I can't hear you, la la la la la

Chloe came home a couple of weeks ago with a notice that she had failed the school hearing test in one ear. Eric was taking her to the doctor anyway not long after, for a mild but chronic stomachache (which we haven't yet gotten to the bottom of; the doctor suggested constipation but we've taken steps on that and the stomachache hasn't gone away. Eric and I thought we were done with close encounters with other people's poop once our children could wipe themselves reliably, but lo, we were wrong). While there, he asked them about the hearing test, and they did another and agreed that she totally had trouble with the lower frequencies in her left ear and that there was nothing in the ear canal to explain it. She went to the audiologist a few days ago and the audiologist concluded that the damage is in the nerves or the processing centers of the brain, which means it's permanent.

She's already started using it as an excuse.

It's mild to moderate, and only in the lower frequencies. Since none of us really suspected it* until the school report came home, it's obviously not very significant. I feel bad for her nonetheless, but it's comforting that it's not a very big deal--at least, not right now. She's getting an appointment with an ENT and we'll be following up to make sure that whatever caused it is not still causing it and making things worse.

She mentioned the other day that she was having trouble hearing one of her friends in the lunchroom. "But the doctor said I would have the worst trouble in that kind of situation, where it's loud everywhere," she said, very matter-of-factly.

Eric believes that this explains why we've never succeeded in getting her to achieve any sort of "car voice." Possibly she's also just a loud child, but it's true that we've always had to shush her more than we have Maia. We've told her that we're going to work on it so she understands what the right volume is, but we're going to work on being more understanding when she misjudges, too.

*I have in the past thought that we ought to see if she had wax impacted in her ears or something. But it never occurred to me as something to seriously pursue. Should it have? Children are notorious for reputedly having selective hearing. The audiologist said that one of the possible causes was her jaundice. We don't know, and we may never. Are there other things that may develop into problems, or be worsened, because it does't occur to me to act?

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

Words no other two-year-old has uttered

In Chloë's Elmo omnibus is an "Elmo goes to the doctor" story. We read it today (along with the babysitter one, which we likened to when she stayed overnight with Memaw and Omi Saturday) after Eric went to work. She dwelled on the part where Elmo gets a sticker (actually, demands one) after getting his shot. Later, in her room, she said, "I want to play doctor!"

I suppressed my snicker and agreed. "I need a check up!" she said. "What do we do first?"

"Well, we need to find out how tall you are. Let's go look at your growth chart," I suggested, and we went out in the hall. "You're three feet and half an inch tall!"

"What next, Mommy?"

"We should find out how much you weigh. You need to stand on the scale." She decided the vent in her floor was the scale. "Wow, you're nearly thirty-six pounds! You're such a big girl."

She beamed. "What next?"

"We should check your eyes. How many fingers am I holding up?" I said, holding up my index finger.

"Seven."

"I am not! How many?"

"One! What next?"

"We should check your ears and nose and mouth. Here, let me look at your ears." I formed a circle with my fingers and peered into her ear. "Your ear looks fine. Let's see your nose." I looked. "Ew, there's snot in it! Open your mouth and say 'ahh.'" She did. "Your mouth looks good."

"What next?"

"Next, you need a shot," I said, and picked up a small tube of Vaseline. "Hold out your arm. This will feel like a pinch." I pressed the tube against her arm. "You didn't cry at all. What a big girl! Here's a Band-Aid, and here's a special sticker."

"A star sticker!" she said, accepting it.

"A star sticker," I agreed. "Now, do you hold someone's hand when you cross the street? Do you ride in a carseat?"

"Yes!"

"Good! Well, I think your checkup is done. You seem very healthy and strong."

"I am very healthy!" she said. "I want a checkup again!"

So we repeated it. And again. I shortened the checkup each time, and each time it became more obvious that there was only one part she was really interested in: receiving her imaginary sticker. The third or fourth time she said "I want another checkup!" I said no. She wailed, "But I want another shot!"

