Merry Christmas!

It's funny that even though we got our Christmas shopping done weeks ago, and then subsequently got everything shipped out super early too, that I am still so insanely busy this time of year.

I have no idea why.

Oh, except that tomorrow night we're flying to Ohio to spend Christmas with Matt's family and have Peter baptised at Matt's family church (where Matt received all of the sacraments himself and we had our marriage blessed.)

And we're travelling, on the dredded red eye. (Wish me luck please. Or pray. Whatever you feel most comfortable with. At this point I'm open to any help I can get.)

So I've been stressed a bit about getting ready for that.

And since I'm not sure how much I'll be able to blog from my in-laws' house, let me just wish everyone a wonderful Christmas now. May you all be blessed this holiday and be able to spend quality time with the people you care about. Happy Birthday Jesus!!

Finally, before I go...

For those 3 or 4 random people out there (like you Olivia, I know I missed you) somewhere in America who I DIDN'T send a Christmas card too, well, I'm sorry I missed you (because I really did send out THAT many this year) but I promise, if you didn't get one, it is only because all attempts of mine to get a hold of your physical addresses broke down and failed to get them. And believe me I tried... between poopie diapers, and spit up and temper tantrums and stuff. (I'll let you decide for yourself who was throwing the tantrums.)

So with that, let me just include my family greeting card here and now... so that my guilty conscious can rest a little.

Happy Christmas EVERYONE!

Trying to teach the baby to sleep

Yesterday, what with the timing of everything, Peter managed to not actually take a nap.

Matt said he dozed off right before they left for church in the morning, but was woken up as Matt got him dressed and put into the car. He then nodded off on in the car for the 10 minute drive, but woke up again upon their arrival at church. He was awake the entire time we were there (but very fussy) and then he went to sleep again in the car on the way home only to re waken immediately, 10 minutes later, upon getting home. Once home, he refused to lay back down for another, real, nap.

I don't know what's wrong with that kid sometimes... most days I'd give anything to be able to take a nap.

Anyway, at his lunch time I tried taking him upstairs and feeding him in the dark and laying him down in his crib but he wanted no part of that plan.

He also stayed awake in his stroller while we were walking the dog.

At his dinner time feeding (which started about an hour before bath and bedtime) he fell quickly asleep nursing only to wake up hungry only a few minutes later so I gave him his rice cereal which he took like a champ.

But, by the time 7:00 rolled around, the little dude was a gigantic mess of tired whining and fussy crabbiness and tears.

We skipped his bath.

I changed his diaper, put him into his pajamas and laid him down in his crib. I gave him a pacifier, wound up his mobile, turned out the lights and left the room almost immediately.

He was so tired anyway that I thought it might be a GREAT evening to try to let him (GASP) scream it out.

He's been going to bed without nursing or rocking for about a month now. But always, Matt and I both stay in the room with him until he falls asleep.

*** Side note...
The fat cat is currently chasing a small piece of black lint up and down the stairs. You would think this was the single most entertaining thing in the world. Both the fat cat and Peter, who is watching him, seem to agree.***

Anyway. Peter started to cry a few moments after I left the room but it was very half-hearted. I heard him rolling around and fumbling with his pacifier, which he can now take out and retrieve himself, and most of the time, eventually he can even get it properly back into his own mouth if he so desires... that is if he hasn't already thrown it all the way out of his crib between the bars.

Also probably it didn't help that his (favorite) stuffed bunny was still in the dryer and not in his arms.

However, after about 4 minutes, he quieted right down, and went to sleep.

When I snuck in to check on him, he was out like a light, at the far end of his crib with his body running perpendicular to the length of the crib and one leg of this little monkey stuffed animal in his mouth.

So the first wave of the battle was won. I'd let him cry it out.

Of course, getting him to go to bed is never the hard part. It's getting him BACK in bed when he wakes up in the middle of the night that is the challenge.

Somewhere around 9, he stirred and whined a bit but quickly dozed back off.

And at 10:14 he started to cry again, this time for real.

At 10:19 I went up to check on him. I gave him his pacifier, and his fresh-from-the-laundry bunny. I put him back onto his back, in the middle of the crib, kissed his forehead and left the room again leaving him to cry.

It was possible that he was hungry since he'd had his "dinner" four hours earlier at 6:00, but everything I've been reading indicated that this close to 6 months he should be able to go longer between his feedings at night. And, when he was 3 months, he used to go A LOT longer than 4 hours between feedings at night.

