Blog silence
Papí took some time to adjust his schedule. The nightly blogging just did not work well in the present. The boy is looking to have everyone present and accounted for in the sleeping chamber.
Our current arrangements of living quarter makes us sleep all together. Even while the boy will obtain his first crib we will all be together, so moving in and out of the room will not work mostly. No real complaint about that. Papí will embrace this opportunity to sleep earlier.
However, in consequence of this no more blogging sessions beginning at eleven o'clock. That by way of explanation of the blog silence over the last week or so.
Now, papí's writing chops permitting, we blog in the early morning. That time of day the sun peeks in on the workstation and papí can look around the room all bathed in golden light. Considering that I will need to strip away the dreamy cobwebs and regain memories of the past day(s), chai may enter into the proceedings.
The baby's progress
The boy tunes in closely with papí these days.
The other day, we drove to a physical therapy session (re: papí's shoulder) and though the boy arrived newly fed and changed, the session and all the chit chat regarding papí's daily rehab work took over an hour and a half. After the session forms remained to fill out, so that all started to reach into the next feeding and certainly a change became necessary.
The boy is polite. He will make some small gestures when he needs 'service.' Similarly to the way one might lift a hand or a finger at a restaurant to gather the attention of the server, the boy will make some perfunctory movements that indicate discomfort, and he will vocalize quietly to accompany.
His vocal range runs from little coos through an interesting little moan (back of the throat: uhhhhhhh) and on to yips, yelps, and on to exasperated gasps and frustrated groans. He also owns a little squeal reserved for when he becomes tired. Lately he also launches on 'talking' sessions that go on for a time, but they are not communicating need so much as they seem to arise out of the wish to share something.
He spends time in his 'talking' experimenting with sounds that come out according to what his tongue or lips do. He does a raspberry, and he does a slobber-buzz (very wet), along with some lightly throaty sounds. The essential message from these: Joy.
In the physical therapy office, the message went away from joy for a while, and more towards discomfort. He shifted in his seat as papí worked to learn how to do the simple exercises, and soon he yelped his demand for attention.
I knew what to do, but we took some little time to get there. As I filled out the papers the boy resided in the crook of my arm, though he shifted and kvetched most all the while. I changed him, yet he also needed feeding. When he reaches 'combo-need' mode, the experience can be like a white-water raft experience. Just as you clear one eddy over a huge rock, another gapes before you on an even larger rock.
The major issue arises from the way papí's morning appointments play havoc with the boy's long morning nap. He loves to spend the morning splayed on the bed in celestial contemplation.
This havoc enters into his feelings about anything else that he might miss in the current situation. In the office, he missed food most of all at that moment. I finished the paperwork with the child scrambling about in my arms, and we made a beeline for the car, where papí sits in the backseat to feed the baby in his car seat. The car seat faces the rear, so that papí may sit in a normal fashion and attend to the baby's comfort in comfort of his own. This arrangement allows papí to wipe with one hand and feed with another. It is important to me to have the baby eating consistently and to not have to break the 'mood' by dropping the bottle and grabbing a towel...
By the time I got to feeding him his mood, fed by his tired humor, collected a negative momentum and a bout of fussiness spilled out. He alternately and in conjunction cried and stomped his feet and waggled his head to and fro making roaring noises.
All of the carrying on caught the eye of papí and reminded him of a little ritual, or of a comical act. Not to make too light of it, but I really could not help myself when a deep belly laugh escaped me and startled the boy.
At first, his little eyes gave a round, blank look of surprise, then the eyes flattened with the smile on his little face, and he chuckled along with papí for a time. Of course, one good laugh gets another, so another hearty belly laugh arose as papí's natural reaction. The boy responded, and there we were in the vehicle, laughing our cares away.
His mood dissipated and he became calm and carefree. The better to feed and be happy.
The future's bearing
For some time now papí made some preparations for school in the coming Fall. Now with the impending schedule (I registered for classes and soon will attend) there are serious questions about the arrangements for the boy during this period of time. Papí's professional growth and progress demand this major step in the right direction, but the schedule keeps both papí and Mrs papí away from the boy for twelve hour days for at least two days per week.
Of course, Mrs papí has some assurance that her mother will help out, but the woman is 60+ years old. Is this not asking too much? Papí wonders whether the true dimensions of the situation do not remain clouded by wishful thinking on Mrs papí's part?
For one thing, the only 'conversation' about this arrangement came in passing. When Mrs papí's mother offered to watch the child. Now, papí finds this kind of an offer could easily mean 'a couple of hours time' much more easily than it could mean 'week in and week out for twelve hour stretches.' Those stretches include much self denial and I only want all parties to know what their putting themselves in for.
This kind of knowledge allows papí to put his heart and soul into putting together a career change with the kind of purpose and attention that endeavor deserves. I believe the arrangement may work, but I also believe there are many more pitfalls that ought not to arise in the course of this juxtaposition of duty to duty.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but assurances and agreements must attend this little life that needs so much attention. When one puts in to live the day long with a child the demand seems constant even when the child sleeps.
Given that Mrs papí's mother is more 'motherly' than papí, perhaps my misgivings arise misplaced. I am mostly concerned with the idea that an offer in passing goes to Mrs papí's understanding as an offer for roughly 36 hours of baby care in a three day period!
Let's not fool ourselves here people. Let us calmly sort out our qualms and seek to lay a fine road to our better future time. The baby lives in joy and in the present. Let us sustain that joy.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Checkup and shots round two...
The boy's second checkup, weigh-in, sizing, along with some vaccinations post-hospital. Papí canceled his physical therapy appointment, due to the last-second reschedule of the baby's doctor.
Papí also required some blood testing, and for this no eating for over twelve hours. Through all the appointments and driving all he really had in the way of consumables came from salty water rinses for his (less) aching gums and other, non-salty, water to drink.
Mrs. papí would come along, and she found time later to work from home. Which works pretty well, except that she wants to spend lots of time with the boy when she is there anyway...
The day began like so many others, with Mrs. papí going to work in the morning, but she would return after a meeting. This time it made sense to feed the boy, but she needed to get to work at an hour certain, so papí said okay to driving her this morn.
I always believe the boy is best served by the mother's direct attention. As much as I might flatter myself that my care and feeding might bring the boy along, I am under no illusion about how much it means to the boy to get with his mother.
I am in awe of the mother's relationship to the babe. I think it worthy of worship and sacrosanct adoration for any father in my position.
Papí scarcely needed to feed the boy, because he drifted off after his early feeding with Mrs. papí and hardly stirred through the whole journey across the hills to her workplace and home again. Once home, he further slept until nearly time to go to the appointment; papí packed some eats for later quickly along with the diaper bag, for we were nearly late for the appointment.
Let's face it, the boy eats when and for however long he wants to. Bound by how much we choose, but he dilly-dallies as he sees fit. We arrived to meet Mrs. papí right on time, and we all arrived together at the Clinic at just the right time.
The Clinic itself is a busy hub of social service where all manner of folk come for outpatient medical help from the boy's age all the way (but perhaps not inclusive) to one's dying day. There always reside tens of persons awaiting their appointment when we pull ourselves up the stairs to the check-in counter.
Downstairs is the frolicking, near chaotic pediatric clinic. When we went there once (we were in one of those ill-informed tizzies early first-time parents dig themselves and each other into) we came concerned about the weight of our child and their greatest concern --- aside from consistently mispronouncing the boy's name --- became locating the boy in their patient database.
In other words, this is an inner city clinic with the stodgy, stubborn bureaucracy lazily protecting like a shell ensconcing the soft practices and arts within.
All of which does not mention that the caring individuals we know there as doctors merit admiration and respect. Their job is difficult with few conveniences surrounding them. It also must go acknowledged that they cope with a widely varying patient pool, so they must discover challenges in that facet of each their practice as well.
After weighing and measuring: The boy at this writing weighs 18Lbs 5oz, and stands 25" straight and tall; the nurse ushered us into a room with diagrams of prenatal diagrams mixed with pictures of medications to remind older patients to bring in theirs for each appointment.
We waited for a while as people do after admittance into the inner sanctum of a doctor's office from low- to middle-income range insurance. We easily marked the time by the fact that the boy required a feeding (every two hours he is hungry) while we awaited our boy's Dr.