Yes we know the muffin man

Chloë's two-year checkup went excellently. We warned her ahead of time there would be shots, but in fact there weren't, just a finger-stick to get checked for lead. She's 75th percentile for height (not quite three feet), 98th for weight (a little over 34 pounds), nearly a twenty-inch head. She was very good, and even talked some despite the doctor being a stranger, and got a sticker for her pains. We asked about her frequent nosebleeds and got some saline gel to try and sooth the irritated patch on her septum that's apparently causing the trouble.

"If it doesn't work, we can try other things, including cauterizing that spot," the pediatrician said, "but we don't want to do that if we don't have to." We agree. And Chloë's quite happy to get "med" for her nose, especially if it will help the nosebleeds.

The guidance for two-year-olds they sent home with us mostly seemed reasonable, but I was slightly annoyed by the nutritional guidance. Most of it I took no exception to--avoid soda and diet foods, lots of fruits and vegetables, eat at the table as a family, encourage water--but there was also, below "Eat whole-grain bread" and "have a protein source with every snack and meal," the line "no more than 1 serving of starch." Seriously? Now we're advocating the Atkins diet for toddlers? Are they not aware that

-carbohydrates are the best source of energy;
-starches (not highly-processed ones, sure) come with other healthful things like vitamins and fiber,
-excess protein can be harmful;
-starches usually are protein sources anyway;
-dude, human civilization was predicated on starches;
-children are meant to gain weight, not lose it;
-seriously, your plan is that every day growing children should have one piece of whole-grain bread and then nothing but vegetables and pure protein? Seriously?

I worry a bit about Chloë's weight--though the pediatrician says she doesn't--but I will put her diet up against anyone's. Also, I will give up hearing Chloë say "Koë make muffin with Mama," when someone beats me to death with a steak.

Status report: Month 2 (Maia)

Two months? Really? No wonder the 0-3 month clothes are fitting so much better. Maia's' two-month (really eight-week) checkup last week went very well; she was 11 lb, 3 oz, which is perfect, 50th percentile. She's also 50th percentile for weight, and 95th for head size. I guess our kids are just that way.

She was furious about her shots and let us know, and then slept. A lot. Which was a change. Like Chloë, she hasn't been doing as much sleeping as the books say she should. She also gets very cranky at night and usually about half an hour after feeding, though that half-hour is usually pretty pleasant these days. She looks around, smiles, follows faces with her eyes, puts up with her sister's kisses and prods.


But the crankiness, oh, the crankiness. Nights have been especially bad, high-pitched screaming that usually only gets stopped by a cork (i.e., the R.I.N.D.S.). It's bad enough and inconsolable enough that we're considering it night colic. The pediatrician suggested that reflux might be causing it, as she also much prefers being upright and in motion, never, ever refuses a R.I.N.D.S., and I have my suspicions that she doesn't actually need to eat every two hours so much as she needs to suck on something, and she won't take a pacifier. Or a finger. Or a bottle, we've discovered. (More on that later.) We got a prescription for baby Zantac; we'll see whether it works.

We're having no issues with the R.I.N.D.S. this time around, at least as far as the direct interface goes. We have discovered, though, that she won't take a bottle. She did a few weeks ago, when we left her with the mothers for a few hours for our anniversary dinner; but Eric's been trying to get her to take a bottle for several days now in preparation for my return to work, and no dice. Our parents and the doctors say that when she's hungry enough, she will; which seems heartless but there's really not much we can do, since I must return to work and it's not close enough to come home every two hours, and I doubt they'd let me bring her to work with me. She'd bring down productivity too much.


(That's Chloë's doll. She'll get her own, but it'll have to be when I've got time to make one, which is not going to happen while we're nursing every two hours and walking the halls with her at night until bed.) My plans for a summer quilt for Chloë are also scrapped for now. I'm pleased I finished Maia's before she was born. Maia's slept under it a few times and seems to approve.


She goes to bed with me around 10-11, usually nursed down. The bassinet has been much emptier during her first two months than with Chloë's. She's still waking up mostly every three hours, though we've had a couple of four-hour stretches. I'm wondering if nursing her in bed is part of the problem, but she's still awfully little, so I'm not sure. She sleeps when she sleeps. And usually with her hands in the air, for some reason.