So he screamed.

At about 10:30 I went back in.

But I didn't pick him up.

I tried to comfort him in any way I could, without picking him up and without giving him any indication that he was going to get to nurse.

Oh boy was he ever unhappy.

And so was I.

I think the hardest part is seeing him stick his little hands out through the bars at me.

And also when he started to flail and kept "ramming" his head against the crib rails. :(

Opinions are varied about whether or not having Mommy in the room makes the "crying it out" process easier or harder for the baby but I sort of feel that if I'm going to put him through it, then I need to go through it with him. Mostly, I sat quietly in the corner of his dark room and cried a little myself while my child screamed for me.

About 10:40 Matt came in.

I'm not sure how he missed the memo about my strategy for the evening, but he seemed to think that I was either torturing our child altogether or that something most be VERY VERY wrong if Peter could still be crying like that with me holding him.

I got him caught up.

So then he tried to comfort our child.

Eventually, he picked the baby up, changed his diaper and laid him back down again.

He kept asking if I thought maybe Peter was hungry. I kept insisting that, maybe he was, a little, but after all the milk he drank and the cereal he'd eaten he could go a few hours more.

About 10:50 Matt finally soothed our baby, by stroking his tummy and forehead and coaxed him to fall back to sleep.

We crept quietly out of the room and closed the door gently since there were still pathetic little upset whimper sounds occasionally coming from the baby.

We both got in bed.

And then...

At 11:04 Peter started to cry again.

I waited a few LONG minutes before getting up.

When I did I found that I must not have pulled the door to his room shut firmly enough because the cats had pushed it open. KC was sitting in the middle of the floor looking up at the crib. Chase, meanwhile, was standing on the side rail of the crib... looking down at my baby, who he'd presumably just jumped in on and woken up.

THOSE STUPID CATS!

Furious, I booted them both out of the room. I picked up my son and let him nurse. I put him back in his crib just before he was ready to fall asleep and somehow, magically, he slept through until morning which in this case was about 7:00 am when I woke him up to relieve the pressure for myself.

I'm not sure what the lesson is in all this, or if I'll let him cry it out again, but I can tell you one thing...

Those cats are NOT getting in his room again at night!

Holiday Madness

Boy, oh boy, are the holidays ever biting me in the ass this year.

And honestly, that's the nicest way I can put that.

I already mentioned in a previous (and very controversial post) that my Christmas Wish for this year was that people not get me anything and instead, if they wanted to give my family gifts, that they should direct their generosity towards my son.

Don't worry, I'm not going to again get into how badly that one is working out for me.

But...

(oh, the sweet, glorious, fantastic, BUT...)

I was talking to my friend the other day when I ran into her at Target. We were NOT talking about my family at all, but she was telling me about how her large family handles gift giving with each child drawing the name of one of their siblings and then saving their allowance towards purchasing that one sibling a gift. Then she and her husband purchase just 3 gifts for each child.

Three.

Because Jesus received only three gifts.

Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh.

And oh, yea, right! Christmas is SUPPOSED to be about celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Novel idea.

(If you forget about all the commercialism that has, apparently, brainwashed a large portion of the American society into thinking that it is supposed to be about STUFF.)

(Man am I ever starting to feel like Charlie Brown in his Christmas special.)

So I say, that if 3 was good enough for Jesus then it's good enough for Peter.

And the last time I checked, Mary didn't get any gifts that day at all.

But anyway.

All this is to say that what with my ongoing participation in the RCIA classes as I continue the process of officially becoming a Catholic (as opposed to a Lutheran baptised, used to attend a Presbyterian church as a kid, unconfirmed, unsure, wandering, confused, protestant Christian) I've spent a great deal of my time thinking about the Christmas holiday this year.

Plus, this is my first holiday as a parent and it seems that now is the time for Matt and I to make our minds up about how we are going to handle holidays for our own family from here on out.

And occurs to me, that the more I think about it, the more the whole "presents are the heart of Christmas" idea has just started to annoy me.

Please don't get me wrong. Sure, give a gift to the ones you love to celebrate the spirit of season.

It's nice.

But this business of children writing out multiple page lists to their parents or Santa Claus requesting hundreds of dollars worth of toys that, let's face, they really don't need anyway... of children waking up on Christmas morning to a heaping pile of gifts awaiting them....

it

just

seems

so

greedy

to

me.



And I'm not going to have it.

Not for my child.

This year, Peter will get three presents from "Santa."

