Originally posted March 2007, but my blog was so new back then (read: I had virtually no readers), I decided to celebrate St. Patrick's Day with a wee pit of recycling. Because that's green blogging.
Get it?!? Recycling? Green blogging? On St. Patrick's Day?
OK. I'm done now.
I believe I've mentioned before that I am fairly giddy about food. It comes from my birth family. We love to discuss dinner over breakfast. Vacations revolve around what we're going to eat that day. "What do you say we head to In-and-Out for lunch, Jamba Juice for an afternoon snack and then go to Mandarin Gourmet for dinner? Other than that, I don't care what we do today." Even our most treasured family heirlooms are memories of food. "Remember Nannie's gravy?!? Mmmmm. Now that was eating."
So put that together with the fact that the biggest chunk of our family ancestry comes from Ireland, and you should have a clan that enjoys some good corned beef together on St. Patrick's Day each year.
Problem is, I have come to the slow realization that I hate Irish food. Corned beef? Yuck. Steamed cabbage? Whew. Boiled potatoes and carrots? Pass the salt and pepper, please. And soda bread? Well, I'm redeemed there. It's difficult for me to dislike anything that has "bread" in the title. But still.
Growing up, we had a traditional Irish meal each March 17. It was part of what we did, and there was no questioning it. Once I got married, I continued on the tradition without scrutiny. "Sorry, honey, it's what I do." Then, last year, after cooking all day and ending up with a smell in my kitchen that would easily qualify for a chemical weapon, I looked around to see no one eating the meal (except the soda bread, of course; we would have starved that night without the soda bread). And it hit me -- maybe I shouldn't do this next year.
So I celebrated St. Patrick's Day this year with just a green sweater and prayers of thanks to God for faithful servants like Maewyn Succat. And maybe a little mood music from Celtic Woman so I could pretend to riverdance around my kitchen. You can take the girl out of Ireland....
Yep, He's A Boy
Connor said the following to Corey yesterday morning as he absconded from the bathroom with the tweezers and toenail clippers.
"Dad, I need these. Because they are dangerous!"
Pray for me.
(Connor, May 2007)
"Dad, I need these. Because they are dangerous!"
Pray for me.
(Connor, May 2007)
Seriously
OK, I just re-read my last few posts, and I've come to the conclusion that I say "seriously" way too much.
Seriously. For real.
Upon further reflection, I believe I've discovered the source of this vocabulary habit. (And living in California for 10 years doesn't quite cover it.)
I think it all started one night about a year ago. Corey and I were climbing into bed. I was blithely chattering along about the trivialities taking up room in my brain, and he was exhausted and half-comatose. Even as he settled onto his pillow and closed his eyes, I kept up my sporadic stream of information.
Apparently, at one point, he actually fell asleep on me. (The nerve!) Thus, when I launched into my next story, he bolted up -- like someone who's twitching from falling asleep too quickly -- and blurted out, "Seriously?!?"
It totally cracked me up. Corey teases me a lot about my verbalness, but he's rarely mean. (Probably because he's realized that chattering is what I do when I'm happy. That's right. I'm like a bird. A happy, little chattering bird. Only I don't like suet.) So his undisguised, unfiltered response struck me as really funny.
So now, whenever I start to ramble on and on about nothing of consequence, he'll wait until I stop to catch my breath and then say, in jest, "Seriously?"
Of course, it doesn't happen that often anymore. Because now I have this blog. And you, my dear imaginary Internet friends, are the newfound recipients of my stories and fascinating tales.
My husband thanks you.
Seriously.
Upon further reflection, I believe I've discovered the source of this vocabulary habit. (And living in California for 10 years doesn't quite cover it.)
I think it all started one night about a year ago. Corey and I were climbing into bed. I was blithely chattering along about the trivialities taking up room in my brain, and he was exhausted and half-comatose. Even as he settled onto his pillow and closed his eyes, I kept up my sporadic stream of information.
Apparently, at one point, he actually fell asleep on me. (The nerve!) Thus, when I launched into my next story, he bolted up -- like someone who's twitching from falling asleep too quickly -- and blurted out, "Seriously?!?"
