After I've played with James, fed him, cleaned his nappy, and given him naptime, I do what to some parents is unthinkable: I plop him in front of the television, mostly to watch the Baby Mozart videos. While I don't honestly believe that these videos will turn the boy into a genius, he does genuinely enjoy watching them. He waves to the little girl, he claps his hand occasionally, and if he's whimpering to start with, he stops as soon as I turn it on.
At a dinner party a few weeks ago, a couple proudly proclaimed that television watching undoubtedly gives children Attention Deficit Disorder. To me, it seems it has the opposite effect - he is able to watch consistently, and pay constant attention to his play tasks as well.
The moral, as always, is this: while we don't know what exactly is best for the children, if we really aren't sure, let's side with the activity that is in our best interest. And for the busy mother, an occasional educational video certainly is.
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Friday, 16 September 2011
Internet Consumer Blitz
I look enviously back on my pregnancy as a time of consumer bliss. I went into each baby gear store with excitement and wonder, examining the clothes//prams/baskets/toys, and making careful considerations. I researched everything, and, not wanting to be "one of those mothers" who end up with lots of things they don't need, decided to select only the most important items. I compared prices and brands, asked advice, made electronic wish lists for those friendly gift-givers who sought them out. Each purchase was a joy, each thing carefully stowed away for when it was needed. Friends gave me heaps of things, and I treated them with the same careful consideration, sorting by age and purpose.
Now, things have changed. I find myself conducting a sort of consumer blitz on the things I need, somewhat like the television show "Supermarket Sweep." I tend to buy as much as I can, as fast as I can.
Example: Today, in James' music class, I saw how much he loved the rattles and drums. And this afternoon, when home again with him, I found that he is now, at age 7 months, getting more easily bored. He needs more entertainment. So today I decided to commit complete attention to amusing him, rather than letting him play on his own, or just steering him towards the soft hanging toys with one hand and typing on my computer with the other. (no judgement - you know you've done it too!) So, determined to pay attention to only him, I sang to him, clapped with him, created voices for his stuffed animals, lifted him in the air, walked with him, pointed things out in the room. I checked my watch: only 5 minutes had passed. Gasp.
These two factors contributed to my rash decision, once James was in bed, to go to a toy website and buy a bunch of things that could help me musically entertain him. But I didn't do price comparisons, or research. And of course I didn't consult my husband, as I would have done in the past. I just chose a website that I thought might offer good educational toys, selected a few, and checked out.
I may have spent too much, or not got the best things, or (worse) bought a bunch of things that will serve only to clutter our apartment. But it feels good knowing that in a few days time, a box will arrive with all kinds of colourful goodies (don't ask me which ones) for James to amuse himself with.
Ah, consumerism at its finest.
Now, things have changed. I find myself conducting a sort of consumer blitz on the things I need, somewhat like the television show "Supermarket Sweep." I tend to buy as much as I can, as fast as I can.
Example: Today, in James' music class, I saw how much he loved the rattles and drums. And this afternoon, when home again with him, I found that he is now, at age 7 months, getting more easily bored. He needs more entertainment. So today I decided to commit complete attention to amusing him, rather than letting him play on his own, or just steering him towards the soft hanging toys with one hand and typing on my computer with the other. (no judgement - you know you've done it too!) So, determined to pay attention to only him, I sang to him, clapped with him, created voices for his stuffed animals, lifted him in the air, walked with him, pointed things out in the room. I checked my watch: only 5 minutes had passed. Gasp.
These two factors contributed to my rash decision, once James was in bed, to go to a toy website and buy a bunch of things that could help me musically entertain him. But I didn't do price comparisons, or research. And of course I didn't consult my husband, as I would have done in the past. I just chose a website that I thought might offer good educational toys, selected a few, and checked out.
I may have spent too much, or not got the best things, or (worse) bought a bunch of things that will serve only to clutter our apartment. But it feels good knowing that in a few days time, a box will arrive with all kinds of colourful goodies (don't ask me which ones) for James to amuse himself with.
