Auntie Michelle

This is my most wonderful friend Michelle and myself:



It's kind of scary how much we are alike. We're kind of the same person in two bodies. Like the blonde scary woman in Best in Show; we share a brain.

Or something.

As you can see, she looks much better after my pregnancy than I do.

We met in Canada at Augustine College (which I just realized has really snazzed up its website -- love it) while she was house mum and I was a student. She kept me from being petty and stupid, and I kept her a little bit more sane than she would otherwise have been. That says a lot about her situation, really.

She was then the maid of honor at Matt's and my wedding, and a good time was had by all.

Fast forward 6 years and she comes to visit us at our new house to see our new baby. That was about a month ago. And an even better time was had by all.

We discussed draperies, diapers and good books, as well as cooking and babies. I happened to have a very healthy specimen of the latter there for observation and comment. (We commented on the specimen. The specimen didn't comment so much.)

Here is Michelle observing the specimen, or perhaps having just observed the specimen and taken a break from doing so for purposes of looking at the camera:



Mahvelous, no?

One morning, we were cooking, as we were wont to do. I suspect we were making oatmeal buttermilk pancakes, though I am not certain. As we cooked, I had BC on the play mat in the living room. Soon, I realized that the chatter from the other room had ceased. Becoming concerned, I went into the living room to observe. I observed the following. (Grab your popcorn; it's a long'un.)



I did not cut this video because I thought it would make the point even more forcefully if I didn't. This child was not accidentally gumming the table leg. She was quite purposefully doing so. In fact, she continued to do so for a good while. The adequacy of my parenthood may well be called into question when I say it, but I have another 3 minute video of her eating the table leg. And there was a good minute in between videos. It was absurd.

Michelle, whose voice you hear in the background, is not only a compassionate and wonderful friend, but she has very humane instincts. She told me this was all quite funny. So I kept filming. I concur that it is ridiculously funny. I sincerely hope you do as well, because I have a legal career to maintain here.

Happy [belated] Father's Day!

This was Matt's first Father's Day, and what a joy it was! I am daily amazed at my little family and how it is changing and growing. BC brings out new and wonderful things in us every day. (We won't mention what else she can bring out in me at 3 a.m. but she doesn't do that too much any more!)

I knew that Matt had come to terms with the idea that we couldn't put off parenthood much longer before my head (or womb) exploded. But I didn't imagine the ways that he would embrace it.

Matt, your wife is awed by you as you have anticipated and then embraced becoming a father to our little BC.

When I was moving from hinting to pressuring about starting a family, you just came out and said, "Let's go for it."

When I came to you completely convinced I was pregnant because I was all of 2 days late, you may have thought I was crazy (and it wouldn't be the first time). But you went with me to buy the test. That positive result made me cry (like most good news does), and you sat on the floor of our bedroom where my knees had given out, and you held me and prayed with me and loved that moment just as I did.

You made me breakfast every morning that summer to make sure I ate well.

You did not use your brand new grill -- much as I know you wanted to -- because it made me pukey to smell BBQ. [Please, use it as much as you want to this summer. You've definitely earned it!]

You patiently listened as I read to you each week about our baby's newly developed arm buds or eyes or hearing or taste buds or . . .

I started researching how I wanted this baby to come into the world and I landed on Bradley's method. And I didn't give you enough credit. I thought you'd never do it, or you'd give me reasons it would never work. But the second I mentioned it, you told me to go for it. You faithfully went to every class and did the work and agreed with me completely that our baby would be born as naturally as possible. And you never doubted my ability to have a natural birth. I can't tell you what that meant to me.

You massaged my sore feet and watched my belly move with BC's hiccups and took on extra housework while I was pregnant.

The night of the big event, you didn't bat an eyelash. You knelt beside the couch with me as I experienced my first contractions and stared labor in the face. And then you calmly went about packing up the car, only to hustle in for my next contraction!

And you pulled me through that labor with a calmness and love I deeply admired. I know how much you love me, and that night was a shining example. You completely awed my mother!

As scared as you must have been, you embraced our little girl as she entered our lives. And you haven't looked back. You may have felt a little awkward as you took that tiny person in your arms; you may have been intimidated by those first diaper changes and dressing sessions. But you did it.

This summer, you are caring for BC with patience that I don't even think you knew you had.

For all of the crying fits and spit-ups and messy didies and tears, you are learning to be a source of comfort and happiness for our baby.

Even when you read to her from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles about judgment and hellfire and gory deaths, she hears your voice and it calms her. (But I don't recommend that particular reading material for much longer. Sooner or later she'll "get it," and it will make for long nights.)

When she needs horsey rides on your knee or belly tickles or airplane rides or roller coaster rocking, you are there for her . . . and for me.

