldier's experience in war, sober and depressing.)
We belong to a babysitting cooperative, the kind that makes Newt Gingrich clench his hands in fists of rage. We've done free babysitting for people, and last Saturday someone offered to come over and babysit for us.
She arrived at 7pm, was Australian, and had two kids of her own. Off we went to our play, and when we got home at 11, she was watching TV. How long had he been asleep we asked? Since nine pm.
Weird. He never slept for two hours in his crib.
Our "babysitter" left, and we puttered around the house, waiting for him to wake up. But he didn't. We went to sleep at 12:30am, puzzled.
I woke up at 5:30 the next morning, and my first thought was: He's dead.
There's no way he could have slept through the night without crying. I ran over to the room and peeked my head in. There he was, lying on his stomach, his little cheek pressed against the mattress, kicking his legs in some dream of Australian kangaroos.
He slept until nearly 8 that morning. I was convinced that this Australian woman had some kind of aboriginal witch powers. Or a syringe full of morphine.
She'd said that all she did was read him a book and give him a bottle of milk and let him cry for a few minutes. So last night we did that. Turned the lights down, read a book in a monotone. Then Hannah fed him and I plopped him in his crib. He cried for a minute or two, not very hard, and then was quiet. An hour later I poked my head in and could hear his breathing. So we went to bed.
This morning he woke up pretty early, about 6am. And we brought him into bed with us, because that's still the best part of day, waking up with Elliot in your bed.
I don't want to jinx anything, but it seems like he may finally be ready to sleep in his crib.
I have to admit, this makes me a little sad. We both missed him last night. And it does seem like it would be lonely in that crib by yourself.
I always complained about there not being enough room in the bed. Now that we've got that room back, I'm not sure it's worth it...
On Saturday night, we got tickets to a play that some friends of mine were producing. (It turned out to be a kind of Sophocles-meets-David Rabe elegy to the soldier's experience in war, sober and depressing.)
We belong to a babysitting cooperative, the kind that makes Newt Gingrich clench his hands in fists of rage. We've done free babysitting for people, and last Saturday someone offered to come over and babysit for us.
She arrived at 7pm, was Australian, and had two kids of her own. Off we went to our play, and when we got home at 11, she was watching TV. How long had he been asleep we asked? Since nine pm.
Weird. He never slept for two hours in his crib.
Our "babysitter" left, and we puttered around the house, waiting for him to wake up. But he didn't. We went to sleep at 12:30am, puzzled.
I woke up at 5:30 the next morning, and my first thought was: He's dead.
There's no way he could have slept through the night without crying. I ran over to the room and peeked my head in. There he was, lying on his stomach, his little cheek pressed against the mattress, kicking his legs in some dream of Australian kangaroos.
He slept until nearly 8 that morning. I was convinced that this Australian woman had some kind of aboriginal witch powers. Or a syringe full of morphine.
She'd said that all she did was read him a book and give him a bottle of milk and let him cry for a few minutes. So last night we did that. Turned the lights down, read a book in a monotone. Then Hannah fed him and I plopped him in his crib. He cried for a minute or two, not very hard, and then was quiet. An hour later I poked my head in and could hear his breathing. So we went to bed.
This morning he woke up pretty early, about 6am. And we brought him into bed with us, because that's still the best part of day, waking up with Elliot in your bed.
I don't want to jinx anything, but it seems like he may finally be ready to sleep in his crib.
I have to admit, this makes me a little sad. We both missed him last night. And it does seem like it would be lonely in that crib by yourself.
I always complained about there not being enough room in the bed. Now that we've got that room back, I'm not sure it's worth it...
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Thursday visitors
The next round of callers included that ruffian Vronsky, but he was far overshadowed by Deb, Marionetta, and Maria.
Elliot seemed to develop an instant crush on Deb. This was at least partly because she has about 10 times as much energy as Hannah and I put together. So maybe he was thinking, "Finally! Some parents who can DO something for me!"
These photos don't really capture it, Elliot spent about ten full minutes latched onto Deb's face like a lamprey. Which can be a dangerous thing now that he's got that single tooth.
Only one good photo of Maria, and none at all of Marionetta. What a baby hog Deb is!
Last Thursday
Hannah and I got in kind of late on Wednesday, so we took Thursday morning to relax. For me that meant waking up at 8am and taking a nap from 10 to 11:30. For the Michigan locals it meant hitting Value Village, that oasis of economical style that somehow manages to reach deep inside and hit the psychological reset button. (VV virtues extolled here.)
No, I'm just kidding, Liam is actually the best-behaved 12 year-old I've ever met. He does, however, have an addiction to curling up in armchairs.
So does his younger sister Zara, although she tends to stay a little more vertical.
