The Greening has come, by which I mean the point in the spring when I first notice that the grass is green instead of dull (that's not a color, but it seems like it in late winter). Chloë noticed it too. "The grass is green now," she informed me yesterday. She also told me there are red flowers in our yard. What would I do without her news bulletins?
We spent a good part of the weekend outside. I worked on the garden and the girls drew with chalk, blew bubbles, slid down the slide and tried to ride Chloë's tricycle. Chloë can ride it but has trouble with corners and with getting stuck on the far end of our lawn. Maia can't reach the pedals but she doesn't stop trying. She's been so enamored of it that we decided to get Maia her own (shorter) tricycle for her birthday.
It arrived Friday, and I took Chloë into confidence about what was inside and told her she couldn't tell Maia because birthday presents should be secret. So far (as far as I know) she hasn't told Maia, which is frankly better than I expected. She has whispered to me in front of Maia, "We're keeping the tricycle a secret!" but that's not so bad and is utterly cute.
Saturday I took her shopping for Maia's birthday present. We've been talking about what Maia would like, and Chloë said she wanted to get her a stuffed cat and a stuffed duck and maybe another stuffed dog. I discouraged the dog, since Maia already has two and that's plenty, but we searched for a cat and a duck and at the second store (Toys R Us) found both. She picked out the ones she thought Maia would like and said, "I will carry them, since I picked them out." At the checkout line she told the cashier, "These are for my baby sister for her birthday. Because she likes my cat." The cashier thought she meant a real cat, but Chloë set her straight.
She carried the bag to the car, and when we arrived home carried the bag inside and retrieved the roll of wrapping paper so we could wrap them. "They will be all snuggly in there," she said as we crammed them together to get them to fit in the last remaining bit of wrapping paper. (There's another roll for the tricycle, if we decide to wrap it rather than assembling it ahead of time.) They just fit, and after Chloë selected a bow we put the present up on a shelf in her closet. She was so delightfully pleased to have gotten a present for her sister. I was so pleased my daughter is such a loving big sister.
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Monday, April 22, 2013
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Dear Chloë, year three
Dear Chloë,
A couple of days ago you told me, “I am Sarah, and I am three.” Sarah, as far as we can tell, was the waitress at the Ruby Tuesday we went to the day before. Neither your dad nor I remember this, but that's what you tell us. Sarah made appearances all day and occasionally thereafter, including tonight. I don't think she's going to be your first imaginary friend, but she's the first time you've claimed to be someone else. Normally, when we say “What are you?” all you ever say is “I am Cwoë.” You still don't have Ss or Ff, and I love your lisp. You say “tinger” instead of “finger” and “miley pate” instead of “smiley face,” and I sometimes wish I could preserve this aspect of you forever. (Though I suppose it wouldn't be very helpful in your college interviews.)
Freshly three-year-old you amazes me every day. You don't look at all like a baby anymore. I marvel daily at your long legs and arms, your face that comes into sharper focus each week. You speak so well, count so high, understand so much. You were aware of and interested in your birthday party this year: decorating, picking out the cake (“What kind of cake do you want?” I'd ask. “Moon cake!” You'd say. “Yes, but what flavor?” I'd reply), blowing up balloons, tabulating who would be there. You're constantly asking questions that make me pause and try to figure out how I know what I know—and if I know it. You pretend all day long, making the office your school where paint pictures and take naps, a cube of Legos a multi-flavored birthday cake (complete with pretend frosting), and yourself an astronaut or a dancer or a princess—which is the same as a dancer, just with more jewelry. We've tried to keep you from getting immersed in the insidious Disney Princess culture of girls your age, and so far we've succeeded pretty well, I think. People keep talking to you about princesses, and so you call yourself one, but you don't seem to know what to do after that. (Maybe because those princesses don't do anything themselves.) I think that's fine. I like the dancer, the teacher, the birthday girl. I can't wait to see what you play as you learn more.
You've been potty-trained for about a month—huzzah! It took a lot of time and effort to get here. But now that you are, you're so proud of yourself. Along with the potty-training has come, of course, pretty new underwear, and you've taken to putting it on yourself...and also your pants, and sometimes your shirt. You need someone to orient them correctly, but otherwise you, as you say with your arms outstretched and a glowing smile on your face, do it “all by myself!” More often you say “I can't do it,” so it makes me especially happy to see you so willing to try, so proud, so accomplished. A couple of days ago we talked about putting the top of the convertible potty seat on top of the toilet. Not only did you agree, but you proudly used it and then, to my surprise, suggested trying to use the toilet without the potty seat at all. It didn't work, as you're still not that big, but I was so surprised and impressed that you were willing to try it. You're not a terribly adventurous girl. Very cautious, and pretty clingy and whiny these days. I think that's the age, but you're definitely not as independent and fearless as, say, your cousin Addie. I'm okay with that. That's who you are, and it keeps you from doing things like dashing into the street and asking strangers to hug you, which is fine with me. But every once in a while you surprise me. I love when you do that.
You're so much your own person now. You have your definite likes and dislikes, and your own ways of doing things—of defying, of denying, of being tired, of being happy, of being unhappy. You still love green, though you're starting to get into pink a bit too. You refuse to do anything without your socks except bathe. I bought you some sandals, blue with green flowers, that I thought you'd love. And you like them, but only if you're wearing socks under them. On the other hand, you adore the sparkly, light-up sneakers your halmoni got for you. I'm so pleased that you're remembering your family and responding to them with affection. You're mature enough to play with your cousins and same-age peers now—really play, not just quietly follow along when they give you orders. You tell them what you want to play and what you don't, you contribute your own ideas. You haven't gotten to the point of compromising in order to play together, but you will.
You still love to read, which makes me very happy. We've gotten into longer books now, Olivia and Berenstain Bears and such, and I want to work on teaching you your lower-case letters, which we've neglected (in our defense, it's really easy to do so with the alphabets available for toddlers), because you're going to love being able to read for yourself. I mentioned that to you not long ago, and you hesitated, so I added, “But I'll still want to read to you,” and you relaxed. I want to read with you as long as you'll let me. And I'll keep making up bedtime stories and ridiculous songs for you as long as you want them.
You've gotten more physically active over the past year, doing a lot of jumping and dancing and running up and down in the hall--especially in the last month when you've been out of diapers or Pull-Ups. You're not as into naked time as you used to be, but you still indulge sometimes (though always with socks). “Do you see my butt?” naked you will ask if you're especially punch-drunk from tiredness. I'll say “I see your butt!” and you'll dash off, giggling, to run up and down the hall, and then repeat. You have a love-fear relationship with slides, and a simple dislike for swings, but you like going for walks, and pulling your sister in the wagon, and playing in the water table and the sprinkler and any pool you can find. You love to climb on me, or clamber over your daddy when he's trying to comb your hair. You love your daddy, and it makes me so happy to see it. Though the “Where is my daddy?” gets kind of old when I've told you “He's sleeping” or “He's at work” four times already.
You draw real things now: snakes and suns and flowers and circles with blobs in them that look like eggs or eyes or maps of islands. They're rudimentary, and you still enjoy simple color scribbling, but it's a definite sign of advancement. I love your pictures, and how proud and possessive you are of them. “Maia didn't color that,” you told me when Maia held up a picture of yours that she'd scribbled a line or two on and I'd praised it (because Maia is also quite proud of her scribbles). “I colored that.”