It totally cracked me up. Corey teases me a lot about my verbalness, but he's rarely mean. (Probably because he's realized that chattering is what I do when I'm happy. That's right. I'm like a bird. A happy, little chattering bird. Only I don't like suet.) So his undisguised, unfiltered response struck me as really funny.
So now, whenever I start to ramble on and on about nothing of consequence, he'll wait until I stop to catch my breath and then say, in jest, "Seriously?"
Of course, it doesn't happen that often anymore. Because now I have this blog. And you, my dear imaginary Internet friends, are the newfound recipients of my stories and fascinating tales.
My husband thanks you.
Seriously.
Maybe They Make Ear Seeds?
So my husband, who is on quite the gift-giving roll this year, gave me an iPod Shuffle for Valentine's Day.
Maybe you've heard of them? Tiny matchbox-sized boom boxes? The popular kids tell me they're all the rage. They don't intimidate little old ladies or shake the ozone when you carry them around on your shoulder, but I can live with that. I'm 36, after all.
Mine is mint green. (Much like my mini-van.) (Whoa. I am so not cool anymore.) It's sleek and shiny and chick.
Of course, my hipness factor was taken down a few notches when Connor glanced at my gift right after I'd opened it and said, "Oh! Papa has one of those!"
Which means my dad -- senior pastor, lover of God, Nano-owner and happy user of the senior discount at Denny's -- is cooler than me.
Pause and let that sink in.
Then, in maybe the ultimate insult, Connor decided I was probably too old to be trusted with this new technology and appropriated the Shuffle for his own use.
Seriously.
I especially love how, when I ask him who owns the Shuffle, there's this enormous pause while he figures out what to say.
But dang it if he isn't cute with it.
He especially loves to listen to "rock and roll." (That would be the Newsboys -- or the Newer Boys, as Connor often calls them.)
Sorry. I'm getting distracted by my son's cuteness.
Anyway. I love my Shuffle. (When I get to use it.) I really do. I especially get a kick out of not knowing which song will come next on my play list, because I have some seriously varied musical taste.
But the ear buds that came with it are the bane of my existence. No matter what I do, they won't stay in. They just keep popping out, like ... well, have you ever tried to stuff a large marshmallow into a thimble? It's pretty much like that.
Naturally, I looked to Google for a solution. And there are a lot of ear bud adjustment products out there. But most of them look like they are designed to keep an ear bud in an ear that is too large for the ear bud, not too small.
Corey pointed out that I could always plug in a a pair of antiquated ear-covering headphones. We have some leftover from the '80s. But I fear that will send my coolness quotient into a free fall, and Connor will never let me use the Shuffle again.
Any suggestions?
Maybe you've heard of them? Tiny matchbox-sized boom boxes? The popular kids tell me they're all the rage. They don't intimidate little old ladies or shake the ozone when you carry them around on your shoulder, but I can live with that. I'm 36, after all.
Mine is mint green. (Much like my mini-van.) (Whoa. I am so not cool anymore.) It's sleek and shiny and chick.
Of course, my hipness factor was taken down a few notches when Connor glanced at my gift right after I'd opened it and said, "Oh! Papa has one of those!"
Which means my dad -- senior pastor, lover of God, Nano-owner and happy user of the senior discount at Denny's -- is cooler than me.
Pause and let that sink in.
Then, in maybe the ultimate insult, Connor decided I was probably too old to be trusted with this new technology and appropriated the Shuffle for his own use.
Seriously.
I especially love how, when I ask him who owns the Shuffle, there's this enormous pause while he figures out what to say.
But dang it if he isn't cute with it.
He especially loves to listen to "rock and roll." (That would be the Newsboys -- or the Newer Boys, as Connor often calls them.)
Sorry. I'm getting distracted by my son's cuteness.
Anyway. I love my Shuffle. (When I get to use it.) I really do. I especially get a kick out of not knowing which song will come next on my play list, because I have some seriously varied musical taste.
But the ear buds that came with it are the bane of my existence. No matter what I do, they won't stay in. They just keep popping out, like ... well, have you ever tried to stuff a large marshmallow into a thimble? It's pretty much like that.
Naturally, I looked to Google for a solution. And there are a lot of ear bud adjustment products out there. But most of them look like they are designed to keep an ear bud in an ear that is too large for the ear bud, not too small.
