Shake Your Tiny Rump

Tale of the Tape

We went to the pediatrician today, to check out a little rash that has been growing for the past week or so. (turns out it was something called prickly heat, and should go away in another week.)

While we were in the exam room we had the opportunity to weigh Elliot, and he clocked in at 11lbs 1 oz.  Which, in case you've been keeping track, is three full pounds more than his lowest weight, which was three weeks ago.

Which means that over the past three weeks he's gained a pound a week.

That's the equivalent of me, who weighs 175lbs, gaining an additional 75lbs.

Hannah's breast milk is made out of Snickers bars.

He's Electric

Boogie woogie woogie woogie...

The Grandma Series

He Knows How to Use Them

A visit from Emily

Thanks for coming, Emily and Steve!

Belated Birthday Wishes

6:30am Thursday

She had been up all night.  I was wearing a shirt and tie.

Lazy Sunday part II

Lazy Sunday part I

This is pretty much what his dad looks like on a Sunday morning too....

Talk to the Foot

Baby's First Mail

So he's a Democrat after all.

Cute Photo of the Day

Burpin'

The Sounds of Growing

I'll let you deduce the context for this video.  And what's happening off screen. 

Let's keep the comments clean, people. 

Lunch

Today my son Elliot will meet my mom Carole.  In a vegetarian restaurant in the East Village.  Who knew?

Thanks for the photo Emily!

Crying

It's hard to go off to work in the morning.  And not for the reasons I normally whine about.  I have a whole new set of whines now, and here's one: Hannah gets to spend more time with Elliot.

Based on no actual evidence, I am convinced that Elliot likes Hannah more than me.  And once you have that suspicion in your brain, you notice any bit of evidence that supports it.  Any time Elliot cries in my arms I assume it's my fault.  And anytime he's quiet in Hannah's arms, I assume it's because of her divine gift.

This is an irrational fear, I know.  But those are always the ones that keep us up at night, aren't they?

So tonight he started crying.  And I tried my normal tricks.  I pressed my knees together and swung him left and right on them, I slung him over my shoulder and patted his back, I pressed him against my chest, I changed his diaper.  Nothing worked.

I began to slump into despair.  I knew what was coming:  I would put Elliot in Hannah's arms, and he would be quiet.  I knew it would happen.  The truth, I thought, is that I am a useless parental appendage.  I don't make milk, I can't soothe the baby, there's practically no point to my being here.

He cried louder and louder.  He got red-faced.  His little tongue curved upward in his screaming mouth. There was a despair in his tone, and I believed it.  It seemed to me that he desperately wanted something, but I had no idea what it was.  He cried and cried.  The tone got thready, plaintive.  It went staccato.

Then something changed.  His next cry developed a querulous tone.  His eyes, which had been squeezed tight shut, opened slightly.  His pupils went left and right, looking around to see if anyone was listening.  I had to suppress a laugh.

The cry after that was even more questioning, more tentative.  There was a rise at the end, like a teenager ending a statement as a question.  I found this more hilarious than I can convey in words.  My quivering stomach threatened to roll his little body off onto the couch.

His next two cries seemed to ask whether the world was even paying attention.  They waned steadily in volume and intensity.  The third cry contained a realization: it didn't matter if the world paid attention.   He was pressed firmly against a warm chest and pair of arms.

My stomach muscles, still clenched against my own laughter, relaxed about the same time that Elliot's last cry drifted out: thin, exhausted, resigned.  And there he was, asleep on my chest, just the way I wanted.

In order to achieve this, all I had to do was hold him tightly while he cried.  And not give up when he tried to fight me.

I'm guessing this will be a good lesson for the future.

Comments

I've changed the settings, so now anyone can leave comments.  Go crazy.

Monday Night Spa

Some would say you should bathe your child daily.  Others, every 2-3 days.   Our strategy so far has been.... well, we haven't actually given him a bath.  Cleanliness is a construct anyway.

That all changed tonight!  Elliot's first bath!

Here are the supplies we had on hand:

Here's Elliot pre-bath:

And here's the gory raw footage.  (warning:  may not be not suitable for children younger than two weeks old.)

Okay, hold up.  It looks like he's real upset, right?   But that's only half the bath.  Wait for it:

As you can see, he achieved a Zen-like state of peacefulness.  Way to go, Elliot.  Just like your old man.

Here's a post-bath shot:

Really, who doesn't get a little pooped after a good bath?

The Birth Part IV

When we last left our heroine, she had just been transferred from triage to her proper labor and delivery room.  It was 7 am. 

The next two hours involved a lot of motion.  Hannah tried lots of different positions to get comfortable: kneeling on the floor, with her chest against the birthing ball or against someone sitting in a chair; standing and hugging whoever was nearby; kneeling or lying on the hospital bed.  Cameron, it turned out, was no good for hugging: he was too tall and bony.  Megan was just the right height and softness, much nicer to lean against. 

Cameron, still trying to be silently supportive, found himself crouched in front of Hannah for about five minutes.  He didn't realize he'd been mouth-breathing all over her, until suddenly she said "Babe, sorry, your breath stinks, can you. . . ?"  Cameron reminded himself that laboring women were very sensitive to smells.   Could he really be faulted for not brushing his teeth before they rushed to hospital at 5am?

The core members of the labor party were the following: Hannah, Cameron, Sabine, Megan, and Midori. Midori was the L&D nurse, and she added a much-needed optimism to the room.  "You can do it!" was once of Midori's most frequent utterances. 

Midori had wisely filled a pink, kidney-shaped vomit bowl with ice chips and water, dipped a washcloth in it, and handed the washcloth to Cameron, who appointed himself washcloth dabber.  He dabbed Hannah's forehead, neck, back, wherever she directed.  (Cameron had tried appointing himself lower back massager,  but had to be let go for incompetence.)

Eventually, Hannah made her way onto the bed.  This was actually her idea.  At first she tried kneeling, and pushing her forehead into the elevated head of the bed.  But then she lay down on her back, in the stirruped position we Westerners traditionally think of women giving birth in.

This all unfolded very, very quickly, by the way. When Hannah and Cameron first entered the labor and delivery room, Hannah was 6cm dilated.  An hour later, she was 9cm.  At 9:15, Sabine said that Hannah was fully dilated and she could start pushing. 

The midwife and nurse were simultaneously impressed and terrified by the speed of Hannah's labor.  A fast birth is a good birth --- but who knows exactly how fast it will be?  The result was that neither Sabine nor Midori left the room even once.  They didn't want to walk back in and hear a baby crying.

So Hannah starts pushing.  She's doing great.  After three or four pushes Sabine said "I need a little housekeeping here."  Midori, to whom the comment was directed, was occupied with something else.

"Midori," Sabine repeated sternly. Midori looked up.  "Housekeeping?"

Midori looked perplexed.  "Mm?" 

Hannah clarified:  "I POOPED MYSELF," she said in loud, clear voice.  Everyone giggled.  Midori blushed, came over and removed the disposable paper, and replaced it with another.  Very neat.