Okay, I wasn't sure that I wanted to do this, mostly because of Asa's early birth and some superstition on my part. But over Thanksgiving weekend, the pool began, so what the hey... might as well open it to all!
We therefore kick off the Baby Details Contest: Sprout Edition!
To participate, please put the following in the comments section:
What day will Sprout be born?
What time of day: morning (6a-Noon), afternoon (Noon-6p), evening (6p-Midnight), or overnight?
Is Sprout a boy or a girl?
How much will Sprout weigh?
Just to level the playing field, here's what we know: M.'s due date is January 3rd, and at our last appointment, the baby's estimated weight was 4lbs, 14oz.
Happy Guessing!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Thanksgiving
Yes, I know... Too long without a post. Soon, I promise, but right now I empathize with Asa.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Helpful Boy
Waiting for Mommy to come home, Asa and I began pulling out the tomato plants that were killed by this season's early snowfall. I had no real intention of getting them all out in one afternoon, but Asa had other plans. After pulling out every last bit, he helped me bring them back to the compost pile, refusing every offer of help.
All of this, of course, after he raked leaves at a friend's house during their playdate, and swept up all the dried bits of play-doh from our kitchen floor.
Now I know why we have kids.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Caring for Baby
I love that Asa loves babies. We went to see newborn twins the other day - the son and daughter of friends - and Asa was mesmerized. He wanted to kiss the babies all the time, and touch their little hands and just watch them sleep. I can't help but thinking that he's actually pretty excited about the prospect of having a baby in our house.
We've been getting ready for Sprout's arrival - making sure that enough newborn clothes and diapers are ready, seeing if we still have enough bottles, re-arranging clothes storage and figuring out how to house two kids in one small room. In the midst of it all, Asa took a break to feed his own baby.
I can only assume that Asa has witnessed babies being bottle-fed, because he knew exactly what to do. And it gives us a little breathing room, in the hope that he'll really enjoy being a big brother, and that perhaps the sibling rivalry won't really kick in until Sprout starts moving and taking Asa's toys. (Hey, parents can dream, no?)
Yup, I think he's ready to be a big brother.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
The Young Folkie
Thank you, Granna and Pap Pap for the book and CD of folk songs by Peter Yarrow and his daughter. It's been a huge hit, and we're already wearing out the CD (uh-oh). What is astounding to me is Asa's attention span for this music: he'll sit with the book and follow along for nearly the entire album; if we're sitting with him and don't turn the pages appropriately, he'll wrench the book away and do it himself.
Usually, he sings along much louder (he's doing it right now), but there's something about the camera that makes him shy. But here are a couple of favorites: Cockles and Mussels and The Fox. Enjoy!
Usually, he sings along much louder (he's doing it right now), but there's something about the camera that makes him shy. But here are a couple of favorites: Cockles and Mussels and The Fox. Enjoy!
Friday, November 11, 2011
Little Drummer Boy
Pa rum pa pum pum!
I'm suddenly having visions of sitting in the stands through many a cold high-school football game.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Adventures in Play Doh
Mommy sees a rose. Mummy sees a cabbage. Asa sees more pounding to be done, and only grudgingly paused for this photoshoot.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Two Steps Forward...
I know it's nothing new, but every once in a while I have to say it: two year olds learn a LOT, all at once. I don't think Asa has undergone such a radical, developmental growth spurt over the course of two months since he was a newborn. Some recent examples:
He'll stop when I tell him to - particularly handy at the playground, or when tearing around our front yard.
On a related topic: he'll (mostly) stand still beside me when I ask it, so I can actually get things into or out of the car in a parking lot without having to actively restrain him.
He's a chatterbox - full sentences, made-up stories, memories of the day before... or the week before... or of a time that we didn't even realize he was paying attention! (He still talks about his firetruck birthday cake.)
He can, and does, sing. He knows all the words to quite a few songs, and has begun to correct us if we miss a word or skip a verse.
