Sleeping Update

I would like to report that, on September 10, 2010, my child slept nine hours for the first time. 6 months was maybe longer than I would've liked to wait, but I can't really complain!

And by September 29, she slept three nights in a row for 8 hours or more. Unheard of!!

Let's see how long this lasts . . .

Eating and Sleeping . . . for now

It's funny to look back at facebook posts and see how the Monkey's sleep habits . . . matured. This is a pre-dated post, and it appears that, as of September 16, 2010, she was sleeping 9 hours at a stretch. Just interesting to me, given what she did at 18 months old.

And here are some images of my little Monkey from around that time.

Learning to eat solids, one of the first days in a long line of days in which she would eat anything that wasn't nailed down. My little porker. :)




At a party for my Aunt Barbara, at which the monkey was passed around the room from person to person without so much as a peep about wanting her mommy or a fuss when new people held her. Such a good little one.

Not for the faint of stomach

It was a long night. For reasons known only to my lovely daughter but most probably related to her growing stomach, it was necessary to be awake from 1:30 til about 3:00 -- screaming. Just to clarify: the waking was probably due in some measure to her growing stomach. The continued screaming was due to her will of steel, which met with my will of steel and clashed loudly. Suffice it to say it all ended in the basement in her pack 'n play where Daddy couldn't hear her as well and I could turn lights on. We sat in the dimmed light of the basement -- she screaming and I surfing -- until she finally fell asleep to the drone of the dirt devil, only to wake up at 4 a.m. and demand food. Again. This time I gave in. What the heck, I thought. I haven't been asleep this whole time because I've been having an allergy attack. Why start sleeping now?

And so it went.

At 5:45, when Daddy woke up to get ready for work, I was startled out of my unintended sleep in the rocking chair where I had been nursing BC. BC was contentedly sacked out in my arms. I had a vicious crick in my neck and may or may not have been drooling. Regardless, I put her back down in her pack 'n play and went to make breakfast, intending to stay awake just long enough to pack lunch and get Matt out the door, after which I could sneak back downstairs to the couch and sleep until she woke up.

A brilliant plan, except that she woke up as he left. If she's as timely when she's an adult as she is now, she'll be any employer's dream.

We muddled through the morning, catching a brief nap before 9 a.m., at which time I blearily changed her didie and put her in the exersaucer. Literally two minutes later, I heard quite a remarkable sound from her posterior region and saw her make the "Ahhhhh" face. I thought, "Great. A two-minute diaper. I'll get to that in a minute."

Three minutes later, I looked down and saw this:



I apologize to those of you who don't seek out poo pics on the internet. I just felt that it was necessary to pass along the joy.

I can't begin to tell you the joy that followed that revelation. I won't even try.

Canadia, here we come!

The next time the Olympics rolls around we are READY. We have a trainer. We have an athlete. We have the gear. And we have a sport.

Cup stacking.

Okay, not so much stacking as knocking down. And not so much that exactly as just chewing on the ones we happen to grab and knocking down others in the process. All things considered -- what with being yet of a tender age and having minimal fine motor skills and a limited ability to sit up independently -- she's well on her way.

Now if they'd just make cup stacking an event.

It all started when my friend Michelle (memorialized in this blog during her visit in which BC took up table chewing, which is unlikely ever to take its place in the Olympic lineup) gave us a long-sleeved Canada onesie in recognition of the Vancouver Olympics. It was chilly this morning, so I suited up BC in her onesie and matching hat (or toque, if you prefer). And I put her on the chair so she could work a bit on sitting up on her own. (Not so good at that yet. That will be crucial to her cup-stacking success. We're training hard.)



I then scattered all around her the stackable cups that a nice neighbor lady gave us. And she went to town.





As you can see, it requires a great deal of concentration. It's extremely difficult to get tiny fingers around big round cups. And then it's particularly difficult to get a little (but not tiny) mouth around said cups. The stacking is secondary at this level of training. She's still becoming one with the cups. It's a process.

Fortunately, Charlie Boy volunteered to lead the coaching effort:






He started out trying to help with the cup-to-mouth skill. He quickly realized that it wasn't going well and came around to help with the more primary and basic cup-to-hand skill.




When it became apparent that the coaching requirements were much more extensive than he had bargained for, he gave up and became a victim of her finely-honed cup-to-floor skill.



And this is when things got really intense.

As you might expect, this training regimen is rigorous. It brings out the best and worst in any athlete. It also brings out a lot of grunting. And yelling. Think Monica Seles.



I quickly realized how exhausting the task was becoming when she assumed a horizontal position with her head on top of a cup. She's stacking. It just happens to be the wrong items.






