How is Charlie?

Some of you have asked how Charlie is. The following is a jargony, preemies-for-dummies way of saying that Charlie is doing very well.

Our immediate concern was his breathing. At almost 30 weeks, without time for a course of steroids, without some condition of stress that might have hastened their maturation, and with the complication of gestational diabetes, his lungs were still nowhere near maturity.

Charlie had RDS, respiratory distress syndrome, the term for breathing difficulties caused by a lack of surfactant. A baby's body naturally produces this substance, which holds lung passages open, preventing them from collapsing upon exhalation, but not until the last few weeks of pregnancy. These days, most babies with RDS survive. Since the introduction of exogenous surfactant in the late '80s, survival rates for premature babies have increased dramatically. Natural forms of the substance are derived from cows and pigs; while a synthetic version is also available, Charlie was introduced to the many delights of pork in the very first days of his life.

While two doses of surfactant are the normal course of treatment, it just wasn't enough for Charlie, who needed another hit. And while he'd started out on room air, which is 21% oxygen, it quickly became apparent that he needed more assistance. His oxygen level was increased as high as 37% during his first two days.

He didn't need the full support offered by a ventilator, but he was started on CPAP immediately. CPAP stands for continuous positive airway pressure, and is a fairly benign form of respiratory assistance: a baby on CPAP initiates every breath himself, while the pressure of the machine keeps his airways open as he exhales. The pressure is delivered via a tiny snorkel-like affair with two prongs that fit into his nostrils.

(For the record, Charlie has somehow come to the fervent and unshakeable belief that the snorkel sucks ass.)

Charlie also had a heart murmur caused by PDA (patent ductus arteriosus), a condition common enough in premature babies that 40-50% in his age bracket will have it. While a baby is still in utero, a large blood vessel in the heart remains open; it's expected to close within the first few days after a full-term birth. For premature babies with distressed lungs, it's important to get the vessel closed to avoid extra strain on the heart. Treatment with a drug called indomethacin can generally close the vessel, and if that doesn't work, it can be surgically closed.

Evaluations and treatments were all taking place on Sunday, while I was only vaguely aware that it was happening. I've lost most of that day, except for memories of my mother's arrival and my visit, at last, to the NICU. I was to be moved out of labor and delivery late Sunday night, so on the way to the regular maternity ward, my bed was carefully steered into the NICU so I could see Charlie.

I didn't see much. My bed was too low and I was too busy crying. But I could see his tubes, his wires, and the bright glare of the phototherapy lights being used to combat jaundice. I could also see he was alive. I was scared that night, more scared than I've ever been in my life, but that fear has receded as the days have passed. The joy almost always eclipses it.

Charlie has steadily improved. After medication for PDA, his heart murmur seems to have vanished. He hasn't needed supplemental oxygen in days. He's still on CPAP most of the time, but he's being kept off it for longer and longer at a stretch — today he was off for almost five hours, his longest time yet. He's had his first bath, his first bowel movement, his first taste of milk. He's worn his first scaled-down onesie, and is kept company in his isolette by his first stuffed animal. Paul and I hold him. We pretend his involuntary grimaces are smiles.

He is small and thin but fast closing in on his birth weight. He is a well-oxygenated pink, furred here and there by a long, light down. His head is perfectly round and fuzzed with a brown lighter than Paul's or mine. His ears are the size of my thumbprint. His foot is shorter than my pinky. He has the smallest human reproductive organs I've ever seen.

We've started to think he's cute.

Since you asked

Are you still in Connecticut?

Yes. Paul and I have settled in to stay for as long as Charlie does. We're about 200 miles from home. Paul's aunt lives in the area, and my friend T. is about an hour and a half away. Otherwise we know no one. I spend a lot of time thinking about how strange it is that our son was born in a place where we have so few ties.

We're at a hotel that offers a kitchenette; atrociously unreliable wireless Internet; unpredictable and infrequent housekeeping; and a cable lineup distinguished only by several channels of what Paul calls HBTV — hillbilly TV, which features one or more of the following:

• motorcycles;
• hot rods;
• tattoos portraying either Jesus (crown of thorns optional, eyes-rolling-back-in-head mandatory), a busty woman, or a pissed-off Tweety Bird;
• no women, aside from the aforementioned flesh-based renderings thereof, or stylized nipply silhouettes silkscreened on T-shirts or airbrushed onto gas tanks;
• extravagantly coiffed facial hair; and
• at least one chinless cast member speaking in an unintelligible southern patois.

What about getting Charlie moved closer to home?

We started discussing about this before I was even allowed out of bed, while I was still involuntarily scratching myself all over as if I had nosocomial mange. The doctors here are aware — perhaps hyperaware — of our desire to have him in a hospital near where we live. They talk about it more than I do, solicitously and kindly but with warning after warning about not moving him too soon. I've had to reassure them that we don't expect Charlie to be moved, don't want him to be moved, until he's stable. "Until a week after he's stable, in fact," I keep muttering under my breath, trying to pass off my crazed-she-bear-protecting-her-clawless-cub rictus as a beatific maternal smile.

The first step is to get him off CPAP, where he no longer needs mechanical assistance to keep his airways open. If he continues to improve at his current rate, he may be off it as soon as the end of next week. If his progress stalls or he has a setback, it's anyone's guess.

The second step is to figure out how to transport him. It seems like a simple feat; every day, sicker people than Charlie are taken farther than he'd need to go. The difficulty, however, is not a logistical one but an administrative one. First, the transport team at our nearby hospital won't come get him — we are currently far beyond their radius for pickups. Second, our insurance company is not especially interested in paying for a transport they don't consider medically necessary.

What's most likely to happen is that the hospital here will send an ambulance to take Charlie home, staffed by one of the NICU nurses to watch over him during the trip. It is probable that we'll have to pay for this up front and fight with our insurer about it later. The money seems unimportant just now. I am currently looking into selling a kidney on eBay to cover the costs, as soon as I can figure out how to take photos of it. (Would you bid on a kidney without seeing full-color, high resolution pictures?)

How are you recuperating after a dangerous, sudden-onset illness; an emergency C-section; and five days in the hospital?

Fabulously, thank you. Directly after Charlie's birth, my recovery began -- delivering a baby is the only cure for pre-eclampsia and HELLP, and it is most frequently an immediate one. At the time of my release I was told I needed no further followup beyond a two-hour glucose tolerance test in a few weeks. (I am avoiding describing it as my hospital discharge; I shudder every time I see the big sign in the parking lot that directs visitors to MATERNITY DISCHARGE.)

The only lingering effect has been fatigue. Five days in bed, even when you're getting up periodically to stumble down the hall to the NICU, or more frequently to change the giant maxi-pads intended to absorb the MATERNITY DISCHARGE cascading down your legs every time you stand up, ruining the only pair of socks you have, staining the grout between the bathroom tile, making great clotty puddles that cause the janitor to slip and break his femur in two places, spawning a river of gore that rises so fast it drowns the hapless Latino family gathered outside the nursery to wave at their own newborn...

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Five days in bed will tire you right out. After my first postpartum shower, I crawled right into bed and slept for an hour. Today, twelve days after Charlie's birth, I am not so easily exhausted, and can manage a turn around an entire grocery store without having to send Paul back to the entrance for one of those electric scooter carts. It's progress.