Ah, consumerism at its finest.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Revenge of the nester
I learned today that I may well be paying for the well-intended nesting phase I went through while pregnant. I'm currently applying to renew my United Kingdom visa. Much paperwork and documentation is involved, including sending in all passports, old and new. It is vital to have every piece.
Unfortunately, I couldn't locate my old passport - it was not in the space below the cupboard where I usually keep it. While looking, I realised I had a vague recollection of storing it away somewhere last winter in an effort to "reduce clutter." Clearly, the handiwork of a pregnant nester!
After ransacking my bedroom, office, and even nursery, I finally found the culprit. It was lodged between books in a plastic bag labelled "old passports." I'm sure that there must have been some logic in the place I chose, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it had been. And now I wonder - what other lost objects did our well-meaning pregnant nester hide, that are never to be seen again?
My advice: Don't give too much power to the nester.
Unfortunately, I couldn't locate my old passport - it was not in the space below the cupboard where I usually keep it. While looking, I realised I had a vague recollection of storing it away somewhere last winter in an effort to "reduce clutter." Clearly, the handiwork of a pregnant nester!
After ransacking my bedroom, office, and even nursery, I finally found the culprit. It was lodged between books in a plastic bag labelled "old passports." I'm sure that there must have been some logic in the place I chose, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it had been. And now I wonder - what other lost objects did our well-meaning pregnant nester hide, that are never to be seen again?
My advice: Don't give too much power to the nester.
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
The baby food wars: American vs Britain
As a reminder, I spent most of August at my parents' place in North Carolina. James was about 5.5 months old when we arrived - a perfect time to start delivering food into the small baby's yob (and hopefully beefing him up in the process, for he was still lingering at the fifth percentile for weight! I was still trying not to panic, but a burst of weight gain would have been highly appreciated.) Starting to feed him while at my parents' gave me the added "grandparental" bonus - someone else to shovel in the food.
I liked the idea of Baby Fed Weaning, as described in the book by Gill Rapley and Tracey Murkett; or at the very least puréeing the foods myself, but my lovely American mother convinced me to go ahead with the standard, store-bought purées. I could see her point. Why fiddle with either puréeing foods yourself, or dealing with potential danger, mess, and nuisance of a baby with very limited motor skills trafficking unfamiliar objects into his mouth? The quality of purée has improved, she explained, and there's no shame in using them. And besides, I have trouble enough devoting time to cooking for my husband and me.
Time saved? I was convinced. And so mom and I sampled different purées from different stores - Target, local grocery stores, Toys R Us. In the end, we most liked Gerbers' simple concoctions. James's gag reflex seemed to have been triggered by some of the unusual mixtures produced by Ella's, but the handy toothpaste-like squirt package was great for travel. Regardless of the type of food involved, James loved mealtimes, and never wanted them to end.
And four weeks later, here we are back in London and away from all parental influences. While I'm planning on introducing both baby-led weaning and home made purées (really, I am), I decided to first stock up on some store-bought foods. An "emergency" stash. I reached a surprising conclusion in my completely unprofessional study conducted on internet grocery store Ocado: British baby purees seem to be more meat-intensive than the American variety. I hadn't considered that, just as McDonald's menus vary depending on country, baby foods change as well. British adults eat loads of meat, so why not the babies?
I was a little surprised to see things like "Roast Lamb Dinner with all the trimmings," and "Chicken Pot Pie," but now babies can get used to the flavours they'll be eating throughout most of their lives. It could even be argued that a baby has a better chance for a happy social life if he likes nationally-beloved foods*, such as hot dogs for Americans and black pudding for Irish.
While the concept worked, I was none too pleased with the gelatinous format of these meaty delicacies. The veggie flavours certainly seem to have a better consistency, although baby James the voracious eater devours them all equally quickly. (Except, of course, for Ella's blueberry - tomato - grape - baby rice flavour that he almost spewed across the room. Atta boy!)