Just as the feeding wound down, the Dr popped in to speak with us and to ask us questions all of which indicated what a wide variety of mothers must show up in this Clinic. She mentioned things about how people try to put cereal into their kids' food too early, she mentioned other pitfalls about care as opposed to neglect (of which she saw much of the latter).
She related to us that the boy's weight falls out of the curve for his age group, so that we should allow him to self-correct; we ought not persist in making him eat his all at each meal.
Also she mentioned that the boy should and could drink white grape juice in between and instead of mother's milk twice per day. A whole new consideration began to take hold between papí and Mrs. papí. We realized that a new phase began that day (Friday last).
After we spoke at length about some of the normal questions regarding his present development: is he rolling over? is he regarding and possessing toys or items? is he noticing and following other people besides papí and the Mrs? (no, yes, yes); we went over to get the boy his shots.
I admit to some delirium at this stage, so that the questions' substance and full import might go unnoticed except that Mrs papí took it all in quite respectably.
A friendly woman (nurse) who earlier made much of the boy as we weighed him came in to ask us over to the lab. The lab room stands about twelve feet square, and holds vaccination and blood pressure testing chairs, along with one of those machines that spins test tubes around for some reason, and some inch-markings for measuring height of the upright variety.
It's all right there.
And there the boy sat on his mother's knee as the nurse prepared a little case full of several syringes along with some other packaged items. The syringes went into the boy's thighs (one to the right, and two to the left). The boy barely squalled for the first pinprick, but by the second he hit his stride, and his face became thoroughly red and his frown creased his face while he belted out some jarring sobs.
After the shots he quieted down quickly. Besides, the affectionate nursing staff held him and cooed over him incessantly, so he found his happy humor nearly as fast as the pain found him before. He enjoys appreciation.
The love-festival took almost twenty minutes by my clock --- time becomes a bit more important proportionately to the number of hours between meals, I think --- and we left soon after with an appointment for a couple of months hence for the boy.
We made our way to papí's blood lab stopping only to get a lunchly snack for Mrs papí, and fifteen short minutes after reaching the lab we left to feed papí his porridge and to go find the organic white grape juice for the boy.
The blood test took so short a time that it finished midway through a rambling anecdote about papí's youth and how blood used to make him pass out. Somewhat hesitantly, I realized I outstayed my welcome in the phlebotomist's chair.
My appetite saved me from thinking too much about leaving off in the middle like that.
Cheers.
Papí also required some blood testing, and for this no eating for over twelve hours. Through all the appointments and driving all he really had in the way of consumables came from salty water rinses for his (less) aching gums and other, non-salty, water to drink.
Mrs. papí would come along, and she found time later to work from home. Which works pretty well, except that she wants to spend lots of time with the boy when she is there anyway...
The day began like so many others, with Mrs. papí going to work in the morning, but she would return after a meeting. This time it made sense to feed the boy, but she needed to get to work at an hour certain, so papí said okay to driving her this morn.
I always believe the boy is best served by the mother's direct attention. As much as I might flatter myself that my care and feeding might bring the boy along, I am under no illusion about how much it means to the boy to get with his mother.
I am in awe of the mother's relationship to the babe. I think it worthy of worship and sacrosanct adoration for any father in my position.
Papí scarcely needed to feed the boy, because he drifted off after his early feeding with Mrs. papí and hardly stirred through the whole journey across the hills to her workplace and home again. Once home, he further slept until nearly time to go to the appointment; papí packed some eats for later quickly along with the diaper bag, for we were nearly late for the appointment.
Let's face it, the boy eats when and for however long he wants to. Bound by how much we choose, but he dilly-dallies as he sees fit. We arrived to meet Mrs. papí right on time, and we all arrived together at the Clinic at just the right time.
The Clinic itself is a busy hub of social service where all manner of folk come for outpatient medical help from the boy's age all the way (but perhaps not inclusive) to one's dying day. There always reside tens of persons awaiting their appointment when we pull ourselves up the stairs to the check-in counter.
Downstairs is the frolicking, near chaotic pediatric clinic. When we went there once (we were in one of those ill-informed tizzies early first-time parents dig themselves and each other into) we came concerned about the weight of our child and their greatest concern --- aside from consistently mispronouncing the boy's name --- became locating the boy in their patient database.
In other words, this is an inner city clinic with the stodgy, stubborn bureaucracy lazily protecting like a shell ensconcing the soft practices and arts within.
All of which does not mention that the caring individuals we know there as doctors merit admiration and respect. Their job is difficult with few conveniences surrounding them. It also must go acknowledged that they cope with a widely varying patient pool, so they must discover challenges in that facet of each their practice as well.
After weighing and measuring: The boy at this writing weighs 18Lbs 5oz, and stands 25" straight and tall; the nurse ushered us into a room with diagrams of prenatal diagrams mixed with pictures of medications to remind older patients to bring in theirs for each appointment.
We waited for a while as people do after admittance into the inner sanctum of a doctor's office from low- to middle-income range insurance. We easily marked the time by the fact that the boy required a feeding (every two hours he is hungry) while we awaited our boy's Dr.
Just as the feeding wound down, the Dr popped in to speak with us and to ask us questions all of which indicated what a wide variety of mothers must show up in this Clinic. She mentioned things about how people try to put cereal into their kids' food too early, she mentioned other pitfalls about care as opposed to neglect (of which she saw much of the latter).
She related to us that the boy's weight falls out of the curve for his age group, so that we should allow him to self-correct; we ought not persist in making him eat his all at each meal.
Also she mentioned that the boy should and could drink white grape juice in between and instead of mother's milk twice per day. A whole new consideration began to take hold between papí and Mrs. papí. We realized that a new phase began that day (Friday last).
After we spoke at length about some of the normal questions regarding his present development: is he rolling over? is he regarding and possessing toys or items? is he noticing and following other people besides papí and the Mrs? (no, yes, yes); we went over to get the boy his shots.
I admit to some delirium at this stage, so that the questions' substance and full import might go unnoticed except that Mrs papí took it all in quite respectably.
A friendly woman (nurse) who earlier made much of the boy as we weighed him came in to ask us over to the lab. The lab room stands about twelve feet square, and holds vaccination and blood pressure testing chairs, along with one of those machines that spins test tubes around for some reason, and some inch-markings for measuring height of the upright variety.
It's all right there.
And there the boy sat on his mother's knee as the nurse prepared a little case full of several syringes along with some other packaged items. The syringes went into the boy's thighs (one to the right, and two to the left). The boy barely squalled for the first pinprick, but by the second he hit his stride, and his face became thoroughly red and his frown creased his face while he belted out some jarring sobs.
After the shots he quieted down quickly. Besides, the affectionate nursing staff held him and cooed over him incessantly, so he found his happy humor nearly as fast as the pain found him before. He enjoys appreciation.
The love-festival took almost twenty minutes by my clock --- time becomes a bit more important proportionately to the number of hours between meals, I think --- and we left soon after with an appointment for a couple of months hence for the boy.
We made our way to papí's blood lab stopping only to get a lunchly snack for Mrs papí, and fifteen short minutes after reaching the lab we left to feed papí his porridge and to go find the organic white grape juice for the boy.
The blood test took so short a time that it finished midway through a rambling anecdote about papí's youth and how blood used to make him pass out. Somewhat hesitantly, I realized I outstayed my welcome in the phlebotomist's chair.
My appetite saved me from thinking too much about leaving off in the middle like that.
Cheers.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Daily Grind II...
Papí took the boy down to the periodontist for the second half of some extensive deep cleaning. This time the boy did not sleep. Instead, as papí rocked the car seat (see the entry: "Daily Grind...") every now and then the seat lurched.
The boy now wants to sit up. If he is sitting his little head pulls forward, and his mouth stretches his face in a frown of strain. If, at this time, you gently hold his hands out in front of him then he will pull himself up (and over if the momentum holds). It is new to his exercise regimen that he sits at a slight incline, and papí helps him sit up repeatedly.
Each of his exercises go until he starts to squeal. That signals that he is tired out.
Here papí reclined in the dentists' chair, and probed whether baby threw his own weight outward. Because if papí rocked the chair with this imbalance baby could take a jolt when the chair rocks back.
Whenever I felt his weight distributed forward, I simply placed my foot underneath the chair to 'challenge' the boy a bit more. He could stretch forward from a steeper incline and not risk bouncing the back of his head on the chair.
