Endless Thanks

What I'm most thankful for this year...

So unbelievably thankful for the healthy, bubbly, immensely lovable little boy who entered and enriched our lives almost ten weeks ago. Equally thankful for the abiding love and support of our family and friends as we've transitioned from "husband and wife" to "daddy and mommy."

Happy Thanksgiving!

Growin' Owen

Yesterday marked the completion of Owen's 2nd month on the planet. We celebrated with shots. Not the tequila kind. The pneumococcus/diphtheria/pertussis/polio/hepatitis kind. But much like the tequila variety, these shots made poor little Owen feel awful (and his parents feel even worse) and he spent his 2-month anniversary of life whimpering or passed out. Guess we'll aim for a more positive commemoration next month.

Recent Milestones

• Weight: 12 pounds 6.4 ounces
• Height: 23 inches
• Rolled over for the first time! (tummy to back)
• Set a record for most blood-drawing scratches to the face in a single day (geez, who's the bad mother who won't cut his fingernails?)

Getting to be a big boy

Strategic Censorship

With little ears around, you really have to watch what you say. True, Owen is just now mastering the art of eye contact and perfecting the purposeful smile; it might be a while before his vocabulary expands to include more than uhh and ooh and wahhhhhhh(hhhhhhhhh). But it's never too early to start censoring objectionable four-letter words. The one I'm particularly worried about?

Dada.

I (half) (jokingly) started omitting dada from my conversations with Owen, for fear that it would usurp mama's rightful place as baby's first word. C'mon, the only baby-pushing dads do is with the assistance of a stroller. Pretty sure that whole Occupy My Uterus thing ought to at least entitle us moms to the pleasure of hearing our new names first. So yes, Owen hears mama about 39,809 times a day and hears dada...hmm...less frequently.

But not to be outdone, Aaron one-upped me. Why just censor a word when you could reimagine it entirely? Aaron decided he should teach Owen that mommy's name is...mooftard. Yup, that's right. I'm Owen's mooftard. (I'm pretty sure the F-sound will keep Owen from articulating this anytime soon -- ha, bad choice, Husband.) A sort of linguistic arms escalation ensued and obviously Aaron needed to be renamed, too. You can now find him listed under Owen's kaka.

Mom, Dad, Mark and Cindy: we promise not to defile grandma and grandpa. So long as you continue agreeing to occasional babysitting gigs.

This week's pictures are from our first little vacation together. We rented a house in the Berkshires (hills in western Mass) and spent 5 days singing and cooing, eating and drinking, and loving our time together as a family.

Random Observations from Week 8

A few disjointed (because my brain no longer does "coherent") observations from this last week of motherhood:

• Mommy Camo: Counterintuitive though it may be, white has become the smartest clothing choice for hiding stains. White is the color of breast milk, breast milk is the main ingredient in baby puke, and baby puke happens to be my most-worn accessory and hair product of late. Though I appear clean in my crisp white Oxford, you'd be appalled if you looked at me under a blacklight. But due to a finite wardrobe, I abide by a new rule of thumb for clothing changes: if you can't see it (and can only faintly smell it), it's probably getting worn.
  
• Come Fly With Me: We took our first flight this weekend with Owen, who defied expectations and passed the airworthiness test with flying colors. The most amusing (but only in hindsight because he didn't freak out) part was watching the hopelessly demoralized faces of fellow passengers when they walked past our aisle, followed by the cooing and praise they gave "such a good little baby" after we'd landed. Someone sitting behind us feigned surprise while we were deplaning: "Oh my gosh, I didn't even know there was a baby on here!" Oh right, lady. Everyone knows the finely tuned Baby Radar of non-parents-of-infants would never allow this potentially toxic noise polluter to go unnoticed.
• Don't Leave Home Without It: Pre-Owen, I had a straightforward mental checklist when leaving the house: keys, wallet, phone. Needless to say, that list is no longer comprehensive. The new checklist looks something like this:

* keys, wallet, phone

* baby

* diaper bag containing: at least 4 diapers + necessary clean-up implements; one change of clothes for the inevitable Why-Do-At-Home-What-You-Could-Save-For-Public-Places Diaper Explosion; a second change of clothes for the less-appreciated Double-Header Explosion; plastic bags to contain the biohazardous aftermath of said explosions; lead pacifier plus several understudies

* take one last look in the mirror to make sure you have a shirt on

Quite a look

No time to re-dress him before he passed out

Always intrigued by his daddy

So excited about overalls

The eventual result of being overtired

Wow, who let in the mom with the screaming baby?

