Spooning

Much as I love this baby -- and man, oh man, do I love this baby -- I must admit I've been dreading the learning-to-feed-yourself-with-utensils phase. It's not that I keep such an incredibly tidy house/toddler at mealtime as is, keeping the spoon in my own hand. It's more that (both of us) spending at least a few hours in something without food on it is my stronghold on the day. Like making the bed and vacuuming the rug, it seems to ward off depression and other demons. So, much as Django's been clamoring to give the spoon a try, I couldn't quite hand it over -- till I found the perfect food for practice: fluffy vanilla yogurt from Trader Joe's. I can wipe fluffy vanilla yogurt off anything, including my sometimes troubled mind. And he can't get enough of the stuff. I think we're both well on our way to the next milestone. (BTW, this video is from last night, the night of his first attempts.)

Ode to Charly

My friend Charly is a lovely guy with a family of his own

Yet for the sake of me & mine he worked his fingers to the bone

He came; he saw; he measured (twice) and reassured me it’d be ok

He chose the wood, cut it well, beveled and sanded all day

He brought it back, drilled and pounded, and even though it made him late

He stayed the extra hours it took to figure out how to install the gate

Bubba Mike helped with extra hands, priming and painting, too

Without them I don’t know what I’d do.

‘Cuz only now can toddlers safely play above here and below

But perilously up and down the stairs they cannot blithely go!

New Low

Last week saw us take one giant nosedive from the great height of Django's first toddling to the cavernous low of double stomach flu. The fall was dizzying. And even though I'm all about truth in chronicling, I figured nobody -- least of all me -- would want to see the picture of me in the middle of the night, shirtless and retching into a tupperware container at the foot of the bed, while Django wailed at me from the head of the bed because his nursing session was interrupted, and because he was suffering his own gastro-intestinal discomfort.

In fact, poor little Django is still at battle with the germs. He finally stopped throwing up, though his other end remains explosive. But I've learned that I can be at peace with diarrhea. It's upsetting and messy, to be sure, but it just doesn't terrify me the way vomiting does. Seeing what you just put into your little one's mouth come forcefully cascading out is about a zillion times worse than having the experience yourself. It's like a glimpse of what the world would look like if we focused on how we die every day, rather than how we live. Only, in this case, the 'glimpse' seems to last forever. Believe me, 5 days of it intermittently is an eternity. People often compare normal-people-time in reference to dog-years, but I can assure you that baby-barf-years are way longer.

So, instead of a photo of what we really looked like last week, here are a few photos from the fun we had with Bubba Mike at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park a couple weeks ago. We're looking forward to more carefree days like this coming soon.

Toddlin'

I am a terrible videographer, I admit, but this was a beautiful moment I captured just the same.

First Steps

Today at playgroup Django took his first independent steps. 3 of them. Right in a row. Toward me. I was flabbergasted. He went from standing there, to bouncy dancing there, and then – bloop – just like that, he toddled! I wasn’t lucky enough to catch it on film. But it made me think I better post these clips of him pushing things around, before that phase seems like ancient history.

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.