They were both great with Elliot.
Emily's youngest son Aramis was too little to hold Elliot, so he pouted.
And Emily proved that once you got it, you never lose the touch....
On Wednesday afternoon we received callers, as behooved our elite status in the community. Along with the insufferable Mr. Darcy, we were visited by the delightful Emily Greene, one of Hannah's oldest friends.
Here's Emily with her crazy son Liam:
No, I'm just kidding, Liam is actually the best-behaved 12 year-old I've ever met. He does, however, have an addiction to curling up in armchairs.
So does his younger sister Zara, although she tends to stay a little more vertical.
They were both great with Elliot.
Emily's youngest son Aramis was too little to hold Elliot, so he pouted.
And Emily proved that once you got it, you never lose the touch....
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The Sound of a Baby not Pooping
Overall it was a nice relaxing trip to Michigan. Which does not make for good blogging material. So I’m going to have to take the tiniest snafus and inflate them into an epic drama.
Ready? Here goes.
When I picked up Elliot on Wednesday afternoon he hadn’t pooped since the morning. That night we didn’t think much of it. But when on Thursday morning he still hadn't pooped, we were a little surprised, and by Thursday night there was an ongoing discussion about what to do.
We were considering manual disimpaction, or at least Hannah was encouraging me to consider it. (I've done it once before on Elliot, with the tip of my pinkie, and it was so successful that I’m permanently traumatized). I demurred, which I do like this: “Hmm, yeah, okay. Hmm.” Right hand on chin, left hand right elbow.
When we woke up Friday and he still hadn’t pooped, my demurrals were becoming less well-received. There was a certain “what the hell are we going to do?” feel in the air. Was he impacted? Was his diet all fakakta?
Oh, I forgot to mention we were starting a four-hour drive to Chicago Friday morning.
All five of us handled it with aplomb. Including the constipated gentleman himself. Kate boiled a few prunes, and we invented a new commercial product: Prune Water! It’s what’s left over after the gooey fibrous part of the prunes are mushed up and separated. How has no one thought of this before? You charge $2.99 and it makes your baby poop!
During the drive to Chicago, Hannah led us on a brainstorming session and took the idea one step further, elaborating an entire spectrum of baby waters, with different mixtures of vitamins and nutrients depending on where your baby’s head (and intestine) is at. We collectively came up with a brand name for this product: Ga-Gaia (because water comes from the earth, and it would all be organic you see).
Don’t anyone try to steal this idea, I hereby copyright it on this blog.
The sad part about this blog post--- well, there are many. First, if writing about baby poop is pathetic, how much more pathetic is it to write about not poop?
Second, I can’t even remember the exciting ending of the story. (spoiler alert: he poops) It was sometime while we were in Chicago, roughly 6-8 hours after feeding him the prune water. But the details escape me. If you really care, email one of the other participants in the drama.
Ready? Here goes.
When I picked up Elliot on Wednesday afternoon he hadn’t pooped since the morning. That night we didn’t think much of it. But when on Thursday morning he still hadn't pooped, we were a little surprised, and by Thursday night there was an ongoing discussion about what to do.
We were considering manual disimpaction, or at least Hannah was encouraging me to consider it. (I've done it once before on Elliot, with the tip of my pinkie, and it was so successful that I’m permanently traumatized). I demurred, which I do like this: “Hmm, yeah, okay. Hmm.” Right hand on chin, left hand right elbow.
When we woke up Friday and he still hadn’t pooped, my demurrals were becoming less well-received. There was a certain “what the hell are we going to do?” feel in the air. Was he impacted? Was his diet all fakakta?
Oh, I forgot to mention we were starting a four-hour drive to Chicago Friday morning.
All five of us handled it with aplomb. Including the constipated gentleman himself. Kate boiled a few prunes, and we invented a new commercial product: Prune Water! It’s what’s left over after the gooey fibrous part of the prunes are mushed up and separated. How has no one thought of this before? You charge $2.99 and it makes your baby poop!
During the drive to Chicago, Hannah led us on a brainstorming session and took the idea one step further, elaborating an entire spectrum of baby waters, with different mixtures of vitamins and nutrients depending on where your baby’s head (and intestine) is at. We collectively came up with a brand name for this product: Ga-Gaia (because water comes from the earth, and it would all be organic you see).
Don’t anyone try to steal this idea, I hereby copyright it on this blog.
The sad part about this blog post--- well, there are many. First, if writing about baby poop is pathetic, how much more pathetic is it to write about not poop?
Second, I can’t even remember the exciting ending of the story. (spoiler alert: he poops) It was sometime while we were in Chicago, roughly 6-8 hours after feeding him the prune water. But the details escape me. If you really care, email one of the other participants in the drama.
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