Updates from Week 7

We just passed the six-week mark and Owen is keeping us more amused than ever. He's very alert now, which makes it so much more fun/less awkward to have full conversations (albeit one-sided) with him. We discuss bricks and leaves and and ceiling fans and the competing importance of breast milk and coffee in the morning. We read books and take walks. I apologize for living in Boston as his little nose reddens in the cold, and promise that it doesn't always snow in October.

His newfound ability to smile means that I spend a fair portion of my day doing utterly ridiculous things trying to get a big gummy grin. I do arm-flailing dances that make Elmo seem sophisticated. I speak in a sing-song tone that is -- at minimum -- two octaves higher than my "adult voice." I make up pet names that may eventually impair his ability to learn proper English. (Today he is Mr. Moopongo, a name that bewilders both baby and spellcheck.) As it turns out, most of my tactics are overkill; his biggest grins come when his scanning eyes simply settle on my face -- and those, of course, are the most rewarding kind.

Recent Milestones

• Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep!
• Lots of cooing and
• Mommy finds her first gray hair (crap.)

You can't hide from Mommy Cam

A Serious Man

Soprano style: all he's missing is some chest hair and a New Jersey accent

Halloween at my new moms' class (wish you could hear the soundtrack -- it wasn't exactly quiet in there)

Questioning the logic of our outing in the snow

Dad's turn to be embarrassed by Mommy Cam

No ability to fight back = having to be ridiculously outfitted by Mom

Driving With Intent to Chill

I have a newfound disdain for road improvement projects. Not so much for the improving process itself -- in fact, I have a healthy respect for torn up roads in all their rugged, chaotic glory -- but for the result: silky new asphalt that lets your car sail effortlessly over an endless smooth plane, making you feel as though you're not moving at all.

Do you know how unhelpful that is to a new mother with a screeching infant in the backseat?

I need bumps, people. Lots of head-jostling, yawn-inducing, uterus-imitating bumps. Potholes? I aim straight for them. Manhole covers? The higher the better. Trolley tracks? God's gift to deafened mom drivers. Will my love of road obstacles kill the suspension on our car? In all likelihood, yes. But that's a price I'm prepared to pay.

Learning to drive with an infant requires stamina and thick skin. Despite my best efforts, singing at the top of my lungs does little to drown out the heartbreaking, milk-producing wails of little Owen. With a baby onboard, you can either learn to ignore the cries (not possible), or learn to drive creatively to keep the littlest passenger happy. And while bumps are a welcomed luxury, constant motion is really the holy grail of mom-driving.

Vehicle-required outings have an urgent new mandate: DO. NOT. STOP. Yes, yes, I know that red bulbs and octagons may suggest otherwise, but they were clearly not implemented by folks traveling with howling newborns in a (very very) close, (claustrophobically) confined space. Must. Keep. Wheels. Rolling. I start braking 30 car lengths before a red light. I callously ignore drivers trying to merge into my lane. I've reinterpreted stop signs to be "pass-through-me-at-3-mph" signs. I selectively yield to pedestrians. And no, it's not because I'm a horrible person with a vicious case of road rage. It's because I'm a mom now, and I will do anything to keep that baby boy happy.

Recent Milestones

• Weight: 10 pounds, 11.8 ounces
• Height: 22 inches
• Slept for 6.5 hours straight (last night! woohoo!)
• Learned to smile intentionally

My two favorite boys


Twinsies!


Daddy gets a turn to feed




Nuzzled up next to Grandpa Fisher


Inserting myself into Owen's line of sight to score some eye contact


Family naptime on the couch


One month old!

Gummy Smiles

Owen has just started giving us some alert, not-caused-by-gas-or-silly-dreams, seemingly intentional smiles. iPhone in hand, I managed to catch one on video. This was my sunshine on a very wet, dreary day.

(For optimal viewing, mute the volume. If you're over age 32-days, my excessive baby talk is almost certain not to elicit the intended response.)

PS - I'm definitely a baby psychic: Owen did, indeed, have poop on his mind. Subsequent diaper change proved it. In a pretty explosive way. Forget school. I'm totally starting a 1-900 hotline.