Period.

Now, if I could, I would willingly buy and wrap up the entire world for my baby. I love him THAT much.

But come on...

If 3 was enough for Jesus, then 3 will be more than plenty for Peter.

Anyway. What occurs to me now, is that the part of celebrating Christmas that matters (or ought to matter) MOST is the part about how you spend quality time with the ones you love: your family.

(Quality time, in my case, being sort of a loose term, where many of my own blood relatives were concerned.)

Even still. If I HONESTLY sit back and consider my GREATEST holiday memories...

100% honestly...

...NONE of them are about presents.

NONE!

What I remember, so fondly, the memories that fill my heart with warmth, are of spending time with my family. You know, before everyone starting fighting all the time. Before anybody went and dis-owned anybody else.

I remember eating at the dinner table on Christmas Eve before getting all dressed up and going to church. I remember looking down the pew and seeing my whole family together at Church while we all sang Silent Night with little white candles in our hands. I remember cuddling up together on the coach to watch Rudolph on TV. I remember bundling up and going ice skating or piling into the car and driving around to look at Christmas Lights....

...TOGETHER....

AS A FAMILY.

The presents?

Sure, they were nice. They came in imaginatively wrapped packages and contained cool toys that I lost, gave away or broke years ago. Or they contained clothes which were so fashionable back then that I couldn't wait to show them off at school and now make me cringe at the very thought of them.

All those presents are LONG gone.

And pretty much, long forgotten.

Meanwhile those good memories of spending time with my family?

They live on in my heart.

I want Peter to have these kind of memories.

This whole Christmas thing is SO not about the gifts.

Oh.

And there's one more thing I need to mention this evening:

In a random fit of Christian induced love, and forgiveness probably, I took a risk and sent my Father a Christmas card this year.

In case you all forgot, I haven't exactly spoken to him much since I was in Elementary School. When he split from my Mom he turned tail and RAN for the hills leaving my brother and I well behind in the process. In college I reconnected with him for a few years, but eventually we became physically incapable of seeing eye to eye on, well, anything and parted company, unhappily, again.

And trust me... its better that way.

Neither of us were doing the other any good and the last thing I want for him is to be the cause of his unhappiness.

But like I said, as I was addressing Christmas cards a few weeks ago I randomly caught a wild hare and decided, on a whim, to send him a Christmas card.

To let him know how I'm doing well.

Let him see a picture of his Grandson.

(Who he'll most likely never even meet.)

I had NO expectations.

And to be honest, I sort of put it out of my mind and clean forgot about it the moment I slid the pile of Holiday Greetings into the mail slot.

But then today we picked up our mail. And in there was a card from him.

In the card was a picture of him proudly displaying the fulfillment of one of his life's greatest dreams.... something he's spoken about wanting to do his entire life (or, at least the parts of it when I was actually around.)

The picture was of him, and his wife, each holding a large hunting rifle and crouching in the snow behind what appeared to be a large, presumably recently deceased, Moose.

I can't really be sure, because I've never really actually met a moose.

In fact, the only reason I'm even assuming it is a moose is because, like I said, I know he's always wanted to "nab" a moose so he could mount its head and antlers proudly on his wall.

So, good for him...

He achieved one of his life's dreams.

And he decided to share his pride and joy with everyone via his Holiday greetings.

I'll just leave my own personal opinions about hunting out of this.

But what I will say is this:



(Matt's the one that actually pointed it out.)



In the photo, it really sort of looks like Daddy just shot one of Santa's reindeer.



And also, achievement of life's goal or not... it does seem like kind of poor taste to put a dead animal on a Christmas card.



If you ask me.

Which nobody did.

To each his own I guess.

(At least that's what I'll keep telling myself tonight when a dead Rudolph is chasing me through my dreams.)

Update:
12/12/09 at 1:04 pm
After showing the picture to some of my hunting-savvy friends at church the current working theory is that the animal in the photo is, er, was, an Elk. And a big one at that. Apparently, quite the "catch" or, whatever the non-fishing terminology would be. As far as the awesomeness of the kill goes, all knowledgeable parties seem to aree that it is, like, really really awesome. Something to be very proud of. And that its a very cool picture. Just, maybe not a very Christmas-y one, particularly where the resemblence to Dancer and Donner and Blitzen is concerned. But opinions about that last part are divided.

