The numbers game

Chances are, when you see our little Halloween cow, it elicits some sort of awww reaction in you. I will attribute this mainly to the fact that all four of you, dear readers, are beloved friends and family. Shoot, one of you even had a hand in producing the little bugger.

We must also give credit to the universal equation of baby anything + chubs = adorable. But see, strip Ben of his moomoo, and it's revealed that he actually carries most of his weight in his chipmunk cheeks. Cue the furrowed brows and thinly disguised frowns. Perfect strangers questioning whether Ben is truly the age we claim he is. Comments such as, "Our Annie is about his size! And she's five months younger!" Let me tell you: calling someone's baby skinny has about the same pleasant effect as someone asking you if you've gained weight.

And now for the numbers game (our babies could care less what shape, size or color they or their friends are, and yet the rat race is tragically foisted upon them). Despite being born a month early, Ben weighed in at a respectable 5lbs 15oz. Nearly 6 pounds! That put him in the 8th percentile for weight. Again, keep in mind he missed out on those last few chunking up weeks. At birth he was 19" tall, which put him in the 14th percentile for height. After about a month of life, he held steady at the 8th percentile for weight, but had dropped down to the 1st percentile for height. Somewhere between his 2-month and 4-month check-ups, he dropped even further to the 1st percentile for weight, remaining at the 1st percentile for height. Still, his development was completely on track, he was social and smiley, and remember, those cheeks are deceptive. Everyone poo-pooed this neurotic mother when she mentioned he seemed underweight, even our new pediatrician on Bainbridge. They would politely point to my small frame and dwarf-like height. As well as DH's. I don't have any photo evidence of myself handy, as my dad shot all slide film when I was a baby, but I can assure you I was fat. Here, DH is about half Ben's age and just look at the belly on that kid. Some things never change:

And so, although our doc assured us there was no need for concern, I stubbornly refused to stop worrying. Feeding Ben had turned into an absolute nightmare (this kid does not like breastmilk. He does not like any of the major brands of formula. Rest assured, every option has been exhausted. New nipples. Various flows of nipples. New bottles. Distraction. Lack of distraction. Standing (him!), sitting, reclining, strapped into a baby carrier, all manner of positions. Indoors, al fresco. Naked, clothed. Cold, warm, tepid. Bright, dark. Food for thought: it seems there is no shortage of well-meaning advice for new moms, and thank you very much, but all we really want is one hour to ourselves or maybe to be able to sleep again one day. We're all full up on unsolicited advice around here.) Case in point: on a recent weekend, Ben stayed with some of my aunts while I attended a wedding. They loved having him, and he adored playing with them, but when I asked how many little 4-oz bottles they thought he had, the number was a shocking 2 the first day and 3 the next. This, people, is not even enough to keep his eyeballs wet, but that was the result of "letting him tell us when he's hungry." Even DH can barely feed Ben; really, it seems the only two people in the world capable of giving Ben a bottle are myself and my sister. That is, unless you're driving, or it's the middle of the night and you're cozy in bed. As long as it is somewhat inconvenient to you, typically, Ben will take a bottle quickly and quietly, without issue.

As if there wasn't already enough guilt* that he arrived early, I now felt the weight of an underfed baby on my shoulders. Where most healthy babies were requesting multiple milk bongs, there was nothing I could do to make this kid take down anything even closely resembling a normal amount of breastmilk or formula. Sure, if I had nursed him, I wouldn't have known how much he was getting. Yet, his weight checks would have likely raised a red flag and La Leche Leaguers would have been called in on a bullhorn. Since I pumped initially and then moved on to formula, I knew—know—exactly how much nutrition this baby receives any given day. Not nearly enough. But if there is one thing I've learned, it's that you cannot force your child to eat (or to do anything, really). Pushing too hard has a deleterious effect not only on his relationship with food, but his relationship with you. Eating should be a pleasurable, nonchalant, everyday experience. In rational moments, I understand this. I am working really hard to let go of the fact that my kid is a little less than concerned with sustenance. Luckily, he does enjoy actual food much more than his liquid diet. And at his age, most babies are up to 3 meals/day and a couple of snacks - so essentially, 5 meals/day on top of their bottles/boobs.

However, the marching orders from our 9-month check-up yesterday (with our third pediatrician, this one here in Seattle, for the love of...) were somewhat disconcerting. Despite Ben's love of "food food," we're to stick to just a couple of meals a day, in hopes Ben will at least maintain his current level of formula consumption. We're to add butter and olive oil to everything he eats. We're to add whipping cream to each of his bottles. In short, someone finally listened to me, and the kid needs fattening up. While I'm completely on board with helping this kid gain some weight, DH and I have a new set of worries. Are babies really immune to artery-clogging? Will we permanently distort Ben's virgin palate, which heretofore gladly accepted kale, lentils, beets and the like—100% pure, unadulterated—into some sort of fat-lusting, butter-grubbing monster?

