Addendum

I’m fortunate to have a neonatal nurse as a sister-in-law. (Actually, that’s a bonus, she’s a great sil point blank.) I finally got a chance to chat with her about N and our stay in the hospital. While we’re in agreement that the doctors really need to improve their communication with parents, and that the ER seems to lack concern for actually spreading disease, she was warmly positive about the rate of concern with which N’s infection was approached by the pediatricians, and the course of treatment given by all the doctors.

So, if any further retraction of my grumpiness is necessary, I humbly apologize.

I also appreciate that the pediatrician who released us from the hospital has called both days since then to check on N.

And it looks like she’s developing a nice wholesome belly button after all. I was worrying she’d have nothing to pierce.

Hospital Rant

I was planning to write an entry about all the things I couldn’t do during pregnancy that I now can do, and the ones I’m still looking forward to. An appreciative piece about the body that’s not quite back in working order yet.

But I just spent the past two nights in the pediatric ward at the Yale New Haven Hospital. And now I’ve got other considerations balancing in my mind.

N’s umbilical cord fell off on Thursday morning, right before her 10 to 14 day check up. The belly button had worried one of the pediatrician’s her first week, and I had called in when it seemed to suddenly turn red in a few hours, but I’d been reassured that it looked fine on her previous (Monday) visit. However, Thursday’s pediatrician was very concerned and sent her for tests and consultations.

What followed was 5 hours in the ER. This is a horrible place- despite having a private room, I got nervous about their handwashing, and there was construction, literally just on the other side of the wall we were leaning against. I spent about 2 hours without seeing any of the doctors, and finally, desperate to pee, and not able to just leave the baby (hooked up to an IV), I had to prop open the door and flag down someone to find one of the consulting doctors. Who informed me that they were indeed going to admit her, and thus, me.

Now I don’t want to seem too critical. The doctors seem very conscientious and err on the side of caution. In the pediatric ward, all the staff was impeccable with their handwashing, gowning, gloving. The nurses were really kind, helpful, and attentive to my concerns and, more importantly, to the baby.

But the communication in the hospital was lousy. I might not have been real happy to hear what they were going to say (thus discouraging them from telling me), but they kept forgetting and neglecting to tell me what was expected of me and what was going on in their consultations. Example: I was admitted Thursday in the early evening. Around 8 pm on Friday, one of the nurses informed me that I wasn’t supposed to take the baby out of the room (we’d brought her onto the patio play area so Q could run around), and that I should be wearing a gown while in the room. (Naively I’d assumed that the gowns were to protect N, not to contain the germs to her.)

I found myself being increasingly frustrated by the conversations I had with the doctors. It was like being told, ‘Well, we’ll have to see what your father thinks’ in a cyclical pattern. Each time I was told ‘well, if her belly button looks good, we’ll let you take her home’ or ‘if her ultrasound is clear, you can take her home’ it was to meet with another obstacle, which, despite passing, all culminated in ‘you can’t take her home’. The very nice (I’m sure) chief resident seemed to want me to agree with the treatment, which I found ridiculous. I wasn’t consulted, it wasn’t discussed with me, I was simply told she had to stay. I’m not going to say I think that’s fine when I don’t. I can’t change it, and I’m not happy about it. (This same unfortunate resident had to break the news to me that the blood sample they took at 2:30 am had to be repeated because it had clotted.)

Ultimately, I’m a tired new mother, frustrated and unconvinced that anything was so wrong with my baby that she needed to be hospitalized. Their priority is the health of my baby, and I appreciate that. But leaving me hanging, wondering what was going on, and misleading me when I did get to talk to individual doctors was a serious disservice that left me more fragile and hostile than before.

J and I are grateful our family is all home and healthy again. I’m not even really sure how to resume my normal life- but I’ve realized that if some laundry isn’t done tomorrow, there will be dire consequences…

5/13/07

Her name is Nuala (pronounced: Nu-la).
6 lb, 4 oz.
19 inches long
1:27am on Mother’s Day.

I’m considering becoming a national spokesperson for epidurals. I thought I’d dislike the buzzy/novacaine feeling, which isn’t great, but it took away 100% of the pain (till the very last bit), and allowed me to actually know when I could/should push. (Not something my body was capable of with the previous delivery, probably sensory overload there.)