*not a real study
I liked the idea of Baby Fed Weaning, as described in the book by Gill Rapley and Tracey Murkett; or at the very least puréeing the foods myself, but my lovely American mother convinced me to go ahead with the standard, store-bought purées. I could see her point. Why fiddle with either puréeing foods yourself, or dealing with potential danger, mess, and nuisance of a baby with very limited motor skills trafficking unfamiliar objects into his mouth? The quality of purée has improved, she explained, and there's no shame in using them. And besides, I have trouble enough devoting time to cooking for my husband and me.
Time saved? I was convinced. And so mom and I sampled different purées from different stores - Target, local grocery stores, Toys R Us. In the end, we most liked Gerbers' simple concoctions. James's gag reflex seemed to have been triggered by some of the unusual mixtures produced by Ella's, but the handy toothpaste-like squirt package was great for travel. Regardless of the type of food involved, James loved mealtimes, and never wanted them to end.
And four weeks later, here we are back in London and away from all parental influences. While I'm planning on introducing both baby-led weaning and home made purées (really, I am), I decided to first stock up on some store-bought foods. An "emergency" stash. I reached a surprising conclusion in my completely unprofessional study conducted on internet grocery store Ocado: British baby purees seem to be more meat-intensive than the American variety. I hadn't considered that, just as McDonald's menus vary depending on country, baby foods change as well. British adults eat loads of meat, so why not the babies?
I was a little surprised to see things like "Roast Lamb Dinner with all the trimmings," and "Chicken Pot Pie," but now babies can get used to the flavours they'll be eating throughout most of their lives. It could even be argued that a baby has a better chance for a happy social life if he likes nationally-beloved foods*, such as hot dogs for Americans and black pudding for Irish.
While the concept worked, I was none too pleased with the gelatinous format of these meaty delicacies. The veggie flavours certainly seem to have a better consistency, although baby James the voracious eater devours them all equally quickly. (Except, of course, for Ella's blueberry - tomato - grape - baby rice flavour that he almost spewed across the room. Atta boy!)
*not a real study
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Back from summer holidays, and into the pool!
James (now a proud 7 months old) and I officially returned from our summer holidays with the start of a new season - and different provider - of swimming lessons.
As a reminder, when James was six weeks old, we began lessons with London Baby Swim. I was committed to starting young James as early as the courses would allow, mostly because one of the concepts that convinced me to enter the world of motherhood in the first place was an image of a tiny baby swimming alone unaided. (and no, I did not take this idea from Nirvana's Nevermind album cover!) This was the only course that took babies so young and was not already full. The one drawback - and it's a big one - was that the course was located in Hounslow, nearly all the way out to Heathrow Airport. For the 10 weeks of the course, I managed to drag myself and tiny baby James out to the course, each time using various combinations of taxis, buses, tubes, and rental cars, and often with baby James strapped to my chest. It was a commitment. The course was wonderful, but unsurprisingly I opted not to partake again in such an adventure.
And so, this time, I went through some hoops (including convincing the organisers that even though we had used a different provider the first time, James was indeed a qualified "beginner" baby, ready for the "intermediate" course) to start him with Water Babies. Many things are similar about the two courses. For one, the logistics involved are enormous. Before entering the pool, the list includes (but is certainly not limited to)
1. Packing up all the necessary things (my bathing suit, a disposable swimming nappy, James' outer "happy nappy" to prevent leakage, towels, dummies, breast feeding cover, etc etc)
2. Managing to clamber into a cab or public transport with the baby and his gear without spilling anything or causing injury to the boy
3. Squirming into a swim suit six weeks after giving birth while managing to avoid all mirrors
4. Doing all the calculations involved in timing feeding and naps
5. Navigating a new neighbourhood without getting hopelessly lost and rendering the entire class pointless
And then, we reach the pool. For both classes, we were faced with a mad scramble. We didn't want to get the babies in their swimsuits too early, for fear they would become cold and miserable, so there was no hope of starting early. Almost exactly 7.5 minutes before the class was to start, the mothers would spontaneously dash from the viewing area into the changing area and begin flinging the baby's clothes off, changing and clothing the baby, and getting ready themselves. Amazingly, we remained good natured through the process, though always silently panicked. (the post-swim process was infinitely worse than even this, as we were soaked, freezing, only partially clad, and dealing with hungry/tired/cold/wet babies.)