I think her birth hair is starting to fall out; I've been seeing fine strands here and there. Her eyes are still blue, but very dark; I suspect they're at least going to be like Chloë's changeable eyes, if not fully brown. She's mostly able to keep her head up now, and has kind of rolled over--not true rolls, I think, but it indicates some trunk strength, which is good. She is a sweet little girl.


Thank you. Thank you very much.

A mother's memory, refreshed

I forgot how warm a newborn's head is.

Miss Maia is doing well, settling into home life, I think. Mom and Dad are here for another day--they arrived the day she was born--and have been a huge help in keeping the house running and getting us all a chance to take a breath and sort out what this new life is going to be like.

Labor and delivery were delightfully short and uneventful. I'll post a birth story later...hopefully less late than Chloë's. It'll also be shorter. I must say, I'd forgotten how annoying those hospital beds are, especially when you've got an IV in one arm and three hospital bracelets in the other. Also, how many different nurses you get in the course of a two-day stay.

Nursing is going well this time. It's still in the hurty stage, but Maia's weight is about where it should be, according to her pre-discharge and first-checkup measurements, and she's happy to latch on and stay there, except for a penchant for drifting off for five-minute naps and then waking up, ready for another refreshing drink, just when I've gotten up and am trying to use the bathroom or get a snack or a glass of water. I'd forgotten how thirsty nursing makes me. Also how sleepy. And how, when everything is quiet, you can hear the milk moving through a baby's tiny body as she drinks.

Also, I'd forgotten that moment at the beginning of nearly every nursing session where I feel awful and everything in the world is hateful. Ah well.

I've been told I can start lifting Chloë again, which is good because she's been very annoyed about being denied. She likes having a baby around to kiss and point at and say "Baby baby baby baby baby baby baby" to, but she's not so hot on being forbidden to climb on me because she's in danger of squishing her sister. I've been trying to have one-on-one time with her when possible. Having Maia around makes me notice how grown-up Chloë is, so loose-limbed and tousle-haired and talkative. And fun, except when she's being whiny, but I can understand that at a time like this.

We've been tense as Maia has gotten yellower, but we discussed jaundice at her checkup yesterday and the pediatrician had us go get a bilirubin level, and she's fine. We're going back later this week for another checkup, just in case, but I think she's doing fine. Everything is so much easier this time around. I know about changing diapers and clipping nails, and while I dislike the nighttime wakings as much as ever I know exactly what to do during them. I'm a little concerned about Thursday, when we wake up and have no Grandpa and Halmoni around, but every other family of four is able to deal with it; we will too.

Show us your pearly whites

Chloë had her first dentist appointment this past Tuesday. It was a very cheerful place, with trees painted on the walls and stuffed animals (and a mobile clock) hanging everywhere in the waiting room. In the actual work area there were more paintings and pictures, and a long strip of pacifiers that the dentists had bought from the kids.

Chloë currently has eight teeth, and the gums over her first molars are showing signs of being stretched tight, the dentist said. He wants us to floss between her two first teeth, because they're touching. I think he's funny. Floss her teeth? When we can't even get in there to brush them half the time lately?

He used the "lap method" to examine her mouth, which involved having her sit on my lap facing me and then lowering her to be supine on his lap, with his hands around her jaw. She screamed. A lot. She hated the taste of the toothpaste (we verified this later by putting the tiniest bit on her toothbrush at home, which he'd suggested), she hated having her mouth pried open, she hated having this strange man peering into her face and scrubbing at her precious teeth.

"Bringing her in early will make her more willing to go to the dentist later in life," he said. I was skeptical, what with all the screaming. She was appeased by the duck offering at the end, though. Perhaps we'll return. (What's with the ducks?)

Biting off more than we can chew

Chloe's fourth tooth is coming in now, a small off-white blob at the top of her mouth. She's loving these teeth. Normally I don’t have breakfast at home, but she woke me up at six and I was hungry, so we shared a piece of bread this morning. We sat on the living room floor, and I pulled off a couple of bean-sized bits for her. She accepted them, but then she wanted to get her own, so I let her pull off her own piece from my slice. While she ate that, I took a bite. Her eyes followed the bread as it went up to my mouth and down again, and then she was on it, chomping a bite for herself.