I continue to be proud of how good a big sister you are. I'm not saying you're perfect; you certainly have your jealousy and your moments of pique, where you push Maia away or yell at her because she's innocently taken something that you wanted. And your own streak of bossiness comes out when you repeat the things we've told her-- “No Maia! No buttons!” or “Don't touch!” But you're so unendingly patient with the way she steals your drink—whatever it is; all she wants is whatever you have—and sometimes refuses to tell you good-night or give you a kiss when she's giving them to your daddy and me. You'll readily keep her company or try to entertain her if I ask you to. You share your food with her without anyone asking you to. You try to get her to play with you in the tunnel or with your Duplos or in the sandbox. When she won't kiss you, sometimes you kiss her, on her hand or her leg or her belly. When I chant “So sweet—such a treat—baby feet” you tickle her toes and say “Baby peet! Toh tweet!” and you seem to mean it. When I tell you I'm taking you somewhere, your first question is always “Can Maia come?” You're such a sweet girl. My favorite sound is the two of you laughing together, especially when, as it often is, it's because Maia thought something you did was funny and you kept doing it so she'd keep laughing.
You are my beloved big girl, growing up in so many ways, unfolding like a flower bursting into bloom. You're going through a whiny and defiant stage, which is sometimes annoying and sometimes hilarious (“Never—pretend—to bite me—ever—again!”), but I know it's what you need to be doing, and I'm doing my best to be patient with it. It's the clinginess that gets me most, actually. But a small part of me revels in it, because in my own way I want to cling to you, too. It's my job as the parent not to, but sometimes I can't help catching hold of you and hugging you tight, loving everything you are and everything I see you becoming but wishing I could keep it all from happening because right now is so perfect and right. But that's selfish and short-sighted, and so I keep watching your beautiful self become ever more complex, more funny and smart and thoughtful. And I try to hold you just tight enough to keep us both feeling safe but giving you the room you need to grow.
Love,
Mama
A couple of days ago you told me, “I am Sarah, and I am three.” Sarah, as far as we can tell, was the waitress at the Ruby Tuesday we went to the day before. Neither your dad nor I remember this, but that's what you tell us. Sarah made appearances all day and occasionally thereafter, including tonight. I don't think she's going to be your first imaginary friend, but she's the first time you've claimed to be someone else. Normally, when we say “What are you?” all you ever say is “I am Cwoë.” You still don't have Ss or Ff, and I love your lisp. You say “tinger” instead of “finger” and “miley pate” instead of “smiley face,” and I sometimes wish I could preserve this aspect of you forever. (Though I suppose it wouldn't be very helpful in your college interviews.)
Freshly three-year-old you amazes me every day. You don't look at all like a baby anymore. I marvel daily at your long legs and arms, your face that comes into sharper focus each week. You speak so well, count so high, understand so much. You were aware of and interested in your birthday party this year: decorating, picking out the cake (“What kind of cake do you want?” I'd ask. “Moon cake!” You'd say. “Yes, but what flavor?” I'd reply), blowing up balloons, tabulating who would be there. You're constantly asking questions that make me pause and try to figure out how I know what I know—and if I know it. You pretend all day long, making the office your school where paint pictures and take naps, a cube of Legos a multi-flavored birthday cake (complete with pretend frosting), and yourself an astronaut or a dancer or a princess—which is the same as a dancer, just with more jewelry. We've tried to keep you from getting immersed in the insidious Disney Princess culture of girls your age, and so far we've succeeded pretty well, I think. People keep talking to you about princesses, and so you call yourself one, but you don't seem to know what to do after that. (Maybe because those princesses don't do anything themselves.) I think that's fine. I like the dancer, the teacher, the birthday girl. I can't wait to see what you play as you learn more.
You've been potty-trained for about a month—huzzah! It took a lot of time and effort to get here. But now that you are, you're so proud of yourself. Along with the potty-training has come, of course, pretty new underwear, and you've taken to putting it on yourself...and also your pants, and sometimes your shirt. You need someone to orient them correctly, but otherwise you, as you say with your arms outstretched and a glowing smile on your face, do it “all by myself!” More often you say “I can't do it,” so it makes me especially happy to see you so willing to try, so proud, so accomplished. A couple of days ago we talked about putting the top of the convertible potty seat on top of the toilet. Not only did you agree, but you proudly used it and then, to my surprise, suggested trying to use the toilet without the potty seat at all. It didn't work, as you're still not that big, but I was so surprised and impressed that you were willing to try it. You're not a terribly adventurous girl. Very cautious, and pretty clingy and whiny these days. I think that's the age, but you're definitely not as independent and fearless as, say, your cousin Addie. I'm okay with that. That's who you are, and it keeps you from doing things like dashing into the street and asking strangers to hug you, which is fine with me. But every once in a while you surprise me. I love when you do that.
You're so much your own person now. You have your definite likes and dislikes, and your own ways of doing things—of defying, of denying, of being tired, of being happy, of being unhappy. You still love green, though you're starting to get into pink a bit too. You refuse to do anything without your socks except bathe. I bought you some sandals, blue with green flowers, that I thought you'd love. And you like them, but only if you're wearing socks under them. On the other hand, you adore the sparkly, light-up sneakers your halmoni got for you. I'm so pleased that you're remembering your family and responding to them with affection. You're mature enough to play with your cousins and same-age peers now—really play, not just quietly follow along when they give you orders. You tell them what you want to play and what you don't, you contribute your own ideas. You haven't gotten to the point of compromising in order to play together, but you will.
You still love to read, which makes me very happy. We've gotten into longer books now, Olivia and Berenstain Bears and such, and I want to work on teaching you your lower-case letters, which we've neglected (in our defense, it's really easy to do so with the alphabets available for toddlers), because you're going to love being able to read for yourself. I mentioned that to you not long ago, and you hesitated, so I added, “But I'll still want to read to you,” and you relaxed. I want to read with you as long as you'll let me. And I'll keep making up bedtime stories and ridiculous songs for you as long as you want them.
You've gotten more physically active over the past year, doing a lot of jumping and dancing and running up and down in the hall--especially in the last month when you've been out of diapers or Pull-Ups. You're not as into naked time as you used to be, but you still indulge sometimes (though always with socks). “Do you see my butt?” naked you will ask if you're especially punch-drunk from tiredness. I'll say “I see your butt!” and you'll dash off, giggling, to run up and down the hall, and then repeat. You have a love-fear relationship with slides, and a simple dislike for swings, but you like going for walks, and pulling your sister in the wagon, and playing in the water table and the sprinkler and any pool you can find. You love to climb on me, or clamber over your daddy when he's trying to comb your hair. You love your daddy, and it makes me so happy to see it. Though the “Where is my daddy?” gets kind of old when I've told you “He's sleeping” or “He's at work” four times already.
You draw real things now: snakes and suns and flowers and circles with blobs in them that look like eggs or eyes or maps of islands. They're rudimentary, and you still enjoy simple color scribbling, but it's a definite sign of advancement. I love your pictures, and how proud and possessive you are of them. “Maia didn't color that,” you told me when Maia held up a picture of yours that she'd scribbled a line or two on and I'd praised it (because Maia is also quite proud of her scribbles). “I colored that.”
