Eyeball

I am a total geek when it comes to my kid.

Each month, as she grows older, I get so excited to whip out the child-development books and see what milestones she has achieved or will achieve soon.

I love watching her grow and charting every new little thing she does.

And, sometimes, when I get worried, I even enjoy spending hours poring over books and Web sites and forums, seeking reassurance that, if she's not above average, she's at least normal. (Even if her mother isn't.)

Not to make it all clinical, but sometimes, I feel like raising Ella is the biggest, most important science project I've ever been entrusted with.

And, gosh darn it, I want to make sure my poster-board isn't barely hanging on by a thread at the science fair. (Not because I care what others think, mind you, but because I'm pretty fond of the subject matter herself.)

Sigh. I really wish I was better at science.

Anyway, now that I've really turned parenthood into something creepy, let me just say this: I'm very intense about my child.

So, a little over a week ago, when she hit 5 months old, I put her to bed and then whipped out my books.

I read all about what Ella will be doing over the next few months. And then, I spent some time browsing the suggestions the "experts" made for helping your child grow and learn.

One suggestion, in particular, caught my eye.

It said that, because most babies Ella's age are babbling prolifically, that, to help them develop language skills, we should start saying words that start or sound like the noises she makes.

So, for instance, if she's chanting, "Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa," I would say to her "pal" or "pan."

You get the idea.

Being that Ella is already a social butterfly and talks from sun-up to sun-down (and sometimes in her sleep, to boot) I figured this was a good tool to have in my back pocket. And later that evening, I re-iterated what I'd read to my wonderful husband.

So, the following evening, when I walked in to check on him as he got Ella ready for bed, I shouldn't have been surprised at what I saw.

Ella, getting a bit cranky, screeching, "Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay!"

And my husband, intently holding her, looking deep into her eyes, with the world's most serious expression on his face, repeating back, "Eyeball. Eyeball. Eyeball, Ella. Eyeball!"

I bet even the experts didn't see that one coming.

***

Later that evening, after both the hubs and I had a good laugh about it, we realized that, perhaps, the experts hadn't accounted for something else, either.

Because Ella was tired and getting upset while my husband was steadfastly yelling "Eyeball. Eyeball. Eyeball!" at her, we began to worry that not only would she associate the sound she was making with the word, but also the emotion she was feeling.

So, in the future, when I have a really tired, ticked-off 2 year old walking around screaming "EYEBALL!" at the top of her mad little lungs, you'll know who to blame.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Ella for President

I talk to my baby.

A lot.

I tell her what I'm doing and where we're going and how we're going to get there, and, well, she loves it.

She talks back - squealing and laughing and coo-ing and making all sorts of weird noises only babies can make sound cute.

She's so vocal that, when I go to pick her up - out of her bed, her car-seat, her swing - she'll start squealing with glee and talk-talk-baby-talking away, all in anticipation of our mommy-and-me conversation.

The hubs, also, thinks it's a riot to watch her interact with us.

But, admittedly, he's a bit jealous sometimes, as, even when he's holding her and talking to her, she'll often turn her head to me, staring quizzically at my face and waiting for me to begin conversing.

It's not that she doesn't love her father; it's just that she's already figured out that I'm the food-source, the talker, and the consoler, while Daddy's good for bath-time and some snuggles in the evening, and (for now) that's pretty much it.

Still, I encourage him to talk to her. After all, she likes it so much that she often calms right down when you start chatting with her, even if she's hollering up a storm minutes before.

But he's a man, and, where I often bestow infinite (and sometimes made-up) wisdom and intelligence upon my daughter, the hubs is much more likely to be all, "Dude. She's a baby. I love her, but it's not like she really understands me."

Still, I push him to "Talk to her. Talk to her!" sometimes with no avail.

Until yesterday, when I handed him Ella so I could throw in a load of dirty cloth diapers.

I walked back into the living room only minutes later and overheard this:

"...And then Pakistan let China across their borders and gave them access to view the downed U.S. Navy SEALS helicopter. Can you believe that?"

Ella laughs hysterically and grins.