Her checkup last Friday went very well. She was 21 lb., 13 oz., down to 90th percentile for weight instead of 95th, which the doctor approved. She's still solidly 50th for height and 75th for head. She's developing perfectly and doing just fine except for an ear infection. I felt bad about not knowing this; but when she hasn't been irritable or feverish how were we supposed to know? She has pulled at her ears occasionally, but she's been doing that for months. The doctor gave us a prescription for antibiotics, but suggested waiting to see if the infection actually starts to bother her before filling it. That's what we're doing.

So far she hasn't seemed to have gotten any worse, except maybe for one thing. She's been waking up in the middle of the night and standing up and screaming instead of going back to sleep as she normally does. This started when we were at Penguicon for the weekend, in a hotel room where I didn't want to let her scream for fear of disturbing our neighbors, so it could be that she's taking advantage of the inch I gave; or she could be having trouble sleeping due to earache. It probably doesn't make a difference, but I'd be less grumpy at being woken at two every night this week. We've been starting to think that maybe a second overlord wouldn't be so bad sometime (until they destroy the Earth in their sibling rivalry, that is), but now I'm remembering the sleep deprivation and I'm not so sure.

Baby-related trauma

I have a lump on my inner lower gum. It's not a sore or anything, just a bump that kind of gets irritated when I press it with my tongue. It only showed up in the last couple of days, and I couldn't figure out what it was. It grew too fast to be cancer, but I was worried it was an abscess or some other annoying problem.

So I went to the dentist. "That's an interesting little lump you've got," he said, and took an X-ray. "The good news it's not an abscess," he said. "Your bones look good, and you have nice teeth. Sometimes the gums just get irritated from food-related trauma. Did you burn yourself on anything hot recently? Eat a lot of potato chips?" I said no, and he wrote me a referral for a periodontist, saying, "It may just go away in a week or so. If it doesn't, you may have a growth in the bone that's getting infected or something, and you should go to a specialist."

I took the slip and went home. I was happy I wasn't going to have to have a root canal, but a little concerned about the possibility of having some exotic oral disease. What if I had to have surgery? What if they had to remove part of my jaw? What if they forbade me from eating chocolate?

Chloë was a little irritable and I thought she might be tired, so we nursed on the bed and fell asleep together. When we woke up, she was happy and playful; she grabbed the wipe rag and shoved it at my mouth, and I made "Aaaah! Gahhh! Graaah!" noises into it as I've been doing recently, and she laughed and slapped my cheek, then grabbed at my face, as she often does. Her fingers slipped into my mouth and grabbed at my lower lip, as they often do, and then at my teeth and gums. I removed her hand and remembered that I still hadn't clipped her nails like I'd meant to. I think I know where the lump came from.

Growing so big

Chloë weighed 19 lb, 2 oz. at her checkup Friday. This is 95th percentile. She was also 26 inches. This is 50th percentile. "Is this a problem?" I asked the pediatrician.

"Not really," she said. "Once she starts crawling, it'll all even out."

It's a bit surprising that she hasn't rolled from back to front, and that she doesn't laugh much, but otherwise she's doing well. They gave her four shots (three six-months shots plus flu) and pronounced her fit to go on living. (Chloë wasn't too sure about this in the first couple of minutes after her shots. She recovered surprisingly quickly, though, and smiled at the nurse before she left the room.) Since the appointment was at two and it was only three when we got out, and I had left work with a huge to-do list, I took her to work with me.

"Does she sleep well for you?" was the number-one question, which kind of surprised me. But then I went to a Tupperware party recently and two of the women there had had children who didn't sleep through the night until they were two and three years old. These children are still alive, which also kind of surprised me.

"She looks exactly like you!" one of my coworkers exclaimed, then went on to gush about how cute she was, which made me feel good (since everyone likes to hear they're cute). Chloë was her usual smiley self. "Is she always this happy/well-behaved?" was the number-two question, which also made me feel good. I gave her the tour, taking her to see all the people I'd promised to show the baby one day and a few others besides. We ran into my boss on the other side of the building, where I was obviously doing no work, but I think he understood. He's got a daughter of his own. Anyway, after that we went back to my desk and I did a few things (though I couldn't go into the lab with Chloë because no one can go in without a lab coat, and I didn't think I'd be able to find one small enough) until she started to get bored, and then we headed home.