And that's when it became a game of bumper stacking. The rules are pretty much the same. It's just the requirements that are reduced.





Ultimately, all of this led to milkies and then nappies. Long-deserved nappies. Hopefully we'll make new strides in training tomorrow. Please, for the good of my child, let me know if I'm becoming one of *those* Olympic-hopeful parents.

WORST. BLOGGER. EVER.

So my kid is now about a month older than she was when I last posted. In the life a five-and-a-half-month old child, that's saying something. I could try to justify the horribleness of my blogging by saying I'm looking after her so well that I just don't have time, but that would be flattering myself. I'm doing my best, and that's all I can say.

And part of my best has been to quit my job. I look at this



And this



And this




And I can't imagine being anywhere else but with her.

If I'd simply adored my job and longed for my desk every day of my life, it would probably be a sacrifice. I may in fact long for my sanity by the time she's a year old, but I will not long for my job.

So, until God makes other plans known, home I will be. With this:

Lil' El

I apparently have a child with a beat box for a mouth. She aspires to 90's rapping greatness.




I'd like to point out that she does this responsively as well. The loud noises you hear are from me as I try to get her to make them herself.

Murder and Mayhem

Wow. I'm becoming one of those people I hate who only posts once a month. Sorry about that, to those of you who haven't given up on this blog. To those who have, you'll never know it because you don't check in anymore, but I don't blame you.

My wonderful husband has been saying for the last couple of weeks, "We really have to get going weeding the back garden. It's completely overgrown." Then I get snarly and storm off in a huff because he's singling out my failure to hold up my end of the yard work and it's not fair because I'm doing other stuff and I have lots of other stuff to do and if he'd just give me a for-crying-out-loud *chance* to get all this stuff done and . . . yes, I'm storming off in a huff because he's right. And boy was he right. I finally steeled myself and put BC down for her nap this morning and then marched outside expecting to spend a productive but not strenuous half hour doing this task that my husband thought was necessary because I'm a dutiful wife.

Two hours later, there were carcasses all over the yard. And I was in the shower trying to scrub down to my natural skin color from the brownish-green color all over me.

When we moved in to this house, I decided that I loved the previous owners' garden plans and I would do my level best to keep the beds pristine. There were iris and popppies and cone flowers and all manner of roses and lilies. They were positioned just right and were shown to their best advantage. I not only admired the previous owner's eye for gardening, but I sincerely hoped to preserve her hard work relatively weed-free and with undying commitment.

Then BC started shrieking and woke me from my dream state, and reality set in along with a mess of weeds, some of which were enjoying eye-level fellowship with the trees in our backyard.

I'm not kidding when I say that some of the things I pulled out of the garden and threw recklessly behind me onto Matt's beautifully mown yard (and -- I found out later -- little piles of Charlie poo, making clean-up unfriendly) were over five feet tall. I honestly don't know if they are weeds. But I honestly don't care. I have of necessity adopted a new attitude toward gardening. It's called the "I Don't Like It" method. It involves stumbling upon things that may or may not have cost money, but that now do not suit my fancy. When happening upon a victim, the first step is to consider it for a moment (longer if the luxury of time permits, which it usually doesn't). I then tug gently on it to see how rooted it is, and thereafter make a game time decision about how much I like or dislike it. The primary rule is that if I don't like it for any reason, it comes out. The secondary rule takes into account the ease of removal, which may then require reconsideration of my initial decision about its worthiness to remain. There are several roses in this bed that I would rather not preserve because they are hopelessly lost causes. But roses have thorns, as we all know thanks to Poison's lyrical ballad*, and I choose not to take them on. I find myself liking them much more when I consider what a pain in the arse it is going to be to remove them. This entire decision-making process takes approximately 4.5 seconds -- often far shorter than the actual extraction.

This method's primary rule has an inverse, which is "It doesn't matter if it's a weed, I like it." Some very cute little bright purple and pink flowers were saved from certain death today by their very cuteness, though I have no clue what they are.

Having applied this method as thoroughly and subjectively as possible, I created this:





The pile of death and destruction took two lawn trash bags to contain. And the now-cleared spots you can see inside the little white fencing that Charlie enjoys stepping over cavalierly to go and eat the bushes is worlds removed from what it was before. I wish I'd taken "before" pics. You couldn't see the ground at all before I weeded.

I strongly recommend this gardening style. Mindless, impulsive carnage is ever so much more fun than the carefully planned kind.

* Could we all just take a moment to appreciate the emo sigh that is the prelude to this song. Gutsy. That was long before emo was a "thing."