I continue to be proud of how good a big sister you are. I'm not saying you're perfect; you certainly have your jealousy and your moments of pique, where you push Maia away or yell at her because she's innocently taken something that you wanted. And your own streak of bossiness comes out when you repeat the things we've told her-- “No Maia! No buttons!” or “Don't touch!” But you're so unendingly patient with the way she steals your drink—whatever it is; all she wants is whatever you have—and sometimes refuses to tell you good-night or give you a kiss when she's giving them to your daddy and me. You'll readily keep her company or try to entertain her if I ask you to. You share your food with her without anyone asking you to. You try to get her to play with you in the tunnel or with your Duplos or in the sandbox. When she won't kiss you, sometimes you kiss her, on her hand or her leg or her belly. When I chant “So sweet—such a treat—baby feet” you tickle her toes and say “Baby peet! Toh tweet!” and you seem to mean it. When I tell you I'm taking you somewhere, your first question is always “Can Maia come?” You're such a sweet girl. My favorite sound is the two of you laughing together, especially when, as it often is, it's because Maia thought something you did was funny and you kept doing it so she'd keep laughing.
You are my beloved big girl, growing up in so many ways, unfolding like a flower bursting into bloom. You're going through a whiny and defiant stage, which is sometimes annoying and sometimes hilarious (“Never—pretend—to bite me—ever—again!”), but I know it's what you need to be doing, and I'm doing my best to be patient with it. It's the clinginess that gets me most, actually. But a small part of me revels in it, because in my own way I want to cling to you, too. It's my job as the parent not to, but sometimes I can't help catching hold of you and hugging you tight, loving everything you are and everything I see you becoming but wishing I could keep it all from happening because right now is so perfect and right. But that's selfish and short-sighted, and so I keep watching your beautiful self become ever more complex, more funny and smart and thoughtful. And I try to hold you just tight enough to keep us both feeling safe but giving you the room you need to grow.
Love,
Mama
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Dear Maia, year one
Darling Maia,
Happy first birthday! I'm really sorry you have pneumonia.
Last week you started coughing while nursing, which made me worry at first you had an allergy to codeine, since I'd just started Tylenol 3 because of a toothache. Then Friday, your birthday, it developed into a real cold, with a drippy nose and a fever. That night I noticed you were breathing fast when I put you down for bed. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry I didn't get more alarmed by it, or think to give you medication for the fever. I did tell your dad about it, who said he'd look it up. I went to bed. He woke me up at 1:45, saying, "I'm taking Maia to the ER." He'd checked your breathing and heartrate, which were both much too fast, and taken your temperature, about 102F, and the doctor had directed him to take you to the hospital. So you went. He had me hold you while he grabbed a last thing before leaving, and you were so lethargic and hot.
You got some ibuprofen and a chest x-ray there (your dad holding you, the film between his chest and yours, so that you wouldn't scream and writhe while they took it), and they diagnosed you with pneumonia. It was mild, as pneumonia goes; they didn't even give you breathing treatment, just a prescription for antibiotics and more ibuprofen and instructions to take you to the pediatrician in a couple of days. You were due for your one-year well-check anyway. Dr. Magoun was pleased with you overall (75th percentile for everything, developing just right) but found that the antibiotic wasn't working and you had an ear infection as well, so switched you to something different, and that's working better. You perked up as soon as we got the fever down, but now it stays down without the ibuprofen, which makes us all happier since you don't like having it injected down your throat. The last couple of times I've fed it to you very gradually, and that's worked better. But discontinuing it is better still.
That aside, your twelfth month and your first year have been wonderful. You're such a happy, explorative baby. I always intended not to compare you too much to your sister, and while I do it some, it really does feel like we're starting over with you. I kind of remember how Chloë was at this or that age, but mostly only by realizing how different or similar she was to you. Now you're my benchmark for three-month smiles, and six-months sitting, and seven-months crawling (sooner than your sister), and baby high-fives and kisses and trying to eat baby feet. I taught you "Kiss Mama," sometime in the last month or two, which instantly made your dad jealous, so now you also know "Kiss Daddy," and, kind of, "Kiss Chloë." Your one-year-old self is so smart. You point to the books or your new statue from Grandpa when you want them, and turn yourself around to slide down off the bed, and move off my legs when I'm getting up from the toilet, and understand things like "Arms up," and "Lie down," and "Milk?" and "No eyes!" This afternoon you and Chloë were at the window of our bedroom, and I heard you start to giggle intermittently. After a moment I peeked behind the curtain to find you tentatively poking your finger toward Chloë's eye and laughing when she was dodged. You both seemed to be enjoying the game, but I put a stop to it anyway. I love to hear your laugh, but maybe not at that potential price.
You love to laugh, much more so than your sister. Your very early months were a bit of a trial, especially the night colic. But as soon as you started emerging as a real person, with a real personality, I had a lot more fun with you--I think we all did. You like to be tickled, of course, and hung upside down, and to play peekaboo, and have raspberries blown on your belly; but you also like being jounced up and down while we make funny noises, or playing keepaway, or poking at my glasses after I've told you not to. You have a sunny smile that you bring out when I come into your room to get you after a nap, and when I come home from work at night, and when you catch sight of me unexpectedly. Sometimes it takes my breath away, my great good luck in being so beloved by you. I know, the whole giving-you-life thing gets me some brownie points, but still, I'm not always sure I deserve this.
You love your daddy too, and your sister. You're so pleased to see Chloë when I get you first and we go into her room together to get her or to wake her. You crawl all over her, and steal her drink and push her out of her own chair, because you like the things she has because they're hers. Recently you've started leaning over and kissing her hair, open-mouthed, at every opportunity, which she enjoys too. You love her hair. I keep telling you you'll have your own like that...eventually. (I think you've finally got as much now as she had at birth.) You two get along very well, all things considered, and I'm so glad. I look forward to the next year or two when you can really start to play together.
You've developed well, giving us pretty much no trouble this year other than the colic and some dramatic projectile pooping while on vacation, and maybe a bit on food. You weren't all that keen on solid foods for the first few months we introduced them, but you love them now. While you've been sick you've mainly been eating cheddar crunchies (baby Cheetos, basically), which I'm not excited about, but it's better than no food at all and you won't take baby food. Ordinarily you love bananas and oatmeal and Cheerios and apple bites and soft vegetables and pretty much everything else we'll let you try. You have been eating some cheese (you love cheese) and applesauce and, tonight, some strawberry, so that's good. So far you've been a pretty adventurous eater, and I'm hoping you'll stay that way into toddlerhood. Tuesdays when your dad goes out with his friends have always been "weird food nights," first for me and then for your sister and me, and I'm really looking forward to having girls' nights, just the three of us, eating all the good things your dad won't touch.