Corey pointed out that I could always plug in a a pair of antiquated ear-covering headphones. We have some leftover from the '80s. But I fear that will send my coolness quotient into a free fall, and Connor will never let me use the Shuffle again.
Any suggestions?
I'm Sensing a Theme Here
I wasn't kidding about the dead battery in my last post.
After a somewhat rough Sunday morning that included me waking in the dark (the only part of the time change that really bugs me), Connor balking at the clothes I picked out for him to wear (he has opinions) and Teyla crying anytime I wasn't holding her (which is tough to do in the shower; those babies are so slippery), I got everyone bundled into their coats and strapped into their appropriate car seats.
I was feeling a little frazzled, a little rushed. (Single moms? Seriously. You have my undying admiration!) But I was pleased to see that we still had 20 minutes to get to church and get everyone delivered to their Sunday school rooms. That meant we were on time, a huge accomplishment for a recovering late-a-holic like me. And I was really looking forward to church that morning. Really. Looking. Forward. (And not just so I could entrust the children to another caring adult. I seriously adore our new church home. We had to skip church the Sunday before due to The Sickness, and I almost cried from the disappointment of it all. But I didn't, because Vulcans like my husband view crying as a sign of weakness.)
So anyway. I put the key in the ignition, listened for the roar of the engine over the sound of Teyla's screams and heard -- a click.
A click?!? Not good.
I tried again. Another click.
My brain raced. Corey's car is at the airport. (Baby screaming.) I don't know any of my neighbors. (Baby screaming.) I can call AAA, but by the time they get someone here, church will be over. (Mommy screaming.)
That's when I remembered Corey's battery charger. He bought it a couple of years ago, when we lived in The Country and had all sorts of battery-powered equipment that constantly needed a little somethin'-somethin'.
So what's a woman to do? I got out of the car, popped my lid, plugged in the charger, reminded myself to keep the negative and positive clamps separated lest we all go "boom!" and jump started my car.
Yeah baby. I'm all that. Natalie and Connor were duly impressed. Teyla just kept screaming, but I think they were screams of respect and admiration at that point.
It reminded me of something Garrison Keillor wrote many years ago, in an advice column for Salon. (Warning: Some slight inappropriateness is ahead. But -- well, it was published on Salon, a website not known for it's adherence to Victorian values. And it's worth it -- I promise.)
Which, to me, really means, "I'm a strong, capable woman who loves her man and doesn't have to cut her own grass or change her own oil or fix the leaking sink. But I could, if I needed to."
Oh! And the car battery was dead again Monday morning when we were leaving for school. (Baby still screaming.) It took longer to jump it this time, for whatever reason. But because I'm a Minnesota woman, I eventually won the battle.
How about you? Is there anything you can do that makes you swell up like a puffer fish?
After a somewhat rough Sunday morning that included me waking in the dark (the only part of the time change that really bugs me), Connor balking at the clothes I picked out for him to wear (he has opinions) and Teyla crying anytime I wasn't holding her (which is tough to do in the shower; those babies are so slippery), I got everyone bundled into their coats and strapped into their appropriate car seats.
I was feeling a little frazzled, a little rushed. (Single moms? Seriously. You have my undying admiration!) But I was pleased to see that we still had 20 minutes to get to church and get everyone delivered to their Sunday school rooms. That meant we were on time, a huge accomplishment for a recovering late-a-holic like me. And I was really looking forward to church that morning. Really. Looking. Forward. (And not just so I could entrust the children to another caring adult. I seriously adore our new church home. We had to skip church the Sunday before due to The Sickness, and I almost cried from the disappointment of it all. But I didn't, because Vulcans like my husband view crying as a sign of weakness.)
So anyway. I put the key in the ignition, listened for the roar of the engine over the sound of Teyla's screams and heard -- a click.
A click?!? Not good.
I tried again. Another click.
My brain raced. Corey's car is at the airport. (Baby screaming.) I don't know any of my neighbors. (Baby screaming.) I can call AAA, but by the time they get someone here, church will be over. (Mommy screaming.)
That's when I remembered Corey's battery charger. He bought it a couple of years ago, when we lived in The Country and had all sorts of battery-powered equipment that constantly needed a little somethin'-somethin'.