He recognizes people's emotional states. He'll laugh along with us (or sometimes before us - he has a great sense of humor), and he'll get upset when he sees someone crying. During his swim lesson today, a friend was overtired and very weepy, and didn't want to participate in the lesson. Asa kept breaking away also, saying, "Asa go make Carter happy? Carter okay? Carter crying..."
And with all the recent posts mentioning swim lessons: yes, he can swim. With a bubble, certainly, but he did a full lap of the pool today, grinning like nothing else. He can go up a flight of stairs without using his hands for balance, for the most part. He can walk on his tip-toes, he's becoming a very good climber, and he loves to jump.
All of that in the past two months. That's a lot.
That last sentence has been my mantra this week. Because it's quite true, with a toddler, that you take two steps forward and one step back. I mean, heaven forbid we have progress without regression.
He's rediscovered the joy of the CD rack. (I know. Who has CDs anymore? Not the point.) This was behavior I hadn't seen in nearly a year - pulling every CD off the shelf just to hear them fall. Lovely.
But the biggest, most unpleasant form of regression? Pee. Lots of pee.
Because he is (was?) potty trained. To the point that he'd ask to use the potty every time. He'd wake up in the night rather than wet his diaper. He could hold it for quite a while, if need be, until we found a toilet. (His record was nearly 20 minutes in northern NJ, when there wasn't a safe place to pull over.) He went from mid-August until the end of September without a real accident - the worst that would happen was that he'd pee over the top of his potty, which was totally not his fault.
Until recently.
The thing about regression, I'm coming to understand, is that it gets under one's skin far worse than newer bad behaviors. Because I know quite well that Asa is capable of telling me when he has to pee. I know that he knows not to knock all the CDs off the shelf. And although I also know that he has actually, really, forgotten a lot of this in the course of processing a ton of new information daily, it's still hard not to be frustrated.
Which makes two of us, I think.
And someday, I know, when we take two steps forward and one step back, this potty-training thing will be so many steps behind us that it won't be affected. There will be other things, but it won't involve changing every stitch of clothes on his little body multiple times a day.
Right now, though, it's time to bring down another load of laundry.
He'll stop when I tell him to - particularly handy at the playground, or when tearing around our front yard.
On a related topic: he'll (mostly) stand still beside me when I ask it, so I can actually get things into or out of the car in a parking lot without having to actively restrain him.
He's a chatterbox - full sentences, made-up stories, memories of the day before... or the week before... or of a time that we didn't even realize he was paying attention! (He still talks about his firetruck birthday cake.)
He can, and does, sing. He knows all the words to quite a few songs, and has begun to correct us if we miss a word or skip a verse.
He recognizes people's emotional states. He'll laugh along with us (or sometimes before us - he has a great sense of humor), and he'll get upset when he sees someone crying. During his swim lesson today, a friend was overtired and very weepy, and didn't want to participate in the lesson. Asa kept breaking away also, saying, "Asa go make Carter happy? Carter okay? Carter crying..."
And with all the recent posts mentioning swim lessons: yes, he can swim. With a bubble, certainly, but he did a full lap of the pool today, grinning like nothing else. He can go up a flight of stairs without using his hands for balance, for the most part. He can walk on his tip-toes, he's becoming a very good climber, and he loves to jump.
All of that in the past two months. That's a lot.
That last sentence has been my mantra this week. Because it's quite true, with a toddler, that you take two steps forward and one step back. I mean, heaven forbid we have progress without regression.
He's rediscovered the joy of the CD rack. (I know. Who has CDs anymore? Not the point.) This was behavior I hadn't seen in nearly a year - pulling every CD off the shelf just to hear them fall. Lovely.
But the biggest, most unpleasant form of regression? Pee. Lots of pee.
Because he is (was?) potty trained. To the point that he'd ask to use the potty every time. He'd wake up in the night rather than wet his diaper. He could hold it for quite a while, if need be, until we found a toilet. (His record was nearly 20 minutes in northern NJ, when there wasn't a safe place to pull over.) He went from mid-August until the end of September without a real accident - the worst that would happen was that he'd pee over the top of his potty, which was totally not his fault.
Until recently.