We're still nursing, which makes me happy, especially since we've gotten past the "mauling me" and "biting me" stages and have weathered the need for formula. When I first went back to work, you refused a bottle. I worried you would starve. We took a weekend and did bottle Boot Camp until you caved (being only nine weeks old) and started accepting the bottle. When, some seven months later, I faced the fact that I wasn't pumping enough to cover my work hours and was going crazy trying and had no frozen stash (thank you excess lipase issues) to draw from, I worried that we would buy formula and you'd refuse it and, being bigger and even stronger-willed now, starve. But you didn't. You took a half-and-half bottle without comment and didn't look back. I may have muttered, "Traitor," to myself once or twice, but I was glad, overall. Now you're on whole cow's milk, and formula to finish off that one container we bought, and a little milk I'm still pumping. But we nurse happily when I'm home. You don't have a real need for it anymore, and you never indicated that you were hungry the way Chloë did, by bouncing her mouth off my chest; you got generally irritable instead. But sometimes you'll point to my chest, or gently press your mouth to my shirt, and I get the message. I'm glad we still have this together. I'll be sorry when it goes. I could probably get you weaned onto a bottle pretty easily, but I'd rather not, not just yet. If you decide you're ready for that, I know you'll tell me. You're good at telling us what you want.
You're not quite walking, but you're so very close. Your dad, and your halmoni, have seen you take a few independent steps. I haven't. But I've seen you cruising with one hand held so lightly, and I've seen you standing for half a minute or more, bouncing a little, confident, strong. I was so sure you'd be walking before your birthday, but I guess you decided to take your time. You don't have any words yet, either, though I'm starting to wonder about those times you start to chant "Ma ma ma ma." Probably having "Mama" be your first word is too much to hope for. But you do sometimes look at me with intent when you're saying it. You've also fixed your gaze at my face and said earnestly, "Bah," and I've known you're telling me something, though I'm not sure what.
We had to cancel your party because of the pneumonia, but we still opened presents and had cake (I worked so hard on that darn thing; there HAD to be cake on your birthday). You didn't eat any, because you weren't eating anything, which made me sad--not that you didn't taste the cake I made, but that you weren't up to trying something I'm sure would have delighted you if you were well. Now that you're feeling better we'll try it again soon. You did enjoy your presents, especially the bouncy ball your sister picked out and the new chair Halmoni bought you. (Chloë loves that it folds out, and has so far used it more than you. You're still pushing her out of her chair, so I guess that's fair.) You pulled at the wrapping paper, and were intrigued by the prizes inside. You stared at the computer where we were doing a web call with family and I could see you thinking: "Moving picture. Nice faces. They're talking to me. They look familiar." You're still a baby, but you won't be for long. My wonderful girl.
You're a bright girl, a happy girl, an adventurous girl, and I'm so glad you're my daughter. I worried when I was pregnant with you that I wasn't going to love you as much as I do Chloë, no matter how other parents kept reassuring me I would. I didn't see how I could avoid having an internal competition between the two of you, and Chloë had the edge of being less care-intensive and more familiar. But it turns out that when you have a second child, she doesn't get some negotiated share of a compartment marked "parental love." She gets a new compartment all her own. You have a sister, but you still have all my love. I've had a baby before, but you are still the first you, still an amazement and a mystery and a happy surprise, even in familiar wrapping paper (someday you'll stop wearing everything your sister wore). And you get the advantage of a mama who's had a baby before, even if she doesn't apply everything she's learned (like: when the baby gets a fever, do something). I love the baby you've been and the toddler you'll be, and the family you've given us by being part of us. I love you, Miss Baby. Happy birthday.
Love,
Mama
Happy first birthday! I'm really sorry you have pneumonia.
Last week you started coughing while nursing, which made me worry at first you had an allergy to codeine, since I'd just started Tylenol 3 because of a toothache. Then Friday, your birthday, it developed into a real cold, with a drippy nose and a fever. That night I noticed you were breathing fast when I put you down for bed. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry I didn't get more alarmed by it, or think to give you medication for the fever. I did tell your dad about it, who said he'd look it up. I went to bed. He woke me up at 1:45, saying, "I'm taking Maia to the ER." He'd checked your breathing and heartrate, which were both much too fast, and taken your temperature, about 102F, and the doctor had directed him to take you to the hospital. So you went. He had me hold you while he grabbed a last thing before leaving, and you were so lethargic and hot.
You got some ibuprofen and a chest x-ray there (your dad holding you, the film between his chest and yours, so that you wouldn't scream and writhe while they took it), and they diagnosed you with pneumonia. It was mild, as pneumonia goes; they didn't even give you breathing treatment, just a prescription for antibiotics and more ibuprofen and instructions to take you to the pediatrician in a couple of days. You were due for your one-year well-check anyway. Dr. Magoun was pleased with you overall (75th percentile for everything, developing just right) but found that the antibiotic wasn't working and you had an ear infection as well, so switched you to something different, and that's working better. You perked up as soon as we got the fever down, but now it stays down without the ibuprofen, which makes us all happier since you don't like having it injected down your throat. The last couple of times I've fed it to you very gradually, and that's worked better. But discontinuing it is better still.
That aside, your twelfth month and your first year have been wonderful. You're such a happy, explorative baby. I always intended not to compare you too much to your sister, and while I do it some, it really does feel like we're starting over with you. I kind of remember how Chloë was at this or that age, but mostly only by realizing how different or similar she was to you. Now you're my benchmark for three-month smiles, and six-months sitting, and seven-months crawling (sooner than your sister), and baby high-fives and kisses and trying to eat baby feet. I taught you "Kiss Mama," sometime in the last month or two, which instantly made your dad jealous, so now you also know "Kiss Daddy," and, kind of, "Kiss Chloë." Your one-year-old self is so smart. You point to the books or your new statue from Grandpa when you want them, and turn yourself around to slide down off the bed, and move off my legs when I'm getting up from the toilet, and understand things like "Arms up," and "Lie down," and "Milk?" and "No eyes!" This afternoon you and Chloë were at the window of our bedroom, and I heard you start to giggle intermittently. After a moment I peeked behind the curtain to find you tentatively poking your finger toward Chloë's eye and laughing when she was dodged. You both seemed to be enjoying the game, but I put a stop to it anyway. I love to hear your laugh, but maybe not at that potential price.
You love to laugh, much more so than your sister. Your very early months were a bit of a trial, especially the night colic. But as soon as you started emerging as a real person, with a real personality, I had a lot more fun with you--I think we all did. You like to be tickled, of course, and hung upside down, and to play peekaboo, and have raspberries blown on your belly; but you also like being jounced up and down while we make funny noises, or playing keepaway, or poking at my glasses after I've told you not to. You have a sunny smile that you bring out when I come into your room to get you after a nap, and when I come home from work at night, and when you catch sight of me unexpectedly. Sometimes it takes my breath away, my great good luck in being so beloved by you. I know, the whole giving-you-life thing gets me some brownie points, but still, I'm not always sure I deserve this.
You love your daddy too, and your sister. You're so pleased to see Chloë when I get you first and we go into her room together to get her or to wake her. You crawl all over her, and steal her drink and push her out of her own chair, because you like the things she has because they're hers. Recently you've started leaning over and kissing her hair, open-mouthed, at every opportunity, which she enjoys too. You love her hair. I keep telling you you'll have your own like that...eventually. (I think you've finally got as much now as she had at birth.) You two get along very well, all things considered, and I'm so glad. I look forward to the next year or two when you can really start to play together.