Fun details:

• Saturday night I was sent home yet again from the hospital since dilation wasn’t happening, despite a day’s worth of increasingly exciting contractions.
• We stopped at a barbeque (veggie burgers for us) on the way home, where my water broke in front of several old coworkers.
• Someone took a photo of my stunned expression, while I waited for towels and the car.
• I kept giggling and cracking jokes as they fitted me with a hep-lock (?) and watched my contractions. The nurses were quite bemused. (But they did call my veins ‘bouncy’ so how can I not giggle?)
• Once the epidural was in, I went from 3 cm to 9.5 in approximately 1.5 hours. (After several hours to get to 3 from 1.)
• I had to wake my husband to tell him that it was time for me to push.

Quinn is doing great (seems happy about her even…) and we’re trying to get enough sleep. My milk has come in and I look like a sloppy stripper. I’ll worry about my weight in a couple of weeks after we get our feet under us and some livable schedule established.

She looks like a Maurice Sendak baby.

New phrases

My husband confessed that he heard Q talking to himself and demanding, “Where the H is my hammer?”

J looked at me innocently, “I have no idea who he learned that phrase from.”

Integrated into his normal conversation this week is a new (and much more positive) phrase that cracks me up everytime he uses it, “I be happy to!”

He uses it when I ask him if he’ll feed the kitties, “I be happy to!”
If he’d like to sit next to the milk gallon at the supermarket, “I be happy to!”
And most amusing, perhaps, he’ll ask, “Mom will you read to me?” Then answers for me, “Be happy to!”

How can I not be?

Golden Day

It’s pouring here. It rarely rains so definitively in this region. Afraid of being trapped inside with an increasingly crabby child, I decided to run an errand about 30 minutes away at Baby Rus (named by a confused family member). I suggested to Q that we go run errands. He happily announced we were going on another ‘adventure’ and cooperated with trip preparations. I fear that some day my label of ‘adventure’ for running errands, or going to a new library, is just not going to fly with this boy. But I’ll take it while I can.

Miraculously, Baby Rus had the nifty tool I was looking for, as well as the bottle nipples I’m hoping to implement sometime in June. Afterwards, I realized that going straight home was a waste of resources. If we’d come all this way, we really ought to do one of our other shopping errands, pouring rain or not. I let Q decide, asking if we should head home. “Go to more buildings.” He stated firmly, mouth full of PB&J.

So I decided that I would risk the odds of the vacuum store being closed on a Sunday, and attempt to find one of the two places in Southeast CT where I can get replacement bags for our fancy, beloved vacuum cleaner. I started by taking a wrong turn. As I drove through a Waterford suburb, Q kept asking, “Where’s the vacuum store, Mommy?” Um, I have no idea? Somehow I managed to navigate through the unlikely suburb (normal routes would have one take frontage roads by the interstate) to a strip mall. Where the vacuum cleaner store had just opened 5 minutes earlier. I got two boxes. Should last us a good 6 to 12 months…

It was still pouring. But the grocery store at the strip mall beckoned with whispers of oatmeal and raisins, which Q has been asking for all week, at least, ever since we ran out. He sat cheerfully in a car cart through this trip. I’d parked by the vacuum store, so we got drenched, and I committed the cardinal sin of leaving a car cart stranded far from its corral.

We came home, unloaded, put away groceries, read books and tucked me into bed, and Q into his room for quiet time. I’ve given up on thinking he’ll nap, but if he stays in his room and lets me nap, it’s nearly as good as both of us napping. The sound machine will make ocean sounds for an hour, after which he’s allowed to come get me.

He ended naptime with our agreed upon closure, “Mommy did the ocean turn off? I can get Mommy the ocean turned off!” The twist? Boy is naked.

So after getting him dressed, we had more books, playing with Daddy, and dinner, where he ate broccoli, sunflower seeds, raviolis, oatmeal with raisins. The broccoli is a fabulous victory, recently born of Q being hungry enough in a restaurant to actually try broccoli again, which he used to love. The sunflower seeds are entirely new. Each time we add a new food to his repertoire, I feel a happy glow. I’m not willing to make an issue out of meals, but I’d like my philosophy of offering him variety to pay off eventually. Cheerfully he told us, “I smelling my seed flower suns.”

More playing with trucks, kissed the cat, kissed Daddy goodbye, fed the kitties, watered the plants, helped clean up toys, had a scrubby bath (ie with soap, hair washing and full out screaming), more books, and into bed.

And I realized that although there were some brief battles here and there (and absolutely no attempt at potty training), this was an absolutely golden day. He was funny and sweet and smart, telling me about the pots steaming and dinging, repeating that we were looking for a nifty tool, resisting a tantrum when I decided that another crib sheet was redundant (I have a linen fetish, and perhaps have passed this on). Today was one of the days I’ve been telling myself that I need to have with Q before the next kid arrives. I don’t have to sit home all day playing with his trucks, but simply remember to enjoy his little boy antics and snuggling to read with me.