I no longer look pregnant in the slightest now, if the shocked saleslady who showed me nursing bras is to be believed. But then it was only in the three weeks or so prior to Charlie's birth that I'd even really started. I'm tall to begin with, and Charlie was transverse, so while I was somewhat wider, I wasn't that much deeper. Besides, my magnificent rack minimized the prominence of my belly, creating a chiaroscuro so masterful Caravaggio weeps in Heaven.

My incision, speaking of things that might weep, is healing nicely. It's numb and stubbly and my belly still bears a faint yellow shadow of bruising, but there's no lingering pain, either from the cut or from the parting of the muscles beneath. Out of my prescription of 30 Percocets, I took one, and am carefully hoarding the rest.

They'll certainly come in handy for my upcoming nephrectomy.

Today's assignment

I will not Google "premature babies infection."

I will not Google "premature babies infection."

I will not Google "premature babies infection."

OH, MY GOD, et cetera

Paul is so much more low-key than I am. I would have begun his post with, "OH, MY GOD, OUR BABY ALMOST DIED."

Instead I'll begin my post that way. OH, MY GOD, OUR BABY ALMOST DIED.

Yesterday we were awakened early by the ringing phone. It was a physicians' assistant from the NICU, and the call began innocuously. "I just wanted to warn you that we've put Charlie back on CPAP so that you're not alarmed when you come in." But the news got worse from there: they suspected Charlie had an infection.

The overnight team had noticed Charlie was having more desats, periods in which his blood oxygen saturation dipped. His color wasn't good, and he was less active than usual, meaning he didn't squirm or scream when his diaper was changed. They'd taken some blood for a culture and started a course of antibiotics. They'd stopped his feeding until his condition improved.

The doctor called a bit later to repeat what the PA had told us. He planned to remove Charlie's central line, an intravenous catheter placed in a large vein in his arm. Its advantage is that you can leave it in place for a long time, like when a baby is expected to need IV nourishment and medication for a while. Its disadvantage is that it can provide a convenient route for infection to set in. Charlie's line had been placed a few days after he was born. After three weeks, it seemed its sterility had been compromised.

We went to the hospital and sat by Charlie while the antibiotic dripped into his vein. Once again it was hard to see his face between the CPAP tubing and the hat that held it in place. He'd been undressed so that the nurses could keep a closer eye on his color and his breathing. He was splayed on his back, not in the compact midline position he seems to find most comfortable. Except for a slight difference in size, he looked just like he had on the night he was born. Noticing that, I got scared.

We watched as the central line was removed. The catheter was about the diameter of a single piece of thin spaghetti, and it had been threaded deeply into Charlie's tiny arm. The PA pulled it gently and smoothly. It kept coming and coming. And then it was out, and the opening was cleaned and dressed. Charlie's arm was now free of the splint that had protected the line — the first time we'd seen his left forearm in weeks.

He didn't move much as we watched him. His CPAP apparatus bubbled. A blood transfusion was ordered. He slept. I cried.

Around 2, Paul and I left the hospital for a break. On our way out, we ran into the doctor who'd called us earlier. All I remember about what he said was this: "This is really tough...but he'll go home with you."  And that was the first time the seriousness of the situation sank in. It finally occurred to me: Wait, you mean there's a chance he won't?

Yes.  But instead of drafting chapter 1 in OH, MY GOD, OUR BABY ALMOST DIED for Dummies, I will simply revise and reiterate yesterday's vow: I will not Google "bacteremia preterm neonate."  I will not Google "bacteremia preterm neonate."  And don't you do it, either.

When we got back to the hospital later, we were told he was doing better. He was having his vital signs taken again, the blood pressure cuff fastened around his upper arm, the little Brookstone vibrator moved around his chest to loosen any mucus in his lungs. And he was angry. He screamed and screamed, more vigorously than I'd ever heard. I was initially pleased, thinking this meant he was feeling well, mustering enough energy to yell.

And then he simply stopped breathing. After a moment of yelling, he'd be so worked up he didn't draw a breath. The nurse rubbed his feet and he started again. Then he'd yell. Then he'd stop breathing. She'd rub, he'd breathe. Spells of apnea aren't unusual in premature babies; in fact, they're often normal, since the parts of the brain that regulate breathing can still be immature. But when the apnea sets in only after a baby has gotten sick, it's troubling. And when it's not a single isolated event every few hours but a string of apneas one right after another, it's especially troubling.

The nurse went to call the doctor. Paul and I watched Charlie's chest rise and fall. When it didn't, we rubbed his feet, wiggled his fingers, tickled the soft skin on his belly — all the things you don't normally do to a premature baby for fear of overstimulating him.

We stimulated the hell out of that baby.   We rubbed, he gasped. I cried and swabbed my nose with rough hospital paper towels, then raced over to scrub my hands before touching him again.

After a couple of hours, with a course of caffeine percolating into his new IV, he started to breathe more reliably. It was a good time to do the spinal tap the doctor had ordered to rule out meningitis. Paul and I waited outside while it was done, then anxiously sprinted back to Charlie's isolette to make sure he was still breathing.

Not only was he breathing, he was sleeping comfortably, lying on the side he prefers, tucked snugly in a soft white blanket. We watched him sleep for half an hour longer, then dragged ourselves home (ha, "home") to wait for the preliminary results from the spinal tap.

The news was good. His white cell counts weren't elevated. The culture results wouldn't come in until morning, but by then we'd know what the pathogen was, anyway — a normal white cell count was all we needed to see to rule out meningitis. We ate a late supper and a lot of cookies and slumped into a grateful, exhausted sleep.

This morning as soon as I woke up I called the hospital to see how Charlie was doing. The nurse said he was much better, and told me they were going to restart his feeding. I told her we'd be there for it.

When we got to his isolette, the nurse handed me Charlie's first bottle ever. No hat, no cannula, no syringe screwed to the end of his feeding tube. Just the baby, a blanket, and a bottle, which he sucked back eagerly. Then he immediately fell asleep, breathing comfortably and regularly on my lap for the next hour and a half, Gram-negative rods be damned.

On our way out, we saw the doctor again, who looked grave and said, "You know, yesterday he looked really bad. We were pretty concerned..."

I held up my hand to stop him and said, "I can't listen to that right now." I can't hear how bad it was until the danger has completely passed. I am still too aware that OH, MY GOD, OUR BABY ALMOST DIED to have that notion confirmed.

TGIF

Friday Charlie will be discharged from the hospital and we will undertake the long trip home.

The car seat has been purchased and secured, and Charlie has been tested in it and found fit for travel. The gas tank has been filled. The tires have been checked. The diaper bag has been packed. The weather has been deemed favorable. The cell phones have been charged. The car is in the process of being loaded. The father is in the process of getting loaded.

As I contemplate what lies ahead, only one question remains:

Is it too late to opt for a homebirth?

Note from the road #1

Paul driving, Charlie sleeping, Julie watching. 5 miles down, 999,995 to go.

Note from the road #2

Seeing me pump in the back seat has cured a whole generation of truckers
of the impulse to yell, "Show us your tits!"

Note from the road #3

Staring at sleeping Charlie, thinking very hard of Tertia, Adam, Kate, and Marko.

Note from the road #4

Charlie and I are playing punch-bug. I am winning, 13-0. He is a sore
loser: he cries every time I score a point.

But why?

God, he's such a baby.

