... and Baby Makes Crazy
Dear Harley: Being Born Edition, 11 Months
Dear Harley Cat,
Today marks your 11 month, 2 week birthday.
Girlfriend, you are two weeks away from being one year old. I remember when you were a zygote. No, seriously. You had a tail. It was awesome.
No longer do you have a tail, but dare I say it, a personality - a very willful personality (you got that from me). You.are.a.drama.queen. We’ve forayed into “throwing your head back when you fake cry” territory. Is it over something serious? I don’t know. I am not one to think that you, not being able to shake an entire glass of water all over our carpet, would warrant that type of fit. To each their own, I suppose.
You’ve left babyhood and are confidently and steadfastly entering into toddlerhood. I can’t take it. From your hair to your fingers that used to be impossibly fat - you’re starting to look like a little girl. You stare at me, unimpressed, when I try to play Patty Cake. Now you laugh when I pretend to cry. You put a bucket on your head and scream just to hear the sound of your own voice. (That has *got* to be your father’s genes in action.)
As we embark on your first birthday, you seem to grow and change more in really noticeable ways. While stuffed animals used to be your favorite toys, now you’re desperately trying to figure out how the iPad works.
I’ll catch you sitting by yourself “reading” your “Touch the Art” books.
We ask you, “How big is the baby?” and you hold your arms high above your head and chuckle when we respond, “SO BIG!” You took it upon yourself to learn how to unlock the gate we use to keep you out of “The Land of Knives and Poison” a.k.a. the kitchen. Which is all just one of many different ways you try to illicit itty-bitty heart attacks from your father and me.
You’re not quite walking yet, but we’re definitely getting there. You took your first solo step the other day and I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of a single second in time, than I was at that moment. You looked confused. After, I picked you up, held your head close to mine and cried in your ear, “This is going too fast! You’re growing up so fast.” I just can’t believe you’re going to be a year old. I’d like to take it a little slower for the next 17 years, okay?
With all my love,
Mom
BABIES(SNAKES) ON A PLANE aka Traveling with an Infant
A couple weeks ago, we all flew home to Indiana for our best friends’ wedding and my 30th birthday. This marks Harley’s 3rd plane trip, 5 if you count the trips in utero. I don’t. Mostly because she wasn’t like trying to get 6 puppies to sit in your lap when she was inside my belly. Now she uses the tray table as a ladder to pull herself up so she can see what’s going on in the seat in front of her.
I’m here to tell you, flying with a 1-6 month old child is a cake walk. Those of you that still nurse, it’s probably fairly easy as well. You give your child the boob and BAM! milk coma ensues. 1-6 month old babies also nap for extended periods of time. Mine won’t nap well unless she’s in a bed, lying on top of her bunched up blanket, pacifier in her mouth and she’s had a bit of a meltdown first. Or if I hold her very tightly in my arms while she tries to wriggle free and has several meltdowns. AKA, this photo did not come easily. Please take note of Dover, clutching her snack catcher for dear life:
If you’re like me with a ten month old who not only doesn’t nurse, but your lap is the infant equivalent of going to the gym at 5AM, then you’re terrified of what is to come when you fly the SCREAM-CRYING skies. I, as well as most moms, had heavily Google’d before this flight.
Some tips I read that worked and some that didn’t:
- Use an infant carrier. This is a necessity for my husband and me. For one, she can’t walk and so she’s useless at the airport. She can’t carry her own stuff. She isn’t able to walk through the security line. Like I said before: useless and you’ll need both your hands to carry all her stuff, shop for snacks and magazines, and get onto the plane without losing your mind.
- Try to sit in the first row so you have the extra floorspace to let your child play after takeoff. This is helpful in theory. However, you have to put everything in the overhead bin which isn’t really convenient when you’re trying to get bottles/toys/blankets/wipes/etc. at the first sign of temper-tantrum.
- Sit by the window. This has its pros and cons. Pro: the baby will be entertained for three minutes (which is an eternity in baby-time). Con: If either of you have to use the restroom, you’ve got to finagle yourself out and if you’re alone, a stranger might have to hold your baby for a second.
- iPad, iPad, iPad (or portable DVD player) this worked like a dream. While my daughter sat staring - mouth-agape - at an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, I was able to have a glass of water and stuff my face full of airplane pretzels.
- Plastic water bottles: this was also a good time killer. She shook, smooshed and crackled her way through some turbulence with an empty water bottle.
- Only give the child one new toy at a time. This would work in theory. Except, I’m not going to buy a gaggle of new toys solely for a plane trip. My daughter is not Suri Cruise. We brought her favorite toys and only gave her one at a time. Her favorite toy, to-date is this: VTech Rhyme and Discover Book
- SkyMall Magazine: Do you remember, prior to flying with a child, some of your favorite time spent was when you flipped through the SkyMall magazine and convinced yourself you didn’t need the solid oak iPhone case or the patio heaters shaped like tiki torches? Yeah, me too. Funny thing: the baby LOVES to tear up magazines. We’re talking a good 10-15 minutes spent ripping and trying to eat the SkyMall Magazine. Hey, it says you can have a copy right on the cover!
- Your patience: this is quite obviously true. Things aren’t going to go smoothly. There will be hiccups and no amount of planning is going to keep your baby quiet, in your lap and acting like an angel the entire flight. I can’t even get mine to do that in our own living room. But your attitude on the whole situation goes a long way. Don’t almost get into a fistfight with your partner like I did. For the record, he started it.
