Category Archives: My Life

Baby steps

A week ago today, Gabriel took his first wobbly step.  Since then, he’s continued to gain strength and confidence, working up to six steps at a time.

After more or less shelving the whole pottying thing for a few months there, I couldn’t help but give it another whirl when I realized I would be home with him all day, every day.  No more blaming daycare as the excuse for Elimination Communication (EC) not working, though I feared the time away from EC attempts might have ruined any potential progress we’d made early on.

At Matthew’s suggestion, I agreed to a small reward system for peeing in the potty.  I balked at the idea because it smacks of bribery and traditional potty training to me, and thus seems anti-EC, but sometimes you have to compromise.

Although some days are all puddles, Saturday was a three raisin day, which gives me hope.*  Ever the optimist, I guess, we biked to the store and bought some toddler underwear (after my attempt to contact a Craigslist seller with some gently used ones went nowhere).  If nothing else, he looks adorable in them.**

Gabriel isn’t the only one taking steps though.  I realized at some point last week that I’m getting into a rhythm with the SAHM thing — really enjoying my time with my little  Pookie (now also known as Snuggle Puppy) — and maybe I can do it after all.  At this point I’m still job hunting, but it may be with more mixed feelings than I would have expected if/when I get a job offer.

*We’re using raisins as the “reward.”  One raisin every time he pees in the potty.  I know, I know, using food as a reward is kind of a no-no, but at least it’s not M&M’s, right?

**In the interest of full disclosure, he made a huge puddle on the floor two minutes after I took the above photo.  Also, why must everything for boys have either motor vehicles or super heroes?  I was rather tempted to buy him some of the nice, flowery “girls” underwear.

Got a new job now in the unemployment line

So . . . here we are.  When I wrote this post a month ago, I thought there was a reasonably good chance that I would move from my current job (which ended due to budget cuts) directly into something new.

For awhile, my biggest worry was that I would have a new job but no childcare arrangements (for the past nine months, Gabriel was in a daycare center literally right across the street from my [old] office, which was a great arrangement, but whose location only made sense when I had to drive there for work anyway).

Turns out I was putting the cart before the horse, since I, in fact, do not have a new job lined up.  No job means no money to pay someone else to raise my child.

So today is the first day of being a [temporary, I hope, or at least I think that’s what I hope] SAHM.

Though it brought its own set of stresses and challenges, going back to work nine months ago was a very good thing for me.  While I still struggle with some low mood and anxiety, I credit my job with preventing me from spiraling further into postpartum depression.

Getting out of the house every day, having a break from the constant demands of a young infant, having some space to breath and eat a meal without worry of being interrupted by a needy cry — glorious.

So it’s with a bit of trepidation that I enter this unemployed phase.  I’m trying to have realistic (i.e., low) expectations for what I’ll be able to do while I’m home with him.  I hope to spend time in the kitchen, but having dinner on the table every night when Matthew gets home from work is probably not in the cards.

Today I would like to make and can salsa, but we’ll just see how things go.  One day at a time, right?

What’s wrong little Pookie?

A few weeks ago, I stopped into the library when I had a few minutes to kill before an interview.   I headed to the children’s section to pick out a couple of books for Gabriel and discovered What’s Wrong Little Pookie? by Sandra Boynton.  It’s a cute book, and ever since then, I’ve been referring to Gabriel as “Pookie” almost as often as I call him Sir.

Anyhow, two weeks ago, I took Pookie to the doctor for his twelve-month “well baby” visit.  I use quotes here because a few hours before the appointment, he had a massive diarrhea explosion that was the prelude to a four-day gastrointestinal bug, and, when we saw the doctor, we found out that his ear infection, diagnosed at a sick visit two-and-a-half weeks prior, had not cleared, despite the antibiotic.