So what's a woman to do? I got out of the car, popped my lid, plugged in the charger, reminded myself to keep the negative and positive clamps separated lest we all go "boom!" and jump started my car.
Yeah baby. I'm all that. Natalie and Connor were duly impressed. Teyla just kept screaming, but I think they were screams of respect and admiration at that point.
It reminded me of something Garrison Keillor wrote many years ago, in an advice column for Salon. (Warning: Some slight inappropriateness is ahead. But -- well, it was published on Salon, a website not known for it's adherence to Victorian values. And it's worth it -- I promise.)
Dear Mr. Blue [Garrison's pen name],Garrison's political viewpoints are a sometimes tad wacky, but this column made me stand up straight and say loudly (even though I lived in California at the time), "Amen brother! I'm a Minnesota woman!"
I am looking for a woman who's really exceptional: smart, funny, good-looking, horny, loyal and strong. The women I've met so far aren't even close, but is it wrong to date them anyway, knowing there's no long-term future? Should I never go out with a woman if I think she's not "the one"? I don't want to "settle" for someone, but I also don't want to waste my time looking for perfection if it doesn't exist.
Looking
Dear Looking,
The exceptional women you seek are here in Minnesota. Smart, funny, good-looking, horny, loyal, strong -- that, plus blond, describes them to a T. They're all over the place; any man who could walk four blocks down Nicollet Avenue without falling in love with at least three women is either clinically depressed, or gay, or blind. Minnesota produces tall sinewy women who can paddle a canoe, handle an ax, dance the tango, manage money, write a paper on "Hamlet" and at the end of the day do things that make a man faint from ecstasy. If you can settle in Minnesota for a few months, you won't have to settle for anything less than perfection. If you're looking somewhere else, you're probably wasting your time.
Which, to me, really means, "I'm a strong, capable woman who loves her man and doesn't have to cut her own grass or change her own oil or fix the leaking sink. But I could, if I needed to."
Oh! And the car battery was dead again Monday morning when we were leaving for school. (Baby still screaming.) It took longer to jump it this time, for whatever reason. But because I'm a Minnesota woman, I eventually won the battle.
How about you? Is there anything you can do that makes you swell up like a puffer fish?
Mom Against the World
Corey left Saturday morning for a four-day business trip.
I am alone. Utterly alone.
Unless you count the three kids, ages six, four and eight weeks, who are determined to help me release the grip I have on my remaining sanity.
Oh, I joke. It's not really that bad. In fact, I took all three of them to the grocery store yesterday -- a Saturday, mind you, which everyone knows is Amateur Day -- and I lived to tell the story.
Would you like my survival tips?
1. I told Natalie and Connor before we left that they would get a cookie or donut at the end of the expedition if and only if they were "big helpers." Sugar has amazing motivational powers. (Spoiler alert: Lunch consisted of donuts with sprinkles and hot chocolate with marshmallows. And I sprinkled some sugar on the marshmallows just for good measure.)
2. I wore Teyla in my favorite fashion accessory -- the Baby Bjorn. (I wonder what Big Mama would say about that.)
3. I made everyone wear their coats for the duration of the time in the store. As Antique Mommy acknowledged recently, the winter wear workout is quite exhausting for those of us in the Northern Regions. I'm so tired of dealing with the coats and gloves and hats and boots -- all of which are shed the minute we enter a heated building, leaving Mom Sherpa to tote the gear around -- I think I'm going to start my annual late-winter Coat Boycott this week. It's when I stop wearing my winter coat no matter how cold it gets because It Should Be Spring By Now. And yes, I'm totally serious. Besides, it's supposed to be 40 here this week. Forty! Who needs a coat with that kind of a heat wave?
4. I had a categorized list. (Which is really like saying, "Hi, I'm me." I never go to the grocery store without a list. Nev-ah. I can scuba dive, move 9 times in 15 years, give birth without any medication and marry a black-belt sky-diver who has broken almost every bone in his body, but I cannot grocery shop without a list. Because that's insanity.)
