Dr Jekyll/Mr.Hyde

I thought it would be a lot longer -- 10 years maybe, not 10 months -- before I'd find myself saying: "Django used to really like [insert tedious, adult-pleasing thing here.] I don't know what happened to my formerly [insert relevant adult-pleasing accolade here] baby." But Django's already started to reject vegetables.

**HEAVY SIGH**

I was frantic about it at first. I started to see how people end up feeding their children Hot Cheetos for breakfast. I mean, if they'll eat them, it makes you feel good on some level, you know? Not quite the same level as omega-3/high-fiber/sugar-free/multi-grain cereal with low-fat/vitamin-enriched/high-protein/nut-milk might. But, hey, you get them to eat & drink every day and your job as a mom is done! Or, at least, they live another day for you to work harder at getting the rest of the job right.

I keep trying to remind myself these things go in phases. And cycles, too. This week, I've learned that Django will usually eat vegetables in Tasty Bites (boil-in-bag Indian food) and Tom's Peasant Pies (locally-made, handheld pasties,) but not ones made by me. Oh, except/unless I puree and hide the vegetables in applesauce. I think I may have invented a new, marketable line of food this way -- MicroGreen & Basil Applesauce (excellent with pork!), Squash & Carrot Applesauce (great with turkey!) Next up: Zucchini & Green Bean Applesauce (try with chicken?)

At the same time, Django is doing other very exciting and compensatory things, like talking. Consensus has it his first words are: cat, dog and Tedra. (Yes, in case you're wondering, I feel slightly bitter about that.) He keeps trying to say rabbit, but mostly it comes out as "ra...ra." He's also learning to steal toys from Max, practicing his shrieks of complaint when Max steals toys from him, and standing on his own for minutes at a time. Just today he did his first walking with only one of my hands as help. He's already growing up too, very fast.

Family Bed

Like a flier on the high-trapeze waiting to be caught in mid-air, Django often spends much of his night rolling side-to-side, swinging his arms up and over his head, back arched, eyes – though closed – locked in line with his reaching hands. It’s not near as disruptive as you might think it would be in a bed-partner. It’s more like the tide. Now he’s leaning in; now he’s leaning out. And, well, I don’t do too much sleeping these days anyway, so it can lend a welcome ebb and flow to what is otherwise a rather monotonous insomnia.

I used to think Django was searching for me in his reachings, or at least the fresh supply of warm help-me-get-back-to-sleep milk I’ve come to represent. When he’d end up cuddling the pillow on the other side of the bed, I’d usually break into a smug sort of grin – equal parts tender humor and self-importance. Then, at some point, I realized he actually seemed to prefer the pillow. He’d turn to me, and then turn quickly away. Yet once “on” the pillow, he’d stroke it gently, nuzzle a little, and usually anchor himself with a grip. Talk about feeling rejected. Yipes.

Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m an important player in the Family Bed scene. Django loves for me to be there as he falls asleep, for sure. Though I’ve trained him out of nursing to sleep, per se, he’s developed other points of attachment instead – fingers on my watchband, toes on my belt, nose in my ear. Basically, wherever he can find to be in touch, he is. As I attempt to roll away, he always rolls toward.

He also thinks I make an excellent body pillow during those waves of wakefulness that threaten to break here and there throughout the night. I’ve given myself over to that job completely. Not only is it incredibly convenient to place the whole of him right on top of my chest and roll/rock/jostle him back & forth, in the hope of avoiding actually having to stand up and be a good nighttime parent, it’s also one of the things I enjoy most about us sharing a bed. In those moments, even if only for those moments his little limbs are stuck on me like a starfish, I am immediately transformed into the Rock of Gibraltar that I always wish to be.

I’ve recently and ambivalently discovered that Django’s love affair with the pillows has been an opportunistic one. Apparently they help him roll to his belly faster than I, and present less of an obstacle between he and the edge of the bed, which seems to call to him like a Siren – if you’ll forgive my thorough bludgeoning of the ocean metaphor. I’ve come downstairs on well more than one occasion now, having heard him make just a peep or two at the end of a sleep session, to find him already headed face-first off the edge of the bed. Heartstopping, let me tell you. And the extra seconds it takes to get through my own child-proofing gates are especially long seconds.

Aunt Jenny and Uncle Steve brought the hand-me-down crib. I know I should train Django to sleep in it, for safety’s sake. But I can’t, yet. I’m not developmentally ready for him to leave the Family Bed.

Learning Curve

Up until yesterday morning, when presented with an obstacle Django would either stop crawling and explore the obstacle, or -- only when incredibly motivated -- crawl in his oh-so-deliberate way around. But yesterday afternoon, he decided to give crawling over a try. His first attempt took him something like 20 minutes, as he went at it nonchalantly in fits and starts, clearly trying to give the impression that he really wasn't trying to do anything in particular at all. By early evening, he got the job done in 20 seconds. My first thought was: "Yay!" My second: "Uh-oh."

Sunday-Funday

The stomach flu has been behind us for a few days, but there must have been another germ waiting in the wings because Django, Max -- and myself, I'm afraid -- all seem to be plagued by a cold. I'm telling you, by the time these boys actually reach school age, they will be tough as nails, never sick again, for having already met & vanquished every school-harbored germ there is. That's what I'm telling myself today, anyway, to avoid calling Kaiser to see about having my little one fitted for a plastic bubble.

Through it all, Django has been his usual cheery & charming self -- as you may have already noticed in the photos from the previous post. He hardly looks under the weather. This morning he took the role of playful-sick-kid to new heights. While I went grumpily about the chores, he decided to be extra giggly and goofy at my feet. In the first video, you can see how he started chasing the vacuum as I moved it around the rug. In the second one, you can see that while I washed the breakfast dishes he found his own place to splash.

Hazing

The school year has just begun, and yet it already feels like the days are coiling tightly upon themselves in a spiral, one after another.
Django & Max spent much of the first couple weeks of school with the stomach flu. Yup: two baby boys, two fevers, two vomiters, two diarrhea-filled diapers for nine days straight. If that isn’t hazing, I don’t know what is.

Oh, and Tedra & I both got flat tires from running over nails/bolts in different parts of town, too…At least it was just me who ended up with $60 parking ticket for exceeding the 2-hour neighborhood parking restrictions around school. Ugh.

Nowadays the time that I might’ve spent blogging about my current swamp emotions is eaten up by planning & prepping Language Arts lessons for 4th graders. Soon, I’m sure, a rhythm will be established, and there will be time for more than just the minimum. Not today, though, not today.