***If by any chance, and morbid curiosity, any of you want to see the picture, shoot (no pun intended) me an email and I'll scan it and send it your way. I'd welcome your feedback on it actually 'cause maybe it's not that bad. Maybe i'm making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe.

The latest in pictures

Since yesterday all I did was vent, today, I will mostly keep my mouth shut and just post more of what everybody is looking for here: pictures of my baby.

We'll begin with the little shot of Peter who's finally able to get some interaction with one of the cats.... through the mesh screen of his pack and play.
I put him in his little baby prison when I need to run to the restroom, upstairs for something or if I need to run the vacuum and nearly evey time I find a situation like this upon my return.
I haven't caught a picture of it yet, but Peter pushes his chubby little hands up against the mesh sides and Chase, in true kitty form, tries to attack them.

Charming.

This next one was last Friday after dinner. Matt was talking to our friend Melissa, who was over to study and have dinner with us, while Peter was practicing his sitting up.... on the kitchen counter.
Don't worry, Matt was right behind him the whole time.

In other news, the inside of the house is all decorated for Christmas, which pretty much fascinates all the small creatures in my house. The cats can't keep out of the Christmas trees. The dog can't seem to stop barking at the random lights and music boxes and Peter (with the help of his Daddy) is in love with the jingle bells.

When I was a kid there was a string of a few jingle bells that my mother always hung from the kitchen light. It was the main holiday mission of my brother and I every year to jump up (or be lifted up) to ring those bells. I'm choosing to reinvent that tradition for my own son. :)

Here's a sweet one of Matt and Peter cuddling with Brutus.

I've really got to hand it to that dog. He is pretty darn patient with the baby, who in this picture really seems to be sticking his chubby little fingers IN his puppy's mouth. Hmmm. Quick check, yup, Peter still has ten, that IS a good Doggo.

Since "winter" has set in here the temperatures have been hovering between the very high 30s at night and the very low 60s at the peak of the day. "Cold" weather or not, Brutus still needs a walk every day, and Mama needs exercise so whenever possible we try to make the dog's walks a family affair. My friend Nikki gave me several of her son's old winter hats to use, so we take turns alternating between them each day on our walks.

This next one is just a nice example of the weird things Peter does to entertain himself when playing on the floor.

And in our last top story this morning, and major baby milestone breaking news... Peter has officially found his feet. He's been attracted them for awhile, especially when wearing colorful socks, but now even barefoot, he's noticing them and performing one of the most charming baby behaviors of all:

Yuuuuuummmmmmmmmy toes!

And apparently, when those yummy toes and the chubby little feet they're attached to have become the lad's new favorite toys.

If only there was some way to wrap them up for Christmas... we could save a fortune!

It's probably better if nobody reads this.

Twelve years ago today Matt and I accidentally went on our first date.

"Accidentally" because when I called him to go to the movies that evening I never in my wildest dreams would have thought that we'd eventually end up together.

Let alone that we'd STILL be together 12 years later.

However, that first date isn't really the point of this post.

The fact of the matter is that today it's occurring to me, again this morning, that one of the main reasons Matt was such a dear friend to me back then, and why I eventually fell so completely in love with him is that he might be one of the only people on the planet who ever actually listens to me.

I mean, he really listens.

Well, most of the time. (He is a man after all.)

He listens to my complaining. He listens to my funny stories. He listens to my dumb jokes. He listens when I just need to vent the pipes and get all the extra stuff out of my brain that makes me feel crazy or like my head might explode.

(I'm having one of those moments right now, but sadly, Matt is at school.)

Not only did/does Matt listen, but he pays attention.

Back then, by listening, he found out who I really was/am. Really.

Then he went and had the nerve to go ahead and love me anyway.

(Weird.)

So, why am I bringing this up now?

Because sometimes I swear, other than my husband, nobody ever listens to me.

I mean, people might pay attention and they might hear the majority of my words, but apparently, they don't actually take in their meaning.

And I get it. Fine. I talk (or on my blog, type) A LOT.

Its too much to handle.

I'm not that interesting anyway.

BUT OH MY GOODNESS sometimes it just drives me crazy.

Take for example, my family. I mean the ones I actually do, supposedly, have a relationship with. The ones who swear to love me and accept me for who I am. The ones who haven't disowned me or vice versa.

I can pretty much promise that if somebody were to actually ask them what it is I do (or did, technically, before I had Peter) for a living they wouldn't have any idea.

They might get the job title right. Although, honestly if they did I'd be surprised. But even if they knew what it is that I spent SEVEN years of my life studying in college and graduate school, I still really, really doubt that they could tell you what that means and how I spent my days at work.