"I mean, we're [the United States] already on the outs with Pakistan, and then they had to go and do something stupid like let the Chinese in to see it, and there are even talks of them giving it to them. I mean, that's just wrong."

Ella smiles and coos back.

"Well, baby girl, you seem pretty happy about it, but still, it's pretty bad news. I mean, the last thing we need is another world super-power getting their hands on our military technology."

Ella throws her head back and squeals.

"Just be glad you're cute because I'm pretty sure the rest of the country doesn't find this nearly as funny as you do. Now, I'm going to kiss you."

And then he did, following it up with a brief discussion on who was running in the Republican presidential primaries and on how the Dow was looking that day.

***

OK, now quite. He hasn't discussed election politics and economic crisis with the baby.

Yet.

But he legitimately talked about world conflict. With our 2 month old.

She, apparently, found it riveting.

Riveting enough that, when I went to get her from her father, she actually fussed. She seemed to enjoy their little conversation about nuclear weapons and rising world superpowers.

So, to that, I say, Forget Baby Einstein. Bring on CNN.

Girlfriend's gotta study up if she wants to solve all the world's problems in about 40 years time.

Watch out world. It's gonna be Ella for President in 2048.

And she'll definitely have her father to thank.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

The Male Adjustment

Yesterday, I was lying on the exam table at the birth center, getting my six-week post-partum exam.

The midwife, making conversation while she was checking out my business, asked, "And how's the new daddy adjusting to having a baby?"

I laughed. Not because it's funny. But because, honestly, I hadn't thought much about it.

Post-partum recovery is really all about the mommy and the baby. I've been all wrapped up in Ella and breast-feeding and cloth-diapering and co-sleeping and bonding with my baby that I, honestly, haven't thought much about the poor hubs.

I wash his clothes, make him dinner, and send him texts like "Ella just rolled over from front to back!"

But, seeing as he doesn't have a child latched into him, eating and drinking him dry all day, I just assumed he was doing pretty good, all things considered.

Still, the poor guy has had an adjustment. It may be a distinctly male adjustment, but it's a huge life change for him, nevertheless, having this baby.

Now, when he comes home from work, he's not really off the clock. I need him to hold the baby so I can take a shower. Or I need him to pre-heat the oven and pop in the meatloaf while I sit and nurse Ella.

Our evenings are now interrupted by baby cries, and we've yet to do anything but finish up household chores, straighten up, eat dinner, and go to bed when he comes home.

There have been no movie nights on the couch. No night-drives for ice cream. No lounging around and relaxing on Saturday morning.

Instead, one of us is normally jiggling Ella while the other one shovels dinner down his/her throat. Then we swap. And repeat.

This, of course, is the routine when he is at home.

But because he's active-duty military, he doesn't work nine-to-five. Sometimes, he's gone over-night, too. Sometimes, he's not home.

While I'm on my own with Ella, he's missing her - her smiles and giggles and little milestones.

While I'm silently cursing the fact that I have to eat dinner leaning over the sink with a crying baby in my other arm, he'd rather just be here.

It can be a hard row to hoe.

And, back in that birth center, my midwife made me think about all of it. His place in this family that has a new baby.

I'll be honest and tell you that I've gotten frustrated with him over the last few weeks.

His patience with Ella is limited; he doesn't understand that babies cry, and that sometimes, there is nothing you can do to fix it other than walk and shush and hope you comfort them eventually. He always wants a solution and gets frustrated when there simply isn't one.

He also doesn't have maternal hormones and instincts that help him with Ella. And he doesn't get what I, as a woman, experienced during the pre-natal and birth process.

It's through no fault of his own, mind you, but it's the truth - he just doesn't get it.

So, yeah, we've had a few issues.

Him wanting to hand a crying baby back to me after he held her for less than 10 minutes while I was trying to eat something for the first time in hours, and me yelling, "Give me just a minute!"

Me rolling my eyes at him when he complains that Ella scratched him with her baby nails and that it "really hurt."

Him complaining about the fact that the sheets are covered in breast-milk after I'd just washed them the day before.

They're our parental growing pains, if you will.

I love the man, and he loves me. We both absolutely adore Ella.

But it's not been the easiest thing we've ever done.