In consequence of papí not being able to rhythmically rock the chair, the boy did not find his dreams there in the office with the loud instruments playing a raucous ditty on papí's jaw.
Many interesting vocalizations arose from the baby during the course of the 45 minutes spent in this position. At times, the singing. Other times he made challenging "huh!" sounds. While I would not call this fussing, it was a lively entertainment of characteristic sounds.
Over time his grunts passed into undirected sing-song. Then he might grow silent for a little time, and papí could feel him straining to sit up. Due to the momentary strain he might sit back and grunt again with an air of frustration. Then a series of little grunts to get himself ready for a new attempt. When the attempts add up, then he would dwell there and content himself to sing-song again.
His frustration clearly only ever directed at the attempts to sit up, his voice never cried out needy. Only the sounds of an intrigue and the focus required to overcome.
During his sounds, the situation required papí to direct his eyes strictly upward. No peaking allowed as the sharp instruments of the Dr scraped papí's numb gums. Papí's gaze only took in the bright light directed into his own mouth, and to the right and left the Dr and his assistant respectively.
The Dr---a man who makes much of his own grandchildren and who shows much interest and patience for papí and the baby---worked diligently on this doubtless difficult task. Papí noted that although he struck up conversation with the assistant about mundane matters---an excellent technique for avoiding the topic of the task at hand---his intention and all his force of concentration leveled upon papí's gaping maw.
Now and then, as we all worked together, the assistant stole a glance at the baby. It did seem that his rambunctious behavior might spill over, though I can say that through the rumble never did one weepy note tinkle out. With babies, you never know. Given that children blow about quickly from one feeling to another when aroused.
Time passed, and each new "huh!" brought new expectations for when a "waaah!" might follow. Even papí became caught up with a certain anticipation regarding the child and his intensive activity, and papí knew better.
There the Dr worked, and as his tools prodded and scraped deeply into papí he stole a glance or two himself. The Dr's skills were such that but for papí seeing the Dr's head swivel about, no change occurred in the technique applied physically to papí.
Even as his tools dwelt deeply and in full contact with papí's mouth the Dr turned his head a quarter turn and more to seek out the boy. Obviously curious about the baby's emotions. But the Dr's hands moved true to their task.
No change in the Dr's contact with the patient, so papí's surprise only registered as if from a far off place. The Dr stole a second's time glancing at the baby, and his work did not miss a beat. Wow. The Dr did it again, and a few minutes later again. Each time no difference in his technique.
When all was done, and the Dr and his assistant cleared out of the room, I took up the boy and gave him a big hug. I stood him on my knee, and he showed his proud smiling face all around. He found a burp, and I wiped him at the corners of his mouth. I put his seat back into the stroller. Home with us, and papí thankful to all, if a bit numb on the left mouth.
Cheers.
The boy now wants to sit up. If he is sitting his little head pulls forward, and his mouth stretches his face in a frown of strain. If, at this time, you gently hold his hands out in front of him then he will pull himself up (and over if the momentum holds). It is new to his exercise regimen that he sits at a slight incline, and papí helps him sit up repeatedly.
Each of his exercises go until he starts to squeal. That signals that he is tired out.
Here papí reclined in the dentists' chair, and probed whether baby threw his own weight outward. Because if papí rocked the chair with this imbalance baby could take a jolt when the chair rocks back.
Whenever I felt his weight distributed forward, I simply placed my foot underneath the chair to 'challenge' the boy a bit more. He could stretch forward from a steeper incline and not risk bouncing the back of his head on the chair.
In consequence of papí not being able to rhythmically rock the chair, the boy did not find his dreams there in the office with the loud instruments playing a raucous ditty on papí's jaw.
Many interesting vocalizations arose from the baby during the course of the 45 minutes spent in this position. At times, the singing. Other times he made challenging "huh!" sounds. While I would not call this fussing, it was a lively entertainment of characteristic sounds.
Over time his grunts passed into undirected sing-song. Then he might grow silent for a little time, and papí could feel him straining to sit up. Due to the momentary strain he might sit back and grunt again with an air of frustration. Then a series of little grunts to get himself ready for a new attempt. When the attempts add up, then he would dwell there and content himself to sing-song again.
His frustration clearly only ever directed at the attempts to sit up, his voice never cried out needy. Only the sounds of an intrigue and the focus required to overcome.
During his sounds, the situation required papí to direct his eyes strictly upward. No peaking allowed as the sharp instruments of the Dr scraped papí's numb gums. Papí's gaze only took in the bright light directed into his own mouth, and to the right and left the Dr and his assistant respectively.
The Dr---a man who makes much of his own grandchildren and who shows much interest and patience for papí and the baby---worked diligently on this doubtless difficult task. Papí noted that although he struck up conversation with the assistant about mundane matters---an excellent technique for avoiding the topic of the task at hand---his intention and all his force of concentration leveled upon papí's gaping maw.
Now and then, as we all worked together, the assistant stole a glance at the baby. It did seem that his rambunctious behavior might spill over, though I can say that through the rumble never did one weepy note tinkle out. With babies, you never know. Given that children blow about quickly from one feeling to another when aroused.
Time passed, and each new "huh!" brought new expectations for when a "waaah!" might follow. Even papí became caught up with a certain anticipation regarding the child and his intensive activity, and papí knew better.
There the Dr worked, and as his tools prodded and scraped deeply into papí he stole a glance or two himself. The Dr's skills were such that but for papí seeing the Dr's head swivel about, no change occurred in the technique applied physically to papí.
Even as his tools dwelt deeply and in full contact with papí's mouth the Dr turned his head a quarter turn and more to seek out the boy. Obviously curious about the baby's emotions. But the Dr's hands moved true to their task.
No change in the Dr's contact with the patient, so papí's surprise only registered as if from a far off place. The Dr stole a second's time glancing at the baby, and his work did not miss a beat. Wow. The Dr did it again, and a few minutes later again. Each time no difference in his technique.
When all was done, and the Dr and his assistant cleared out of the room, I took up the boy and gave him a big hug. I stood him on my knee, and he showed his proud smiling face all around. He found a burp, and I wiped him at the corners of his mouth. I put his seat back into the stroller. Home with us, and papí thankful to all, if a bit numb on the left mouth.
Cheers.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The baby's looks...
The boy often checks up on things around a room. He is not into everything, and when he gets into his 'prayer' position --- he puts both thumbs in the vicinity of his mouth and he gnaws on his hands --- he is ignoring everything; but he often checks up on Mrs. papí and papí when the three of us work together.
In the arms of Mrs. papí he watches papí, and vice versa. The expression on his face shows both astonishment and curiosity as his eyes follow one around and in an out of the room. The dip of his face, due to the way he holds his neck (a little forward drop of the chin), conveys an ironic air of expectation. Awaiting explanation or just expecting the other to return soon.
We lay on the verge of the boy-era where the boy will sleep on his own. There are logistical reasons why he sleeps amongst the adults, but for now it works really well for him. His expectations really begin at this time. For now, he is still a relative newborn, but coming into six months he doubtless will develop moods and feelings about how things ought to go for him and us.
During the next month and a half we expect to move him into another bed/crib. For now, he does put himself to sleep during select times in his bassinet. I also make sure he sleeps alone during the day for (fairly) regular stretches.
It is difficult to wrangle the boy when both parents drag with sleepiness. That introduces a modicum of trepidation into the works of mentally preparing for the next stage.
I am not too worried. However, it is his habit to check with Mrs. papí on his one outstretched arm, and papí on the other. At this time, each arm reaches just to the breath of each parent, but now and then he rolls into the back of one of us as we sidle up to the bed deep in slumber.
For him, it is useful to get close as he can communicate with tacit movements into the back of the unsuspecting sleeper. When he most needs us, he can just grind us in the back with the desired effect not long in coming.
How he is going to do this in a crib is anyone's guess.
Cheers.
In the arms of Mrs. papí he watches papí, and vice versa. The expression on his face shows both astonishment and curiosity as his eyes follow one around and in an out of the room. The dip of his face, due to the way he holds his neck (a little forward drop of the chin), conveys an ironic air of expectation. Awaiting explanation or just expecting the other to return soon.