Note from the road #5

The eagle has landed, and, boy, has it made a pantload.

Game boy

Charlie has an umbilical hernia. This isn't an uncommon condition, though it's more common — just like everything — in premature babies. It occurs when the ring of abdominal muscles around the umbilical cord fails to close after the baby is born, and in most cases it resolves without treatment within a couple of years.

It's not serious and it's not harmful. It is also not so pretty.

Instead of a tidy and respectable innie, babies with an umbilical hernia have a protrusion that ranges in size from, I don't know, cat's-eye marble to basketball. What is it that causes this protrusion? What's sticking out through the opening in the abdominal wall? What in the name of all that's holy is that fucking thing?

Glad you asked! It's intestines, of course!

We knew about Charlie's hernia early on because, hey, it's the kind of thing you notice. In those weeks in the NICU we were concentrating on weightier matters than an unsightly navel, and I didn't give it much thought. It wasn't until Charlie's last appointment with the local neonatologist that the subject came up.

"Have you pressed on it?" the doctor asked us.

"Ummmm...no..." Paul and I stammered in unison, spooked by the very thought of poking that roiling little mound.

"Go on, mash it," she instructed gaily. And mash it I did. It sank abruptly into his abdomen with unnerving ease, then sprang immediately back out when I removed my finger. It felt like...like...well, exactly like you'd expect a protruding loop of intestine covered only by a couple of layers of membrane and skin to feel.

Since then I have found myself compelled to press on it every time I change his diaper. Though I want to, I don't actually do it. The one time I did, I was rewarded by an ominous rumble from deep within Charlie's belly, followed by a loud release of some of the foulest-smelling gas this side of the river Styx. This thing is like a goddamn Popomatic Bubble.

Oh, yes, we got Trouble. Right here.

Now, in the last several days he's found it difficult to empty his bowels, straining and turning a dark purple-red as he grunts with exertion. There are many things I can try to help him along. But rectal stimulation — thermometer, ointment — doesn't work. And a warm bath with gentle abdominal massage doesn't work. So naturally I keep thinking, What if I just pressed his navel...right...there?

In the hospital while Paul was changing a diaper, peering closely to make sure Charlie's tiny anus was left fresh as a daisy, Charlie let loose a gout of liquid excrement that shot out in a malodorous stream, making an arc no less impressive than the Gateway Arch. Paul responded with a loud announcement that made the nurses whoop with laughter: "Shit." I'm still not sure whether he was exclaiming or describing.

We know, therefore, that Charlie is capable of expelling his intestinal contents with all the force of a firehose under full pressure. (Riot cops, take note.) This knowledge is the only thing that keeps me from giving his navel a gentle poke when I know he'd like relief — among all the plans I have for Charlie's room, chiseling solidified baby crap off the walls is not included.

Well, that and my grudging awareness that it's probably not a good idea to play with the kid's intestine every time I'm feeling lucky.

Too bad. I'll just have to satisfy myself with playing Operation on him. It'll come in handy if his hernia turns out to need surgical correction.

0 days adjusted

Charlie reaches his due date today.

When he was still in the hospital, I used that fact to protest every inequity, no matter how picayune. My indignation knew no bounds. "What do they mean, no turn on red?" I'd exclaim, shaking my fist righteously at a road sign. "Don't they know my kid's in the hospital?!"

Since then, I've cut him all kinds of slack — after all, he was still technically early, even though we'd have had him at 36 weeks if everything had gone according to plan. "Well, of course he doesn't like being bathed!" I'd croon, getting all up in his face, scaring the tiny bejesus out of him. "He isn't even born yet!"

Now there are no more excuses. 40 weeks gestation today.

Nipple freakishly implacable antipathy

Whoever came up with the term "nipple confusion" is a fool. Charlie's not confused; he is a baby of rare discrimination who knows exactly what he wants. He doesn't have nipple confusion. He has nipple preference. Nipple aversion. Nipple seething white-hot hatred, if you really want the truth.

We dislike breastfeeding, Charlie and I.

We started out in the NICU with the make-a-nipple-sandwich method, which involves jamming a big fistful of areola into a defenseless baby's mouth, stuffing him into muteness as if you didn't want him squealin' to the cops, see?! With this method he'd latch briefly, give three strong sucks, then look bewildered. I'd remove my nipple from his mouth and start all over again. "He'll get it," promised the flaky hospital LC, in between fits of crooning, "There you go, mama. C'mon, baby. Mmmmmama," as if she were a white, female, sub-moronic Isaac Hayes.

When I told the local lactation consultant about this, she rolled her eyes so hard they clacked in their sockets. When they finally rolled to a halt, she broke out a nipple shield, a clear silicone sombrero that comes to a point so emphatic I feared I'd put out one of Charlie's eyes with it. It fits directly over your naked nipple and is used to make it easier for the baby to draw the nipple into his mouth; it's especially helpful for babies with a suboptimal latch or suck and for women with suboptimal anatomy. That would be Charlie, and that would be me.

We tried it, and it seemed to go well. The local consultant watched Charlie and me together and pronounced herself well pleased. "He'll get it," she declared, and sent us off to work on it together with instructions to try at every feeding with plenty of skin-to-skin contact.

And then I had houseguests for ten days straight.

I was able to slip away to pump; at the beginning of the visit I was discreet, disappearing without warning, but by the end I was bellowing, "Gotta pump!" as I trudged up the stairs yet again. Although the guests were family members, I was too uncomfortable to spend time with them naked from the waist up, coaxing a screaming reluctant baby onto my sombreroed nipple.

They weren't even out of the driveway before I'd stripped and presented my plastic prosthetic once again to Charlie. But by that time, his initial goodwill had turned to rancor. He'd open obediently and allow me to draw him aggressively onto my breast, and he'd take a few experimental sucks. But when no milk was immediately forthcoming, he would scream.

And scream.

I'd wait for him to calm down, give him a few milliliters from a bottle, and then try again. And he would scream the scream of the thwarted, the betrayed, the milkless, the pissed.

Now here is where we talk about the letdown reflex, or milk ejection reflex. It's this that causes some women's breasts to leak when they hear their baby cry, and what some women feel as a tingling that precedes a gush of milk. Apparently it's a conditioned reflex that can be inhibited by pain, anxiety, or negative feedback. You know, like the pain of sore nipples being relentlessly hoovered into a mechanical pump, or the anxiety of watching your supply diminish, or the negative feedback of, oh, I don't know, a baby yelling in fury when you're not delivering the goods fast enough.

My letdown, friends, is for shit. So Charlie would give a few healthy pulls, get no milk, and then scream. I can't entirely blame him. Having been bottle-fed for the first ten weeks of his life, he had no patience whatsoever for meals served in a less expeditious fashion. If the nipple of a bottle — even a slow-flow nipple — is a McDonald's drinking straw, my nipples are those whisper-thin coffee stirrers. Now how would you rather drink your milkshake?

A classic case of nipple confusion. But Charlie is not confused. He simply hates my breasts.

I called the local lactation consultant, a mother of a preemie herself, and explained the situation. She sighed. She said, "Well, you can work on it. You can do more skin-to-skin, and you can continue to try. Or" — and here is where I burst into grateful tears — "you can just enjoy your baby."