Maybe they are just too busy with their own lives and that's fair.

Or maybe they just think that what I do is really, really dumb and I get that too.

I mean, who goes to school for seven years studying a subject that is getting cut on a daily basis? That's just dumb! There's no money to be made there surely! And who picks a career if not for the money to be made???

But, back when Peter was still very young and small I was busying myself for a few days about compiling a few CDs of music and children's songs just for him and one of them actually told me to stop wasting my time and go buy a Baby Einstein CD.

That's when it hit me that my own family doesn't know, understand or perhaps even care about what I do. About my love and passion for teaching and sharing music with others, particularly children.

So, see, that's bad enough. It bugs me beyond belief that they hold no value for my career but it's fine. That's their right.

Then again, that same person very lovingly suggested to me when Peter was about 6 weeks old that I not let him cry in his crib for more than a moment lest he stop trusting me.

As if to suggest that if my child were left alone to cry for a few minutes and possibly work it out for himself that he'd somehow just give up on the idea that his Mommy loves him altogether.

Forget the absurdity of that statement for a moment, and just consider who this sage piece of advice was given to: ME! And anyone who knows anything about me can tell you I am the Worrying Queen of the West. The woman who's Midwife prescribed anti-anxiety meds for in her second trimester. A woman who can't let any worry go... ever!

Why would somebody say something like that to me?

Its no wonder that almost 6 months into it my child can't sleep through the night or really get anywhere close. Because his Mommy is so scarred by the absurd notion that her baby might decide she doesn't love him that she is, like, PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE of letting him scream for a few minutes.

Surely, anyone who actually understood me, who actually paid attention, would have thought more carefully before suggesting such a thing lest they practically SCAR ME FOR LIFE.

*Ahem*

But forget that. Its in the past. Any normal person would just let itgo.

Christmas is coming.

And WAY back in September, probably, I sent out and email to everyone I could think of containing a Christmas wish list for Peter and requesting that people NOT get gifts for Matt or myself.

Matt and I spend MORE than enough of our money on ourselves. Too much. Honest.

So I requested that from here on out, people direct their Holiday spending for my family towards our child(or, hopefully in the future, our childREN.)

I actually sort of wish I'd requested no gifts ALTOGETHER since we buy him plenty of crap as it is so that maybe we could teach our son about the real meaning of the holiday. But it's too late for that now and it doesn't matter regardless because nobody seems to have heard my request anyway.

Yesterday cards came for us and for Peter in the mail from my Grandmother. My dear, sweet, lovely Grandmother who always has the very best and kindest of intentions. My Grandmother who came to stay with us in August to help with the baby and, so far as I can tell, hated every single minute of it. Not the baby part. The staying with me part.

(Which isn't surprising really, if you think about the fact that she, like everyone else mostly, NEVER really listens to me and has NO IDEA WHO I ACTUALLY AM. I'm pretty sure she was outright appalled but what she saw while she was here. )

Anyway, in the card for Peter was a gift card for Toys R Us. Perfect! I can use it to buy him any of the toys from his wish list.

However, in the card for us was a gift card for Red Lobster and a note telling us to treat ourselves to a night out.

*sigh*

The sentiment is so very, very sweet. Fairly new parents do need to get out from time to time.

But the thing is WE DO! We go out. Honest. Not often, but often enough.

And except for the part about how her little gift for us goes EXACTLY against my expressed, stated, wishes. Which, if we review, were that people NOT spend their money on us.

So what am I supposed to do? I can't return a gift card.

And it shouldn't be such a big deal, but to me, it is.

Probably we'll end up using it and to make myself feel better I will transfer the amount of the card from our bank account into Peter's college fund so that I don't feel like I'm taking the gift away from my child.

It's just so stinking annoying though.

That nobody ever listens.



And:

Probably this blog post is a really, really, really, REALLY bad idea.

Every member of my family has this blog address. (Although I'm not sure how often they log in.) I do have a theory, though, that most people actually only look at the pictures and, as usual, ignore whatever it is I ramble on about, which is fine and in this case everything might work out better if nobody ever reads all this.

But one of the reasons I started and I maintain this blog is as a place for me to vent my feelings and my frustrations.

By giving my family members this address I effectively eliminated my ability to vent about them in my posts. Which sort of defeats the purpose because let's face it, family members, even the ones you like, can absolutely drive a person crazy. So today I'm throwing intelligent, logical thought right out the window and venting about them here anyway.