We lay on the verge of the boy-era where the boy will sleep on his own. There are logistical reasons why he sleeps amongst the adults, but for now it works really well for him. His expectations really begin at this time. For now, he is still a relative newborn, but coming into six months he doubtless will develop moods and feelings about how things ought to go for him and us.
During the next month and a half we expect to move him into another bed/crib. For now, he does put himself to sleep during select times in his bassinet. I also make sure he sleeps alone during the day for (fairly) regular stretches.
It is difficult to wrangle the boy when both parents drag with sleepiness. That introduces a modicum of trepidation into the works of mentally preparing for the next stage.
I am not too worried. However, it is his habit to check with Mrs. papí on his one outstretched arm, and papí on the other. At this time, each arm reaches just to the breath of each parent, but now and then he rolls into the back of one of us as we sidle up to the bed deep in slumber.
For him, it is useful to get close as he can communicate with tacit movements into the back of the unsuspecting sleeper. When he most needs us, he can just grind us in the back with the desired effect not long in coming.
How he is going to do this in a crib is anyone's guess.
Cheers.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Daily Grind...
This day found papí following up with the periodontist. The boy came with me to the appointment, as before, but I was ready for some of the possibilities.
When we got there I unbuckled him in his seat, and placed a pillow behind him so that the buckles did not cause discomfort. I fed him in his chair there on the floor. Then a soft hug and a few pats on the back and he went back to the seat. The car seat rocks on a flat surface, and this comes in helpful to mollify the boy when it may become difficult to attend directly to his needs. I left the little seat at my tip-toe distance from the large dentistry chair where I reclined in the midst of the room. This allowed me to reach over and use my toe to rock the boy during the procedure (during which I would become nearly prone).
Today, the work was called 'periodontic root planing.' To begin with, I never really knew the specifics, but just putting the meaning to the words in that phrase could introduce some trepidation into the proceedings.
In action, the procedure uses a certain degree of pain killer, and then the Dr uses ultrasound wands in conjunction with scraping tools in order to clear plaque from deep down under the gums.
So, the assistant gives me a pair of goggles, and an extra large frontal cover (all the way to the waist instead of the usual one that goes over the chest only). She mentioned that water would shoot out of my mouth and that was why.
I spent a few moments more feeding the boy as much as I could without giving him need of burping. He looked up at me with some curiosity at my attire. The food held all the interest for him particularly.
I fed him until his interest waned, and settled into my seat. The Dr, a good sort who patiently awaited his patient's feeding his baby, swept in and soon was situated over the mouth of papí and with his own mask pulled over his throat and up to his glasses. He administered a few shots after topical rubs, and out came the heavy machinery.
The ultrasound wands the Dr wields make a couple of different sounds. I can only imagine that the higher whine comes from the finer implement, while the opposite is true of the slightly lower one.
The Dr spoke to me about various things, while checking with me about how it was feeling at different turns (it was fine but there were a couple of moments, which he soon corrected). And as he spoke, the sounds wafted and pierced the air; water and what-all flying in spray from my gaping maw. From time to time I mumbled an answer or even a question, but naturally I stayed mostly silent.
The boy began to make some noises fairly early on, so I began to rock the chair on the floor as the procedure came along. When the ultrasounds came on, his little voice hummed a little along.
I am familiar with the sound he makes when papí brings out the guitar and sings little ditties for the boy. His reaction comes out just the same. He is no singer at this point, but he wishes to participate with the fun.
Papí forgives him for the irony in this case. His little voice joyously following the ululations of the ultrasound as it literally ground papí's teeth below the gums. God bless the little one.
The procedure wound down, and the Dr and his assistant cleaned up and cleared off. Papí fixed upon the now sleeping boy and I put him back into his stroller for the journey home.
Cheers.
When we got there I unbuckled him in his seat, and placed a pillow behind him so that the buckles did not cause discomfort. I fed him in his chair there on the floor. Then a soft hug and a few pats on the back and he went back to the seat. The car seat rocks on a flat surface, and this comes in helpful to mollify the boy when it may become difficult to attend directly to his needs. I left the little seat at my tip-toe distance from the large dentistry chair where I reclined in the midst of the room. This allowed me to reach over and use my toe to rock the boy during the procedure (during which I would become nearly prone).
Today, the work was called 'periodontic root planing.' To begin with, I never really knew the specifics, but just putting the meaning to the words in that phrase could introduce some trepidation into the proceedings.
In action, the procedure uses a certain degree of pain killer, and then the Dr uses ultrasound wands in conjunction with scraping tools in order to clear plaque from deep down under the gums.
So, the assistant gives me a pair of goggles, and an extra large frontal cover (all the way to the waist instead of the usual one that goes over the chest only). She mentioned that water would shoot out of my mouth and that was why.
I spent a few moments more feeding the boy as much as I could without giving him need of burping. He looked up at me with some curiosity at my attire. The food held all the interest for him particularly.
I fed him until his interest waned, and settled into my seat. The Dr, a good sort who patiently awaited his patient's feeding his baby, swept in and soon was situated over the mouth of papí and with his own mask pulled over his throat and up to his glasses. He administered a few shots after topical rubs, and out came the heavy machinery.
The ultrasound wands the Dr wields make a couple of different sounds. I can only imagine that the higher whine comes from the finer implement, while the opposite is true of the slightly lower one.
The Dr spoke to me about various things, while checking with me about how it was feeling at different turns (it was fine but there were a couple of moments, which he soon corrected). And as he spoke, the sounds wafted and pierced the air; water and what-all flying in spray from my gaping maw. From time to time I mumbled an answer or even a question, but naturally I stayed mostly silent.
The boy began to make some noises fairly early on, so I began to rock the chair on the floor as the procedure came along. When the ultrasounds came on, his little voice hummed a little along.
I am familiar with the sound he makes when papí brings out the guitar and sings little ditties for the boy. His reaction comes out just the same. He is no singer at this point, but he wishes to participate with the fun.
Papí forgives him for the irony in this case. His little voice joyously following the ululations of the ultrasound as it literally ground papí's teeth below the gums. God bless the little one.
The procedure wound down, and the Dr and his assistant cleaned up and cleared off. Papí fixed upon the now sleeping boy and I put him back into his stroller for the journey home.
Cheers.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Baby mittens...
Another slow Monday. The baby gets constant fawning on the weekends these days, and on the weekdays I give him space. Today mostly he slept, but we spent much time talking and joking.
Papí took to bed late last night, so the boy was heaven sent for the day. He slept after each feeding in the morning, and we both took to fun and games as the day progressed. He likes to stand around and even walk with some help around his waist.
His eyes beam with pride as he stands there or rocks back and forth. This lasts for enough time for him to wag his head about and to show his bright expression back and forth a few times. After a while one of his legs starts to stamp if he is standing still; his walking instinct, if there is such a thing, kicks in.
If this all comes about after his eating, then a burp is not far behind. The boy knows to demand vigorous exercise when he needs to pass his burps and farts alike. But once he burps you must be aware of what tumbles out thereafter. As long as I keep a handy wiper and have him stand after eating he gives me predictable results. Using any other method to get at his burps cannot guarantee the solids will follow in a timely manner.
Most important: he loves to stand and to survey the room. After a while of this, if he is anxious---usually he squeals during the exertion when it is so---then his destination becomes nap time. As when I fed him this morning.
Other times he becomes more impetuous and rowdy, and it is time for him to take it to another gear. These are the times when he will enjoy climbing onto papí's shoulder and here one must remember that the boy often uses this to expel some gases (be warned). Other exercises include climbing my raised knees while I am seated on the bed, or crawling free of help.
The latter does not now net the boy any distance, and if it begins when he is on an upward incline he is apt to slip backwards. But it helps him to work up a sweat and he screams like a little warrior. After a while this high exertion leads to nap time as well.
Often I think about when the first time will arrive that the boy actually goes forward. One reads news accounts of babies getting into accidents of a horrific nature (I will not detail any of that here), and thinks it must arise out of the sense of false security that the baby never moved an inch before.
One day the baby discovers how to move, and neglectful parents forgot to put the baby into a place where this eventuality could lead to a safe outcome. Even though it is an wondrous happy time, I must still consider possible dangers. I feel it comes with the job.
In this way no dangerous or dreadful happenings on a slow-motion Monday.