Catastrophe

After several time outs over kitty abuse today, it should come as no surprise that Q finally got scratched. Unfortunately he’d already been put to bed (twice), and the cat (she’s pathological) had snuck into his room, and was evidently hiding under his bed. I think he spotted her and did something (?) to piss her off. She was front declawed by previous owners, so I was relieved, to be honest, that he got scratched, not bit.

I had a little heart attack, since I only heard the result (screaming in pain) from downstairs. I wish it were a clear cut case of needing to get rid of the cat. She’s not a good tempered cat. But we’ve been surprised at how much she’s put up with, especially lately as he’s gotten bold. I really wish she weren’t so obsessed with interfering with bedtime. (Constantly having to be tossed out of his room at bedtime, she used to hop in his crib just as we were settling him down as a baby, walking between me and books as we’re reading.)

I also wish this were the sort of event that would instruct his little head not to mess with the kitties. (One time out was over deliberately stepping on the other cat’s tail. Usually he just pushes his luck, fiddling with their ears to watch them twitch, or chasing the mellow one from room to room…) Sigh

Efforts

I just spent 10 minutes at Grandma’s house with Q sitting on the pot, not peeing. You can lead a toddler to the potty, but you can’t make him pee. We agreed that he could wear a diaper if he wasn’t going to pee. He seemed resigned to that. No accidents today though.

Last night- on the manners front- he was in the bath and announced, “Excuse me Cygnet,” (a friend watching him take a bath while sitting on the closed toilet), “I have to use the potty.”

We were stunned, and she quickly vacated the seat. He changed his mind, but nonetheless, it seemed like terrific progress.

He’s thoroughly enjoying ‘Time to Pee!’ by Mo Willems (suggested by Loree Griffin Burns). I was charmed that he recognized that the toy bus a child is driving in the illustration had a pigeon driving it. (An allusion to Willems’ book, ‘Don’t let the pigeon drive the bus!’)

Easter in all its glory...

The least blurry photo. When I showed my husband the decorated truck last night he said, “Isn’t it a little, um, girly?” I pointed out that it was a truck, and how could that be girly? He said, “Yeah, but it’s a truck in drag!” Which made us both like it even more.

It took Q a while to spot it across the room, but when he did, he ran straight over to greet it. Love at first sight. But he’s carefully not neglecting the other beloved trucks now that he’s home. The ribbons didn’t last.

Newbery Award 2007

I am not always impressed by Newbery Award Winners. Some of winners in the first 20 years seem to have won just because there weren’t very many kids’ books being written, so anything with a serious topic and decent writing had to be applauded. And truly, ‘issue’ books always have an edge over other well written children’s books even now.

This year’s winner The Higher Power of Lucky by Susan Patron caused a wild ruckus, due to the use of one word. The upset even includes omission from some children’s collections at libraries. In case that doesn’t yet sink in, think about it, this is the Newbery Award, the highest award we give children’s chapter books in this country. You can see an article in the “New York Times” on February 18, 2007 (sorry I can’t link to it because it’s now moved to their archives, but check access from your local library database) called “With One Word, Children’s Book Sets Off Uproar”.

What’s the one word? Scrotum.

Now, I’m definitely not someone who needs to use the word ‘Scrotum’ very often. And I don’t. But I am a big believer in using appropriate words to avoid confusion. I am a big believer that the forbidden is more exciting than the accepted. So when a huge fuss was being made over this book, I made a mental note to read it sooner rather than my eventual approach to the Newbery Award Winners.

My opinion now? Not only is the word ‘scrotum’ appropriate in context, but in many ways, I think I can argue that this word is crucial for the book.

The Higher Power of Lucky is about a motherless little girl who is desperately afraid that her beloved guardian will abandon her and return to France. Intertwined with her story is that of a small boy who is being raised by his grandmother while his mother, unknown to Miles, serves a prison sentence.

Most of all, what is frightening for these two children is the mysterious and unpredictable world of grown ups. Lucky is worried she will be left behind, so when she sees her guardian’s passport, and a mass of paperwork, she assumes that the next stop is a group home in Los Angeles. Miles’s mother never visits him, so he assumes that she simply doesn’t love him. Without accurate information, even children will tend to suspect the worst. And the worst is that we are unloved and unimportant.