Basically, it's no wonder that after today's class, I am more exhausted than James. The classes always involve lots of singing and torturous lifting-the-babies-into-the-air routines performed while we simultaneously spin around and walk in circles. I did feel at times like a synchronised swimmer.
But enough about me. What was it like for the babies? Was it all worth it? It was indeed, and I can't wait to begin the torturous cycle all over again next week. All four of the babies present in today's class laughed practically the whole time. The songs and twirling may be monotonous to us, but it's like candy to the babies. The highlight of today's lesson was donning a pair of goggles and a swim cap and going underwater, then seeing little wide-eyed James wafting towards me underwater after being released by the instructor. When I brought him back to the surface, he looked completely calm, relaxed, and happy. And safety is taught too: By the end of the session, they knew to hold tightly to a horizontal bar (good life saving skills) when placed in front of it.
It's hard for me at this point to determine which class is actually better. We'll see again next week.
As a reminder, when James was six weeks old, we began lessons with London Baby Swim. I was committed to starting young James as early as the courses would allow, mostly because one of the concepts that convinced me to enter the world of motherhood in the first place was an image of a tiny baby swimming alone unaided. (and no, I did not take this idea from Nirvana's Nevermind album cover!) This was the only course that took babies so young and was not already full. The one drawback - and it's a big one - was that the course was located in Hounslow, nearly all the way out to Heathrow Airport. For the 10 weeks of the course, I managed to drag myself and tiny baby James out to the course, each time using various combinations of taxis, buses, tubes, and rental cars, and often with baby James strapped to my chest. It was a commitment. The course was wonderful, but unsurprisingly I opted not to partake again in such an adventure.
And so, this time, I went through some hoops (including convincing the organisers that even though we had used a different provider the first time, James was indeed a qualified "beginner" baby, ready for the "intermediate" course) to start him with Water Babies. Many things are similar about the two courses. For one, the logistics involved are enormous. Before entering the pool, the list includes (but is certainly not limited to)
1. Packing up all the necessary things (my bathing suit, a disposable swimming nappy, James' outer "happy nappy" to prevent leakage, towels, dummies, breast feeding cover, etc etc)
2. Managing to clamber into a cab or public transport with the baby and his gear without spilling anything or causing injury to the boy
3. Squirming into a swim suit six weeks after giving birth while managing to avoid all mirrors
4. Doing all the calculations involved in timing feeding and naps
5. Navigating a new neighbourhood without getting hopelessly lost and rendering the entire class pointless
And then, we reach the pool. For both classes, we were faced with a mad scramble. We didn't want to get the babies in their swimsuits too early, for fear they would become cold and miserable, so there was no hope of starting early. Almost exactly 7.5 minutes before the class was to start, the mothers would spontaneously dash from the viewing area into the changing area and begin flinging the baby's clothes off, changing and clothing the baby, and getting ready themselves. Amazingly, we remained good natured through the process, though always silently panicked. (the post-swim process was infinitely worse than even this, as we were soaked, freezing, only partially clad, and dealing with hungry/tired/cold/wet babies.)
Basically, it's no wonder that after today's class, I am more exhausted than James. The classes always involve lots of singing and torturous lifting-the-babies-into-the-air routines performed while we simultaneously spin around and walk in circles. I did feel at times like a synchronised swimmer.
But enough about me. What was it like for the babies? Was it all worth it? It was indeed, and I can't wait to begin the torturous cycle all over again next week. All four of the babies present in today's class laughed practically the whole time. The songs and twirling may be monotonous to us, but it's like candy to the babies. The highlight of today's lesson was donning a pair of goggles and a swim cap and going underwater, then seeing little wide-eyed James wafting towards me underwater after being released by the instructor. When I brought him back to the surface, he looked completely calm, relaxed, and happy. And safety is taught too: By the end of the session, they knew to hold tightly to a horizontal bar (good life saving skills) when placed in front of it.