Papí took to bed late last night, so the boy was heaven sent for the day. He slept after each feeding in the morning, and we both took to fun and games as the day progressed. He likes to stand around and even walk with some help around his waist.
His eyes beam with pride as he stands there or rocks back and forth. This lasts for enough time for him to wag his head about and to show his bright expression back and forth a few times. After a while one of his legs starts to stamp if he is standing still; his walking instinct, if there is such a thing, kicks in.
If this all comes about after his eating, then a burp is not far behind. The boy knows to demand vigorous exercise when he needs to pass his burps and farts alike. But once he burps you must be aware of what tumbles out thereafter. As long as I keep a handy wiper and have him stand after eating he gives me predictable results. Using any other method to get at his burps cannot guarantee the solids will follow in a timely manner.
Most important: he loves to stand and to survey the room. After a while of this, if he is anxious---usually he squeals during the exertion when it is so---then his destination becomes nap time. As when I fed him this morning.
Other times he becomes more impetuous and rowdy, and it is time for him to take it to another gear. These are the times when he will enjoy climbing onto papí's shoulder and here one must remember that the boy often uses this to expel some gases (be warned). Other exercises include climbing my raised knees while I am seated on the bed, or crawling free of help.
The latter does not now net the boy any distance, and if it begins when he is on an upward incline he is apt to slip backwards. But it helps him to work up a sweat and he screams like a little warrior. After a while this high exertion leads to nap time as well.
Often I think about when the first time will arrive that the boy actually goes forward. One reads news accounts of babies getting into accidents of a horrific nature (I will not detail any of that here), and thinks it must arise out of the sense of false security that the baby never moved an inch before.
One day the baby discovers how to move, and neglectful parents forgot to put the baby into a place where this eventuality could lead to a safe outcome. Even though it is an wondrous happy time, I must still consider possible dangers. I feel it comes with the job.
In this way no dangerous or dreadful happenings on a slow-motion Monday.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Here's to the fourth, baby love, and other things...
On the fourth of July, a holiday, papí and Mrs. papí and her sister were sitting around, thinking of something to do. We do not own a barbecue, and parades seem a bit strained just at this juncture. I hate to say it (not the part about the barbecue, although I appreciate some of the things one might do with a hibachi) but there is just not much pep in my step these days about the State of our Union.
I won't belabor this blog with a diatribe describing the minutiae of this unfortunate pass, but I only want to register that people are lined up against each other with rockets, bombs, and mayhem in their hands, and each seeks to make the rubble bounce between them.
Like the Electric Football game where the field vibrating causes the players to move about the grid. Only the vibration we are seeing, that moves each opposing side around the map, comes from weaponry and high explosive. Not to mention the money pouring in from both sides.
I acknowledge that the putative opponents of the Coalition of the less-than-creative-at-foreign-policy must also tote large bankrolls about, though the local insurgencies were effectively gifted tons of high explosives and armaments when the US declined to consign them to safe keeping.
Where the 'plays' of the electric football game became a litter of player shaped pieces, we only look to the paper to see what becomes scattered in the 'game' of Iraq. What's more the electric football outcomes might go forward or backward, and if there were a warp on the metallic grid, then everything gravitates towards that, without regard to 'goal lines' or the final tally.
The warp on the 'grid' of Iraq comes from oil. All the pieces when shaken through armed struggle merely gravitate towards more and more need of oil. Whether to sell or to buy, oil (forgive) lubricates the minds in charge of this conflict on either side.
"Well," you might think to yourself. "What do any of these ruminations apply to your baby?"
Good question, and indeed he is innocent of the stratagems and policies that led to (and carry out) this conflagration. His only sin arises from the complicity we all own in our position as American citizens. He will grow up with the responsibility to help undo or to mitigate the mangled affairs of papí and my contemporaries.
Of all the strident thoughts we might fancy on this Fourth, let us at least fashion in our hearts a touch of shame that such a vast variety of issues line up so poorly for the future generations of Americans.
This is not to ignore that Americans have it pretty terrific. But one in my position must consider the influences surrounding the newborn and toddler. We want the boy to eventually choose his activities from informed and educated reason. Or at least he ought to bring it from the heart.
But what does it say when all we see around us arises as if from thin air? What are the implications when our nation and all it stands for becomes more and more reviled over the way we treat others or don't treat others?
The situation seems a bit precarious when I examine it all in a whirlwind like this. People do put their feet on the ground in this world and do good work; but what about the essential complicity of being there where a 'criminal' enterprise is being developed and doing nothing to alert or defy the commission of the act?
How much is enough defiance? Who ought we alert? Wow, the world alternates from very small to very large depending upon each consideration...
...one small vignette out of the 'straight from baby' department: On Friday, I ran with the baby to a nearby store for groceries. As with any journey of a couple of miles away from home, I brought along the essential express bottle for the boy.
Reaching the checkout, and as the clerk took her time over learning the system, the boy looked up with a subtle tear in his eye and obvious need in his thoughts. This is how he communicates much of the time. If you ignore this stage of his communication, then be prepared for more drastic intonations.
I started speaking to him there in line: "Oh, you're eaty? I am going to get this to you right after this, okay?" Once through the checkout---it did seem to take a long time there---I made for some seats outside along the street.
By now the boy understood that we were going in the right direction, and joy played upon his face. I fed him a bit and rubbed his tummy. I kept feeding him, and the smiles made it a little difficult for him to become an efficient eating machine. It all took a while.
During this time, Mrs. papí called. We spoke for a while, and then I told the boy: "Your mamí is calling." He could not contain himself. This smile ejected the bottle from his mouth and he chortled softly with his head upraised. Papí in his surprise nearly lost the bottle in the boy's lap.
Cheers.
I won't belabor this blog with a diatribe describing the minutiae of this unfortunate pass, but I only want to register that people are lined up against each other with rockets, bombs, and mayhem in their hands, and each seeks to make the rubble bounce between them.
Like the Electric Football game where the field vibrating causes the players to move about the grid. Only the vibration we are seeing, that moves each opposing side around the map, comes from weaponry and high explosive. Not to mention the money pouring in from both sides.
I acknowledge that the putative opponents of the Coalition of the less-than-creative-at-foreign-policy must also tote large bankrolls about, though the local insurgencies were effectively gifted tons of high explosives and armaments when the US declined to consign them to safe keeping.
Where the 'plays' of the electric football game became a litter of player shaped pieces, we only look to the paper to see what becomes scattered in the 'game' of Iraq. What's more the electric football outcomes might go forward or backward, and if there were a warp on the metallic grid, then everything gravitates towards that, without regard to 'goal lines' or the final tally.
The warp on the 'grid' of Iraq comes from oil. All the pieces when shaken through armed struggle merely gravitate towards more and more need of oil. Whether to sell or to buy, oil (forgive) lubricates the minds in charge of this conflict on either side.
"Well," you might think to yourself. "What do any of these ruminations apply to your baby?"
Good question, and indeed he is innocent of the stratagems and policies that led to (and carry out) this conflagration. His only sin arises from the complicity we all own in our position as American citizens. He will grow up with the responsibility to help undo or to mitigate the mangled affairs of papí and my contemporaries.
Of all the strident thoughts we might fancy on this Fourth, let us at least fashion in our hearts a touch of shame that such a vast variety of issues line up so poorly for the future generations of Americans.
This is not to ignore that Americans have it pretty terrific. But one in my position must consider the influences surrounding the newborn and toddler. We want the boy to eventually choose his activities from informed and educated reason. Or at least he ought to bring it from the heart.
But what does it say when all we see around us arises as if from thin air? What are the implications when our nation and all it stands for becomes more and more reviled over the way we treat others or don't treat others?
The situation seems a bit precarious when I examine it all in a whirlwind like this. People do put their feet on the ground in this world and do good work; but what about the essential complicity of being there where a 'criminal' enterprise is being developed and doing nothing to alert or defy the commission of the act?
How much is enough defiance? Who ought we alert? Wow, the world alternates from very small to very large depending upon each consideration...
...one small vignette out of the 'straight from baby' department: On Friday, I ran with the baby to a nearby store for groceries. As with any journey of a couple of miles away from home, I brought along the essential express bottle for the boy.
Reaching the checkout, and as the clerk took her time over learning the system, the boy looked up with a subtle tear in his eye and obvious need in his thoughts. This is how he communicates much of the time. If you ignore this stage of his communication, then be prepared for more drastic intonations.