I needed that permission, thinking, If a hardcore breastfeeding advocate says it's okay to stop, it must really be okay to stop. I've been working very hard for the last ten weeks. I am ready for something to be easy, for feedings to be pleasant and amicable. I'm tired of trying, and desperate to stop being a special case, to stop having to work so much harder than almost everyone at something that should come more or less naturally. I am not going to try anymore.

That said, I'm still pumping. In fact, I'm committed to doing so at least until Charlie hits twelve weeks. I've heard that at twelve weeks a baby has received about 60% of his mother's antibodies, with the rest accruing only gradually thereafter. (I was not able to find a citation for that figure, but it pleases me so I embrace it.) It's important to me to give him that much, especially during RSV season.

Beyond that arbitrary milestone, I don't know how long I'll keep it up; a lot depends on how well I'm able to build and maintain my waning milk supply. To that end, I'm already pumping so frequently I don't know night from day, guzzling so much Guinness I smell like a brewery, and popping so much fenugreek I smell like a mapley brewery. I've also ordered domperidone without a prescription from a shady overseas pharmacy, and will frantically swallow it in giant handfuls immediately upon its arrival.

After that, we shall see. I will report back, unless I'm too busy enjoying my baby. Or slowly decomposing in a drawer in the morgue, a sad cautionary tale against ingesting controlled substances acquired from fly-by-night charlatans somewhere in the South Pacific.

The happiest baby on the block

Charlie welcomes in the weekend.

Boppy courtesy of Abby. Blanket courtesy of Layla. Milk-drunk stupor courtesy of Julie.

Move over, Iron Eyes Cody

I did not know this until I had one: babies aren't born with the ability to cry tears. Although from birth they make moisture enough to keep their eyes wet and healthy, what we commonly think of as tears — the kind that slide down a fat satiny cheek reddened by frustration or pain — don't come until later.

As we undressed him this morning at his neonatologist's appointment, a hungry, pissed-off Charlie cried his very first tear. He is one month adjusted today.

Detachment parenting

Some days (not today, thank goodness) you just can't win. Charlie starts crying, so you pick him up and he starts crying louder. Offer him a pacifier, he screams. Offer him a bottle, and he screams while arching his back into a semicircle while whipping his head from side to side like the lead in some devil-baby slasher flick.

Swaddle him, rock him, sling him, shush him and all you get is more evidence that his lungs have recovered from RDS just fine. And why did you spend all that money on the NICU when you were just going to murder him anyway, he asks in tones that might well reach downtown.

So rather than throwing him across the room or tearing him limb from limb like he says you're doing, you put him down and step into the next room just to get away from the screaming.

Silence.

You step back in, very softly, and there he is lying on the changing table or the couch, gurgling quietly and looking up at ceiling. Waving his arms and legs a little. In that mood the books call "quietly alert". What he really wanted wasn't food or a return to the white-noise confines of the womb or "non-nutritive sucking", it was for you to stop goddam bugging him.

Our local doctor once commented that ICSI babies tend to be developmentally delayed, because their parents never put them down. If that were really anywhere near true, it would be a wonder that any survive...

My son the doctor

Dr. Batman to the rescue

[...] It is still a rarity when someone adopts Batman as their legal name.

[Norwegian] medical student Anders Mjelle, 22, is studying to become a pediatrician, and prefers Batman to more supernaturally powerful heroes like Spiderman or Superman, newspaper Nordlys reports.

Mjelle, now Anders Batman Mjelle, told the paper that the idea came to him while he was practicing his signature during a prescription class.

"It just wasn't as cool as doctor signatures usually are. So I tried signing with the name to my old hero of heroes, Batman. That was much better," Mjelle told Nordlys.

[...]

"I have naturally assessed the risk of being called Dr. Batman if I want to be taken seriously as a physician. But my goal is to become a pediatrician. In this case I believe being called Batman can definitely be something positive," Mjelle said.

(Full story at http://www.aftenposten.no/english/local/article967931.ece.)

I've got a secret

There's something I've been keeping from you.

First, the background. I am beginning to suspect, to my dismay but not my surprise, that Charlie has colic. The yelling has diminished now that the Prevacid has taken hold, but there are still three or four nights a week when he howls for no apparent reason, for a few toe-curling, jaw-clenching, sphincter-twitching hours at a time.

Since we've gotten the reflux more or less under control and he's no longer arching in pain, the screaming is easier to take. Instead of sobbing along with him, I march around the room with him tightly slung, singing loud enough that I can't hear his cries, or I bounce him on my knee emphatically enough to surprise him into silence for a moment, or pat my hand gently over his mouth while he shrieks so that it makes a "bah-bah-bah-bah-bah" noise. (It amuses at least one of us.) The goal is diversion, to distract him from yelling for even a blessed moment so that Paul can hear me when I ask for a motherfucking drink.

This is how I discovered the shameful secret I am about to reveal. Charlie, I found, can latch.

A few days ago, in yet another creative attempt to divert him, I unbuttoned my shirt, yanked loose the cup of my nursing bra, unceremoniously flung Charlie across his Boppy, and presented him with a fleshy ultimatum, ramming him onto my nipple with an authority I had not known I possessed. And he latched like he'd been born to it — as, in fact, he was.

I did it again tonight. And he did it again tonight. He suckled for a good five minutes, swallowing diligently, until he remembered he was supposed to be screaming — and I swear I could see the tiny Christmas tree light-sized light bulb go on above his head — and geared up again into full voice.

Here is what I plan to do with this information: absolutely nothing.

I was surprised by how I felt about his latecoming aptitude — specifically, not much. I'd have expected to feel elated, or relieved, or even, if I'm honest, chagrined. Instead I feel neutral, as if he'd done a trick I'd seen before that didn't impress me then. Big deal, you can latch. Come back when you can photosynthesize.

Giving up breastfeeding was a decision I made with no small degree of grief. A month later I'm over it, and have even grown to appreciate certain advantages of bottle feeding. (Those certain advantages are called sleeping through the 2 AM feeding, nonchalantly sashaying out to the spa for a massage and exfoliation, and never, ever letting my father get even the quickest, most accidental glimpse of my tits.)

I can't imagine retracing those painful plodding steps between anguish and acceptance, much less setting myself up for several weeks of sore nipples, patient positioning, and making myself available for every single one of Charlie's evening clusterpaloozas just when I've started enjoying him.

Will I regret it? Doubt it. I'm a little apprehensive since I know there's no turning back once I stop lactating. But I'm looking forward with indecent pleasure to throwing out my pumping gear, having regretfully concluded I cannot lawfully burn it under current EPA regulations — a clue that I won't be sorry to see the end of this mammalian phase of motherhood.

Smile, grunt, snort

Charlie finally smiles.

He also coos, grunts, and snorts like a pig (QuickTime, 1 MB).

1800 seconds

In my head, Charlie's life is full of clocks: a clock starts ticking when he finishes his meal, so I'll have an idea when he might be hungry again, when he goes to sleep -- count every second gratefully -- or when he fills his diaper, so that I have some idea when he might be angry and straining again. Even when he's in his gym kicking at the toys, or watching his mobile, there's a little timer in the back of my mind ticking off the minutes till he starts getting those overstimulated shakes.

I try to think more in terms of chess clocks than of the blinking LEDs that grace every made-for-TV bomb ever created. You know, the bombs with all the booby traps so that they'll go off the moment you try to move or disarm them.