‘Scrotum’ is not a word we need to shelter our children from. Near the end of the book, Lucky asks her guardian what the word ‘scrotum’ means, and the simple answer, reflected to me a larger truth. In attempting to ‘protect’ each other from the truths that affect each other’s lives, we can create greater problems than an anatomically correct vocabulary. When we know facts, the potentially horrible unknown no longer has power over us.

More on Potty Training

In our attempt to deluge our toddler with potty training education, J picked up a handful (ie. all available) of books at the fancy new train hosting library. And two videos. I know we’re missing a few classics yet, but I thought I’d list the useful ones, with descriptions.

The star of the potty book show is Tinkle, Tinkle Little Tot: Songbook and CD: Songs and Rhymes for Toilet Training by Bruce Lansky. I’m not personally crazy about the cd, but Q happily listened through it several times. The illustrations are appealing and happy. But the rhymes, set to traditional tunes like ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ and ‘My Bonnie lies over the ocean’, are good. Our librarian called it addictive. You can’t help yourself. You end up muttering songs celebrating toilets and pee.

One morning this week, Q snuck into our room, picked up the book and recited my favorite one:

Hush little darling,
don’t you fret,
Let’s clean up,
your pants are wet.

Hush little darling,
don’t you cry,
Someday soon
you will stay dry.

Also good, with very simple visuals and text, is P.J. & Puppy
by Cathryn Falwell. If you are lucky enough to have a 2 year old ambitiously potty training, I think this one would be brilliant. Parallels a child potty training with a new puppy paper training, complete with mistakes.

Very solid, although somewhat dated photos, is a nice classic by Fred Rogers, Going to the Potty (First Experiences). This is a really gentle, but matter-of-fact depiction of what potty training is all about. Nothing glamorous, but Q has had us read this multiple times.

Which brings me to one I do not recommend. In the Mr. Roger’s vein, Heidi Murkoff (of the What to Expect series for pregnancy, babies etc. series) has done a book on potty training. What to Expect When You Use the Potty has great illustrations and a very appealing main character, a dog, and Q loved looking at it. Unfortunately, it has text sophisticated enough that you might consider using it with a 6 year old. Hopefully most 6 year olds are potty trained, which seriously limits the usefulness of this book. Since Q loved the illustrations so much, we would sit and paraphrase each page, but it was a bit boring and annoying for the adults to deal with long explanations about food becoming energy for our body. It did bring up useful information with nice illustrations, such as where poop goes when you flush it away. But overall, it just didn’t have the usefulness of Mr. Rogers’ book on potty training.

Another fun book, not really about potty training, but often useful with potty training, since after all, we’re talking about poop all the time, is the newer classic Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi. Not every adult is into scatalogical humor, but, well, almost every small child tends to develop a sense of amusement about it, and this book is great for addressing the basic concept of food in: poop out.

I should note that I’ve seen some other books in libraries which I haven’t gotten a chance to read and evaluate yet. I’d love to hear from anyone who has read these or found other useful potty books!
Standards I hope to check out soon include:
Once Upon a Potty (Girl and Boy versions, and a video, which might be really useful) by Frankel;
The Potty Book (again in boy and girl versions) by Capucilli;
My Big Boy/Girl Potty by Cole.

Potty Training

Q fell in love with pull ups last week. But J and I agreed that there’s no point in just replacing diapers with pull ups. So after discussion, we decided that Q was showing a lot of signs that he’s ready to start potty training, and we should start a potty educational campaign.

I stopped at the library on the way home. We live in a really small town evidently. They had one potty training book which didn’t strike me as that helpful. (Not awful, but not helpful.) I requested two, and headed home. At home I was greeted by a counter full of library potty training books J had located, plus two videos, and a package of real, honest-to-goodness, underwear.

I got upstairs to see a vision of my son sitting on a potty, wearing a pair of these pants (With dump trucks on them), reading a book on potties. He loves these underpants more than he loved pull ups. We read a bunch of the books, he watched a video with ‘Bear in the Big Blue House’ about potty training, we reviewed the concepts. He talked with his trucks about Mommy pees in the Bob potty (Bob the Builder, in case you’re curious, and no, Mommy’s butt wouldn’t fit), Daddy pees in the Bob potty (ditto), Grandma pees in the Bob potty, Sintya pees in the Bob potty…

Today he insisted to Daddy that he should wear his underwear to the doctor’s office. Daddy grabbed a diaper and spare pants, and let him (with much trepidation). They made it not only through the doctor’s appointment (he’s got eczema, by the way), but also through a grocery store trip. He refused repeatedly to go to the potty while out in public, and when they returned home, he used the potty, had dry underpants, and earned his first sticker. (Thomas the Tank Engine, and I’d like to note that he doesn’t watch either Thomas or Bob at home, or to my knowledge anywhere, although Granmary might have shown him some on his last visit.) He earned a second sticker this afternoon- post “nap”.