The thing about regression, I'm coming to understand, is that it gets under one's skin far worse than newer bad behaviors. Because I know quite well that Asa is capable of telling me when he has to pee. I know that he knows not to knock all the CDs off the shelf. And although I also know that he has actually, really, forgotten a lot of this in the course of processing a ton of new information daily, it's still hard not to be frustrated.
Which makes two of us, I think.
And someday, I know, when we take two steps forward and one step back, this potty-training thing will be so many steps behind us that it won't be affected. There will be other things, but it won't involve changing every stitch of clothes on his little body multiple times a day.
Right now, though, it's time to bring down another load of laundry.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
26 months or 2 years?
How old is he?
I get this question a lot. Asa is very small for his age, but also very articulate and coordinated. And usually, when asked, I simply say that he is two.
Just after swim class the other day, I was talking with another parent and the lifeguard. The lifeguard, who has a three year old, figured that Asa and his buddy were both around her daughter's age - the other little boy's age was even written down wrong on the class list. No, I assured her, both boys had just turned two over the summer. "So they've really just turned two," I added... which isn't quite true, of course, but time does tend to fly and how did it get to be nearly November already?
The other parent, a Dad, said that he still counts his son's age in months. It helps people get a better sense of how old his son really is, and where he is developmentally. Which makes a lot of sense, really, because "two" can mean a lot of different things - the developmental leaps between a 26-month-old and a 32-month-old, for instance, are mind-blowing. Two is a wide-ranging year.
But the strange thing is that, for all the sense it makes to tally in months rather than years, I can't do it.
I was thinking earlier today about all the snow we got last winter, and how we brought Asa's slide up to the living room:
And really, he hasn't changed that much. He's taller. His hair is actually shorter now. But this little 18-month-old looks very much like the two-year-old who is currently asleep in the other room. At 18 months, I never called him a one-and-a-half-year-old. It just didn't feel right. It didn't adequately express who he was, or how big he was getting. Or something like that.
But now, he's two. Just two, and I really had to think when I titled this post about how many months that meant.
He's two - irrationally, I understand - because children whose ages are counted in months can't talk. Not in whole sentences. Children whose ages are counted in months don't read books aloud to you, or sing the alphabet song, or swim independently (with the help of a bubble), or insist "Asa do it!" at every turn. Somewhere in my brain is firmly rooted the idea that children whose ages are counted in months are babies, while children whose ages are counted in years are, well, children. Big kids. Independent beings with strong wills and creativity and senses of humor.
And somehow, when he's throwing a tantrum because I put him in his car seat, rather than letting him climb in ("NO!! ASA DO IT!!") it's just easier to shrug and say, "He's two."
I get this question a lot. Asa is very small for his age, but also very articulate and coordinated. And usually, when asked, I simply say that he is two.
Just after swim class the other day, I was talking with another parent and the lifeguard. The lifeguard, who has a three year old, figured that Asa and his buddy were both around her daughter's age - the other little boy's age was even written down wrong on the class list. No, I assured her, both boys had just turned two over the summer. "So they've really just turned two," I added... which isn't quite true, of course, but time does tend to fly and how did it get to be nearly November already?
The other parent, a Dad, said that he still counts his son's age in months. It helps people get a better sense of how old his son really is, and where he is developmentally. Which makes a lot of sense, really, because "two" can mean a lot of different things - the developmental leaps between a 26-month-old and a 32-month-old, for instance, are mind-blowing. Two is a wide-ranging year.
But the strange thing is that, for all the sense it makes to tally in months rather than years, I can't do it.
I was thinking earlier today about all the snow we got last winter, and how we brought Asa's slide up to the living room:
And really, he hasn't changed that much. He's taller. His hair is actually shorter now. But this little 18-month-old looks very much like the two-year-old who is currently asleep in the other room. At 18 months, I never called him a one-and-a-half-year-old. It just didn't feel right. It didn't adequately express who he was, or how big he was getting. Or something like that.
But now, he's two. Just two, and I really had to think when I titled this post about how many months that meant.