Which brings me to the longest half hour in Charlie's day: the time between when he gets a dropper full of Prevacid to control his reflux and when he can start sucking down his next bottle. (It took us a few days of complaining that his new medicine wasn't working worth a damn to read the warnings not to give milk less than 60 minutes before or 30 minutes after a dose.) But if you're Charlie waking up hungry and swallowing a nice gulp of what tastes like yummy food, only to be told the next gulp is in forever, package inserts are slim comfort.

How long is 30 minutes? Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi is a minute, and don't think he's not potentially alert and ready to blow for every one of them. We change him, we make him stare at his mobile, we give him a bath, today I slung him and took him for a nice sedative walk in the park. Tomorrow, who knows?

Perhaps I shall get him a watch and just explain calmly and reasonably that he can't eat until the requisite time has gone by. Do you think I should get him a digital watch or analog?

Shorts

On Friday Charlie had his four-month pediatrician's visit. He is in the 25th percentile for height, weight, and head circumference according to his actual age, weighing in at 13 lbs. 13 oz.

He is now a baby of folds. I am storing my extra set of car keys between a few of his extra chins, and I can't find my voluminous file of medical-related receipts but I am fairly certain he's mischievously tucked it away within the fleshy pouch behind his left knee. If I can't pry it out I'll be sending the entire baby to the IRS, arriving at the post office with a squirming package marked, "HAND CANCEL PLEASE."

Charlie also had his routine immunizations. I know this is a controversial topic, the decision whether and when to vaccinate a kid. We are going the conventional route. I have wholly bought into the notion that a social contract applies.

I understand that many people feel differently, and have serious concerns about the safety of vaccinations. Not me, man. I like to live dangerously. In fact, I've requested that Charlie's shots be super-sized with an extra measure of mercury. I am hoping it will give him super powers.

...

Things I have dropped on Charlie's head while carrying him in the sling

1. Potato chips. Crumbs removed with a greasy moistened fingertip, then deposited neatly into my mouth. (Fingers then wiped on sling, which is fortunately machine washable.)
2. Caffeine-free Diet Pepsi. Licked away efficiently through catlike contortion of upper spine.
3. Latest Pottery Barn Kids catalog. Required trip to emergency room to ascertain that Charlie had no concussion, and assurance that the resulting dent in his forehead will mend without issue. Impatiently awaiting next catalog to see whether they make a line of tastefully personalized infant-sized helmets.

...

My heartfelt thanks for the kind advice and support you all offered during last week's freakout. Things are better now. I think my hormones have righted themselves once more after the crash brought about by the end of pumping, and I think Charlie has improved noticeably. I also think I'm happier having ended my unhealthy relationship with the Lactina Select.

The other night I was sitting on the couch with Charlie snoozing prone across my bosom. "Hey," said Paul, "you can do that now."

And indeed I can. I can hold the baby close to my body without cringing or shying away.

Yes, things are better now.

...

Paul is distracting Charlie during the tempestuous half-hour before lunch.

Julie: He's really staring at you. I think he likes you.

Paul: Nah. He's just memorizing my face so he can pick me out of a police lineup later.

A raisin and the son

Today Charlie had the last of his visits from the home health nurse, who's been coming monthly to give him his Synagis injections. In addition to stabbing his small but meaty thigh with a needle so fearsome it looks like she's going for a core sample, each time the nurse has weighed him; listened to his heart, lungs, and gut; and given him a brief once-over to make sure he's hitting his developmental milestones.

The chart that's used to track his accomplishments is called the Denver II. It consists of a rough timeline of expected behaviors in several different areas: gross motor, language, fine motor, and personal/social. You find your child's age on the chart, then draw a line down through the activities he's expected to have mastered. Then you examine each intersection to determine which percentile your kid occupies. Based on this in-depth assessment, you settle back in your chair feeling the smug satisfaction of being the fine overachieving parent of a fine overachieving baby.

Or, if you are me, you freak out just a little.

The chart is simply fascinating. Some of the listed activities aren't things you'd necessarily notice your child doing if you weren't looking for them — bringing both hands together at midline, for example, or following an object with his eyes first to midline, then, at a later stage of development, beyond. Others are things you'd notice — smile spontaneously, smile responsively, laugh, and squeal, and in that order, please.

And then there are the raisins. Apparently my child is due any day now to manifest an enduring interest in raisins, or so Denver II insists. First, he will regard raisin. Next, he will rake raisin. Later, he will become disaffected, and will dump raisin. Yes, he will divest himself of raisins in a single shocking act of scorn. Oh, he is impetuous! But do not worry. Should he subsequently find himself in need of more — perhaps for feeding himself or baking me a cake as fast as he can, as Denver II promises he will around 9 months of age, when he is expected to be pat-a-caking up a motherfucking storm — the nice people at Denver Developmental Materials, Inc. will kindly furnish replacement raisins for only a nominal fee.

And one day he will look for yarn! (Denver sells that, too.)

But I'm getting ahead of myself with the raisin. Before he can regard raisin, Charlie must regard own hand, and he has not done that yet.

At 11 weeks, he's neatly meeting the milestones for his adjusted age, with the exception of discovering his own hands. The visiting nurse was very surprised by this and kept saying so, suggesting that maybe he'd been doing it without my noticing. Little does she know that not a single cell of Charlie's divides without my taking careful note. No, not yet. Yes, I'm sure. He doesn't know he has hands.

He uses them, and to great effect; he bats at toys hanging off to his side, kneads my hands absently as I feed him, clutches the edge of his blanket to feel its fuzzy chenille, repeatedly brings his fist to his face in a hilariously ill-aimed attempt to suck his thumb. But he doesn't hold his hands in front of his face to inspect them. He's not entranced, as I'm told babies are, by the sight of his own fingers. He hasn't made that connection.

Of course I am concerned. I spent some time this afternoon making a formal introduction. (Poor boy is so acutely shy, he wet his pants upon being presented.) Tomorrow I will make up some labels, and perhaps a set of helper mittens. I will work with him on this.

After all, how can he hope to become a fighter pilot, razing entire buildings full of impoverished and defenseless Middle Easterners, unless he begins to develop hand-eye coordination at the very earliest stages? How in good conscience can I indenture him to a nefarious weaver of fine silk rugs if I can't promise that his eyes are sharp and his fingers nimble? You tell me, effendi.

More to the point, how the hell is he going to dump raisin if he can't even find his hands? I'd better get cracking. There is much to be done. That yarn isn't gonna look for itself, you know.

The ravening monster

How soon they grow up.

This morning between 5 and 11 Charlie consumed about 11 ounces of milk. That's the equivalent of five gallons a day for an adult. We'd gotten so used to our petite little boy taking three, maybe four ounces at a feeding (it used to be hard enough to force just two ounces down his throat in the bad old days). Yeah, sure, in the past few weeks I've been filling those four-ounce Avent bottles to the shoulder, but I could still be in denial about how much Charlie was eating. This is getting to be too much. (Literally: the top of the threads is six ounces exactly.)

I know Charlie's gluttony is a good thing, even if it means yet another body of hard-won knowledge has become obsolete -- and that I'm going to have to start mixing formula in half-gallon jugs. But it still does take one a little by surprise.

Whoever sent the big-baby bottles, thank you.