I started speaking to him there in line: "Oh, you're eaty? I am going to get this to you right after this, okay?" Once through the checkout---it did seem to take a long time there---I made for some seats outside along the street.
By now the boy understood that we were going in the right direction, and joy played upon his face. I fed him a bit and rubbed his tummy. I kept feeding him, and the smiles made it a little difficult for him to become an efficient eating machine. It all took a while.
During this time, Mrs. papí called. We spoke for a while, and then I told the boy: "Your mamí is calling." He could not contain himself. This smile ejected the bottle from his mouth and he chortled softly with his head upraised. Papí in his surprise nearly lost the bottle in the boy's lap.
Cheers.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Summertime blues...
The boy tries to tell us when he is going to let go of (part of) his lunch. Sometimes I am truly warned. Most of the time, it all comes as a complete surprise.
Most of his developments come through to his parents in the latter form. No foreshadowing, no warning. Preparation mostly means a high dosage of acceptance and forbearance.
Lately, he communicates stress --- be it "I'm about to toss" or "I'm tired and I need a quiet place" & etc --- by grabbing his scalp with much force and causing breaks in his skin.
At first we thought there were just itching issues, but since we got past some of that by diligent use of oil in tandem with gentle shampoo we know it arises more out of habit than anything else.
It changes our relationship in interesting ways. There is no saying 'no,' but we wish that could do. When he usually gives and elicits smiles, from time to time now they are tinged with the concern we naturally feel looking at scratches on his brow and scalp.
Actually, we bought some mittens and prepared them, but then remembered the very first shirt that the boy ever wore. It was a 12-month-old fitted shirt with a fold-over hand cover mitty that then protected his little hands from the air. The nurse put the shirt on just after his first bath.
The shirt, at the time of his birth, fit the boy as one of the olden night-shirts used to fit: Down past the knee and nearly to his ankles. The shirt swallowed up his little arms so that we never really needed, in those days, to fold over the mitties to keep his fingers covered.
Today, the sixteenth week since his grand entrance, that shirt fits like a 'muscle shirt' fits a youth. The shirt falls just to his belly button, but, thankfully, the arms' length manages to accommodate the use of the mitties to now protect the boy from himself.
Something old is new, and something new --- namely his little habit which drives his parents crazy --- is old. Yay!
Today papí needed some recuperation. And the boy took to this as he does most situations at home. The boy does not like to sit about, but papí worked late into the night for some domestic issues. Picked up the vehicle also yesterday. It is driving better than before its little issues.
So that is the sum of it right now: The boy's capriciousness is arising. I suppose that characteristics of personality manifest in odd ways, and through the filter of his extremely limited experience.
For now, his parents will not allow him to scratch his beautiful face off, and we shall await his realization of self-preservation.
Cheers.
Most of his developments come through to his parents in the latter form. No foreshadowing, no warning. Preparation mostly means a high dosage of acceptance and forbearance.
Lately, he communicates stress --- be it "I'm about to toss" or "I'm tired and I need a quiet place" & etc --- by grabbing his scalp with much force and causing breaks in his skin.
At first we thought there were just itching issues, but since we got past some of that by diligent use of oil in tandem with gentle shampoo we know it arises more out of habit than anything else.
It changes our relationship in interesting ways. There is no saying 'no,' but we wish that could do. When he usually gives and elicits smiles, from time to time now they are tinged with the concern we naturally feel looking at scratches on his brow and scalp.
Actually, we bought some mittens and prepared them, but then remembered the very first shirt that the boy ever wore. It was a 12-month-old fitted shirt with a fold-over hand cover mitty that then protected his little hands from the air. The nurse put the shirt on just after his first bath.
The shirt, at the time of his birth, fit the boy as one of the olden night-shirts used to fit: Down past the knee and nearly to his ankles. The shirt swallowed up his little arms so that we never really needed, in those days, to fold over the mitties to keep his fingers covered.
Today, the sixteenth week since his grand entrance, that shirt fits like a 'muscle shirt' fits a youth. The shirt falls just to his belly button, but, thankfully, the arms' length manages to accommodate the use of the mitties to now protect the boy from himself.
Something old is new, and something new --- namely his little habit which drives his parents crazy --- is old. Yay!
Today papí needed some recuperation. And the boy took to this as he does most situations at home. The boy does not like to sit about, but papí worked late into the night for some domestic issues. Picked up the vehicle also yesterday. It is driving better than before its little issues.
So that is the sum of it right now: The boy's capriciousness is arising. I suppose that characteristics of personality manifest in odd ways, and through the filter of his extremely limited experience.
For now, his parents will not allow him to scratch his beautiful face off, and we shall await his realization of self-preservation.
Cheers.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Well that just about cracks it...
The other day the car stalled out. Papí was transporting the boy to go pick up Mrs. papí. At the time I thought the gas was low and it was just possible that the thing ran out (it seemed a little unlikely...).
I was in downtown Oakland and Mrs. papí (we stalled nearby our meeting place) joined the boy while I ran to buy a gas can and to bring back a gallon of gas. The car started and ran fine all the way back to home---after filling up the tank a little more.
The next day, I went with the boy to pick up Mrs. papí once more, for we planned to drive about on errands. The car then stalled again at about the same distance from home (just cut out with no warning)---about 2-ish miles.
All the while baby boy fervently awaited his mother's attentions, so I imagined his disappointment; though again we were within a short distance from the meeting place. Bad luck, I thought, and I prepared to call AAA (we were stuck in traffic at this time where there was no way to get the car over due to the line of cars on my left). Grrrr...
On a lark, I tried the key once more and the car started and ran just fine. By now, Mrs papí joined us and we made it home together.
Now, I must tell you that papí must drive the car through a tunnel to get to home from these meeting places. Otherwise we might just walk to pick up the Mrs. Those tunnels are smoky and sooty and very loud places. Cars turn on the jets and fly through there, and they are joined by semis and other deliver vehicles all roaring through.
This finally hit home to me as I researched the car troubles online. I never claimed to be the swiftest horse in the race, nor to be the brightest light in the box. But I must say that this dawning realization did not come over me until I contemplated the journey to the friendly auto service people. That journey would be around 8.7 miles by google maps estimation.
Initially the thought came upon me in subtle trepidation: Should I really just knowingly stall out and then expect to wait until the car starts? Sure, but if so then where should I stall out? Papí's hometown is much less dense than the big inner city downtown. Wasn't that just putting unnecessary risk into the situation?
Remember, the very point of this blog is that I am with the child during the very time I must deliver the vehicle to service. Recall again that I must get around nine miles and there is a question about how many times the car must stall before we actually arrive. Those of you who drive even a little will note the many stupid contradictions even as I did not at the time take them into consideration.
The upshot of all this: I was getting ready to ford the vast urban distance---no I never once planned to take the freeway, and for that I am at least a little proud---and the boy securely in the back. His mood was so excited. He seemed up for the adventure. Little could he expected the disaster approaching.
Of course not, he relies on papí in everything. Everything papí does must seem like the cat's meow to the boy (at least when Mrs. papí is not around, as he much prefers direct feedings instead of the express bottles papí furnishes).
Papí drove the car towards the tunnel. The tunnel that might well be one mile in length...
...hold it! As a large SUV pulled up behind us at the stop light just before the lane to the tunnel, Papí decided against it, and at the last possible right turn we went towards the land route (a bridge some three miles out of the way, but much safer to stall out on if that be the case). Only about five or six blocks into this detour, the car stalled. In the event we kept our heading into the tunnel the car perhaps might stall at 50 mph in front of a too-close SUV...
...Ouch! That was really too close. Papí regrets his temporary insanity and gladly welcomes the fresh perspective of sensibility!
The whole situation compounded as papí and the boy waited by the side of the road and the vehicle (with blinkers on) sat in a little left-turn only lane in the middle of the road. Thankfully, the AAA arrived within a half-hour to strap the car, yet the tow driver forgot to secure the front wheels rolling on the road behind the harness and papí and the towdriver were surprised by a grating sound as the driver-side wheel scraped along the curbside with the car at a 90-ish degree angle from the towtruck (on a straightaway).