Today we left her at the grandmothers' for a few hours while we went shopping. For a new carseat for her, among other things. Her current one is good up to 22 lb., which means we've got until maybe the end of April at the absolute latest, but we had a good coupon and some money in the budget, so we got a nice convertible one good up to 65 lb. today. Theoretically two would be ideal, so we wouldn't have to transfer it between cars at daycare, but we're not sure the convenience is worth the extra money. At any rate, unless we opt for the convenience we shouldn't have to buy another for quite a while.

Status report: Month 2

Today Chloë is two months old. We went for her two-month checkup today, to get examined and vaccinated (she may never trust me again). She's twelve pounds, two ounces, 22.75 inches long, 39.5 cm head circumference. Everything is fiftieth percentile or higher, so she deserves the name she got called by the pediatrician: Chubs. I can officially stop being paranoid about her weight now. In fact, the pediatrician, when he heard that feedings will run to sixty minutes if I let Chloë determine them, suggested backing off on feedings a little and limiting them to forty minutes or less, which is quite all right by me.

Chloë's second month has been full of smiles. She smiles when she sees me sometimes, or when I smile at her. She coos and makes odd noises, enough that we have "conversations" sometimes:

Chloë: Eeee.
Jenny: Really?
Chloë: Ohh.
Jenny: I'm not totally convinced. Could you be more specific?
Chloë: Waaaa.
Jenny: Now I understand.


She's discovered the baby in the mirror, and loves to lie in her swing and look up at her, sometimes grinning, sometimes just intently watching. She looks around at things all the time now; we think this is partly why she likes car rides and walks.

Her hair sticks up in the back like a bird's crest. Her eyelashes are dark and long now, and her eyebrows delicate but definitely visible. She can support her own weight, and can support her head most of the time. We've started being able to use the two baby carriers we have (a sling and a backpack-style carrier) because of this, and are looking forward to using them more in the future. She's getting awfully heavy in that carrier.


The drool has come, in vast quantities, enough that I'm sure at least one feeding a day goes directly to replacing all that saliva. She's also started sucking her fist a lot more, and is finally taking a pacifier for more than two sucks before ejecting it. Nursing has improved; we're finally nursing full-time, except for a bottle at night because she's ravenous just before bed. There is no actual bedtime yet, but we're working on it--the pediatrician told me that now is the time to work on good sleeping habits that will last the rest of her life, no pressure. (He also told me that babies tend to sleep really well after their shots--probably exhausted from all that crying. She certainly fell asleep quickly and thoroughly once we were out of there and she'd satisfied herself that I was aware she was unhappy.)

This month she met her Aunt Bev, Uncle Philip, and cousin Gabriel, and went to the zoo and Lake Erie for the first time. She also stayed with her Omi and her Aunt Michelle while Eric and I went out on a date, and she's been to her first coffeeshop gaming night and gem show and restaurant. She's kept us up later than we wanted almost every night, though there were also two nights she went to sleep quite happily in her bassinet (sadly, they haven't been repeated). Now that she's not as jaundiced, she's not sleeping nearly as much as she was, and not as much as the books say she should. But she's healthy, and growing, and ours.

Six weeks

Exactly six weeks ago, I was either single-mindedly devouring a veggie sub from Subway, or sleeping, I forget which.

I've been watching Chloë's eyebrows come in over the past week or so. That is, they were there before, but only as fine translucent hairs. Now darker ones have swept from the outside in. I think her ears and hands are bigger. She's also developed small red dots on her eyelids and a fine double chin. I'm particularly proud of this last one, since the nursing is still a work in progress. She hasn't stopped biting me (dropping her jaw and raising it really, but if she had teeth they would be bites--if she's still doing it when she starts teething she will be weaned so fast relativity will kick in and she'll think she's weaning me) and sometimes, mainly late at night, she won't latch on even though she's hungry, instead arching her back and screaming, this apparently being a step up from being fed warm milk while nestled up against a warm body.