I’m kind of flabbergasted. I’m not expecting that we’re suddenly on the Potty Train, but I’m amazed at how ready he seems to be to switch over. I have to remind myself that we underestimate his abilities and understanding. Which might be a hint that the future baby will not be as much of a surprise as I think.

Toddler Competencies

In a typical toddler burst, Q is suddenly proficient at a new batch of skills. And as usual, with a new batch, we've learned that we need to retrain ourselves. Forget potty training, it's more practical to learn how to unscrew caps. Q's been practicing with the sippy cup lids. This is an unforeseen consequence of reverting to sippy cups in order to keep the cats from their scavenging tendencies, burying their heads in a rainbow of plastic cups left temporarily on the table.

Getting dressed now takes approximately half an hour, or longer. Not only does Q want to pick out his actual clothing, and put it on himself, but he also wants to select his own diapers. He climbs onto an overturned can and peers into the diaper cubby, examining each one carefully till he finds a 'nice' one. "This one Mom!" He eventually clambors down. "It's got tigers on it!" Yep. Identical to every one that was rejected...

On the rare morning when he manages to pick out his own clothes and get dressed without being prodded, he emerges with a huge, shy grin, oh so proud of himself. I don't have the heart to tell him everything is backwards. Surely it doesn't matter. Much. The zipper in the back is odd though.

On an intellectual level, one of his interesting new skills is the ability to sneak, and the understanding of its usefulness. It used to be easy to keep track of Q. If he got quiet, we'd call out to him and he'd cheerfully volunteer that he was going to clean the kitty litter, or work on the computer. In the next stage, we could track him by his footsteps or random items dropping to the floor. A long stretch of quiet typically meant that either he was filling his diaper, or he was reading.

As a side effect of avoiding naps he has learned the advantage of silence. He's discovered that by crawling from room to room, he's nearly noiseless. If we don't hear him, we naively believe he's napping and we're less likely to interfere as he removes our toothbrushes from the medicine cabinet and begins to scrub his Bob the Builder potty with them.

But the subtle skills he's picking up on are the best. Sunday we said goodbye to J as he headed off to work. He gave Daddy a kiss (only air kisses, evidently he's European), and a hug. I gave J a kiss and as J opened the door said, "Love you, honey." J stepped outside, "Love you too." The door shut, but before it latched, Q gave it a good shove and called after J, "Love you, Daddy!"

To Market, To Market, To Buy a Plum Bun...

With some great effort to create obstacles for ourselves, all three of us spent four (plus) days apart last weekend. I went to Florida to visit my parents, with the intent of having one last easy trip, sans toddlers and babies, before the next kid arrives. Q went to visit his Grandpa and Granmary. (Where he is doted on and generally indulged with tons of attention, new adventures, and so much fun that when I asked once, as we drove away, if we should go home now, he simply said, "No.") J stayed home, worked, and built a shelf in the kids' room.

Q and I arrived home within about an hour of each other on Monday. The three of us hung out in his room as he frolicked on his bed, played with scrap lumber from the shelves, and generally expressed delight in returning home.

It's a relief to be home. I have my family, my own bed, ample pajama bottoms that can accomodate my ever-spreading girth...you know the comforts you arrange for home to have. My favorite cereal, flannel sheets, cold weather...mostly things that if they were vitally important to me, my mother would have been delighted to provide. (Well, not the cold weather, or picky high maintenance items, but still.)

Watching Q bounce on his big boy bed, I began to sing a droning song I made up for him on a sleepless night last fall. J and I had left him with Grandpa and Granmary for a whole weekend alone, and the re-entry had been difficult. At about 3 am, he woke and wailed till I took him downstairs and rocked him, reciting nursery rhymes and familiar songs. Eventually I was so tired that all I could manage was a monotone: "Mommy and Daddy and Q... Mommy and Daddy and Q... Mommy and Daddy and Q..." We've sung it off and on since then, and as it has no melody, harmony, or musical ability necessary, even Q has been known to hum it to himself.

Hearing me sing it on Monday, he broke into a big smile. He didn't acknowledge it, or sing along. But it was evident that all the family puzzle pieces were back into place.

Home again, Home again, Market is Done.