It's hard for me at this point to determine which class is actually better. We'll see again next week.
Friday, 12 August 2011
memories
During my summer of maternity leave, I've challenged myself to sort out all my possessions and determine what to keep - and what to pitch. It's amazing how much I had amassed. Many of my class notes from high school and college, old movie stubs, stuffed animals. I was saving it for... what, exactly, I'm not sure. It must be a symptom of youth to think that all our relics will matter. Now, I know the truth: they don't.
It's been illuminating to venture back into these periods of my life with the added reflection that comes with having a baby. I look at my education, and think of James following me through the multiplication tables and handwriting classes, through summer camps and vacations. And I fiind myself wondering: what is the point of all this? Why is it that we want our kids to have the best education, the best experiences?
I've thought it over, and I think I may have an answer. It's not as simple as training them to make money, or have a family - those things are relatively easy in the scheme of things. It could be just instilling in them a love of learning, and an appreciation of life. Or, from a more selfish perspective, training them to be a person that we actually want to be around. According to all three criteria, our happy boy is doing well.
It's been illuminating to venture back into these periods of my life with the added reflection that comes with having a baby. I look at my education, and think of James following me through the multiplication tables and handwriting classes, through summer camps and vacations. And I fiind myself wondering: what is the point of all this? Why is it that we want our kids to have the best education, the best experiences?
I've thought it over, and I think I may have an answer. It's not as simple as training them to make money, or have a family - those things are relatively easy in the scheme of things. It could be just instilling in them a love of learning, and an appreciation of life. Or, from a more selfish perspective, training them to be a person that we actually want to be around. According to all three criteria, our happy boy is doing well.
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Drum roll... James' first food!
It's two weeks until baby James six month birthday, and today we gave him his first taste of solid food. And none too early - the babe is no longer sleeping sweetly through the night, seemed a bit more irritable than normal, and had been trying to reach for all my food.
I wanted to start with one of the lovely (relatively) looking veggie purees, but hubby insisted that we follow the common advice and start him on baby rice. There was one complication. The rice should be either mixed with formula, which he has yet to taste, or breast milk. I'm still enjoying breast feeding, but am utterly sick of ineffectual pumping, and couldn't manage to get any out after a feeding. So, we used water.
The resulting paste looked disgusting, but baby James adored it, and continually reached for more. He has entered the world of foodies! And if he loves this paste like substance, think how he'll react to pad thai?
I wanted to start with one of the lovely (relatively) looking veggie purees, but hubby insisted that we follow the common advice and start him on baby rice. There was one complication. The rice should be either mixed with formula, which he has yet to taste, or breast milk. I'm still enjoying breast feeding, but am utterly sick of ineffectual pumping, and couldn't manage to get any out after a feeding. So, we used water.
The resulting paste looked disgusting, but baby James adored it, and continually reached for more. He has entered the world of foodies! And if he loves this paste like substance, think how he'll react to pad thai?
Sunday, 24 July 2011
War of Consumerism
I'm now in the house where I grew up, staying with my parents for the next month. I figured that since I'm not returning to work until December, I might as well get a little family time in. My brother, who normally lives in Los Angeles, has decided to come back home for this great adventure. (or non-adventure, which might be a good way to describe staying with the family.) My husband decided one week was an appropriate length for his stay, and so next week he will leave me to family fun.
Three days in, and there has been no conflict of note (at least none involving baby James.) Until now, that is. We have just had a round of I-Want-That-For-My-Son-Even-Though-It-Is-Completely-Extravagent.