You are amazing and I love you. Happy Father's Day, Bear! BC and I are lucky girls.

Finally!

I can't believe how long it's been since I've posted! Matt's year was winding down and I have headed back to work (part time), which has been quite a change for us. And that is especially so for Matt, who is now home with BC when I'm at work. Suddenly, it doesn't seem quite enough for Matt to acknowledge that babies cry a lot . . .

I had written a "happy three-month birthday" post for BC. Kind of. I couldn't quite finish it because I couldn't concentrate. She was screaming her head off while I wrote it! But now I'm going to prepare a happy four-month birthday post and post some videos here instead.

This is a classic inconsolable BC moment. The only thing that would slow down her crabbing was Daddy's bouncing her. You'll see that nothing short of constant motion is acceptable. Then, about 3/4 of the way through, Charlie happened past. You can see his poor possum tail bopping past, and then he licks BC's feet. Then he licks BC's binky, which was not well-received. Silly beast.



Please bear with me! I'll update . . . slowly!

Two month pics -- Growing too fast!

At dinner for my very first Mother's Day!

Sleepytime!

More sleepytime!

She can smile. She just chooses not to.

Little smiles!

At Longhorn with Grampa

Daddy's girl

I have to admit that I wasn't sure how Matt would respond to the whole fatherhood gig. I knew he'd be a great father; I just wasn't sure whether he would feel comfortable in the role.

Apparently, he does.



Poor guy has been completely inundated since she was born. But he has always made time in the evenings to hold her and to play with his "Baby Girl."





He also has a curious method of "calming" BC.




He insisted when BC first came home that if he just matched pitch with her wailing she would simmer down. I'm surprised he didn't go hoarse, because she wasn't slowing down at all. When his method didn't work, his response was generally to laugh heartily.






(Placing her bum on his head did not improve her mood. He's just lucky I'd put the diaper on properly!)

I must admit that it annoyed me to no end that he found it all so darned amusing. After being around the shrieking all day, I was not nearly as amused.

But then he discovered another method:



It involves Matt's singing a particularly cowboyish theme (Bonanza, Lone Ranger, The Gambler) and bouncing BC along on his knee. Not an uncommon method, I'm sure. But he's honed it quite well, and it now requires a uniform:






It is now known as the "Giddyap" method of child soothing. I'm sure it will soon take the place of Happiest Baby on the Block and Dr. Spock.

BC's first week

I have to say that BC's first week in this world (outside of me) was a blur. I remember something about "It's a . . . girl?" There was subsequent disbelief and joy. I recall the nurse at Medina Hospital coming in on BC's first night and looking at a very tired, bedraggled and guilt-ridden me saying "Please take her to the nursery." And yes, I'll admit to some weepiness at that moment. I was silly enough to think that if I couldn't care for her then, how would I care for her at home? Of course, when I took her home, I was getting out of bed a bit more easily and was a bit more rested because, well, I let them take her to the nursery in the hospital! I let them do it the second night too, only then I didn't call Matt in tears at one in the morning and confess that I'd let them take away my baby and I felt hideously guilty and and and . . .

The man is a candidate for sainthood.

Lots of folks got a joyfully tearful and hoarse phone call from and exhausted me on Tuesday morning to announce our news. Sue and Mom and others insist I was not screaming during labor. If that's the case, I wonder why I went hoarse.

Lots of wonderful people visited us at the hospital -- parents and assistant moms and dear friends and my brother and his family and my father-in-law. It was great to see all of them and to show them our little miracle. I still can't believe she's ours, and I certainly was having trouble wrapping my head around it then! But this is what they saw:





The day we took her home, I was terrified. I had confessed to my father before giving birth that I was not worried about the labor, but I was scared to death to take her home. He laughed. I was serious.

But this immeasurable cuteness came home with us on March 4, whether we were ready or not!



Her first weeks were filled with lots of screaming. I thought there was an inordinate amount of screaming. Turns out, according to my mother, that the screaming was neither inordinate nor undeserved. I was the child whom they boxed in with the big boxes of Tide detergent in the laundry room while I screamed my head off and the rest of the family sat in peace in the living room. Sooooo, apparently this is what I get.



As you can see, Matt thought the screaming was all quite humorous and found that the best way to combat it was to match it.