To add to the fun, I developed mastitis over the weekend, resulting in a fever that kicked my butt as no previous fever has. Now that I'm on antibiotics, things are much better, but I was highly unamused for a while. Chloë was fortunately unfazed, though she got a lot of my sweat on her.

However, I got a clean bill of health from the midwives today. They also say Chloë is much chubbier than she was when I was there last, ten days ago. They definitely know how to sweet-talk a girl. Apparently the thirteen or so feedings a day are paying off.

...Go

We're now in the single digits on the countdown to our due date. Not that I necessarily think that means anything. I am officially the most boring prenatal patient in the world ("It's such a joy to read your chart!" Chris exclaimed at my checkup today, but I was not deceived: forget yawning, she was trying not to snore) which suggests, at least to me, that I'll be exceedingly average, which means a few days late. Anyone want to start a betting pool?

The nursery is now ready, to the point where I've actually opened the bottle of powder. (It's pure cornstarch but it smells just like any other baby powder. I suppose they do that so you know it's baby powder.) I've even finished the sort-of-bumper for the crib:

(That's really only about half of it; the mattress lowers as the baby gets older and more interested in climbing, so the bumper continues below the current mattress level.)

We've packed our bag, as much of it as we can. The newborn clothes are washed and put away. I've finally programmed the midwives' phone number into my phone. My maternity leave paperwork is ready to be turned in after two small questions (Eric insists that I am not in fact an idiot, so the necessary conclusion is that this paperwork is exceedingly pregnancy-unfriendly). (Though Eric would say that anyway, as his sense of self-preservation is becoming more and more finely honed these days.)

I am in fact in the middle of making a quilt to match the bumper, but I'm not actually concerned about finishing that before the baby comes, since it's not like she's hurting for blankets. Except for a small personal project (code name Shoelace) that I'd like to finish, I think we're actually...ready. Physically, anyway. Eric seems to be mentally ready as well. I don't know that I am. But it probably means something that when the baby pokes her little feet into my upper belly, I've started telling her there's a lot more room on the outside.

Week 38 visit

Eric came with me to this week's midwife appointment--he figures he might want to start meeting the people who are going to be in the delivery room with us, plus we'd meant to talk to them about this whole "birth plan" business (and the back-and-forth I keep getting from them about the specter of induction), but we totally forgot that last part.

Instead, I got my first cervical check. This involves the midwife--the student, Jennifer, in this case--donning a pair of gloves and *WARNING: GRAPHIC GIRL CONTENT* putting her hand inside my you-know-what to see how many fingers she can put through the cervical opening, and how thick it is. Jackie had described the cervix as being like a turtleneck; it can be tightly closed and all thick and bunched up, as is normal, or it can be open and thin, which is what will happen when I'm ready for labor. After some pushing and leaning and telling me to put my fists under my hips to tilt me enough for her to get to the right position, *END WARNING* she determined I'm one centimeter dilated and somewhere around 25ish percent effaced (she didn't sound very confident), -3 to -2 station (baseline is -4). In other words, not very far along at all. But it's kind of nice to know that something actually is happening.

"You're just about where I'd expect a new mother to be," she told me, *BEGIN WARNING* pulling off her blood-tinged gloves, "where not much is going to happen for another couple of weeks. You might spot a little tonight," she added thoughtfully as she disposed of the gloves. "The cervix is so vascularized at this point." *END WARNING* The exam was not actually painful, but definitely uncomfortable, and Eric looked kind of alarmed.

Everything else looks fine, baby seems to be occiput anterior (her back to my front, which is what we want), and I got them to give me a doctor's note to excuse me from the jury duty summons I got for August 10. We're figuring that's not going to work out so well, unless they want the twelfth member of the jury to be a bleeding, sore, hormonally unbalanced new mother, and the thirteenth member of the jury to be a tiny evil overlord.

Ice cream and bugs

We had ice cream for dinner on Monday--well, technically we had a substantial snack, then stopped at Dairy Queen while out shopping because I really wanted a Blizzard, then got home late and had another snack instead of cooking--which I realized I ought to appreciate more than I did, since my days of "but I'm pregnant!" are coming to a close. I haven't even used my "send the husband on a midnight run for an unusual food" card. I suspect I'm something of a disappointment to pregnant women everywhere. Maybe I can keep the card for later.