Oh friends, it's never easy, is it? And yet, I fully realize we have a happy, mostly healthy baby on our hands. He's hitting all his milestones, laughing more often than not, and he's put up with a fair amount of change and other BS since exiting his cozy womb. This recent story in the NYTimes really puts things in perspective (spoiler alert: if you cry easily, don't read it at work). Our problems are small (no pun intended), and life is good. We're off to another out of town wedding tomorrow, so have a good weekend. I'll see you guys back here next week.

*Oh, you haven't heard? Working 80-hour weeks is, apparently, not the most brilliant thing you can do in the third trimester. Standing for eight hours in a cramped and dirty ER, wondering if your dad is going to be ok has about the same marginal benefit. Attempting to sell your home, cleaning nooks and crannies of said home on hands and knees because the mop was already packed, and then moving into a new home in the dead of winter - somewhat less than ideal a month out from your due date. All you workaholic pregos, please take heed and for God's sake, kick those heels up once in a while.

Turning point

After a good stretch of rain last week, we finally had a dry moment on Sunday. Though it was close to baby bedtime, we ventured out for a walk to the park. Lots of neighbors had the same idea. In Seattle, you learn the importance of carpe diem! 

So we were rewarded with some socializing. And, we even found a giant leaf, a beautiful testament to the circle of life.

We've had a lot of rain lately, but on the best of days, there's a turning point when the rain abates and huzzah! The clouds clear. If we're lucky, we even get a warm spot of sun. Furthermore, if the stars align, this moment occurs just as I've wrapped up work, finished cleaning up around the house, and Ben's stretching and yawning awake from his nap. The thing about seizing the moment is that you have to be ready for it. We can steer our lives as best we can, but the universe seems to be on its own stubborn course much of the time. You just have to trust that the universe has got your back. Not always easy after a blistering run of challenges, say, but things really do even out somehow. Kind of like watching oven fries (one of my all-time favorites) bake. You have to anticipate goodness, know that the goodness will come, but it pays to wait as patiently as you can. Those fries aren't any good until they've crisped and browned just so. Babies really seem to get the whole carpe diem thing. No matter how late they go to sleep, they're up and at 'em early the next morning, same time as usual. They want to make sure they're ready for anything!

 

Miracle of miracles, we're having one such moment here this morning, so that's it for today. No matter that I haven't even showered, gotta get the kid out for some fresh air! 

Friday Fiction

Conspiracy

They're in on it together,
Old Queen Bed and Dowdy Master Bath
Tugging at the ends
Of the earth
Faster, faster, they chant.

Days grow stingy with light as
Autumn extends its chilly hand.
We steal a few more moments, then,
Wrapped in the cocoon of
Slumber or steam, sometimes both.

It's not me, it's you

After a long flight made even longer by a cold (me), lack of sleep (both), and baby haters for seatmates, Ben and I (surprisingly) made it back late Monday night. We were welcomed home with airport pick-up, broccoli pasta (a cheap and easy staple in our household), and a disgustingly spotless house. DH is always trying to make me look bad. Well, it feels good to be home. Wait, did I just call Seattle home? Another post for another day.

A few incidents occurred over the past week that lodged, stubbornly, in my mind. In college, I took a course on linguistics as it related to society, and in particular, gender. With Robin Lakoff as our muse, the working hypothesis was that discourse differs pretty fundamentally between men and women, in ways that heavily impact status. Some of you will hate me for writing this, but Lakoff's assertion is that men have a tendency to assert themselves with direct, unapologetic language. Even if what they're stating is utter nonsense. Whereas us women often employ qualifiers, hedges (i.e. kind of, seems like) and lean towards statements ending with a question. Sort of true, right? <wink> Lakoff's studies weren't based on quantitative research, to my knowledge, but it's still food for thought.

You're welcome to rail against my anti-feminist bent here, and I in turn will applaud you for it. Because I'd rather not have a confrontation with you. Ok, all joking and sweeping generalizations aside, I'll speak for myself here. I believe people talk differently, but I don't think it's split down any vast gender divide. In both camps you have your assertive people and then you have your doormats. Of course there's the in-between, but really, pick a stance already. In my head, I'm dashingly assertive (aren't we all), but somehow in practice, I end up a doormat. I'm not sure how this was ingrained in me, but I know I'm not alone. Rather than appear insulting or disagreeable (by correcting, disagreeing, debating, or downright arguing), I go with the flow, pretending not to hear things that I most definitely heard, giving humanity the benefit of the doubt time and time again. Taking the high road ironically equating to spineless and insecure.

Because aren't the offhand sleights themselves typically rooted in ignorance? Insults, racist remarks, ignorant yet inexcusable comments. Born of insecurity, when you get right down to it.

Historically, I have not found it in myself to call anyone out on said ignorance, but as a mother, I'm reconsidering. I can't let my son, half-Asian, grow up thinking it's okay if someone makes fun of his eyes or calls him Chinese. Yes, people, this goes on. Yes, it is 2011. What kind of example do I set for him if I continue to just let these things go by? Lest you think I'm merely on some racial soapbox, I assure you that's not the point. Ignorance takes all kinds. With a bit of self awareness, it can grow to something lovely, yearning, hungry for knowledge. More often than not it takes the path of least resistance, manifested through all manner of negative groupthink and the scarier of the -isms: fundamentalism, conservatism, chauvinism, old boys' clubism, racism, and so on.