I remember calling Mom in a panic on the second day BC was home and begging her to come and help. She came, and we went to see a lactation consultant, which was hugely helpful. Ever since, BC has seemed not to have a particular problem eating. In fact, she rather likes it, to the tune of a 2 oz/week weight gain at one point. But this was what she enjoyed doing when she wasn't eating:





I must admit that, contrary to her doctor's wise recommendation, we did take her out the first Sunday she was home. We thought it was important that she go to church as soon as possible. She was born on a Tuesday. The preceding Friday, our beloved priest passed away. Though he had given BC a blessing in utero, he never had a chance to meet her and that made us incredibly sad. The loss was also a blow to the church, and we believed that our fellow parishioners might benefit from seeing her as soon as possible. So we loaded her into the Moby wrap and she slept through the entire service. But my adorable and very energetic niece was there to pick up the slack:






Is that not an adorable child???

So that about sums up BC's first week. Eating, screaming and sleeping, mostly. But, as my husband would so helpfully point out, "That's what babies *do*."

Mental case . . . or manipulator?

I promised more on the moron in a later post. Here it is.

Matt would be very upset that I referred to our dog as a moron. Chances are, Cesar Millan would be too. I suppose it's my fault that my dog still cannot handle having visitors to the house. He becomes positively apoplectic whenever someone breaches our threshhold.

I suppose it's my fault that my dog cannot handle seeing, hearing or smelling other dogs. He becomes positively apoplectic when we pass another dog on a walk -- whining, jumping, barking, pulling on the leash. At all other times he's very well leash-trained and heels well. No dog owner whose dog has ever been within Charlie's line of sight on a walk would believe that.

I suppose it's my fault that my dog cannot process the word "no." Actually, I take that back. He can process it, and if it comes from me, his favorite thing to do is keep doing whatever he's doing. Case in point: our new gardens. The lady who lived here before had lovely gardens and kept them up well. At our old house, I had some lillies that I kept behind one of those little sectioned metal fences so that Charlie would leave them alone. They were interspersed among the rose of sharon, so he couldn't jump the little fences without braining himself on a tree trunk. (Come to think of it, I'm not sure we'd have notice a difference in his behavior had such a misfortune befallen him.) When we moved here, the previous owners' scottie dogs were apparently well-behaved enough not to bother her garden beds (or she was laid back enough not to care). [NB: The scottie dog reference will *definitely* require another post. My dear friend Missey will no doubt be most unhappy with me for saying it, but scotties have earned a special place in my heart -- the coldest, darkest, dankest place where black widow spiders lurk and guillotines are sharpened.]

I DIGRESS. The garden beds. These lovely beds were completely unprotected by any fencing. I knew immediately that this would not be uncomplicated. Sure enough, the first morning I let Charlie out, I couldn't find him after a little while when I looked out the kitchen window. And then a yellow flash caught my eye. It looked like just another branch of a large bush in our back yard, which had yellowish leaves on long stems. But it wasn't. It was Charlie's tail poking out from behind said bush, where he was doing heaven knows what. That soon became his favorite spot. I would frequently look out and see him lurking behind that bush. It is, of course, the spot farthest from the edge of the garden beds, giving him ample opportunity to trample completely the largest number of plants between him and his objective.

So I bought fencing. Cute little rounded sectioned white garden fencing. And I painstakingly put it up all around the biggest bed in the back yard. And I sneered triumphantly at him as I put it up. And as I rounded the last corner of the bed with the fencing, I looked over my shoulder at my finished product, over which -- at that very moment -- Charlie was daintily stepping on his way to his favorite yellow bush.

I didn't realize how much shorter than my original fencing this new fencing was. Too short for our wildebeest, apparently.

But when I look at him and tell him "no," no matter how emphatically, he takes it as encouragement to continue doing what he is doing. And once he has cleared the fencing, he looks over his shoulder at me as if to say, "HA! *Now* whatcha gonna do about it?" So I order him out, post haste. And he comes to the inside edge of the fencing, looks down at it, looks up at me, and visibly struggles to "find a way out."

Never mind the fact that he found a way in without batting an eyelash.

So I suppose it's possible he's not a moron, and he's playing me. But we're not going to discuss that possibility.

Instead, I'm going to post this picture:



Remember that part about becoming apoplectic when strangers came over, and how he doesn't even *hear* the word "no"? The estimator came from the moving company (while BC was sleeping peacefully and not causing any trouble) and I put Charlie out in the entryway while she was there. We walked the entire upstairs while Charlie barked in the entryway. I thought that was the worst of his bad behavior. But then we started to go to the basement, for which you have to pass through the entryway. To my horror, I realized that Charlie had split his tail open as a result of his frenetic, nervous tail-wagging, and had painted our entryway in blood. I'm afraid the estimator thought this was some sort of house of horrors because I loudly exclaimed, "Oh no! Not again!" Indeed, this was not the first time Charlie had accomplished such a feat (though not in the entryway, or I would clearly be the moron for putting him in there). And it will doubtless not be the last.

In fact, he has repeatedly re-opened the old wound. Suffice it to say that he is not fit for company, and seldom sees any!