He's two - irrationally, I understand - because children whose ages are counted in months can't talk. Not in whole sentences. Children whose ages are counted in months don't read books aloud to you, or sing the alphabet song, or swim independently (with the help of a bubble), or insist "Asa do it!" at every turn. Somewhere in my brain is firmly rooted the idea that children whose ages are counted in months are babies, while children whose ages are counted in years are, well, children. Big kids. Independent beings with strong wills and creativity and senses of humor.
And somehow, when he's throwing a tantrum because I put him in his car seat, rather than letting him climb in ("NO!! ASA DO IT!!") it's just easier to shrug and say, "He's two."
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
One Down, Sixty-Three to Go
With nine weeks to go, Sprout is doing great. Right on track for growth and movement - M. even thinks this one is a harder kicker than Asa was! And, of course, M. looks super - she's carrying well and staying active (like she has a choice, with Asa around). All the more in the lovely fitted dress she's worn to our two October weddings.
But.
(You knew there was a "but", didn't you?)
Like her last pregnancy, M. has developed gestational diabetes. Unlike last time, and although her numbers were more borderline than last time, the oral medication that she was initially given is doing... nothing. After three medication tweaks, even M. agreed that insulin would be the best choice. For someone who doesn't care much for needles, that's saying something.
But it turns out that it doesn't really matter how much she does, or doesn't, care for needles. Because she won't be doing the actual injections.
I will.
Says the nurse. Of course.
So last night, M. (who had actually been taught by the nurse how to give the injection) and I (who had not, but who had been taught to give vaccines for a service project about 17 years ago) sat down with a bottle of insulin, a syringe, some alcohol pads, and some written instructions.
Spoiler: it went fine. At least, M. said it didn't hurt, and she didn't bleed, and all those other good signs. I didn't actually hear what her sugar was this morning, so I can't comment on the longer-than-five-minute-term.
What I can comment on is how honored I was (after the initial "I have to do WHAT!?" nerves wore off) that M. let me do it without flinching. At least visibly. Especially with my none-too-confident griping about nurses who expect partners to administer shots without actually having been taught how by a professional.
So this isn't really a post about how awesome our kids are and how lucky we are to have them. Rather, it's about a forceful reminder of how lucky I am to have someone who is willing to count carbs and test her blood and get daily shots in order to keep those awesome kids as healthy as possible. And it's about how very humbling it is to have someone hand you a much-hated syringe with absolute trust and confidence.
Sixty three more shots. If M. can do this, I totally can.
But.
(You knew there was a "but", didn't you?)
Like her last pregnancy, M. has developed gestational diabetes. Unlike last time, and although her numbers were more borderline than last time, the oral medication that she was initially given is doing... nothing. After three medication tweaks, even M. agreed that insulin would be the best choice. For someone who doesn't care much for needles, that's saying something.
But it turns out that it doesn't really matter how much she does, or doesn't, care for needles. Because she won't be doing the actual injections.
I will.
Says the nurse. Of course.
So last night, M. (who had actually been taught by the nurse how to give the injection) and I (who had not, but who had been taught to give vaccines for a service project about 17 years ago) sat down with a bottle of insulin, a syringe, some alcohol pads, and some written instructions.
Spoiler: it went fine. At least, M. said it didn't hurt, and she didn't bleed, and all those other good signs. I didn't actually hear what her sugar was this morning, so I can't comment on the longer-than-five-minute-term.
What I can comment on is how honored I was (after the initial "I have to do WHAT!?" nerves wore off) that M. let me do it without flinching. At least visibly. Especially with my none-too-confident griping about nurses who expect partners to administer shots without actually having been taught how by a professional.
So this isn't really a post about how awesome our kids are and how lucky we are to have them. Rather, it's about a forceful reminder of how lucky I am to have someone who is willing to count carbs and test her blood and get daily shots in order to keep those awesome kids as healthy as possible. And it's about how very humbling it is to have someone hand you a much-hated syringe with absolute trust and confidence.
Sixty three more shots. If M. can do this, I totally can.
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