Also:

It's been suggested to me that I NOT express myself in written (or typed) words either in emails or on this blog when I am feeling frustrated. A reader of written (or typed) words can miss the intended inflections, totally miss the point or misinterpret the emotions behind the words. While this is a valid argument I have to completely disagree.

I am MUCH MUCH easier to understand in writing. I express myself far better in writing where I can edit my thoughts and clarify things.

Out loud I suffer from verbal diarrhea. I rarely make any sense. Heck. I can't even stay on topic. (Not that I can stay on topic in this blog either, but at least here I can scroll back up the page to figure out where I was before I veered off course.)

Anyway, like I said, talking about all this on here is a really bad idea.

Grandma, if your reading this, I am grateful for your gift. Thank you. I just wish you would have respected my wishes. I also really wish you had any idea of who your Grand Daughter actually is.

Matt, if you're reading this, thanks for listening and for putting up with my crap and my drama for 12 years. I love you. Please don't bash me over the head with a pillow for posting all this.

Germs

I read some place a long time ago that after you get exposed to germs it usually takes about 10 days to actually show symptoms of the illness. Or maybe somebody told me that. I'm not sure.

So, LAST week at Bible Study we were getting ready to have our little Thanksgiving Feast and they asked for a few of us to go trade places with the Child Care Workers for about 5 minutes so that they could grab some food. I'd been planning on stating to leave Peter in childcare during Bible study starting in January (when he'll be 6 months old and had his Flu and H1N1 vaccinations) so I figured since I was standing around anyway I could go volunteer 5 measly minutes of my time and check out the nursery in the process.

I sort of wish I hadn't.

I've been warned about Church Nurseries. I'm not sure what kind of standards they are held to, as far as cleaning toys and adult to child ratios, but seeing as the only child care facilities I've really ever been exposed to are those run by the military which therefore have very strict regulations I was a little shocked by what I saw there.

The child care at church is divided into 2 rooms, for children under and above 2 years of age accordingly. I naturally went to the babies where I found two lovely and patient women with something like 20 small children running amok around them in a tiny room that was probably just over 12 feet by 12 feet.

Now, please don't get me wrong, all of these children were very sweet. I recognized about half of them as children of my girlfriends. But as I rolled in there, parking my baby, in his stroller in the corner, it was like Attack of the Germy-Snot-Nosed, Coughing, Crusty Face Yet Strangely Angel Eyed Children!!

And probably about 60% of those Germy-Snot-Nosed, Coughing, Crusty Faced Angel Eyed Children wanted nothing more in the universe at that moment then to meet my son. The descended on Peter with a great deal of excitement. They talked to him. They patted him. The held his hand. They looked and played with his toys. They pulled at his shoes. They ran their fingers through his hair. They pulled at his pacifier. One sweet little child stuck her finger RIGHT UP HIS NOSE.

I tried very hard to let them be. Sure, there were 12 or so odd toddlers raging a friendly attack of love and curiosity on my child who was strapped into his stroller and powerless to escape or even really defend himself... but there were also 8 other babies who needed my attention. My friends child was attempting to the scale the wall trying to retrieve his backpack since he'd seen grown ups enter the room and naturally assumed it was time for him to go home. Another little girl managed to take a head first flying leap directly into the wooden shelf.

Ugh!

An image kept flashing in my brain of the humongous, well staffed, and spacious FANTASTIC baby nursery at the Church in San Diego that we attending briefly last year. I know it can be better. I know that there is another way.

And, all judgement aside, I don't know if I will ever be able to leave my child in there.

Which could pose a problem for me attending Bible Study as he gets older...

And I possibly have another child.

After I left, I scrubbed myself and the boy down with disinfecting wipes to try to chase away the germs. But I knew it was probably too late. Another child's finger went IN his nose after all.

So anyway, back to my original point, which is that all of that this visit occurred on November 24. (Happy Belated Birthday Julianne... I think. I get all the Thanksgiving week Birthdays confused, because there are about a million of them.)

But November 24 just happens to have been 10 days ago.

And yesterday I noticed I'm starting to get a sore throat and uncomfortable pressure in my sinuses. Matt said the same thing.

Peter, can't really tell us how he's feeling but spent nearly the entire day yesterday eating or sleeping or crying to me that he needed to be doing one of those again. His nose is ever so slightly snotty and he has this occasional wheezy little cough when he sleeps. The "best" part is his voice has gone horse and its just pathetic enough to break my heart.