My now-weekly checkup was yesterday. Everything remains fine--blood pressure back down to my normal levels, baby still head-down and poking her feet (or raygun, we can't tell for sure) into my ribs--except that I have tested positive for Group B strep, which is a bacteria that's asymptomatic in normal adults but is apparently the leading cause of sepsis and meningitis in newborns. In order to avoid passing it on to L.E.O., I'll be getting IV infusions of antibiotics at the hospital. Not a big deal, though I was grumpy about the idea of being hooked up to a pole my entire labor until they explained that I could just get a hep lock (a little needle port that gets left in your arm) and be hooked up just long enough for an infusion once every four hours. I think I'll feel a little bit like a cyborg, but that's all to the good.

Covered

Our second baby shower was Sunday, out at Side Cut Metropark, which must be a great place to go to be alone because it's so hard to find hardly anyone ever makes it there. Several of our guests almost didn't. But everyone showed up eventually, and the site and the party were lovely. We got lots of very nice gifts and cards, including one reading "A humble offering to the most exalted little Evil Overlord. May your conquest be swift and absolute. --Your Most Loyal Minions." I think L.E.O. will be pleased.

She will also be very warm. She now owns twelve blankets, not including, you know, my uterus. It's really making me reconsider the quilt I'm making for her, or any quilt I plan to make in the future for other babies.

Yesterday we went to Babies R Us to spend our gift cards and store money and get the things that I was going to feel slightly insecure until we got: a crib mattress, a changing pad, a diaper pail, and so on. (We also got things like a Boppy cover and car mirrors and a Pack 'N Play, which are not as essential to my mental well-being but are still quite nice.) If we get a box of size 1 diapers, and maybe the diaper bag that Mom keeps saying she'll get us, I think we're pretty much set.

And I went for another checkup today and everything is still looking good, which made me especially happy since I've been a bit stressed out about other things and presumably my stress isn't affecting L.E.O. all that much. After getting it straight with the midwife that Yasmin was the name of my old birth control, not my baby (apparently the student midwife I talked to last time wrote cryptic notes), I asked her something I'd been meaning to ask in childbirth class: what determines whether they'll let me stay at the hospital when labor comes.

"Labor is actually defined by change in the cervix," she explained. "If you're at three centimeters but you're not really progressing and you're having irregular contractions, they're probably going to send you home. If you're at three centimeters but things are really changing, they'll want you to stay." She looked down at my chart. "However," she added, sounding almost reproachful, "you've been doing everything else perfectly, so you probably won't have a problem with that either." Maybe I'm too boring a patient.

Drug week

"Have you decided on what medication you'll use, if any?" said the student midwife who saw me at the office today. "Are you going all-natural, doing IV medications, something else...?"

"I didn't know I had to decide already," I said, a bit taken aback by her seriousness.

She said, "Mmm," and continued to look intently at me, so I went on. "I'm taking a childbirth class and the next session is on medications, so I figure I'll wait until I get more details then to decide."

"All right," she said and went on to something else, what contraception I planned to use, I think. It struck me as a bit odd that in any other situation, the medical practitioner would be the one telling me what was best, but here I'm expected not only to choose myself, based on no prior experience (but then, they have no prior experience with me either), but to do my own research--they haven't given me any information on medications other than a bit on the side effects of epidurals.

Besides, I rather suspect she was going off a checklist in her head of "What to Ask a Patient at Seven Months."

Otherwise, the visit was very boring; I've only gained half a pound since I was there last ("Have you been eating better?" asked the nurse, looking at me suspiciously as I got off the scale; I said, "No, but I took a vacation and we walked everywhere," and she was satisfied) and L.E.O. is very squirmy but very healthy. "She's head-down right now," reported the student midwife, "though she may not stay that way. It's early yet."

I asked her when L.E.O. might be expected to settle into her final position and stay there and she gave me a vague answer that suggested she didn't know. I also asked her whether my mother delivering early meant I might deliver early, and she said that was a myth, but that the length of the labor might be correlated. I wasn't totally confident in her information (especially since she followed it up with anecdotes about her mother and sister) but when the real midwife came by to check on her and asked me if I had any questions, I decided not to embarrass the student midwife by asking them again. I'll ask again next visit, or in class on Thursday.