Well, that is something for yet another blog. I only bring it up here as the boy was now strapped into the tow truck's middle seat. That was a loud experience and the papí felt fortunate to have some of that express bottle at hand for the startled boy. What with the bounding and the loud radio music, we left our little safe place.
We stepped out of the quietude of papí's ragas and piano music. And once we got out of the tow truck and papí managed all the paperwork at the mechanic's place, papí and the boy went to the café where papí had a cappuccino and the boy had more mommy express. We sat in the shade of the bright sun on the super loud corner and the boy stood on the table and on papí and belched, and then we jogged across town a bit to shop for home; and then we jogged across town a bit to get to the bus home.
Papí arrived home sweat soaked and a little delirious while the boy just at that time---after an eventful bus ride of shadows and light and people and colorful things---began to feel his tummy a bit empty and his head a bit sleepy.
Cheers.
I was in downtown Oakland and Mrs. papí (we stalled nearby our meeting place) joined the boy while I ran to buy a gas can and to bring back a gallon of gas. The car started and ran fine all the way back to home---after filling up the tank a little more.
The next day, I went with the boy to pick up Mrs. papí once more, for we planned to drive about on errands. The car then stalled again at about the same distance from home (just cut out with no warning)---about 2-ish miles.
All the while baby boy fervently awaited his mother's attentions, so I imagined his disappointment; though again we were within a short distance from the meeting place. Bad luck, I thought, and I prepared to call AAA (we were stuck in traffic at this time where there was no way to get the car over due to the line of cars on my left). Grrrr...
On a lark, I tried the key once more and the car started and ran just fine. By now, Mrs papí joined us and we made it home together.
Now, I must tell you that papí must drive the car through a tunnel to get to home from these meeting places. Otherwise we might just walk to pick up the Mrs. Those tunnels are smoky and sooty and very loud places. Cars turn on the jets and fly through there, and they are joined by semis and other deliver vehicles all roaring through.
This finally hit home to me as I researched the car troubles online. I never claimed to be the swiftest horse in the race, nor to be the brightest light in the box. But I must say that this dawning realization did not come over me until I contemplated the journey to the friendly auto service people. That journey would be around 8.7 miles by google maps estimation.
Initially the thought came upon me in subtle trepidation: Should I really just knowingly stall out and then expect to wait until the car starts? Sure, but if so then where should I stall out? Papí's hometown is much less dense than the big inner city downtown. Wasn't that just putting unnecessary risk into the situation?
Remember, the very point of this blog is that I am with the child during the very time I must deliver the vehicle to service. Recall again that I must get around nine miles and there is a question about how many times the car must stall before we actually arrive. Those of you who drive even a little will note the many stupid contradictions even as I did not at the time take them into consideration.
The upshot of all this: I was getting ready to ford the vast urban distance---no I never once planned to take the freeway, and for that I am at least a little proud---and the boy securely in the back. His mood was so excited. He seemed up for the adventure. Little could he expected the disaster approaching.
Of course not, he relies on papí in everything. Everything papí does must seem like the cat's meow to the boy (at least when Mrs. papí is not around, as he much prefers direct feedings instead of the express bottles papí furnishes).
Papí drove the car towards the tunnel. The tunnel that might well be one mile in length...
...hold it! As a large SUV pulled up behind us at the stop light just before the lane to the tunnel, Papí decided against it, and at the last possible right turn we went towards the land route (a bridge some three miles out of the way, but much safer to stall out on if that be the case). Only about five or six blocks into this detour, the car stalled. In the event we kept our heading into the tunnel the car perhaps might stall at 50 mph in front of a too-close SUV...
...Ouch! That was really too close. Papí regrets his temporary insanity and gladly welcomes the fresh perspective of sensibility!
The whole situation compounded as papí and the boy waited by the side of the road and the vehicle (with blinkers on) sat in a little left-turn only lane in the middle of the road. Thankfully, the AAA arrived within a half-hour to strap the car, yet the tow driver forgot to secure the front wheels rolling on the road behind the harness and papí and the towdriver were surprised by a grating sound as the driver-side wheel scraped along the curbside with the car at a 90-ish degree angle from the towtruck (on a straightaway).
Well, that is something for yet another blog. I only bring it up here as the boy was now strapped into the tow truck's middle seat. That was a loud experience and the papí felt fortunate to have some of that express bottle at hand for the startled boy. What with the bounding and the loud radio music, we left our little safe place.
We stepped out of the quietude of papí's ragas and piano music. And once we got out of the tow truck and papí managed all the paperwork at the mechanic's place, papí and the boy went to the café where papí had a cappuccino and the boy had more mommy express. We sat in the shade of the bright sun on the super loud corner and the boy stood on the table and on papí and belched, and then we jogged across town a bit to shop for home; and then we jogged across town a bit to get to the bus home.
Papí arrived home sweat soaked and a little delirious while the boy just at that time---after an eventful bus ride of shadows and light and people and colorful things---began to feel his tummy a bit empty and his head a bit sleepy.
Cheers.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The mystery of the scratchy head...
The boy left large looking scratches in his head. Currently he gets a bit itchy and when he is frustrated --- waiting too long for the bottle or a change, or just sleepy and not comfortable to sleep --- he runs his right hand along his brow and up into his scalp like a spiked vacuum cleaner.
Every day he leaves a couple more marks. His scalp is already dry so that he gets hard skin on top. I treat it with baby oil rubbed in with a quick wash to follow. From time to time I use olive oil and a little vitamin E mixed in with the lighter baby oil/mineral oil.
Washing makes all the difference because when I did not wash out the oil the scalp came back more dry than ever. Just another mystery to do with babies. The boy is learning forgiveness at an early age.
After backing off of that and going back to washing right after oil treatment, his scalp begins to look like usual. That is, initially shiny and red for a few hours, and then a bit crackly as time passes.
The olive oil/vitamin E additives seem to hold off the crackliness a little longer.
The greatest part of the whole treatment: his scratches (at least on the scalp) seem to disappear. He really appreciates the scalp massage too; if I can get him into a comfortable position. There are so few surfaces that I want to get oil onto. But if I hold him in the baby carrier, then I can rub his scalp to my heart's content and he will look up with his big eyes.
Today I rubbed his scalp, and he made to speak a little. There is not much to distinguish the sounds he makes at this point, but it sounded like a tone of wonder. So far he has said 'good' (something I speak to him often), and it sounds like: 'gooooaaaaaaathhh' only softer than that. But when I repeated it to him 'good', he used the same sounds 'gooooaaaaaathhh.'
He is onto different elements of his speaking process most of the time. He has much to learn and he seems to get that.
Today for about an hour I played selections on guitar. Songs like 'so long, it's been good to know you' and 'she moved through the fair' elicit sounds of singing from the boy. Papí beamed with delight during our little session today. He opened his mouth wide and made to sing a bit.
Sometimes he dances there on the bed, and sometimes he even cries because papí forgot something important to baby before launching into his carousing. He will get a generous smile on his face, this will turn slowly and slightly into almost an apology, or an 'excuse me, don't mean to fuss' followed shortly by a full-on frown and a red-faced burst of exhibitory sadness.
I try to make it to him by the time the frown crosses his face, though through circumstance I passed that point once or twice. Crying follows, and after that (my memory of it causes a subtle shudder) if he is still not helped baby launches into bellowing heaves of sobbing.
Fortunately, his outbursts all have a reason and a rhyme to them. All together, I suppose that when the boy exhibits moods more often, I mentioned the sleepy uncomfortable mood he does have now, I suppose he will still have reason and rhyme. These will arise from within the boy, only for papí to guess.
Cheers.
Every day he leaves a couple more marks. His scalp is already dry so that he gets hard skin on top. I treat it with baby oil rubbed in with a quick wash to follow. From time to time I use olive oil and a little vitamin E mixed in with the lighter baby oil/mineral oil.
Washing makes all the difference because when I did not wash out the oil the scalp came back more dry than ever. Just another mystery to do with babies. The boy is learning forgiveness at an early age.
After backing off of that and going back to washing right after oil treatment, his scalp begins to look like usual. That is, initially shiny and red for a few hours, and then a bit crackly as time passes.
The olive oil/vitamin E additives seem to hold off the crackliness a little longer.
