Baby Compare

Dear J-

The rain swept in a few times today; I had another follow-up appointment with the doctor, so I took the remainder of the day off. It’s been three weeks since the surgery and things are more or less back to normal (with any luck, the teeming legions of medical professionals lined up to touch my junk has come to a close). I’m going to try riding the bike again tomorrow, knowing that it’s been too long, weather permitting. We went to the Zoo again today as another sign of falling back into the same old routine; my arms hardly remembered the burden of camera and figgy together, but the familiar rhythms keep us moving forward.

At the Zoo the meerkat pups had emerged from the burrow and were taking their tenative steps under wary eyes. There are times that we happen to see other kids out with their parents; they are quiescent little boys and girls that obediently (perhaps only in comparison) sit up and take direction. On the other hand, figgy has her own mind on things, giving us directions and admonishing us:

Mike: To the restaurant Noodles!

figgy: Don’t say that, Daddy.

Mike: Noodles!

figgy: Don’t call me Mike. Call me figgy, okay?

I would not trade my crazy daughter who apparently cannot walk when there are willing parent arms around for an army of straight-arrow kids who smile and nod at every command and wish. She brings a kind of creative anarchy into our lives, one that I suspect every two-and-three-quarter year old brings to their parents’ lives and ours are richer for it. We have as many screaming fits as uncontrollable laughter but each peal is rich reward for every point of blood pressure. It’s more than I could have dreamed.

Mike

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We Grow

Dear J-

figgy continues her assault on sleep habits (the luxury of two naps a day was too good to be true, and coupled with the at-first-light rising time, we’re zombies by the end of the day) and innocent living things (petting via open-handed blows — this puts me in mind of a D&D character I once had, a monk who wasn’t allowed weapons or armor, mostly for my brother, the Dungeon Master’s amusement; on the other hand, he did send me a steady stream of giant ants to build up my experience until we both tired of it).  In an interesting escalation today, I woke from dozing in front of the PAC-10 night game (Oregon, getting pounded at USC) to see her, maniacal grin and all, bring her sippy cup down on my forehead.  I’m just glad we haven’t switched to stainless steel cups yet.

It’s funny, this world of parenthood; you never quite know what’s going to happen next, or how quickly things are going to change.  Though her vocabulary remains limited, there’s no question that she’s reasoned out that there’s no reason to go much further, at least for the time being.  Gestures and syllables will do; she’ll take my finger and lead me to the refrigerator and announce “Mah,” asking for the milk within.  She hears dogs barking and will point and declaim “doggy” without a glimpse of a hair or wagging tail.  She laughs at our silly pokes and grunts with frustration while opening various items and every day shows how amazing, how human we all are.

Mike

First Word

[February]

Mike:  What d’you think her first word’s gonna be?

theVet:  Probably “daddy” — she seems to love seeing you when you come home.

Mike:  Well, she spends a lot more time with you — I’d bet it’s “mommy.”

theVet:  We’ll see, I suppose.

* * * * *

[Now, walking]

figgy:  [excited, squeals]

Mike:  What is it?  Do you see the doggies?

figgy:  doggy!

theVet:  Her first word!

figgy:  doggy!doggy!doggy!

Mike:  [philosophically] Well, at least that’s one fight we won’t have to have.

Crazy Crib

Dear J-

Triskadekaphobics all over can take solace in the fact that not a single thing I set out intending to accomplish today turned out quite right.  I’ll take that as a good indication that the rest of my Friday should proceed smoothly.  Then again, we’re dealing with Friday and US Open-induced traffic here, so everything has yet to be quite settled.

We put figgy to sleep last night in a nightgown and, because it was still warm, didn’t zip her into a sack (wearable blanket ) like usual.  A few hours later, when it was our turn to turn in, I checked on her, intending to add the sleep sack but noticing three things in rapid succession:

1. I didn’t remember leaving an extra diaper in the crib with her, and she can’t reach the changing table, so —
2. Oh, she pulled her own diaper off, but that’s no problem as long as she didn’t —
3. But she did.

So we ended up changing her out of the now-wet nightgown, strapping a diaper on her, re-making the bed with fresh linens, and finally, locating the emergency pacifier to stop the why-am-I-awake-if-I-didn’t-request-it protests.  For her, it may have been a strange dream; for me, it served to remind me that every day, things are different.  Feeding is now best accomplished by feigning showing great interest in her food and attempting to eat it for yourself, all while chasing her around the room, as she’ll submit to the high chair only for certain goodies (yogurt, mango, and graham crackers).  Patiently, now, she points out all the animals to her poor unobservant parents, sometimes accompanied by a bloodcurdling shriek of crushing anticipation designed to weaken her enemies’ bowels.

We keep having more fun.  What seemed like a plateau turns out to show more peaks, and sooner than expected.  And work itself becomes both faster and more fun.

Mike