Last night he woke up to cry for his lost pacifier around 10:30 and I could barely hear him through the monitor because even though he was yelling with all his little strength.

It breaks my heart.

It's just so pathetic.

As far as Baby's first colds go, this is not too bad. He doesn't even have a fever.

But still.

Stupid nursery.

Catching Up

So, November is supposed to be National Blogging Month or something like that. Who decided this I don't know, but apparently to celebrate you're supposed to post on your blog (if you have one) every day in November. I think there's a contest and prizes or something. I don't really know actually, because I didn't enter.

What I did do is made a personal challenge to myself to try to post a blog each of the 30 days last month. It was part of my new efforts to create personal discipline for myself. It went along with my efforts to maintain a steady bath and bedtime routine for Peter and trying to stay home more frequently. Because I am not generally a very disciplined, routined person. But children, most of the time, do better with routines and discipline. So I'm challenging myself, to try to be more of what my son needs.

Anyway.

So I was doing pretty good. I posted stuff every day for 28 days in a row. Maybe not good or interesting stuff, but daily stuff none the less. And I was proud of myself.

But then, just 2 days shy of my own, self-imposed goal, I let it all fall apart. On Sunday, I posted nothing. Which is really ridiculous because I had the pictures all ready to go. But, I just never posted them.

And of course once I missed Sunday, I just decided to skip Monday as well because it didn't matter anyway.

Sorry 'bout that.

Then again, I do have the pictures ready. So let me catch you up.

Sunday
After Mass there was a luncheon and Advent workshop for the church members to enjoy fellowship, food and make crafts for the Advent season. Knowing that I wanted to attend I'd signed Matt up to work one of the craft tables so that he couldn't try to drag me out of there.
I'm nice that way.

So Matt helped families build little wooden Jessie Trees while I made crafts, stuffed my face with food, took pictures and hung out with my girlfriends. Mostly, we all sat at one end of the Fellowship Hall and passed around each others' babies and, when given the chance each and every kid took the opportunity to crap all over themselves when they got into my hands.

Apparently I'm spectacular that way. I'm, like, "poop-spirational."

Which is actually a bit of an improvement, since before I was a Mommy myself babies mostly just threw up on me. Poop, gross though it may be, is usually (mostly) contained and is a lot better than projectile spew.

Anyway, here is Peter, looking up at me, amidst the chaos, probably wondering what was going on, from his stroller.


And Matt was absolutely the cutest thing ever helping all those children and families with their wooden trees (just don't tell him I said that.)



Monday

I spent the better part of the day, babysitting my girlfriend's 10 week old son since she is technically active duty and technically her maternity leave is over so technically she's supposed to be doing office-type work each day until she can technically re-enroll in classes and technically there is not yet a space for her baby at the CDC.

All that to say that I've had her son for a grand total of something like 5 hours over the week and a half since she "went back to work" because she's managed to work it out that she doesn't have to go back in again until after the Holidays.

In case your wondering, yes it was actually sort of an adventure taking care of my own 5 month old son and her 10 week old for all 5 of those hours none the less. This is particularly true since her child absolutely loves to cry and can scream bloody murder with a lot more vigor than my own child has ever yet to ever manage. Seriously. That little dude can turn his whole head purple with the effort of it all. But, I hope sometime (possibly soon-ish) to have another child (if I might be so blessed) so I figure its good practice for me.

Peter, mostly, did well sharing his Mommy with our little visitor. He rolled around on the floor and played ending up in positions like these below, which to me just have "Future Trouble Maker who swears he isn't Doing Anything Wrong" written all over them.

That evening, since my son has had so very much trouble sleeping at night, lately, I decided to try giving him a little rice cereal to possibly help fill his tummy before bedtime.

I didn't want to put it in a bottle. He's old enough, in my opinion, to try giving it to him with a spoon. And, in my opinion, if he doesn't take it very well with a spoon, then I figure he isn't ready for it at all.

So first we sat him in his high chair and bibbed him up.

Then we gave him a few tastes.

I'm not really sure how it went, since, I've never done this before and had no clue what to expect.

Initially, he seemed to take each spoonful and let it sit in his mouth for awhile and then let most, if not all of it, ooze back out and down his chin. Maybe he'd mush the liquidy mixture around in his mouth a bit in the process. Sometime he stuck his tongue out.