Still, when I think about it, I can't imagine doing it without him.

Single-parenting is not for me. There are nights I'd have been lost without him holding my hand.

If he wasn't there to hold Ella every evening - complaining or not - I'd never get a shower and a few minutes to myself.

If he didn't go to work every day, I wouldn't have the luxury of parenting Ella the way we want.

And if he wasn't married to me, simply put, I wouldn't have our baby.

Furthermore, it hasn't been easy for him, either. Not by a long shot.

He's had an adjustment. A huge adjustment.

He became a daddy, and he's doing great.

He cloth-diapers. He stands up to pediatricians when we have vaccine-related conversations. He honored my desire to keep Ella exclusively fed from the breast for six weeks, even when he all but begged me to pump a little milk so he could comfort-feed her when my breasts were oh-so sore.

Sure, all in all, he's had some paternal pangs.

But I can't complain. Not at all.

He's the best new dad I know.

And I couldn't have asked for a smoother male adjustment.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Wipe This Way

Sometimes, I feel unbearably guilty about how lucky I've gotten when it comes to my job.

You see, I always knew I was going to be a stay-at-home mom. My master's degree be darned, it wasn't worth it to me to give up those formative years with my kids.

So, when we got pregnant, we scrimped. We cut out "the extras" from our budget, and we figured out how we could live on one salary.

It was our family choice.

Then, we examined my current part-time job.

More than 75 percent of my time at the gym is spent training mothers with their children. It was easy enough to go into my boss and say, "If they're bringing their kids to work out with me, I'm bringing mine. Otherwise, I walk."

She, being a mother herself, agreed to my terms. So I started stocking up on a jogging stroller and some good baby slings. Every day is going to be like "Bring Your Daughter to Work Day" for me.

However, when it came time to face the other 25 percent of my job - the part where I train active-duty sailors, teach spinning classes, and work with veterans, sans children - I wasn't sure what to do with Baby Girl.

Should I just sacrifice the time and money I make with them and work exclusively with my post-partum clients? Should I pay for a babysitter? Or should I find someone I trust to watch her for free or on the cheap?

After all, on any given week, I only spent five to eight hours working with people who don't bring their children with them.

Therefore, I'd only need childcare for about five hours a week.

I debated the possibility and almost immediately rejected it.

It was too expensive, and it basically negated the salary I'd make working those five extra hours a week without her.

Plus, I quite simply just didn't want to put my baby in childcare for any amount of time. Regardless of finances, that was what it came down to. For me, at least.

She isn't even born yet, but the thought of leaving her with someone else tore me apart. I couldn't even wrap my head around it.

So, just like that, I realized it: Childcare wasn't an option.

Next up, my husband and I began talks with friends of ours. Several other couples we know and love are having babies right around when we are, and several of the women work part-time like myself. We started to put in place a system where we'd simply "swap" hours.

For instance, I'd watch a friend's baby in the morning while she tutored a middle-schooler in math, so she could watch mine while I taught spinning in the afternoon.

It was free. It was easy. And better yet, these were all women I know and trust.

I began to immediately feel better about the situation.

But I still wasn't completely at ease.

While I had no problem leaving my baby girl for no more than one hour a day with such close friends, I then began to worry, quite honestly, about a host of other "what ifs."

Like, what if Baby Girl gets sick, and my friend can't watch my germ-ridden child? Or, what if my friend gets sick, and I can't impose on her to watch Baby Girl? Or, what if my friend moves unexpectedly (seeing as we're all military, this happens a lot) and we're left up a creek without a sitter?

Even if it worked out 90 percent of the time, I knew I was heading down a path of anxiety for the other 10 percent.

I'd almost convinced myself to give up my few hours of work without my baby before the U.S. Navy itself answered our prayer.

My husband, just last week, got his work schedule for the next four to six months. While it looks rather grim on paper - he's working a lot of nights, for instance - it actually works out beautifully for our family.

For the 60 to 90 minutes a day in which I cannot bring Baby Girl to work with me, my husband will be home to take care of her.

I will simply be able to leave her here, with her father, go train a client or teach a class, and come right back home to her.