This was his second diagnosed ear infection, but the previous one, back in February, was mild and cleared without antibiotics.  With the news that the first-line drug hadn’t knocked out this infection, along with the fact that he had lots of fluid in both ears, my mind immediately spiraled to a series of infections with progressively stronger, nastier antibiotics, culminating in tubes for my poor little Pookie.

We had our follow-up visit yesterday, and I held my breath as the doctor looked in Gabriel’s ears and declared that not only had the infection cleared, but both ears were completely free of fluid already (something he had not expected, as the fluid can often take quite awhile to drain from little ears — hence the infection issue in the first place).

I restrained myself from doing a happy dance right then and there.  While the antibiotics no doubt worked on the infection, I credit the warm compresses that I applied to his ears while nursing (and perhaps the milk itself) with really sealing the deal.

Of course, his clean bill of health meant that he received his postponed twelve-month shots, so  in addition to the immediate pain, he woke up this morning with a bit of a fever.  I’m hoping that abates soon and we’ll have a happy, healthy little Pookie.

I feel like I’m taking crazy pills

Two weeks ago yesterday, we discovered, after I had a sip of relatively warm and slightly “off” milk, that the refrigerator in our new apartment was hovering between 46°F and 50°F (recommended safe temp for food is around 37°F).

The soonest a repair person could come was two days later, so we decided to buy dry ice in an attempt to keep our food good (though for all we knew it had been at unsafe temps since we’d moved in).  Given my previous dry ice escapades, Matthew went on the ice run.

Tuesday rolled around and the repairman finally showed up.  After asking me a few questions and poking around the fridge for five to ten minutes, he declared that nothing was wrong with it.

I felt like he thought I was either crazy or lying.  And I thought the same of him, given that our thermometer, which we’d tested for accuracy, had clearly showed unacceptable temps (though they seemed fine when he was there, due to the dry ice, which I pointed out to him).

Ten days, one more repair visit (in which they replaced the unit’s internal thermometer), multiple runs for both dry ice for the fridge and then regular ice for keeping food in coolers, much time wasted, lots of worry and debate over whether or not we should discard everything in the fridge to be on the safe side, and one tearful call to the landlord later, we received a new fridge.

Of course, the delivery truck arrived just as I had stepped out of the shower, in a rush to get ready to get Gabriel to the doctor and Gabriel waking from his nap with a diaperful of diarrhea, but that’s a different story for a different day.

Fortunately, our landlord was there to handle the delivery.  I returned home to my lovely shrink-wrapped fridge.

The stainless steel doors were completely covered in plastic that was a huge pain to remove, not to mention the waste.  I would prefer a slightly scuffed and imperfect fridge to all of that junk.

While this is not the fridge we would buy for ourselves (freezer on bottom models are most efficient and we really don’t care about ice/water in the door), having a fridge that we know is keeping our food at safe temps is a big relief.  Now we can get back to making and and fully enjoying delicious meals with our amazing garden bounty!

Ice, ice baby

Duh, duh-duh duh dunna duh duh.  Now that I’ve got that stuck in your head . . .

The plan for Gabriel’s milk feeds during our three-day separation last week involved frozen breast milk (fortunately, I had plenty stockpiled) and dry ice to keep the milk frozen during the eight-plus hour car ride.

Given the early Sunday morning departure time, my only option was to purchase the dry ice on Saturday night.  A bit of research suggested that somewhere between 10-20 pounds of dry ice would do the trick, and, with the heat wave in full force, I called Ted Drewes Frozen Custard (our dry ice source) four days ahead of time to make sure that picking up 20 pounds of dry ice on Saturday night wouldn’t be a problem.  The person on the phone said I couldn’t reserve it, but it would be no problem.

Worried that I would get there and find them out of dry ice, I called again on Saturday morning, hoping they would set some aside with my name on it, but again, no dice, with the same line that they would be able to fill my order when I arrived.

After we put Gabriel to bed on Saturday night, I drove over, expecting to wait in an insane line.Continue reading “Ice, ice baby”