5. I refused to get the race-car shopping cart, because I know it's easier to drive a semi-truck through the streets of Manhattan than to steer that beast around the produce displays. Instead, we opted for the double-seater cart, so both of the older kids would have a place to sit if their legs wore out. (Naturally, they sat very little. But Natalie did use the harness belts as a bridle on the cart, which became her bucking bronco whenever I was more than five feet away. "Whoa girl! Whoa!")
6. I smiled at everyone who dared make eye contact with me. Most didn't. Wimps.
And to prove how bad I really am, I even bagged my own groceries. That's right. The check-out lady asked me if I wanted help, and I said, "Oh! No thanks. I'm good." Then I told myself that I'd like plastic (don't judge; I always recycle), and I commenced to pack the produce and dairy with like products to make it easier to put everything away when I got home.
(Insert wild applause here.)
Surprisingly, there was no gold medal waiting for me when I pushed my loaded cart into the parking lot in negative-degree wind chill.
I think I could totally win on Iron Mom America -- if someone would just invent the show.
Up next: Mom Against the World attempts to get all three kids to church on time. Too bad she doesn't know the car battery is dead. (Music swells ominously then out.)
I am alone. Utterly alone.
Unless you count the three kids, ages six, four and eight weeks, who are determined to help me release the grip I have on my remaining sanity.
Oh, I joke. It's not really that bad. In fact, I took all three of them to the grocery store yesterday -- a Saturday, mind you, which everyone knows is Amateur Day -- and I lived to tell the story.
Would you like my survival tips?
1. I told Natalie and Connor before we left that they would get a cookie or donut at the end of the expedition if and only if they were "big helpers." Sugar has amazing motivational powers. (Spoiler alert: Lunch consisted of donuts with sprinkles and hot chocolate with marshmallows. And I sprinkled some sugar on the marshmallows just for good measure.)
2. I wore Teyla in my favorite fashion accessory -- the Baby Bjorn. (I wonder what Big Mama would say about that.)
3. I made everyone wear their coats for the duration of the time in the store. As Antique Mommy acknowledged recently, the winter wear workout is quite exhausting for those of us in the Northern Regions. I'm so tired of dealing with the coats and gloves and hats and boots -- all of which are shed the minute we enter a heated building, leaving Mom Sherpa to tote the gear around -- I think I'm going to start my annual late-winter Coat Boycott this week. It's when I stop wearing my winter coat no matter how cold it gets because It Should Be Spring By Now. And yes, I'm totally serious. Besides, it's supposed to be 40 here this week. Forty! Who needs a coat with that kind of a heat wave?
4. I had a categorized list. (Which is really like saying, "Hi, I'm me." I never go to the grocery store without a list. Nev-ah. I can scuba dive, move 9 times in 15 years, give birth without any medication and marry a black-belt sky-diver who has broken almost every bone in his body, but I cannot grocery shop without a list. Because that's insanity.)
5. I refused to get the race-car shopping cart, because I know it's easier to drive a semi-truck through the streets of Manhattan than to steer that beast around the produce displays. Instead, we opted for the double-seater cart, so both of the older kids would have a place to sit if their legs wore out. (Naturally, they sat very little. But Natalie did use the harness belts as a bridle on the cart, which became her bucking bronco whenever I was more than five feet away. "Whoa girl! Whoa!")
6. I smiled at everyone who dared make eye contact with me. Most didn't. Wimps.
And to prove how bad I really am, I even bagged my own groceries. That's right. The check-out lady asked me if I wanted help, and I said, "Oh! No thanks. I'm good." Then I told myself that I'd like plastic (don't judge; I always recycle), and I commenced to pack the produce and dairy with like products to make it easier to put everything away when I got home.
(Insert wild applause here.)
Surprisingly, there was no gold medal waiting for me when I pushed my loaded cart into the parking lot in negative-degree wind chill.
I think I could totally win on Iron Mom America -- if someone would just invent the show.
Up next: Mom Against the World attempts to get all three kids to church on time. Too bad she doesn't know the car battery is dead. (Music swells ominously then out.)
Eight Weeks Old
I love being a Mom. Absolutely love it.
The irony of this is not lost on me, as having children was never on my wish list. Thankfully, God is in control and not my 25-year-old self. (It's also a good thing said self was never given a glimpse into the future, as she would probably have died from shock had she seen me enjoying life as a stay-at-home-mom, which she considered the ultimate dead-end job. Although she probably would have envied my cooking skills a little.)