She won't be away from me for more than 90 minutes a day, Monday through Friday, max.

We couldn't have planned it better ourselves.

***

My husband's schedule change was such an answer to prayer, I didn't even think twice about it.

After all, my husband is a competent man. And almost anybody - man or woman, babysitter or parent - could handle a baby for a mere hour out of the day.

I wasn't worried at all.

It simply had to work.

Then, I saw the look on my husband's face, right after we hashed it all out.

He was happy for me, sure, but he was also, dare I say it? A little scared.

His face appeared so timid that I actually asked, aloud, "You're going to be OK, watching her for about an hour a day, by yourself, aren't you?"

He laughed right in my face and loudly proclaimed, "Of course I am! I can manage to watch my own daughter for an hour day! I'm her father, after all!"

But then, he paused.

And, in a much quieter voice, he murmured, "But, um, what if she cries?"

It was then that I realized that, though my husband is atypically good with babies for a man, he'd never been left as their sole caretaker for any real length of time. Even when we watch friends' babies, when they cry, he hands them promptly over to me.

We were exploring all new Daddy-and-Daughter territory with this whole "alone" thing.

So, I began to explain the (not so) laborious process of decoding baby cries.

I told him that, though I planned on feeding her right before I left for my lone hour of work, I'd leave him a bottle of breast-milk in the fridge, in case she seemed hungry. I even told him how to heat it up.

I explained to him that, some days,, she might be tired, and he might need to hold her and rock her to sleep.

I also added that, sometimes, babies just cry. For no good reason. And that if no-good-reason crying occurred, he may just have to hold her, walk around with her, etc., until I got home. A screaming baby for 60 minutes wasn't going to kill anyone (though it may drive him slightly insane.)

Then, rather flippantly, I tossed in my last piece of assurance.

"Don't worry, babe. It's only an hour. In fact, on most days, the most you're going to have to do is change her diaper."

I returned to folding laundry, assured that I'd calmed down his first-time father fears.

I wasn't expecting him to react the way he did next. Not at all.

"Diapers? I'm gonna have to change her diapers? But we're using cloth diapers!" he whined, immediately.

Poor guy was so beside himself her barely knew what to say.

So, trying to yet again calm his nerves, I led him to the nursery and showed him the diapers. I explained where he'd toss them when he was done and how he'd put the new one on. I reminded him yet again that, should he really get stuck, he'd have to wait no more than an hour for me to come home and help.

He seemed calmed. He repeated the diapering process I'd explained to him slowly to himself.

"Check diaper. Remove dirty diaper. Throw in diaper pail. Tuck liner in clean diaper. Spray her bum with wipe solution. Use wash cloth to wipe....to wipe...."

It was then that the panic returned. He whipped his head around, staring at me intently.

"Now, wait a minute, Britt."

"Yeah?" I answered back.

"When I wipe her, I have to be careful about it. I mean, I have to wipe her, uh, her, uh, you know, first, right? And then her butt, right? I mean, I've got to remember to always wipe top to bottom, right? Top to bottom? Top to bottom?"

He never heard my response through my peals of laughter.

Literally, I was giggling uncontrollably.

Only a man would describe female anatomy as "top" and "bottom." And only a first-time father would obsess about wiping down Baby Girl's hiney "just so."

"Yes, love, you want to wipe her top to bottom. Or, rather, front to back. You just don't want trapped feces to give her an infection, so, to prevent that, you want to wipe her front to back."

He stared at me, even more seriously.

"OK. Got it," he said. "I can do that. Top to bottom. Front to back. That's how I wipe her. Top to bottom. Got it. Done deal."

Something tells me, Baby Girl's gonna have the cleanest butt this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

Especially if her daddy has anything to say about it.

***

After I thought about the situation, I actually became quite impressed. After all, for a man, that's some deep, critical thinking. It's not like they have to worry about which direction they wipe when they use the restroom.

It's truly a "girls only" kind of concern.

Unless you're a new dad, of course, who will be left as the sole caretaker of his daughter for 60 minutes a day.

Then, it's your primary concern, I suppose.

Especially when your wife threatens you with phrases like "trapped feces."

Poor, poor guy.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!