You've developed well, giving us pretty much no trouble this year other than the colic and some dramatic projectile pooping while on vacation, and maybe a bit on food. You weren't all that keen on solid foods for the first few months we introduced them, but you love them now. While you've been sick you've mainly been eating cheddar crunchies (baby Cheetos, basically), which I'm not excited about, but it's better than no food at all and you won't take baby food. Ordinarily you love bananas and oatmeal and Cheerios and apple bites and soft vegetables and pretty much everything else we'll let you try. You have been eating some cheese (you love cheese) and applesauce and, tonight, some strawberry, so that's good. So far you've been a pretty adventurous eater, and I'm hoping you'll stay that way into toddlerhood. Tuesdays when your dad goes out with his friends have always been "weird food nights," first for me and then for your sister and me, and I'm really looking forward to having girls' nights, just the three of us, eating all the good things your dad won't touch.
We're still nursing, which makes me happy, especially since we've gotten past the "mauling me" and "biting me" stages and have weathered the need for formula. When I first went back to work, you refused a bottle. I worried you would starve. We took a weekend and did bottle Boot Camp until you caved (being only nine weeks old) and started accepting the bottle. When, some seven months later, I faced the fact that I wasn't pumping enough to cover my work hours and was going crazy trying and had no frozen stash (thank you excess lipase issues) to draw from, I worried that we would buy formula and you'd refuse it and, being bigger and even stronger-willed now, starve. But you didn't. You took a half-and-half bottle without comment and didn't look back. I may have muttered, "Traitor," to myself once or twice, but I was glad, overall. Now you're on whole cow's milk, and formula to finish off that one container we bought, and a little milk I'm still pumping. But we nurse happily when I'm home. You don't have a real need for it anymore, and you never indicated that you were hungry the way Chloë did, by bouncing her mouth off my chest; you got generally irritable instead. But sometimes you'll point to my chest, or gently press your mouth to my shirt, and I get the message. I'm glad we still have this together. I'll be sorry when it goes. I could probably get you weaned onto a bottle pretty easily, but I'd rather not, not just yet. If you decide you're ready for that, I know you'll tell me. You're good at telling us what you want.
You're not quite walking, but you're so very close. Your dad, and your halmoni, have seen you take a few independent steps. I haven't. But I've seen you cruising with one hand held so lightly, and I've seen you standing for half a minute or more, bouncing a little, confident, strong. I was so sure you'd be walking before your birthday, but I guess you decided to take your time. You don't have any words yet, either, though I'm starting to wonder about those times you start to chant "Ma ma ma ma." Probably having "Mama" be your first word is too much to hope for. But you do sometimes look at me with intent when you're saying it. You've also fixed your gaze at my face and said earnestly, "Bah," and I've known you're telling me something, though I'm not sure what.
We had to cancel your party because of the pneumonia, but we still opened presents and had cake (I worked so hard on that darn thing; there HAD to be cake on your birthday). You didn't eat any, because you weren't eating anything, which made me sad--not that you didn't taste the cake I made, but that you weren't up to trying something I'm sure would have delighted you if you were well. Now that you're feeling better we'll try it again soon. You did enjoy your presents, especially the bouncy ball your sister picked out and the new chair Halmoni bought you. (Chloë loves that it folds out, and has so far used it more than you. You're still pushing her out of her chair, so I guess that's fair.) You pulled at the wrapping paper, and were intrigued by the prizes inside. You stared at the computer where we were doing a web call with family and I could see you thinking: "Moving picture. Nice faces. They're talking to me. They look familiar." You're still a baby, but you won't be for long. My wonderful girl.
You're a bright girl, a happy girl, an adventurous girl, and I'm so glad you're my daughter. I worried when I was pregnant with you that I wasn't going to love you as much as I do Chloë, no matter how other parents kept reassuring me I would. I didn't see how I could avoid having an internal competition between the two of you, and Chloë had the edge of being less care-intensive and more familiar. But it turns out that when you have a second child, she doesn't get some negotiated share of a compartment marked "parental love." She gets a new compartment all her own. You have a sister, but you still have all my love. I've had a baby before, but you are still the first you, still an amazement and a mystery and a happy surprise, even in familiar wrapping paper (someday you'll stop wearing everything your sister wore). And you get the advantage of a mama who's had a baby before, even if she doesn't apply everything she's learned (like: when the baby gets a fever, do something). I love the baby you've been and the toddler you'll be, and the family you've given us by being part of us. I love you, Miss Baby. Happy birthday.
Love,
Mama
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Chloë's second birthday
Chloë is two! She is the best two-year-old ever. Her birthday was Saturday, and went very well, all things considered (especially how much of a stupid wreck her mother was over the cake). The day started with pasta and sweet peppers for breakfast--her request--and a green helium balloon, and then a trip to the farmer's market. It was hot and she was tired, and as we walked back to the car I told her, "We're going home, and you can play with your balloon a little. Then it will be naptime, and then it will be your birthday party." She was walking slowly, and I offered to carry her. She lifted her arms without a word, and as we walked toward the car she said, "Go home. Play with green balloon. Night-night. Then birthday party."
When she woke up, there were other balloons to play with, too:
Because her aunt and uncle had to leave early, we made with the cake and ice cream right away. Her cake was chocolate with vanilla frosting:
And she was very excited about eating both cake AND ice cream. She's still talking about it.
She got plenty of lovely presents: dresses, sparkly T-shirts, her own lotion, a Magna Doodle (only not called that), a "Happy Birthday" book, jewelry and hair stuff, an Elmo video, a stuffed snake, and a plastic kitchen/shopping cart/food set. (Also the tricycle and slide from Grandpa and Halmoni a few months ago.) Her cousin Addie helped open presents, but I think in future she'll be just fine doing them by herself.
The eighties called. They hope you enjoy their jewelry and hairbands.
And then the kids went out back to play in the pool and the sprinkler and the slide. (This picture is actually from last weekend, but it's the same setup.) Her rash turned out to be some random viral thing, not contagious and not a problem, so she was cleared for the water.
It was a great day. I was a little surprised she didn't ask for another birthday party again yesterday, but then there were still balloons and new toys to play with, and an evening with the cousins to recover from. She was a little disappointed there was no pasta for breakfast, but life's tough when you're two.
When she woke up, there were other balloons to play with, too:
Because her aunt and uncle had to leave early, we made with the cake and ice cream right away. Her cake was chocolate with vanilla frosting:
And she was very excited about eating both cake AND ice cream. She's still talking about it.
She got plenty of lovely presents: dresses, sparkly T-shirts, her own lotion, a Magna Doodle (only not called that), a "Happy Birthday" book, jewelry and hair stuff, an Elmo video, a stuffed snake, and a plastic kitchen/shopping cart/food set. (Also the tricycle and slide from Grandpa and Halmoni a few months ago.) Her cousin Addie helped open presents, but I think in future she'll be just fine doing them by herself.
And then the kids went out back to play in the pool and the sprinkler and the slide. (This picture is actually from last weekend, but it's the same setup.) Her rash turned out to be some random viral thing, not contagious and not a problem, so she was cleared for the water.