Valentine's Day Present

Last week was a hard parenting week. Q went on a napping strike, coinciding with a week of his fetal sibling deciding she needed a new rec room between my small and large intestines. Between his constant meltdowns (gosh, lacking a nap doesn't improve a toddler's resilience?) and my desire to wear a mumu, it was a little brutal.

Friday night we brought home a toddler bed. A big boy bed, so to speak. Much to our surprise and delight, Q loves it. He bounces on it, piles blankets on it, cuddles his animals on it. He helped me pick out new crib sheets for it. That is, he played peacefully in the store while I furrowed my brow at the difficulty in deciding between a patterned sheet and solid colored sheets and grumped over the discount store not having a high end options to satisfy my linen fetish.

He even, and I know you weren't expecting this, slept in the bed. And fell out. At least three times on different occasions. Having learned his lesson, he now prefers to sleep in his crib, although he's willing to try out the big bed for naps. Which he started taking again on Tuesday, to my endless gratitude.

Wednesday we had an ice storm and I came home early. I optimistically tucked him into his big bed for nap at 2:30, following an unnecessary meltdown (his gentle signal that a nap is welcome), and was happy to hear him wake at 4:30. Two hours is a decent nap for a child who was claiming he didn't need them just two days before. I went in to get him, assuming he was hungry.

He wasn't hungry. He was drastically unhappy to be awake, and had perhaps fallen out of bed yet again. I tried our post-nap strategies for cheering him up when he wakes up hard: comforting his stuffed animals as if they're crying; making his stuffed animals bark or meow (depending on whim, not necessarily appropriately for the animal); offering to go downstairs and get some food or milk. Nada. Didn't buy any of it.

I picked him up and sat in the rocking chair. I offered to read a book. No. I tried singing. "NO! NO! NO! Don't do that!"
No singing.

Rebuked, I tried just rocking him for a few minutes.

You never know when the last time your child will fall asleep in your arms will be. And the less often it happens, the sweeter the moments get. Previous to Wednesday, the last time Q had fallen asleep in my arms was 2005, during his last ear infection.

So I sat and rocked and fell asleep with his skin of his soft forehead pressed to my cheek.

Nail Trimming

Q hates to have his nail trimmed. Hates it. Big tantrums. We're working on it.

So I have strategies: I pick a time when he's not too tired, or too hungry. We've shown him how the nail trimmer works. We've let him watch us trim our own nails. And recently I've started singing 'Where is thumbkin?' while trimming his nails.

I admitted to J last night that I feel neglectful because I haven't been singing the itsy-bitsy spider, or thumbkin and our poor child's classics are being neglected. Never mind that the kid sings 'The Grand Old Duke of York' and 'Sally go round the sun' spontaneously. I was immensely relieved when J reassured me that they sing itsy bitsy spider in music class.

Anyways. So yesterday there's lots of screaming, and I'm singing 'Where is thumbkin' and gently prying open his little fists to trim them, and by the end, there's not so much screaming and I sing it again for fun this time.

We put the kid to bed last night, and as he's chattering himself to sleep we hear him start singing, "...where is thumbkin? where is thumbkin?..."

The Naming Game

We have some name issues. The names I like and the names J likes are not that different, and yet they do not overlap, especially for girls. We decided to give friends and family a chance to weigh in on our name ideas.

(Not our idea, see Name Madness And if you like name trivia and trends, this entire website The Baby Name Wizard Voyager is really cool. And the blogger, Laura Wattenberg has the only baby name book I've ever absolutely adored and found absolutely helpful, The Baby Name Wizard. End endorsement.)

So friends and near acquaintances and family are weighing in on names that we do and don't care about. (We started with 32 boy names and 32 girl names. If you can come up with 64 names you can genuinely imagine naming your child, you have a very generous imagination.)

Last week, J was told in detail, by a kind woman why we shouldn't name a boy XXX. XXX will be made fun of in school. XXX will be constantly embarrassed by this. Mid conversation, another woman passed by and leaned in and said, XXX is the only! name we should use for a boy.

We found that pretty funny. What's even more amusing, is that I think that made us like the name more. XXX will not be in elementary school indefinitely. And we can help avert the embarrassment by explaining to XXX what his name means so that he's psyched about the association. I think it's entirely possible that this helped us unite under a boy name. (We don't like very many boy names. Some are lovely, fine names, just not well matched with our older child, and/or, just not names we can really imagine naming our own child. Names we'd love to meet on a kid though!)