It was shocking to my mom, but I wanted to spend $80 on a little jumping toy, the Fisher Price Rainforest Jumperoo, for James. It's in the spaceship family, and has springs allowing the baby to jump, with toys that allow the baby to play and make annoying noises. It's my mother's worst nightmare: it's not practical, it's expensive, it's not necessary, it takes up tons of room, I can't travel back home with it, and James will only be able to use it on this particular visit - by the time we come back, he may well have outgrown it. In other words, it's like pretty much every toy on the market. I wanted it because the baby in the picture looked like it was trembling with fun. I'm a sucker for good photography.
And she didn't want me to get it. I wanted it. We debated. She tried to fashion a similar toy out of a highchair, a piece of foil, and a paper plate. (too much MacGyver viewing) I pointed out the rave reviews on Amazon. I explained that the price was only half that of a dinner out. I described the expensive classes I had eschewed so that I could spend money on other things.
In the end, I waited for her to leave the house, and cheekily ordered it on Amazon to be delivered next week. If James doesn't like it, my kind parental hosts may not be so supportive of my whims. If he so much as giggles the first time he uses it, I'll be in the clear.
Buying junk for our babies is hard enough, but when you do it in a semi-public forum, it becomes downright painful!
Three days in, and there has been no conflict of note (at least none involving baby James.) Until now, that is. We have just had a round of I-Want-That-For-My-Son-Even-Though-It-Is-Completely-Extravagent.
It was shocking to my mom, but I wanted to spend $80 on a little jumping toy, the Fisher Price Rainforest Jumperoo, for James. It's in the spaceship family, and has springs allowing the baby to jump, with toys that allow the baby to play and make annoying noises. It's my mother's worst nightmare: it's not practical, it's expensive, it's not necessary, it takes up tons of room, I can't travel back home with it, and James will only be able to use it on this particular visit - by the time we come back, he may well have outgrown it. In other words, it's like pretty much every toy on the market. I wanted it because the baby in the picture looked like it was trembling with fun. I'm a sucker for good photography.
And she didn't want me to get it. I wanted it. We debated. She tried to fashion a similar toy out of a highchair, a piece of foil, and a paper plate. (too much MacGyver viewing) I pointed out the rave reviews on Amazon. I explained that the price was only half that of a dinner out. I described the expensive classes I had eschewed so that I could spend money on other things.
In the end, I waited for her to leave the house, and cheekily ordered it on Amazon to be delivered next week. If James doesn't like it, my kind parental hosts may not be so supportive of my whims. If he so much as giggles the first time he uses it, I'll be in the clear.
Buying junk for our babies is hard enough, but when you do it in a semi-public forum, it becomes downright painful!
Organizational disaster
I learned the hard way that I need to step up my organizational game.
We travel a lot. And we're unfortunately not happy with little towns, or family visits. We love travel to world cities. And travel of this sort generally involves long distances, crossing massive bodies of water, and skipping across time zones.
Of course, all of this requires air travel. In addition to the well-publicized problems of traveling with kids, I've learned of another challenge: travelling while keeping all of your valuable belongings together. This is hard enough when you have only yourself to take care of - it's all to easy to leave a camera or cell phone behind when you're distracted.
Having a baby takes it all to a new level. And sadly my loss today was not monetary (which are the easiest loss to recover from) - it was emotional. In the flurry of leaving the airplane toting the baby and all our belongings, I lost my journal. I had started it two years ago, had written in it at least three times a week, and hadn't backed it up in any way shape or form. I've filed a lost report for it, but I'm partially convinced these online forms are there for the mental health of loss victims, and don't actually see the light of day.
I have to tell myself to be more organised next time, and to start trying to replace and remember the information it contained. I keep telling myself that "at least I didn't lose the baby." But let's face it: losing something of immense personal importance is a bad experience, no matter how you view it.
I simply have to adopt a new strategy: never carry anything you will care if you lose. Period. Back it all up, duplicate it, sell it, lock it up. But never carry it on a plane, and never put it in the seat pocket in front of you. When the baby starts screaming as you land, you'll forget everything else.
We travel a lot. And we're unfortunately not happy with little towns, or family visits. We love travel to world cities. And travel of this sort generally involves long distances, crossing massive bodies of water, and skipping across time zones.