All that to say, I've relished the last eight weeks. Teyla has completely stolen my heart. Her little face brings a smile to mine even at 3:30 in the morning.
Let's get right to the update, shall we?
Developmentally, Teyla is right on track. Her neck is freakishly strong. She could hold her head up at one week of age, as could Connor and Natalie. She can focus on objects and track them when they move. (I say when not if, because ... ummm ... have you met Connor?) She can stand on our laps and support her own weight, and she turns her head in response to sounds, especially our voices.
But by far the coolest milestones of this last month have been the cooing and the smiling.
Want to see?!?
Here's a picture of her big smile. It's a little blurry and dark, but it's hard to use a flash five inches from a baby's face and still have a happy baby. Go figure.
Here are a few more shots of the happiness. Notice the double chin. That cracks me up.
And the cooing? Oh. My. Word. She coos at me, I coo back, she breaks into a huge smile and coos again. It's at this point that I have to stop and mop my heart off the floor where it's just melted into a huge, gooey puddle of sap.
Wanna see this too? Here's a clip. (I love the Internet.)
And really, that's like caveman talk compared to the cooing she can do now. We're talking full-blown conversations here. I think she's even starting to say an infant form of "Dude!"
Personality wise, she's an easy-going, happy baby.
Unless you have the audacity to put her in her car seat.
Don't believe me?
Oh yes. The cry of the tortured child. Maligned. Rejected. Forced to sit in a warm, soft pocket of fleece while I drive her sister to and from school. Poor thing.
But aside from the car seat, Teyla is remarkably content. She's settled into a tiny rhythm. She wakes, eats, plays and then goes back to sleep in roughly three- or four-hour intervals. At night, she sleeps in four- or five-hour chunks -- which is completely do-able for me.
Tangent alert , but many of you have asked how I'm doing with the sleep deprivation. My answer? What sleep deprivation? Consider, if you will, that I worked the overnight shift at the TV station for more than two years. Two. Years. I went to work at 11:00 PM, returned home around 9:00 or 10:00 AM and tried to sleep while the San Diego sunshine poured in my windows. (Yes, I had blinds, but the San Diego sun scoffs at blinds.) I rarely got more than four hours of sleep before I gave up and started mainlining coffee. It was a miserable existence.
By the end of my two years, I was so utterly exhausted, I fantasized about driving my car into a tree on the way to work just so I could sleep for a few hours in the hospital. I spent most of my weekend hours sobbing to my husband that I couldn't go on. "I'm just so tired," I would wheeze and moan. I totally understand why sleep deprivation works as a torture technique.
So waking once or twice a night to spend 30 minutes feeding a tiny baby doesn't even phase me.
There. That's my tough-as-nails moment for the day.
Moving on.
Teyla's favorite activity is probably her nightly bath. (Double chin + spit-up = nightly bath.) I think she's fascinated by the water. As soon as I lower her in, she turns her head to the side, opens her mouth and licks at the water. Cracks me up every time.
Hmmm. This is turning into a really long post. Maybe I should speed this up.
Teyla prefers to sleep in her own bed, versus my bed, the car seat (noted), the swing or any other contraption. This is in stark contrast to my other children, who would sleep anywhere but the crib.
Her favorite way to be lulled into dreamland is to have Mom or Dad walk the halls while holding her close. Favorite lullaby? Skinnamarinkidinkidink.
(No, a cat didn't just walk across my keyboard. Just click on the link.)
(And if you seriously think I would consider letting a cat in my house again -- sorry Queen B -- you are way beyond help. Someday, I'll share my cat stories, and you will understand.)
And finally, if you were to meet Teyla and me in the grocery store today, chances are good you say one of two things. ("Aren't you Kelly from Love Well?!?" isn't one of them.)
Either, "Oh my word, that baby is so tiny." Because she is still really small. Even with double chins.
Or "Oh my goodness, that baby has a ton of hair!"
And that, my friends, is indisputable.
Until next month.