What I find additionally amusing is that a close friend was ranting about why YYY is a bad name for a girl, or anyone for that matter. My reaction here was not suddenly decide that I really did like this name, as I did with XXX. Instead I'm torn between defending our consideration of YYY, and wanting to write it off because it's just not one of my favorite names for a girl anyways.

I find this heartening. Although I really enjoy the input from friends and family, I mostly just want to weed out the total dud names that hormones persuade you are a good idea. I want to still follow my heart and fall in love with the name of our future child.

Swimming With Dolphins

Several weeks ago - mid week 11 of the pregnancy - my body tried to persuade me that I was feeling the little larvae moving. I was pretty skeptical, and sure enough, larval movement failed to repeat. Which reminds me of a comment I heard, "Being pregnant is like the worst case of the flu you've ever had." (Sorry, not sure if Cygknit said it first, or if she was quoting.)

This morning, mid week 14, I dreamed I felt the baby moving under my hand, like you imagine reaching into a dolphin tank and feeling them pass by, all smooth, gentle muscle and then gone. It took a while to wake up enough to realize that while it was a lovely dream. At this point in the pregnancy, the fetus is approximately 6 skinny inches long and not really capable of global movements. With enough sleep, I'm usually more skeptical.

But after lunch, the little Melvin did a flutter kick hello. Nothing painful or exciting, just enough to make me blink in acknowledgement. Oh! Well, there you are. Enjoyed the soup, eh?

Christmas Agonizing

I’ve been thinking alot about Christmas traditions and family gatherings in the past few weeks. J and I are non-religious, and perhaps rigidly so, but I have so many warm memories of feeling like Christmas was magical. Yes, it was a blow to find out about Santa, but hey, it seemed more like the kid telling me was blowing it, rather than the adults who perpetuated the mythology. J hates the idea of lying to Q, which I understand, and I don’t really like the idea either, but to grow up never having believed in Santa? That seems, well, unkind.

Today I put up some of our Christmas lights: red dangly stars (thanks Ikea!) and a wreath of lights (thanks Ikea!) and decorated the ficus tree with hearts I made last year (felt). J has made a little wooden tree which he wrapped with colored lights and is planning to hang in the living room (it’s cute, sort of a skeleton version of a Christmas tree, but without the grim connotation that just evoked). I’m envisioning hanging the few large ornaments we have from the ceiling in front of the windows (but not low enough to be grabbed by Q). I hung Q’s stocking from our ‘mantel’ (the corner cupboard) and made a mental note to see if the toy store has more, since it’s pretty and unusual and since we have another kid coming we’ll need two stockings next year. (Not that my role as a youngest sibling made me overtly aware of things I missed out on or anything.)

But we’re avoiding one of the big traditional battles of our marriage: the Christmas tree. I like them. I loved lying on the floor looking up at all the lights. I loved my mother telling me about the ones from her childhood. The ‘icicles’ which were glass or metal and simply little spikes on hooks. I loved the old fashioned shaped lights we had for a while (only one string). I wished I could sleep on the floor in front of the tree, with the colors washing over the world like a stained glass window.

I have, to this point, been conceding the tree battle to J. They do seem a bit silly, lots of work, mess, waste of a healthy tree etc. But Q is now old enough to notice trees in all the stores and get excited about them. He likes the specialness of decorations, and the trees inside seem to especially tickle his fancy. Yes, we can go to Grandma’s for a tree. But it’s something I want to give Q. Like a love for reading, and kisses goodnight. There are some things you hope to get from your parents.

I’m gearing up for the battle. I’ve decided an artificial tree would be fine. We can buy scented candles for ‘pine’ scent. I don’t mind if, for a few years, we get a relatively small tree and put only non breakable ornaments on it. I do mind if there is a bad attitude. I do mind if it actually undermines the goal of creating a cozy, magical Christmas feeling. I know I have to trod carefully here, but I’m wondering if Q has already won the battle for me, it’s just a question of articulating it gently to J and figuring out the delicate path between creating magic for our child through gentle pretend and selling out to the aspects of Christmas we dislike.

Adult Onset Athleticism: Part Two

My first roadrace was a spontaneous decision. Our small Massachusetts town arranged a kids' fun run. What I didn't know when I started running it, was that I suck at running. My clearest memory is of the police car escort, the traditional last place prize. The indignity was evident, even to me.

Following that revelatory run, I did as little running as possible until high school. Then, desperate to take off some weight, I began running. To ease the humiliation, I ran at night, so no one could see my thighs slapping together. I layered on clothing. I listened to music, attempting to fool myself into ignoring the physical exertion. I ran once around the block, and then would sit and pant in front of the house. I lost some weight, but every ounce hurt as it peeled off.