Of course, all of this requires air travel. In addition to the well-publicized problems of traveling with kids, I've learned of another challenge: travelling while keeping all of your valuable belongings together. This is hard enough when you have only yourself to take care of - it's all to easy to leave a camera or cell phone behind when you're distracted.
Having a baby takes it all to a new level. And sadly my loss today was not monetary (which are the easiest loss to recover from) - it was emotional. In the flurry of leaving the airplane toting the baby and all our belongings, I lost my journal. I had started it two years ago, had written in it at least three times a week, and hadn't backed it up in any way shape or form. I've filed a lost report for it, but I'm partially convinced these online forms are there for the mental health of loss victims, and don't actually see the light of day.
I have to tell myself to be more organised next time, and to start trying to replace and remember the information it contained. I keep telling myself that "at least I didn't lose the baby." But let's face it: losing something of immense personal importance is a bad experience, no matter how you view it.
I simply have to adopt a new strategy: never carry anything you will care if you lose. Period. Back it all up, duplicate it, sell it, lock it up. But never carry it on a plane, and never put it in the seat pocket in front of you. When the baby starts screaming as you land, you'll forget everything else.
Friday, 22 July 2011
A missed milestone
Has all my work for the past five months has gone for nothing?
I have spent nearly every one of my baby's 3600 hours of life with him. I can count on one hand the exceptions, and all have been for periods of 4 hours or less.
And somehow, with such a stellar track record, I've gone and missed James' first official milestone. And, I must admit, I am a bit resentful.
The tragic tale began innocently enough. Our little family of three was visiting New York City, where we each have several friends. We were in the city for a ridiculously short period of 30 hours (essentially an extended layover, courtesy of our flight booked with miles). As we needed to make the most of the time, we decided to split up so that we could each see respective friends. Uncharacteristically, husband Brendan offered to take the baby for lunch - but only so that he could show him off to his Child Friendly buddy. I agreed - my Child Blind friend (many of our single friends don't dislike children - children simply do not enter their conciousness) didn't need to be saddled with expectations of simulated affection for the infant.
It must have been the spirit of pride that led Brendan to decide that today was the day for James to try a high chair for the first time. James loved it, and was apparently the star of the entire restaurant. (ok, Brendan does tend to exaggerate, just a tad...) I heard the story with mixed feelings... happy that father Brendan was proud, proud of the little man myself, fear of this new sign of maturity, and disappointment that I missed the milestone myself.
I also decided that I must exact revenge. Today, while Brendan was playing golf, I repeated "ma ma" 500 times to little James as we played. I will be victorious!
I have spent nearly every one of my baby's 3600 hours of life with him. I can count on one hand the exceptions, and all have been for periods of 4 hours or less.
And somehow, with such a stellar track record, I've gone and missed James' first official milestone. And, I must admit, I am a bit resentful.
The tragic tale began innocently enough. Our little family of three was visiting New York City, where we each have several friends. We were in the city for a ridiculously short period of 30 hours (essentially an extended layover, courtesy of our flight booked with miles). As we needed to make the most of the time, we decided to split up so that we could each see respective friends. Uncharacteristically, husband Brendan offered to take the baby for lunch - but only so that he could show him off to his Child Friendly buddy. I agreed - my Child Blind friend (many of our single friends don't dislike children - children simply do not enter their conciousness) didn't need to be saddled with expectations of simulated affection for the infant.
It must have been the spirit of pride that led Brendan to decide that today was the day for James to try a high chair for the first time. James loved it, and was apparently the star of the entire restaurant. (ok, Brendan does tend to exaggerate, just a tad...) I heard the story with mixed feelings... happy that father Brendan was proud, proud of the little man myself, fear of this new sign of maturity, and disappointment that I missed the milestone myself.
I also decided that I must exact revenge. Today, while Brendan was playing golf, I repeated "ma ma" 500 times to little James as we played. I will be victorious!
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