Sleep, but not too much at all

This is going to be quick, because according to the clock I predict I'll have about five minutes before Charlie's current nap is over. Two sleep-related questions for the baby-enabled among you, if you please:

1. Charlie sleeps from about 7:30 PM until sometime between midnight and 2 AM. He eats, goes back down easily, then sleeps for another three hours or so before waking again. If I woke him at, say, 10 PM to eat, do you think he would then sleep his five- to six-hour stretch from 10:30 until 4 or so? Or would we he still wake at 2, do you think? I'm scared to try it, terrified I'll end up fucking us out of that lovely long stretch entirely. What do you think? Do I dare disturb the universe? How should I presume? And what about that pair of ragged claws? But this is not about Charlie's tiny untrimmed talons or my own terrifying toenails — I digress.

2. Charlie naps several times a day for precisely 40 minutes at a time, rather than consolidating his naps into fewer longer ones. This is making me so insane that I am yanking my hair out in great wiry hanks, leaving my bloody scalp attractively mohawked I am finding this somewhat inconvenient. Is there anything I should be doing to encourage him to sleep longer? Can I reasonably expect this to change as he gets older? Or am I irrevocably screwed?

"It depends on the kid, and there's no predicting it" is not a helpful answer to either of these questions, even if true, so only tell me that if you actually want me to tear myself into a raw-scalped patchy-haired mess. And if you know where I can get a nice wig. And a pedicure.

Six months

Six months ago this minute, I was lying on a table in Norwalk, Connecticut, listening to a scrub nurse count Alice clamps to make sure I didn't make off with any. My plan had been to sneak out with a few extras secretly tucked into my uterus — or as I like to call it, my crime pouch — but my diabolical scheme was thwarted in its infancy, and I was wheeled out without Alice one.

I asked Paul earlier if he's happier now than he was six months ago. I was fishing for some kind of warm affirmation, a definitive statement of contentment, harmonious agreement that, yes, things have been hard, but they're getting better, and our lives are growing richer with every passing day. "Oh, yeah," Paul said fervently, and I thought I was home free.

But he continued. "Am I happier than I was exactly six months ago?" He looked at his watch.

"Oh, yeah."

...

I am also happier than I was six months ago. First, I no longer feel as if I've just chugged a jeroboam of Liquid-Plumr followed with a frosty chaser of lye. Second, I'm not especially worried that I'm going to suddenly, you know, get all dead and stuff. Third, now we have Charlie.

Today Charlie had his six month checkup. The doctor examined him, posed a few questions about his developmental progress, and then asked, "And what's his personality like?"

I was utterly tongue-tied. He's...well, he's...he's just Charlie.

He wakes peacefully. If I'm there when he opens his eyes, he smiles up at me. He cries to get our attention if no one is cribside when he checks, but it's more of a call than a cry.

He is righteously offended by any attempt to feed him when the temperature of the liquid is not precisely to his liking. I can see him composing the acid review he'll pen for Zagat's (when he can eventually write, that is).

He is visibly fond of that Muppet song. I make up lyrics, and I punctuate them with noisy kisses to his cheeks:

You are my baby [kiss, kiss]
My baby boy [kiss, kiss]
You are my baby, my bunny, my buddy, my birdie
And you always bring me joy. [kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss]

I got my first belly laugh with this, and it doesn't even include swear words. I think I am going soft.

Seductively sprawled on the rug in front of the fireplace, he makes sweet, sweet love to his Lamaze worm.

He currently dislikes being cradled unless he's being fed or rocked before sleep. He prefers to sit up in my lap, though he still needs support to do it. Best of all is standing on my lap, held high above me. I amuse myself by making Godzilla-storming-Tokyo noises. He amuses himself by smiling down at me, leaking long strings of drool in his excitement.

In the main, he enjoys his bouncy seat, and in this he is not alone, but too long in thrall to its noisy toy bar and he gets a little frantic, unable to stop kicking and making noise, casting about for someone to rescue him.

When confronted with new experiences, he's alert but not alarmed. When we take him for walks in the woods and show him leaves and mossy stones, he furrows his hairless brow in concentration, thoughtfully taking it in.

When we give him a bath I like to pour a trickle of warm water over his head, letting it run down his face in thin streams. He smiles and opens his mouth to catch the water.

He's crazy about the baby in the mirror.

You know. Nothing exceptional. Just Charlie.

...

He got three booster shots today, three long needles plunged deep into the meat of his small but hammy thigh. A year ago I felt that pain myself.

Despite a good stiff shot of Tylenol, this afternoon he was still wretched, crying from 4 until bedtime. He cried when we held him. He cried when we didn't. So of course we held him close.

And this may sound crazy, but I could see that he wanted to be happy. He'd catch my eye and smile, forgetting how much he hurt, but then suddenly he'd remember, and the tears would come again. He wobbled on the line between laughter and misery, and it almost broke my heart, this stouthearted boy trying hard to be friendly while he was in pain.

...

Six months ago this minute, I was waking from an opiate stupor just long enough to remember where I was and why I was there. I thought about the boy down the hall, whom I'd seen for only a quick count of five and wouldn't see again for a day and a night. I knew he was small, and I knew he was sick, and I knew it could all end badly. I knew the hardest part was ahead.

Oh, yeah. I'm happier now.

Truth in advertising

Charlie's onesie says it all.

(Thank you, ValleyGal, for the gift.)

Dubious milestones

In the past few days, Charlie has acquired several new skills. Oh, we do have fun!

1. He has developed a flair for hitting himself in the head, hard. Gone are the days when his hands flailed entirely without coordination; now he is able to deliver a solid, well-aimed clout directly to the middle of his forehead. He'll do it with the back of his hand or with a tightly furled fist, but he already seems to recognize that it's much more painful, and therefore interesting, to knock himself upside the head with an implement. His Sassy teether — thank you, NSR — is his current weapon of choice. One end has a textured flower that is eminently clutchable by clumsy but determined hands, while the other sports a hard rubber ball just right for delivering the killing blow with an audible bonk. I am thinking of buying the Fisher Price My First Anvil® for when he inevitably decides that rubber cushioning and unfractured skulls are for babies. Either that or the Lamaze Musical Falling Safe™. It's so hard to choose, you know?


2. He no longer requires encouragement to take a dump. Babies come equipped with this neat feature called the gastrocolic reflex. It's what signals the colon to send a load on through when food hits the stomach. It's why young babies empty their bowels while they nurse, and it's why little kids often have to leave the table during mealtimes. Only recently has Charlie begun to move his bowels on his own, without the stimulus of food, and without, I might add, parental authorization. It used to be that when we fed him, he'd strain obviously and deliver the goods with a grunt of triumph. It made it easy to know when a diaper change was necessary, and reduced collateral damage because he never sat in a dirty diaper for long. Now we never know what horrors might confront us as we pick him up after a nap or a stint in his bouncy seat — and since we have introduced solids into Charlie's diet, the horrors are horrific indeed. The increased nastiness of his issue coupled with his embrace of his newfound colonic autonomy have led me to scold him more than once, "Your duodenum is not a toy." (Note to Lamaze: stick with the falling safes.)


3. For the last few nights, Charlie has obligingly slept for more than a 9-hour stretch. I hardly know what to say about this. Given the abruptness of this shift from two evenly spaced night wakings to one, and a very late one at that, I can't really account for it. Do you think maybe he's sustained one too many blows to his as-yet hairless head?