I picked up running again in college, while rowing crew. I jogged from campus down to the boathouse, about two miles, nearly all downhill, on Summit Avenue, lined with old mansions, trees and colleges. It was criminal not to at least enjoy the scenery, and I gave running some grudging respect. Later in the fall, I watched hordes of runners heading up this same hill, headed for finish line of the Twin Cities Marathon. The fast runners didn't impress me. It was the back pack who held my interest. These runners were defying their physical destiny. They were not natural jocks. They were fighting their way up the hill. They looked like me, and when I cheered them on, they grinned.

My boyfriend and future husband had been a runner, and when I started running again after a lapse, he ran too. His stride was much longer than mine, but we worked out a deal to warm up together. He'd then run at his own pace, and meet me for a cool down. He gave me running advice, took me to my first 5k, talked me into the wisdom of a digital running watch, and when his recurring injuries sidelined his running, never discouraged me from running. Discussing marathons, he casually said, "That kind of running is crazy." But when he realized I was actually considering running a marathon, he looked me straight in the eye and told me he didn't think running one marathon was crazy. I did run a marathon (some might question whether one can call it 'running'), and he rode his bike beside us for the entire second half.

These days, my most regular running buddy is my son. When I can talk him into a morning run, he points out the sites: a waterfall, a chicken, a dog. Despite his occasional reluctance to be packed into the jogger, if I take him out and just walk, he'll start requesting more speed, "Run? Run?"

The more I think about running, the more I realize it has entertwined itself into my life and my personality in a way I cannot easily explain or understand. I don't know why I think it's cool to run in a 5k when I still haven't broken 30 minutes and I don't know anyone at the race other than my family. What I know is that I am addicted to the simplicity of lacing up my shoes and walking out the door. The smell of autumn leaves in the sun. Greeting early morning dog walkers.

I may be outpaced by speedwalkers. I may hibernate through the winter months. I may be unable to admit I am a runner. But running is mine.

Adult Onset Athleticism: Part One

I would like to submit Exhibit 1: Gone With the Wind, as the first example from my childhood of my father's unrealistic expectations of my muscular abilities and athletic training. We can place this incident within the 6 week block of time when I was 4 years old and my mother was in London, doing her student teaching. For those people who know that my parents (not actually Luddites) revile television watching and do not own a television, this is also the brief period of time between the purchase of their first and only television and its demise, about a year after this incident.

Dad, in charge of three children for six weeks, is watching Gone With the Wind, being aired specially on television. I request a drink of milk. He tells me I'm big enough to get my own drink of milk. This may, in fact, be true. It is not, however, true that I can pour a glass successfully from a full gallon of milk. It's a shame we didn't have cats. I figure the cleanup should have been enough to teach Dad a lesson regarding unfair expectations, but evidence indicates nothing was learned.

Exhibits 2-500 include the cross country skiing trip where I had inadequate body mass to stay warm, the biking trip on Martha's Vineyard when I was so out of shape that I could keep up with the pregnant (but fit!) woman in our group, and numerous incidents in which I was so much smaller and less capable than my siblings that giving up was the only realistic option. I can still hear his disgusted disappointment, "Terry". My father believed disapproval was more motivating than encouragement. (He still grates his teeth remembering these trips.)

I took up running regularly after college. Bike riding didn't provide the exercise I needed. Rowing was a complicated endeavor involving socializing I was uninterested in. Running had never been enjoyable, but it was efficient for my needs. Slowly my addiction to running grew into an affection for distance. I think I wanted to prove to myself that despite my pudginess, I was as dogged as I thought I was. Running for distance is not a remarkably good tool for weight loss, but it gives you some serious bitching rights. Blackened toenails, chafed skin, heat stroke... My college rowing training had awakened a masochistic gene, and now I could feed it without 8 other rowers and an expensive boat! I was hooked.

The first time I recall attempting to go out for a run with my father was after I'd moved to rural (perhaps redundant?) New Hampshire. Across the street from our house was a rail trail and my father and I went for an out and back run. Almost a tunnel through the woods, the trail burrows under the pine trees, crossing gorges on narrow bridges, persistently pushing you ahead. The trail beneath our feet was padded with layers of needles and the late September trees were turning. We were going to run a marathon the next day, and I was not confident I could finish it. I had visions of myself, gritty with sweat, bent with pain, unable to take another step.

A deer darted across our path, and my father reached over and touched my arm, "Oh look, Terry!"

In that moment, I lost my fear of failing him.