The irony of this is not lost on me, as having children was never on my wish list. Thankfully, God is in control and not my 25-year-old self. (It's also a good thing said self was never given a glimpse into the future, as she would probably have died from shock had she seen me enjoying life as a stay-at-home-mom, which she considered the ultimate dead-end job. Although she probably would have envied my cooking skills a little.)
All that to say, I've relished the last eight weeks. Teyla has completely stolen my heart. Her little face brings a smile to mine even at 3:30 in the morning.
Let's get right to the update, shall we?
Developmentally, Teyla is right on track. Her neck is freakishly strong. She could hold her head up at one week of age, as could Connor and Natalie. She can focus on objects and track them when they move. (I say when not if, because ... ummm ... have you met Connor?) She can stand on our laps and support her own weight, and she turns her head in response to sounds, especially our voices.
But by far the coolest milestones of this last month have been the cooing and the smiling.
Want to see?!?
Here's a picture of her big smile. It's a little blurry and dark, but it's hard to use a flash five inches from a baby's face and still have a happy baby. Go figure.
Here are a few more shots of the happiness. Notice the double chin. That cracks me up.
And the cooing? Oh. My. Word. She coos at me, I coo back, she breaks into a huge smile and coos again. It's at this point that I have to stop and mop my heart off the floor where it's just melted into a huge, gooey puddle of sap.
Wanna see this too? Here's a clip. (I love the Internet.)
And really, that's like caveman talk compared to the cooing she can do now. We're talking full-blown conversations here. I think she's even starting to say an infant form of "Dude!"
Personality wise, she's an easy-going, happy baby.
Unless you have the audacity to put her in her car seat.
Don't believe me?
Oh yes. The cry of the tortured child. Maligned. Rejected. Forced to sit in a warm, soft pocket of fleece while I drive her sister to and from school. Poor thing.
But aside from the car seat, Teyla is remarkably content. She's settled into a tiny rhythm. She wakes, eats, plays and then goes back to sleep in roughly three- or four-hour intervals. At night, she sleeps in four- or five-hour chunks -- which is completely do-able for me.
Tangent alert , but many of you have asked how I'm doing with the sleep deprivation. My answer? What sleep deprivation? Consider, if you will, that I worked the overnight shift at the TV station for more than two years. Two. Years. I went to work at 11:00 PM, returned home around 9:00 or 10:00 AM and tried to sleep while the San Diego sunshine poured in my windows. (Yes, I had blinds, but the San Diego sun scoffs at blinds.) I rarely got more than four hours of sleep before I gave up and started mainlining coffee. It was a miserable existence.
By the end of my two years, I was so utterly exhausted, I fantasized about driving my car into a tree on the way to work just so I could sleep for a few hours in the hospital. I spent most of my weekend hours sobbing to my husband that I couldn't go on. "I'm just so tired," I would wheeze and moan. I totally understand why sleep deprivation works as a torture technique.
So waking once or twice a night to spend 30 minutes feeding a tiny baby doesn't even phase me.
There. That's my tough-as-nails moment for the day.
Moving on.
Teyla's favorite activity is probably her nightly bath. (Double chin + spit-up = nightly bath.) I think she's fascinated by the water. As soon as I lower her in, she turns her head to the side, opens her mouth and licks at the water. Cracks me up every time.
Hmmm. This is turning into a really long post. Maybe I should speed this up.
Teyla prefers to sleep in her own bed, versus my bed, the car seat (noted), the swing or any other contraption. This is in stark contrast to my other children, who would sleep anywhere but the crib.
Her favorite way to be lulled into dreamland is to have Mom or Dad walk the halls while holding her close. Favorite lullaby? Skinnamarinkidinkidink.
(No, a cat didn't just walk across my keyboard. Just click on the link.)
(And if you seriously think I would consider letting a cat in my house again -- sorry Queen B -- you are way beyond help. Someday, I'll share my cat stories, and you will understand.)
And finally, if you were to meet Teyla and me in the grocery store today, chances are good you say one of two things. ("Aren't you Kelly from Love Well?!?" isn't one of them.)
Either, "Oh my word, that baby is so tiny." Because she is still really small. Even with double chins.
Or "Oh my goodness, that baby has a ton of hair!"
And that, my friends, is indisputable.
Until next month.
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