So then daddy had a try:

Don't get all impressed. Yes, those two look like naturals, but Matt was hardly more successful than I, despite adding his own chorus of inspirational "Num num num num num!" sounds.

Eventually I tried letting him (Peter, not Matt) play with spoon for a bit to get used to it. When he threw it at me I tried feeding him some more and eventually, when I started leaving the spoon loosely in his mouth for a long moments he'd sort of slurp on it a little and I could hear a few audible gulping sounds. Then the rest of the liquid oozed out of of mouth and down his chin again.

So, yea. Thus endeth my baby's first attempt at food.

Afterward, while playing before bed Matt seemed intent to check and see if the cereal would stay down.

It did. And its a good thing too, or else this next picture might have had a very different ending.

But really.... how sweet is that?

And, it should be noted that Peter was his normal often-waking self until about midnight last night, after which time he slept THROUGH until about 6:30.

Yeah!

Yes, I know it that is only six hours. Yes, I know that last night he managed to achieve at 5 months of age what he was doing without fail when he was only 2 months old. But I don't care. I got a lot of sleep last night and I'm excited!

Which bring me to today....

Tuesday

Matt came upstairs with the baby a little before 8. I would have been angry at him for the "before" part if I hadn't just had almost 8 glorious hours of uninterrupted sleep and my chest wasn't on the verge of a lactation eruption.

While I started, painfully, to feed the kiddo Matt happily showed me some picture of his own which he'd taken earlier in the morning.

Apparently Peter was trying to grab at the coffee cup, so Matt checked that it was empty and handed it to him. Peter immediately did this (which isn't too surprising, because he pretty much does this to anything you hand him.)

Except that that picture is actually the second photo my husband snapped.

His first attempt came out like this:

Which, while actually is only Peter squinting at the bright light of the flash is much funnier if you look at like he's really jonesing for his morning cup of java and giggle at how thoroughly he is mine and Matt's son. :)

Our son, who, incidentally, is 5 months old today.

And what a big awesome, healthy, wonderful boy he is at that!

But can someone please tell me how this is even possible? How can that little boy upstairs sleeping have been alive for 5 whole months already? And how is it that I've only known that little face for just 5 short months? And wasn't it just the 4th of July and we were nervously strapping him into his car seat for the first time to bring him home? How can I even be sitting here typing this, under the lights of my Christmas tree?

Where the heck has the time gone?!?!?!

Okay, seriously, I need to change the subject, because if I think about this much longer I think I might suffer a panic attack and start to cry.

So, where was I?

Right, today.

When Matt came home Peter was in his Pack and Play wearing nothing but a diaper as I was recovering from the absolutely overwhelmingly humongous amount of crap I had just finished cleaning up off my child. Seriously. There aren't even words. But to give you a general idea, let me just use two....

arm pits.

Yep.

The mess made it all the way up under his arms.

G-R-O-S-S is all I have to say about that.

At some point later we decided that we were going to go walk the dog and then go out and do some Christmas shopping. This meant that I was first probably going to need to put some clothes on my son, lest he be out in the 50 degree weather in his diaper alone. The trouble was I didn't have any of his socks near by, so instead I decided he should wear some of his Dad's.

If nothing else, Peter seemed to think it was funny.

Eventually, some proper baby socks and shoes were located and the baby was bundled up and we were off to do our shopping.

I just never get tired of looking at him when he wears his little bear suit. It brings out the blue in his eyes. :)

After shopping, Peter had his dinner, followed by more rice cereal, which was met with similar results. Then it was bath time.

Matt decided to really let him soak for a bit since he'd basically bathed in his poop earlier and my little water baby held true to form with his love of the tub and pretty much just hung out for awhile. Lately, he's learned to push himself up onto the top of the tub's built-in ledge which is supposed to keep him sitting upright. Now he can "float" on his back while balancing on top of that little ledge like this:

And before you start panicking he is absolutely supervised every moment while doing this and is in no real danger anyway since his head is on the back of the tub and couldn't possible get any deeper into the water.

The thing that I think is really amazing is if you compare this photo to that of his first-ever bath back in July. It can be found at the bottom of this post. Forget how different he looks.... just look at the difference in his size. Wow.

I think I'm going to start to cry again. All over his homecoming outfit, which I dug out this evening to compare and it looked like doll baby's clothes to me.

So with that ,I'll leave you with just one more shot....

Because eating orange-whale-strainer-toys in the tub is a great way to end any day.... at least according to Peter.