How to alienate half your readers with one simple sentence

Charlie cries it out.

If you've been reading for a while, you might recall that when left to his own devices, Charlie takes naps of no more than 47 minutes in duration. I asked Charlie's pediatrician if there was any help for it, and she shook her head grimly. I consulted Weissbluth, who warns that children who take short naps are less adaptable, less attentive, and more likely to mow down their kindergarten class in a devastating hail of gunfire, but also says — without so much as an apology for destroying my fragile dreams — that "you cannot make short nappers into long nappers." And then I asked Charlie's neonatologist, who said, "Oh, that's easy."

"When you put him down," she said, "set a timer for an hour. Then go outside where you can't hear him, and don't go in until the timer rings." Then she paused, to give her next words special weight. "And do not," she said sternly, "take the baby monitor with you."

We started that day. At the end of the hour, when I went back inside, Charlie was just winding down. Hearing his complaints diminish, I planned to wait five more minutes before going in to see him. It didn't take even that long: before five minutes were up, Charlie was back asleep, and didn't wake again for another hour.

Since then we haven't looked back. We've made some adjustments; if he wakes much before the magical 45-minute mark, it's generally because he's hungry or has rolled over and can't get comfortable again, so one of us goes in and soothes him back to sleep, usually without difficulty. I no longer set a timer, having developed a sense of how long is long enough. And I seldom go where I can't hear him.

I think it's supposed to bother me to hear him cry. I know it bothers more experienced mothers than I. And I've heard more than once about parents who are determined to try, but crumble in the face of prolonged howling. I get the distinct impression that hearing him cry and not going to him should make me feel like my heart's being ripped, still beating, from my chest (heaving, natch, with sobs).

But I have to tell you it doesn't. I know he's not hurt, ill, hungry, soiled, or wet. He's physically fine. And though he's unhappy, it's transient and, I believe, superficial. See, I don't interpret those premature-end-of-nap cries as "Help me, I'm alone and frightened and I'm worried you'll never come back." I hear it more as, "Hey, here I am, ready to play! Hey! It's time to wake up! Heeeeeeey! Big lady-shaped person! C'mere! I've had enough sleep!" To which my response must necessarily be, "The hell you have."

About 80% of the time I'm right. Most of the time, after 10-15 minutes of low-level complaining, he settles back in for a long continuation of his nap, for a total of anywhere from two to two-and-a-half hours, a reasonable length by anyone's definition. The rest of the time, I let him round out the prescribed hour, then go to him in his crib. He stops crying immediately, and is invariably delighted to see me — not heartbroken, not inconsolable, not betrayed — just as he is when he's managed that longer nap. The difference is, when he's slept the longer stretch, I'm delighted to see him, too.

I am only too happy to trade those 10-15 minutes of crying for the sleep he certainly needs and that mutual delight. It seems like a fair exchange.

I'm well aware that people who oppose crying it out might accuse me of a lack of empathy or warn that I'm jeopardizing Charlie's trust. The only answer I have to that is to say that I do care about Charlie's feelings, passionately. It's just that I care about his obvious need for solid sleep and the collective sanity of the family a little bit more.

But then I never thought I'd be the kind of parent who couldn't leave a baby to soothe himself. I didn't feel a visceral resistance to doing so, and I never thought it was categorically cruel to hear your child cry and yet not respond. So far I see it as a means to greater household harmony, one I hope will be only temporarily necessary. After all, I don't enjoy hearing him cry...it's just that in this case it doesn't gut me.

Am I damaging our boy or our relationship? Do me a favor: if you think so, don't tell me. I won't hear it anyway. I'll be in the yard, out of earshot.

Baby got back

A quick post-vacation roundup:

Things we like: travel edition

Powdered formula container. Easy bottle-feeding on the go. Before your trip, measure the desired amount of powdered formula into each of this container's three chambers. When ravenous yodeling commences, ask a flight attendant for warm water. Dump, shake, and feed. Dishwasher safe, holds up to 4 scoops of powder, and did not come open inside my carry-on bag as I desperately rummaged through it in search of Charlie's spare outfit. (More on that in a bit.)

Bib clips. This useful item coupled with a succession of paper towels, dishcloths, and pages torn hastily from a complimentary copy of USA Today saw us neatly through twelve days of the smeariest solids. Absolutely a must for any trip on which you don't intend to take a separate suitcase full of cloth bibs. (Thank you, Kirsten and Sheri!)

Cosco Regal Ride car seat. We noticed before the trip that Charlie had outgrown his infant seat. Since he still needs a rear-facing seat until his first birthday, we decided on a lightweight convertible, one that we'll still be able to use for travel once he's eligible for a front-facing seat. At 9 pounds, it's not impossible to maneuver through an airport or down the aisle of a plane, especially when sheathed in a bag. (I cannot heartily recommend this bag in particular, as it is now in tatters and won't make another trip, but it was useful while it lasted.) But most importantly, the car seat cradled Charlie safely when our car was rear-ended at a red light — neither he nor anyone else was hurt, and, as I was sitting next to him at the time, I saw that it held him securely in place during the collision. I have already ordered another to replace it.

...

I miss Southern women.

As I waited to disembark from the plane in New Orleans, an older woman, petite and clad in hot pink from head to toe, stopped in the aisle by our seat, looked at Charlie, and crooned, "He looks like he drinks a lotta milk."

And at the Waffle House in Port Allen, Louisiana, a waitress eyed Charlie approvingly, then said in a conspiratorial tone, "He doesn't miss too many meals, does he?"

And in the New Orleans airport, a well-groomed woman in her sixties smiled indulgently as I played actively with Charlie, hoping to tire him out before boarding. When I allowed him to latch onto my chin like a corpulent remora, she asked me, "Is he your first?"

I said he was, and she chuckled knowingly. "Am I in for it?" I asked her, assuming she was laughing for a reason.

"Oh, I don't know, honey," she told me, shaking her head. "I was never blessed. We tried for a long time, but..."

I thought about telling her how hard it had been for us, wanting her to know I understood. But then I decided I probably don't understand, not exactly. I did have access to treatment that wasn't available to her when it might have helped. And I do, after all, have Charlie.

"I'm so sorry," I said, keeping it simple. "How painful."

And you know what she did? She patted my hand. An infertile woman who was never able to conceive comforted me as I ostentatiously enjoyed my beautiful laughing boy.

That, my friends, is grace.

...

Remember that gastrocolic reflex I was telling you about? Shortly after takeoff on one of our flights, I was feeding Charlie a bottle to relieve the pressure in his ears. Apparently it relieved the pressure in his bowels as well, because he almost immediately began that workmanlike grunting that heralds a giant dump in progress. He presses his lips together, furrows his brow, stares meaningfully into my eyes, and growls, "UUUUUNNNNGH." It is unmistakable, impressive, and exactly what you don't want to hear before the captain has turned off the "fasten seat belts" sign.

I bided my time, then, until it was safe to move about the cabin. From the diaper bag I retrieved our folding changing pad, whose pouches are kept stocked with fresh diapers and wipes. I politely ousted my rowmate from his aisle seat and carried a squirming Charlie down the entire length of the plane to the rear lavatory. And I set to on the plane's fold-down changing table.