The greatest part of the whole treatment: his scratches (at least on the scalp) seem to disappear. He really appreciates the scalp massage too; if I can get him into a comfortable position. There are so few surfaces that I want to get oil onto. But if I hold him in the baby carrier, then I can rub his scalp to my heart's content and he will look up with his big eyes.
Today I rubbed his scalp, and he made to speak a little. There is not much to distinguish the sounds he makes at this point, but it sounded like a tone of wonder. So far he has said 'good' (something I speak to him often), and it sounds like: 'gooooaaaaaaathhh' only softer than that. But when I repeated it to him 'good', he used the same sounds 'gooooaaaaaathhh.'
He is onto different elements of his speaking process most of the time. He has much to learn and he seems to get that.
Today for about an hour I played selections on guitar. Songs like 'so long, it's been good to know you' and 'she moved through the fair' elicit sounds of singing from the boy. Papí beamed with delight during our little session today. He opened his mouth wide and made to sing a bit.
Sometimes he dances there on the bed, and sometimes he even cries because papí forgot something important to baby before launching into his carousing. He will get a generous smile on his face, this will turn slowly and slightly into almost an apology, or an 'excuse me, don't mean to fuss' followed shortly by a full-on frown and a red-faced burst of exhibitory sadness.
I try to make it to him by the time the frown crosses his face, though through circumstance I passed that point once or twice. Crying follows, and after that (my memory of it causes a subtle shudder) if he is still not helped baby launches into bellowing heaves of sobbing.
Fortunately, his outbursts all have a reason and a rhyme to them. All together, I suppose that when the boy exhibits moods more often, I mentioned the sleepy uncomfortable mood he does have now, I suppose he will still have reason and rhyme. These will arise from within the boy, only for papí to guess.
Cheers.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Today we went to the Dr Office...
The boy turned 15 weeks. We celebrated by sleeping in and then going to papí's dentist appointment. He was great and the dentist was not so bad either.
Anyway, the feedings went mostly regularly, but the boy was pretty gassed early in the day. His breathing was forced through a stuffy nose, and the dumb suction device next to the bed is so abhorrent to the boy that he tends to fuss more than I can justify as to its actual effect.
He just slept and slept any chance he could get. I put a hat on him and his breathing seemed to ease. It is hard to do my own breakfast when the boy clings, but when he is having trouble sleeping I rather he sleep on me and I will grab what's at hand.
I become better at using one hand to do the little things, but I got a little freedom to get to the kitchen and make chai and reheat some pancakes from Saturday. It all worked out pretty well. papí was fed, and baby was sleeping.
Mid-morning I needed to get across town to the dentist, so we packed up after the second feed--unusual to actually feed him over the morning, but he does not eat as much when he is forcing his breath; he becomes hungry sooner...
The dentist's office is generously sized, and I told them that the boy is coming with me, so they cleared space as I rolled the stroller into place at my feet. Later I regret not having his car seat separated and on the floor; he becomes unsettled when papí is being probed. If I put him at my feet on the floor I can rock him and his mood settles.
The Dr was lightning fast. He absorbed the developing mood of the boy with a decent reservoir of patience. I appreciated that because the work was somewhat painstaking. Papí's teeth are not in the ilk of 'good.'
The boy has a few blusters, and really does not let go until we nearly land in an elevator on the first floor. I really pushed it with the change this time, and I always tend to regret when I skip something in the boy's care.
A large part of my learning from and with the boy arises from self-centered-ness and its counterproductive consequences for my boy.
After the dentist's office, we stopped in the car for a feed/change pitstop. He appreciated the care and he smiled constantly. He is charming when he smiles, but there are also cues to something he might need.
I found the diaper-bag baby care kit and its suction ball worked very well. The key was that the tip of the ball (the part inserted into the nose) is very soft and flexible. The boy did not protest quite so hard when papí attempted (and succeeded!) ...
From then on, the boy breathed well and got a nice afternoon nap.
As I write, he is talking to mommy rather loudly. I wonder what the rest of the evening will bring? Anyway, I must dress the boy with more layers when I take him out for a little jog. More about that another time.
Got to go fix tomorrow's lunch for papí and Mrs papí...
Cheers.
Anyway, the feedings went mostly regularly, but the boy was pretty gassed early in the day. His breathing was forced through a stuffy nose, and the dumb suction device next to the bed is so abhorrent to the boy that he tends to fuss more than I can justify as to its actual effect.
He just slept and slept any chance he could get. I put a hat on him and his breathing seemed to ease. It is hard to do my own breakfast when the boy clings, but when he is having trouble sleeping I rather he sleep on me and I will grab what's at hand.
I become better at using one hand to do the little things, but I got a little freedom to get to the kitchen and make chai and reheat some pancakes from Saturday. It all worked out pretty well. papí was fed, and baby was sleeping.
Mid-morning I needed to get across town to the dentist, so we packed up after the second feed--unusual to actually feed him over the morning, but he does not eat as much when he is forcing his breath; he becomes hungry sooner...
The dentist's office is generously sized, and I told them that the boy is coming with me, so they cleared space as I rolled the stroller into place at my feet. Later I regret not having his car seat separated and on the floor; he becomes unsettled when papí is being probed. If I put him at my feet on the floor I can rock him and his mood settles.
The Dr was lightning fast. He absorbed the developing mood of the boy with a decent reservoir of patience. I appreciated that because the work was somewhat painstaking. Papí's teeth are not in the ilk of 'good.'
The boy has a few blusters, and really does not let go until we nearly land in an elevator on the first floor. I really pushed it with the change this time, and I always tend to regret when I skip something in the boy's care.
A large part of my learning from and with the boy arises from self-centered-ness and its counterproductive consequences for my boy.
After the dentist's office, we stopped in the car for a feed/change pitstop. He appreciated the care and he smiled constantly. He is charming when he smiles, but there are also cues to something he might need.
I found the diaper-bag baby care kit and its suction ball worked very well. The key was that the tip of the ball (the part inserted into the nose) is very soft and flexible. The boy did not protest quite so hard when papí attempted (and succeeded!) ...
From then on, the boy breathed well and got a nice afternoon nap.
As I write, he is talking to mommy rather loudly. I wonder what the rest of the evening will bring? Anyway, I must dress the boy with more layers when I take him out for a little jog. More about that another time.
Got to go fix tomorrow's lunch for papí and Mrs papí...
Cheers.
Monday, June 25, 2007
In the beginning, there was a little body, with a lot of needs.
This is the beginning of my little blog. I am the father of a small boy of 14 weeks age at this writing. My wife gets up each morning and she goes to work. She is gone from the house for twelve hours and then she is home. Meanwhile, the baby awakes and lives his growing ways and I must facilitate and care for him.This is such a different experience for me. What with the mindset of caring, the many items from a list of things one must infer from the boy's mood and bearing, I find that I shape my thoughts differently.
My schooling pointed in the direction of technology. I spent lots of time in front of dreary machinery managing implications and inferring the way ahead in software. In some ways I wanted to continue that work, but the industry did not require me. Someday I will blog about what I think of the industry I come from, but that is not today.
Babies do not resemble technological instruments with respect to environment. Technology can only reflect the culture and group rationalizations built into the path of inception of that technology. Technology can look great coming out of one sector, and then it can change into a foul-spirited bomb in the next. The software packages that inform the Space Shuttle (something that, while dated and a bit dreary technologically, still caries many of the high-hopes for human endeavor) may result in the birth of a space weapon that manages massacres here on Earth.
Babies don't have that kind of tolerance mis-direction or misuse--though I will not address the extremes of experience that doubtless leave an imprint over time. They absorb lots of garbage, but there is still a chance that everything might come out right and any baby can still grow up to bring forth great works even when they start with slim chances. A child may be hurt grievously during upbringing, yet go onto fulfill a higher purpose without any of that baggage to hinder him.
Technology can _only_ absorb from the intentions and motives of its direct environment, but babies attain to something beyond even their most loving parents' view. There is a price to pay for the "fault-tolerance" of babies regarding their environment. This same tolerance to unhealthy or nonconstructive environments also produces people whose daily wish it is to thrive amongst the toxic environs of this world without a care for making a change, without a thought of how it might go differently.
Probably this outcome haunts most conscientious parents the most. As a new parent myself, I only keep my nose to the grindstone and keep the diapers coming and keep the bottles the right temperature and tilted only just so...
Cheers.
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