It was a great day. I was a little surprised she didn't ask for another birthday party again yesterday, but then there were still balloons and new toys to play with, and an evening with the cousins to recover from. She was a little disappointed there was no pasta for breakfast, but life's tough when you're two.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Dear Chloe
Dearest Chloë,
Today you are one. --Actually, today you have been one for three-and-a-bit days. But with your Grandpa Shafer visiting, and your birthday party, I haven't had much time to sit down and write this, and the days don't make such a great difference as they did a year ago. Though the weeks and months certainly do. You've changed so much even from last month, and the difference between today and a year ago today is tremendous.
You were a big baby, a healthy baby, born after a long labor into a sunset. (That's where the and-a-bit comes in. It's nighttime now, and you've just gone to bed, willingly, with your new ladybug planetarium night light.) Right after you were born, one of the nurses taking care of you came to me and said, "You are awesome!" She said it because I had just given birth to an eight-pound, three-ounce OP baby without drugs, and I laughed, but I felt awesome. I had you.
(I also had a ton of endorphins and enkephalins bouncing around my system, I'm sure.)
The first couple of weeks after your birth didn't go as well as I would have liked. You got bad jaundice, partly because we were having feeding troubles. You wouldn't latch on, or if you did you wouldn't stay on, and I hurt a lot and couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong. I remember that my mom, your halmoni, took you away crying after a feeding session, because I was crying too. She said, "I think she's hungry." I snapped, "I know she's hungry!" and kept on crying. It didn't occur to me that we had a truly serious problem. Luckily, your dad had called the pediatrician and they had said to bring you in, so when you were eight days old they checked you over, sent us to St. Luke's (where your cousins Addie and Raegan were born) and ended up sending you to the NICU at Toledo Hospital to be put under the blue lamps to treat you for jaundice and weight loss. You spent four days there, which made your identifying bracelet with its "age: 8 days" funny when you were released. Your dad and I camped there the entire time, except when one of us went out to get something to eat or home to shower. Your grandparents came to visit, too. You lay under the lights, placidly, and slowly went from orange to pink. At your last heel-stick to check your bilirubin level you screamed, as you hadn't for your first, and I was glad to hear you sounding like a normal baby, even though I hated to hear you cry.
As far as we know, there were no lasting effects from the jaundice, but I felt terrible knowing that I had half-starved you and put you at risk for neurological damage. I still do. It triggered post-partum depression (not very serious, but enough that I had to be treated for it), which made your first few months a mostly unhappy time for me. I'm sorry I wasn't able to enjoy you very much then, though I don't think you noticed. You were still slowly recovering from the last of the jaundice, since we were nursing, which made things slower (but the pediatrician approved, so we continued). And a newborn doesn't do much but sleep and look around and eat and sleep again. I was always the one to get up with you, after the first couple of nights, because you usually wanted nursing--and I was mortally afraid of letting you be hungry, ever, after the NICU episode. This may be why you've been 50th percentile for height but 90-95th for weight for almost your entire life.
Once you were about three months old, and able to hold up your head, you became a lot more fun. You started showing hints of personality. You didn't sleep as much as I could have wished, but you get that honestly, from both of your parents. I was excited about introducing you to new foods at four months, and taking you to see my side of the family at five. At six months you were sitting up, playing with toys, babbling, and trying out a sippy cup; at seven you were thinking about crawling and discovering your feet; at eight you were starting to reach for people (mainly me) and eat some real table foods. At nine months you were crawling everywhere and starting to cruise; at ten months you were treating the world as your plaything and me as your chewtoy; at eleven months you were standing on your own, dancing, and learning to communicate--especially "up" and "down" and "WHY DID YOU TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME I HAAAAAATE YOUUUUUU." All along you've been curious, happy, sure of what you want, sure of our love, and we've loved you more every day.
And here you are at twelve months, one full year. If you were walking I'd have to call you a toddler. You're not, quite, but you're perilously close. If you've got something to hold onto--Daddy's hand or my shirt or a wall--you'll step confidently along, but we haven't yet persuaded you to try taking a step unsupported. Your Grandpa Shafer says that someday you'll just do it without realizing it. You can crawl fast, and climb stairs without a thought. You've just learned how to climb down from the couch. I don't think you've realized you can translate that skill to stairs, but it's only a matter of time.
You're eating table foods almost exclusively now. You won't accept baby food by itself, though we've spread it on toast and mixed it with pasta and you'll eat it that way. You're happy with both bottles and sippy cups, and we're still nursing, though your teeth (eight now) are in the way more and I may start actively weaning if you don't stop gnawing on me. I'm still a little afraid of letting you be hungry, which I'm in turn afraid will make me make you overweight. It's something to work on. But you're healthy and the doctor isn't worried, and you're happy to eat almost everything we give you, so I think we're doing well.
I took you outside today and you crawled around in the grass, looking with interest at the fallen twigs and the cicada molt, insects fleeing as you trampled the ground. You cried and screamed when I stopped you from crawling onto the sidewalk toward the street, and then into the neighbor's yard, and then onto the narrow bit of porch that dead-ends over the garden and that I wouldn't have been able to retrieve you from. You have such a temper. You get it from me--hot but short-lived. People keep saying you do (your grandparents, mostly, and your Aunt Bev). I hope it won't get you in the trouble mine has gotten me. I'll try to be forgiving of it.
You get a lot of your looks from me, too, but your eyes are like your father's, changeable but mostly gray-blue on the outside, golden brown on the inside. You got your first haircut the other day, just a trim of the bangs, and it makes you look older. You had a fringy mohawk in your first several months, which I loved, but I love your not-quite-a-toddler looks now, too. You are a beautiful baby.
We read with you a lot. When we nurse in your room, you generally point to the bookcase afterward, and I pull out books and read them to you--or as much as you'll let me before you turn the pages. You turn them at my request if I've by some miracle finished the page before you're ready. You respond to other commands, too--"Give me that, please," when you've picked up a bit of trash from the floor, or "Stop," or "Let go." (Most of the time.) You got a bunch of toys for your birthday, including a shape sorter, and you've already figured out that you're supposed to put the blocks through the sides, though you haven't figured out why they don't fit when you shove them haphazardly at the holes. You're fond of knocking toys together to hear the different sounds. You got a foam puzzle mat for your birthday as well, and I put part of it together on the landing because you like to crawl up and play there, and it's hardwood flooring and I thought the mat would be softer. It is, but you prefer to sit on the hard floor and tear up the mat one piece at a time. You're a funny girl. You love the "Where's Chloë?" game, and you clap your hands to your head sometimes, either to cover your eyes or to say "Oh no!" I'm never quite sure which, but I can never help laughing when you do it. You growl sometimes, for no reason we can tell. We growl back, which pleases you. I call you Chloë Bear and Baby Bear because of it, and you answer to those names (as well as all the other ones we call you, though usually when you're Whiny Butt you're in no mood to respond to any name).