All went well at the beginning. Charlie's dapper plaid shirt was rucked up under his chin; his miniature jeans were scrunched down as far as they would go without passing the clodhoppery barrier of his big-boy sneakers. This isn't so bad, I thought, daubing at the muck with one hand as I held Charlie steady with the other. And then...and then...the captain turned on the seat belt sign and the flight attendant asked everyone to return to their seats as the plane hit a pocket of turbulence.

But, you know, when you're halfway through changing a filthy diaper, that's not as simple as it sounds.

I will not describe the carnage in detail. It is probably enough to say that I ended up sitting on the floor of an airplane bathroom (which I am certain was immaculate, and do not tell me otherwise) with my undiapered, shit-smeared son alternately clutched against me as the plane bucked and rocked, and then held as far away from me as my trembling arms could manage as I tried to keep myself from getting pasted any further with curdy yellow feces.

Happily, I did have an extra outfit for Charlie and an extra shirt for myself. Unhappily, they were back at my seat in my carry-on, which I had elected not to carry down the aisle to the bathroom. When the plane was finally steady again, I took up my half-clad son, trudged back up the aisle, reeking of poo and appalling the entire complement of passengers, retrieved my bag, and closeted myself in the bathroom once again to clean up the baby, myself, and the lavatory as well as I could with a precious few wet wipes, more airplane paper towels, and one fuck of a lot of swearing.

My fervent thanks to those of you who suggested I carry a wad of large Ziplocs on my travels. My sincere apologies to everyone on Northwest Airlines flight 1476. And my nearly hysterical gratitude to the unknown innovator of those airline-size bottles of vodka.

Fast food

Stupid: going to the hippie food co-op and expecting to find organic meat baby food.

Really stupid: going to the hippie food co-op and expecting to find organic veal baby food.

...

This morning I gave Charlie stewed plums for breakfast, a food he hadn't tried yet. After his first few bites he grinned up at me, face smeared with red globs of gore, looking for all the world like he'd been snacking on fresh corpses. He doesn't need a bib with a lobster on it; he needs one of these.

...

Charlie masters the carrot (QuickTime, 3.2 MB).

The curious incident of the dog in the night-time

Every night at around 9, I ask Paul, "Do you want early or late?" This is when we decide who wakes up with Charlie for his first feeding, which takes place any time between midnight and 4, and who takes on the later shift, which might entail a feeding around 5 and includes his waking for the day around 7:30.

Paul usually chooses early. And so to bed. We both make sure our baby monitor receivers are charged, and we put them on the headboard, Paul's on, mine off. After Paul's done his shift, he turns his monitor off and mine on.

This sounds like neurotic overkill, each of us needing our own receiver, but our system evolved because neither unit holds enough power to last through the night. When they run out of juice, they make a terrifying scratchy feedback noise that sounds like the very hounds of Hell are demanding their 2 AM feeding, waking us both in a bleary panic and sending me flying — well, stumbling — naked down the hall to give Cerberus a tasty hit of puréed carrion.

Why not use an AC adaptor? Each monitor has one, but they stay permanently plugged in in our offices, where the monitors see the most use. Couldn't I get a spare? I don't know. No. Shut up. I'm trying to tell you a story.

So: two monitors. When I wake in the night, I can easily tell what Charlie's status is by checking my receiver for the glowing green "on" light.

Last night I woke several times — bathroom; more covers; nasty taste from prescription mouth rinse; paralyzing, free-floating anxiety — and looked at the receiver. No light.

Midnight. 2:30. 4:15. 6:00. No light.

8:30. No light.

For the first time in his carrot-loving life, Charlie slept through the night.

Take that, you slavering demon dog. Get your own damn bottle of gore.

Godzilla vs. Batman

Charlie is at a funny stage, and by that I mean not "funny ha-ha" but "funny Jesus Christ, this child is immense."

He weighs just shy of 23 pounds, and at last measure he was 29 inches long. He's a bit over 8 months actual; for his actual age, he falls into the 85th percentile for both length and weight. For a preemie, this is notable: children who were born early are expected to catch up to their full-term peers by age 2. Not only has Charlie done so long before that, he is currently leaving most of them in the dust.

For his corrected age, which is about six months, he is off the freaking charts. He is huge. He is enormous. When strangers marvel in their well-meaning way, I blame a minor but embarrassing nuclear accident, smile nervously, and change the subject fast.

Sometimes Charlie's bulk presents a problem. While he's where he should be in growth, as far as development is concerned he's still more in line with his adjusted age (and perhaps in some areas even a bit behind). For example, he is not yet developed enough to sit up unsupported, but he's developed enough to resent that bitterly. He wants, damn you, Mom, to sit.

He's not quite ready for most restaurant high chairs, the kind that offer little back support. Yet he's too big for an infant car seat, the only kind that can easily be carried inside. He is also too big, and too much in control of his own acquisitive hands, to balance him on my knee while I eat. It is possible, just, to eat with one hand and support him with the other as he slopes from side to side in the high chair; yesterday Paul and I enjoyed a thrilling game of Pong while we wolfed down cheesburgers, tipping him ever so gently in the other direction when he'd leaned too far to one side.

He weighs too much for his bouncy seat, bending it almost parallel to the ground the last time I strapped him in. He is too large for his Bumbo seat, which he has never especially enjoyed; I don't know whether its leg openings pinch his hammy thighs in a painful viselike grip, or whether he simply resents being restrained in that way, but he arches back so far that he comes partially out, making what I originally thought was an ingenious item into little more than a molded foam invitation to a concussion.

And so we wait. Dozens of times a day I prop him up on the floor, sitting, then move away, letting him balance on his own until he inevitably starts to wobble. I catch him. I right him. We start again. I can be patient, though it seems he cannot. Sooner or later, all 23 pounds of him will sit. And crawl. And stand.

And, one presumes, empty the contents of an entire shinkansen down his gullet with a terrible, deafening screech. Godzilla had better watch his spiny mutant back.

Six months again

Today Charlie's six months adjusted.

He rolls over with careless ease, and can travel several feet of quilt-covered floor in a very short time. While on the floor, he prefers to be on his front, and happily shoves toys into his mouth while simultaneously holding his head and chest up. He tries valiantly to crawl, knees churning, feet digging in, but ultimately settles for grabbing fistfuls of quilt and pulling himself laboriously forward. In this way he can travel entire millimeters, grunting, panting, and whining the whole time.

In the window of his room I've hung a butterfly suncatcher. He loves the butterfly and tries hard to grab it when I hold him to look out the window. Looking out the window is an easy way to distract him when he's become fractious; his window faces on the front garden, which is lately vivid and full of movement.

Today we spent a long while playing on the bed, no toys, just rolling, talking, and tickling. He prefers rough play to quiet, and is never happier than when I'm gnawing on his feet, teeth in play, or jolting him up and down hard on my knee.

His favorite toys are still very simple — a shiny rattle, a stuffed cloth ring with chewable projections, his rubber teething flower. He has not yet begun to appreciate the many kinetic charms of my personal favorite, the spinny thing, but he gamely tries to mouth it when I offer it to him.

He can blow wet raspberries, and did constantly for a few days, but seems now to have lost interest in doing so. He doesn't imitate us. He doesn't babble. His vocalization is generally limited to long consonant sounds, though rarely he will softly and tentatively muster a "guh...guh." When Paul addresses him with a long string of "ba ba ba"s in varied intonation, first he starts, snapping to attention, then stares and stares, mout