The amazing shrinking shoes

My shoes shrank today. They were fine yesterday, but this morning they were small. This does not bode well. I really love these shoes.

I'm now on the two-week plan with the midwives' office, as the receptionist said when scheduling my next appointment. It feels almost like a promotion. (Actually, I wouldn't know. I've never been promoted.) I met the second of the three midwives who assist with births, Sandy. One of her first questions was, "What's your birth plan?"

"Um..." was my response. ("Survive" didn't seem like what she was looking for.)

"So, whatever? I like that, actually, it means we'll be able to work together to find out what works for you." We discussed pain management, water and relaxation and medications--her attitude toward epidurals seemed to be "Most people would consider them unthinkable but I'm very progressive in my outlook"--and she warned me that first-time mothers tend to be late rather than early, but they'll start suggesting induction at 41 weeks and start getting tough about it at 42. I'd mentioned that my parents live in Seattle, and she said, "So keep that in mind when your parents are making plans." She also said, during the epidural discussion, "Since you're from Seattle I expect you're more open to natural birth than some of the girls around here, who don't want to feel any pain." That amused me.

L.E.O.'s development continues to be splendidly normal. Presumably she's getting it out of her system now. My blood pressure is also normal (due, I expect, to a slow week at work--if I were dealing with clients at full speed I bet it'd be elevated), I'm neither diabetic nor anemic, and my weight gain is pretty reasonable. The nurse said something while taking my blood pressure about me being "little," which made me laugh since I'm now the heaviest I've ever been. Eric pointed out the other day that when I lie on my back I don't really look pregnant, just kind of round, but in any other position it's pretty easy to see at this point. Once the heat kicks in and my shoes shrink permanently, it'll be easy to hear, too, because I'll be complaining all the time.

Getting in gear

There is a baby swing in our office. This is freaking us out.

I got back from my Seattle trip yesterday, bringing a big suitcase full of awesome baby stuff that my family gave us. (And gift cards, for ease of packing, which I appreciated.) I would describe them but talking about how extremely adorable every outfit and blanket was and how many neat little things were on the diaper cake (a phrase I never understood before) will probably get very boring very quickly. Suffice to say, we are very grateful and very pleased and very, very alarmed at the ever-growing realization that we're going to need all this stuff for an actual tiny human.

Angie and Matt gave us a Papasan baby swing a few weeks ago and while I was gone, Eric brought it to our house (it had been left at the mothers' for a while). We decided today that it made no sense to wash and put away the new outfits and blankets and washcloths now, since ideally we should wash them just before L.E.O. is born, which is (if all goes well) still thirteen weeks away. But I was itching to do baby prep/nesting-type activities, and I able to be annoying about it because I was home for the day (I took a sick day because I had a doctor appointment and was figuring I'd have jet lag; all is well, though my previous doctor's office apparently never did the state-mandated gonorrhea/chlamydia screen they were supposed to, so we had to do it today--I'm glad I left them), so we decided to assemble the swing instead.

It went together pretty quickly and smoothly, and we decided to bring it into the office to see whether it would fit. It does, and it's sitting by the window now, with a stuffed rabbit sitting inside it. There's a baby swing in our office. In a few months it will be rocking a baby. Unreal.

She's going to have us killed anyway.

L.E.O. now weighs approximately 570 g (about a pound and a quarter). She has a four-chambered heart and a three-vessel umbilical cord and what looks like a very promising brain. (Maybe Eric will get these pictures up someday...) Also, apparently, a reluctance to have her spine imaged, since she didn't make it easy for today's ultrasound technician either. But the technician eventually got it, and we were very pleased with the session--it seemed more thorough than last time, and more oriented towards collecting data than showing us the itty bitty fingers and eensy weensy toesies (and we found the data collection more interesting and reassuring anyway).

L.E.O. is also quite definitely a girl. That waveform has thoroughly collapsed. "Look, here are her labia," the technician said, pointing them out on the screen.

"There's a picture to show her boyfriends," I said.

"You want one?" she inquired.