The Rage
As of late, Harley has been doing what Ben and I fondly call “The Rage”. To some parents, this may be known as “The Temper Tantrum”. However, this is a little different. Sure she’ll do it when you take too long to give her a bite of what you’re eating. But she also does it while sitting in her high chair with a fistful of food.
She balls up her tiny, fat fists and her eyes get a little squinty. She then grimaces and makes a growling-scream type sound. And while at first I wanted to be overprotective and Google “Baby turns into the Hulk for no reason” I decided that it’s probably a natural form of expressing her emotions.
While I know how to say, “Man, I just haven’t had enough of this cheeseburger. I REALLY WANT SOME MORE CHEESEBURGER” the baby has no idea how to say, “GIVE ME MORE POPSICLE, OLD MAN!” So she threatens to turn into the Hulk. It makes sense when you think of it that way.
A Little Ditty About Dover
Dover and I have been married for two years (today!!) and while we’ve certainly had a whirlwind relationship, he’s certainly been a very stable part of my life. We’ve been through a move across the country and now a baby. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t stop and watch him with our daughter and just think to myself, “He is SUCH a great dad.”
I can’t say I didn’t know this all along. Before Harley came along, I would yell at him and he would look me right in the eyes and laugh. The fact that he didn’t take me too seriously and can find humor in my outbursts are a couple of the reasons why I married him. I definitely didn’t marry him for his dance floor antics. (A for effort, honey!) But, he *does* make a mean turkey sandwich!
He has so many traits that I wish I could possess. He’s calm, laid back and very kind - both with me and my feelings. He’s always the first to apologize and the last to admit he’s wrong. He takes direction well (read: I am *very* bossy) and isn’t afraid to lose an argument. He kisses me goodnight and goodbye. I’d lend his hugs to a friend having a bad day.
He’s the first person I want to hold me when I’m sick or sad or feeling sorry for myself. I know with every fiber of my being that he is a real, deep-down, honest-to-God, good man. He is a man that I want our future son to grow into. Mother-in-Law, if you’re reading this, you did a wonderful job with him.
Ben, I love you and Happy Anniversary! Thank you for choosing to spend the rest of your life with me and giving me that chunky child that currently holds more than her fair share of real estate in our home. I have you to thank for her being built like a Kardashian when she grows up.
Childproofing
I once read that child proofing your home is telling your child they’re not welcome there. My reaction was twofold. At first I was pretty shocked that someone thinks babies are that smart. My second thought was, “Why yes, Harley you are, in fact, not welcome to use the xbox tray as a scale or an aid in standing thisclose to the TV.”
I say this because we’ve gone ten months without childproofing and that time is a changing. My fat-faced little hellion is into EVERYTHING. While the media center (that’s what I’m calling the former coffee table acting as a TV stand) used to house all her favorite off-limits items, that’s just the cherry on the top of her “I HAVE A WHOLE APARTMENT TO TEAR THROUGH?! AREYOUGUYSSERIOUS?THANKSGUYSIWILLCLIMBINTHEFIREPLACENOW!” sundae.
I plan to make my child feel the most unwelcome of all babies that ever felt unwelcome. She will not be allowed to put her fingers in light sockets or use her ten month old brain to decipher what I mean by “Please don’t drink bleach, Harley.” I will make sure she can’t dive headfirst into the toilet. Even though I would laugh A LOT if she tried. She will not be allowed to grab handfuls of electrical cords and chew on them at will.
So childproofing is happening, my friends. This weekend. There will not be a follow-up to this entry because let’s face it - cabinet locks and tv straps do not make for interesting blog entries. That is, unless Harley figures out how to use her little gorilla body to remove aforementioned cabinet locks and tv straps.
9 Lessons for 9 months of living
Lesson #1: No amount of coaxing will get you to do the following:
sleep through the night (but we’re 80% there)
stay away from the entertainment center and all the wonder it holds for you
get you to eat when you’re watching Nick Jr.
as of late: sit down in the bathtub. Evidence here:
Lesson #2: Bag of Wipes is a lifesaver. From diaper changes to temper-tantrums-in-restaurants (always a parental favorite) it’s my go-to when you’re being dramatic. Or in other words: your mother’s daughter.
Lesson #3: When you are crying and if Bag of Wipes fails, food works. Every time. That is responsible parenting right there! And there isn’t much you won’t eat. You’ll eat eggs, berries, bananas, avocados, cheese and yogurt. You’ll eat french fries and ice cream too.
Lesson #4: Making teeth appear is a special kind of torturous magic. Scream, drool, and drama-filled magic. You love chewing on your fingers until you gag yourself which makes us laugh a lot.
Lesson #4a: Don’t take small teething toys on stroller rides. Sadly, we lost Sofie the Giraffe on a trip to the drug store. That is a $20 lesson you don’t need to learn.
Lesson #5: I have never been more proud or elated to see another human being stick out their tongue. You think it’s funny too.
Lesson #6: If we put the video monitor within your reach, it’s basically like watching Godzilla descend on Tokyo. You have a very big face, Harley Catherine:
Lesson #7: When I pick you up in a fit of anger and your lurch your little body back, I have to hold on tight and then laugh a little. I read that you do this because you can’t control your emotions. If only I could get away with that!
Lesson #8: You find running hilarious. Whether it’s your dad and me trying to elicit a laugh or you see it on TV, we can always get a chuckle out of you.
Lesson #9: You’re able to cruise now. This means your father and I have to work as a team to make sure things get done and you don’t find a way to get stuck under our end tables or in the fireplace. We have also turned into your own personal jungle gyms.