You laughed at me the other day when I came downstairs. I don't know why. Your grandpa says you would pretend to cough on your strawberries, then start giggling. You don't laugh a lot in general, but that only makes it more precious when you do. You laugh sometimes when you're held upside down, or when your daddy is tossing you around, or when you reach toward me at dinner with messy hands and I jump back in mock fear. You're never worried that I'm really avoiding you; you just love the game. You cling to me, and to a lesser extent to your daddy, and while it can be a bit wearisome it's also precious, and I'll miss it when it's gone. I love your hugs and your upraised arms (though I'm trying to say "You want up?" to get you to talk, since you don't have any words yet), and your small warm hands on my leg as you're standing, looking around, secure on home base but thinking about making a run for it. I know you will before long. I'll be cheering you on, but I'll be a little sorry not to have all your affection and confidence to myself (sharing with your dad, of course).
I have loved having you as a daughter more than I thought I would, more than I feared in those first dark months, more than I hoped when I was pregnant with you and when your dad and I talked about having a child. I don't even mind the diaper changes, or I wouldn't if you didn't wiggle so much. You are your own brand-new person, my bright-eyed girl with her finger in her mouth and her mind in constant motion, fitting together the pieces of your world. I'm glad I'm one of the pieces. I'm looking forward to year two: learning to walk, learning to talk, learning about boundaries and colors and family members and probably time-outs. Helping you become more you. I want more of you. Happy birthday, baby girl. I love you.
Love,
Mama
Today you are one. --Actually, today you have been one for three-and-a-bit days. But with your Grandpa Shafer visiting, and your birthday party, I haven't had much time to sit down and write this, and the days don't make such a great difference as they did a year ago. Though the weeks and months certainly do. You've changed so much even from last month, and the difference between today and a year ago today is tremendous.
You were a big baby, a healthy baby, born after a long labor into a sunset. (That's where the and-a-bit comes in. It's nighttime now, and you've just gone to bed, willingly, with your new ladybug planetarium night light.) Right after you were born, one of the nurses taking care of you came to me and said, "You are awesome!" She said it because I had just given birth to an eight-pound, three-ounce OP baby without drugs, and I laughed, but I felt awesome. I had you.
(I also had a ton of endorphins and enkephalins bouncing around my system, I'm sure.)
The first couple of weeks after your birth didn't go as well as I would have liked. You got bad jaundice, partly because we were having feeding troubles. You wouldn't latch on, or if you did you wouldn't stay on, and I hurt a lot and couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong. I remember that my mom, your halmoni, took you away crying after a feeding session, because I was crying too. She said, "I think she's hungry." I snapped, "I know she's hungry!" and kept on crying. It didn't occur to me that we had a truly serious problem. Luckily, your dad had called the pediatrician and they had said to bring you in, so when you were eight days old they checked you over, sent us to St. Luke's (where your cousins Addie and Raegan were born) and ended up sending you to the NICU at Toledo Hospital to be put under the blue lamps to treat you for jaundice and weight loss. You spent four days there, which made your identifying bracelet with its "age: 8 days" funny when you were released. Your dad and I camped there the entire time, except when one of us went out to get something to eat or home to shower. Your grandparents came to visit, too. You lay under the lights, placidly, and slowly went from orange to pink. At your last heel-stick to check your bilirubin level you screamed, as you hadn't for your first, and I was glad to hear you sounding like a normal baby, even though I hated to hear you cry.
As far as we know, there were no lasting effects from the jaundice, but I felt terrible knowing that I had half-starved you and put you at risk for neurological damage. I still do. It triggered post-partum depression (not very serious, but enough that I had to be treated for it), which made your first few months a mostly unhappy time for me. I'm sorry I wasn't able to enjoy you very much then, though I don't think you noticed. You were still slowly recovering from the last of the jaundice, since we were nursing, which made things slower (but the pediatrician approved, so we continued). And a newborn doesn't do much but sleep and look around and eat and sleep again. I was always the one to get up with you, after the first couple of nights, because you usually wanted nursing--and I was mortally afraid of letting you be hungry, ever, after the NICU episode. This may be why you've been 50th percentile for height but 90-95th for weight for almost your entire life.
Once you were about three months old, and able to hold up your head, you became a lot more fun. You started showing hints of personality. You didn't sleep as much as I could have wished, but you get that honestly, from both of your parents. I was excited about introducing you to new foods at four months, and taking you to see my side of the family at five. At six months you were sitting up, playing with toys, babbling, and trying out a sippy cup; at seven you were thinking about crawling and discovering your feet; at eight you were starting to reach for people (mainly me) and eat some real table foods. At nine months you were crawling everywhere and starting to cruise; at ten months you were treating the world as your plaything and me as your chewtoy; at eleven months you were standing on your own, dancing, and learning to communicate--especially "up" and "down" and "WHY DID YOU TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME I HAAAAAATE YOUUUUUU." All along you've been curious, happy, sure of what you want, sure of our love, and we've loved you more every day.
And here you are at twelve months, one full year. If you were walking I'd have to call you a toddler. You're not, quite, but you're perilously close. If you've got something to hold onto--Daddy's hand or my shirt or a wall--you'll step confidently along, but we haven't yet persuaded you to try taking a step unsupported. Your Grandpa Shafer says that someday you'll just do it without realizing it. You can crawl fast, and climb stairs without a thought. You've just learned how to climb down from the couch. I don't think you've realized you can translate that skill to stairs, but it's only a matter of time.
You're eating table foods almost exclusively now. You won't accept baby food by itself, though we've spread it on toast and mixed it with pasta and you'll eat it that way. You're happy with both bottles and sippy cups, and we're still nursing, though your teeth (eight now) are in the way more and I may start actively weaning if you don't stop gnawing on me. I'm still a little afraid of letting you be hungry, which I'm in turn afraid will make me make you overweight. It's something to work on. But you're healthy and the doctor isn't worried, and you're happy to eat almost everything we give you, so I think we're doing well.
I took you outside today and you crawled around in the grass, looking with interest at the fallen twigs and the cicada molt, insects fleeing as you trampled the ground. You cried and screamed when I stopped you from crawling onto the sidewalk toward the street, and then into the neighbor's yard, and then onto the narrow bit of porch that dead-ends over the garden and that I wouldn't have been able to retrieve you from. You have such a temper. You get it from me--hot but short-lived. People keep saying you do (your grandparents, mostly, and your Aunt Bev). I hope it won't get you in the trouble mine has gotten me. I'll try to be forgiving of it.
You get a lot of your looks from me, too, but your eyes are like your father's, changeable but mostly gray-blue on the outside, golden brown on the inside. You got your first haircut the other day, just a trim of the bangs, and it makes you look older. You had a fringy mohawk in your first several months, which I loved, but I love your not-quite-a-toddler looks now, too. You are a beautiful baby.
We read with you a lot. When we nurse in your room, you generally point to the bookcase afterward, and I pull out books and read them to you--or as much as you'll let me before you turn the pages. You turn them at my request if I've by some miracle finished the page before you're ready. You respond to other commands, too--"Give me that, please," when you've picked up a bit of trash from the floor, or "Stop," or "Let go." (Most of the time.) You got a bunch of toys for your birthday, including a shape sorter, and you've already figured out that you're supposed to put the blocks through the sides, though you haven't figured out why they don't fit when you shove them haphazardly at the holes. You're fond of knocking toys together to hear the different sounds. You got a foam puzzle mat for your birthday as well, and I put part of it together on the landing because you like to crawl up and play there, and it's hardwood flooring and I thought the mat would be softer. It is, but you prefer to sit on the hard floor and tear up the mat one piece at a time. You're a funny girl. You love the "Where's Chloë?" game, and you clap your hands to your head sometimes, either to cover your eyes or to say "Oh no!" I'm never quite sure which, but I can never help laughing when you do it. You growl sometimes, for no reason we can tell. We growl back, which pleases you. I call you Chloë Bear and Baby Bear because of it, and you answer to those names (as well as all the other ones we call you, though usually when you're Whiny Butt you're in no mood to respond to any name).
You laughed at me the other day when I came downstairs. I don't know why. Your grandpa says you would pretend to cough on your strawberries, then start giggling. You don't laugh a lot in general, but that only makes it more precious when you do. You laugh sometimes when you're held upside down, or when your daddy is tossing you around, or when you reach toward me at dinner with messy hands and I jump back in mock fear. You're never worried that I'm really avoiding you; you just love the game. You cling to me, and to a lesser extent to your daddy, and while it can be a bit wearisome it's also precious, and I'll miss it when it's gone. I love your hugs and your upraised arms (though I'm trying to say "You want up?" to get you to talk, since you don't have any words yet), and your small warm hands on my leg as you're standing, looking around, secure on home base but thinking about making a run for it. I know you will before long. I'll be cheering you on, but I'll be a little sorry not to have all your affection and confidence to myself (sharing with your dad, of course).
I have loved having you as a daughter more than I thought I would, more than I feared in those first dark months, more than I hoped when I was pregnant with you and when your dad and I talked about having a child. I don't even mind the diaper changes, or I wouldn't if you didn't wiggle so much. You are your own brand-new person, my bright-eyed girl with her finger in her mouth and her mind in constant motion, fitting together the pieces of your world. I'm glad I'm one of the pieces. I'm looking forward to year two: learning to walk, learning to talk, learning about boundaries and colors and family members and probably time-outs. Helping you become more you. I want more of you. Happy birthday, baby girl. I love you.
Love,
Mama
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Paek il
(Today's post is a guest post by Dad.)
Today's the day! Chloë is officially 100 days old.
The Korean culture includes the months the baby spent in the womb when calculating age. 100 days after the birth is approximately 1 year from conception. The baby's first birthday.
The Korean word for it is "Paek il" and it's defined as the celebration of baby's first 100 days in which money and other gifts are given to parents for the baby.
After the baby is properly dressed, they are seated in front of a large table. And on the table you will find different types of food and fruits. You will also find threads, books, calligraphy brushes, ink, money, arrows or daggers, rice, needles, and scissors. After the baby is seated with the objects in front of her, everyone attending the ceremony waits patiently to see which object the baby will grab. It is believed that the object which is picked up first will foretell the baby's future. For example, if the baby picks up a calligraphy brush or a book, then it is believed that she will be a scholar. If she picks up an arrow or a dagger, she will be a soldier. Finally if the baby picks up the money or rice, it is believed that she will be blessed with wealth. If the thread is chosen, it is believed that the baby will have a long life. Guests usually bring gift of money, clothes, or gold rings. After the ceremony, the departing guests are given rice cakes.
Here are some facts about the Korean tradition:
1) In the old days, there were significantly high infant mortality rates and a baby surviving the first 100 days had a significantly higher chance for survival into childhood and beyond.
2) Traditionally, for the first 100 days, only very close family are to come in contact with the baby and the baby does not go outside at all.
3) When a baby girl is born, the birth is announced by hanging a white cloth (or a string of peppers for a baby boy) at the front door of the house. It tells visitors that there is a new baby in the house and it is respectful to refrain from visiting in fear of the baby's health.
4) Baby wears only white clothing during the first 100 days, because white cotton clothes are the easiest to sterilize by boiling. On the 100th day the baby wears colorful clothes for the first time and other adults can hold her.
5) On the morning of the 100th day of the baby's birth, either the mother or the grandmother (of the baby's parents) prepares rice, seaweed soup, and other white items and prays to the ancestors to bless the child with long life and good fortunes. Then the rice and the soup is fed to the birthmother.
6) Typically, the baby's hair is cut and tied in a lock and kept in safety until the baby comes of age (age of majority). The hair is returned to the grown child to remind her of the eternal love of her parents. The child would keep the hair as a reminder of the thanks to the parents bringing her into life.
7) Prepared white and other rice cakes are shared with as many people as possible to spread the blessing. People who share the rice cakes present gifts to wish happiness and long life.
8) Although the baby already has been given a name for the records, adults may see the baby for the first time and give her a baby name as a sign of adoration. Typically this baby name is used only inside the house.
Today's the day! Chloë is officially 100 days old.
The Korean culture includes the months the baby spent in the womb when calculating age. 100 days after the birth is approximately 1 year from conception. The baby's first birthday.
The Korean word for it is "Paek il" and it's defined as the celebration of baby's first 100 days in which money and other gifts are given to parents for the baby.
After the baby is properly dressed, they are seated in front of a large table. And on the table you will find different types of food and fruits. You will also find threads, books, calligraphy brushes, ink, money, arrows or daggers, rice, needles, and scissors. After the baby is seated with the objects in front of her, everyone attending the ceremony waits patiently to see which object the baby will grab. It is believed that the object which is picked up first will foretell the baby's future. For example, if the baby picks up a calligraphy brush or a book, then it is believed that she will be a scholar. If she picks up an arrow or a dagger, she will be a soldier. Finally if the baby picks up the money or rice, it is believed that she will be blessed with wealth. If the thread is chosen, it is believed that the baby will have a long life. Guests usually bring gift of money, clothes, or gold rings. After the ceremony, the departing guests are given rice cakes.
Here are some facts about the Korean tradition:
1) In the old days, there were significantly high infant mortality rates and a baby surviving the first 100 days had a significantly higher chance for survival into childhood and beyond.
2) Traditionally, for the first 100 days, only very close family are to come in contact with the baby and the baby does not go outside at all.
3) When a baby girl is born, the birth is announced by hanging a white cloth (or a string of peppers for a baby boy) at the front door of the house. It tells visitors that there is a new baby in the house and it is respectful to refrain from visiting in fear of the baby's health.
4) Baby wears only white clothing during the first 100 days, because white cotton clothes are the easiest to sterilize by boiling. On the 100th day the baby wears colorful clothes for the first time and other adults can hold her.
5) On the morning of the 100th day of the baby's birth, either the mother or the grandmother (of the baby's parents) prepares rice, seaweed soup, and other white items and prays to the ancestors to bless the child with long life and good fortunes. Then the rice and the soup is fed to the birthmother.
6) Typically, the baby's hair is cut and tied in a lock and kept in safety until the baby comes of age (age of majority). The hair is returned to the grown child to remind her of the eternal love of her parents. The child would keep the hair as a reminder of the thanks to the parents bringing her into life.
7) Prepared white and other rice cakes are shared with as many people as possible to spread the blessing. People who share the rice cakes present gifts to wish happiness and long life.
8) Although the baby already has been given a name for the records, adults may see the baby for the first time and give her a baby name as a sign of adoration. Typically this baby name is used only inside the house.
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