All this to say, you know something? Maybe it's the rain today, or the woman who was blocking the entire entrance to the grocery store with her cart as she stared at her phone, this woman who, when I said "Excuse me," responded, "No problem." Whatever the case, to all the ignoramuses out there (doormats, unite and join me in this mantra, now): It's not me, it's you.

Bah

Despite attempts at channeling my inner hedgehog, I haven't been a very good late night writer the past few nights (wait, am I saying hedgehogs tend to be writers? I meant to refer to the fact that they're predominantly nocturnal. cue: end post.) I've got a bunch of spreadsheets to organize yet before leaving for Chicago on Thursday morning, so my head is a bit of a jumble. Bah. Look for me next week, about this time. And have a great week, guys.

Not quite Friday, not quite fiction

Boundary

Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t
I wouldn’t mind limbo here
Bobbing in the far offing, the corner
Of ceiling and sea
 
I would be red, I think
Vibrating against the hues of refraction
You could find me whenever
That way
 
Dusk closed in fast
Not quite as I pictured it
Yet here we are, this gown
Probed by tubes of bland sustenance
 
I wasn’t ready, but to prepare
I prepare you
Look for me wherever sky turns to water
And salt hangs, wet, in the air

Bearing gifts

It's quiet here. Ben is fast asleep. DH is in Anchorage. Whenever he goes out of town, I have a little problem with insomnia. At any rate, there is no one around to raise an eyebrow when I start pulling out pots and pans at 10pm. Tomorrow we're headed to Bainbridge to visit a friend with two boys under two who just moved into a new house. She's a lawyer, and goes into the office in Seattle one day a week. She and I met on the ferry, which I think about sums up our relationship. She was my first real friend here, and our weekly meet-ups brought an instant sense of steady cruising amid a very turbulent transition period, adjusting to a new life in a new place with our newish 3-month-old. I sometimes have a hard time getting excited about change. I just felt DH's eyebrow go up, all the way from Alaska. Ok, so maybe it's more often than sometimes. I'm a July baby; home and environment have a large impact on my daily outlook.

Anyway, what started out as a plan to take lunch over to the new place and help her unpack/watch her boys has somehow morphed into a session of applesauce prep and canning. Apparently, she practically has an orchard growing in the front yard. I'm giddy at the thought of getting involved with all that chunky goodness, not to mention the catching up we'll be able to do over those wafts of cinnamon and earthy fruit. Afterwards, Ben and I will head over to check in with my employers at their home office. They're such a lovely couple, with an even lovelier dwelling. They have chickens! And a pond! In their yard! Big enough for a wee rowboat (which their kids still use once in a while)! As I haven't exactly hit my numbers this month, I'll show up bearing gifts. Courtesy of The Happiest Belly on the Block's blogroll, I found a recipe for pumpkin fudge that sounded autumnally (ok, not a word, but hey) spicy and perfect for adding a little sweetness to both of our visits. I will say that it would probably work better to use a dutch oven (or something around 5-qt size) than the medium saucepan that the recipe calls for. I kind of ran out of room towards the end. I don't have pumpkin pie spice, so I just cobbled together some spices from the pantry—cloves, ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg. Also, if you have sensitive hands, you might consider wearing an oven mitt while stirring the boiling concoction. It jumped and splattered like excited bacon grease onto my hands quite a few times. Oh, and I toasted the pecans, but I'm sure that skipping this step wouldn't make or break anything, nor would forgetting the nuts altogether. It's the sort of treat that—as my grandma would have said—will give you a toothache just thinking about it, but I can't wait to slice into it tomorrow.

 

There's a pan of creamy, golden parmesan-roasted squash cooling on the counter alongside that pumpkin fudge. My lawyer friend and her family are vegetarians, and I know I should have made something healthier, but this sounded warm and comforting; easy to transport on the ferry and throw in the oven while we go about our saucing. And, oh, it's meant to be a side dish, but I'm making it into a main. The smell of it roasting tonight affirmed my decision. I'm bringing some arugula and a pear to have alongside, so that offsets the richness a bit, doesn't it?

It's late and it's dark, so I'm sorry to say that pix are a lost cause. If I can, I'll add a few onto the post tomorrow morning before we head to the island.

iAlone

You'll never believe it, but I've been working on this post on and off since Ben was napping this morning. Rest in peace, Steve Jobs. Maybe you'll have the great fortune of meeting our dear Frankie* up there.

Being blessed with creative friends means that almost everyone I know (myself included) skews Apple. Just last week, even my 72-year-old father—who worked as an engineer at IBM longer than I have been alive—switched to an iPhone. Not only am I one of the few without an iPhone, now that there isn't an employer paying for my data plan, I don't even own a smartphone. I just have your basic, run-of-the-mill mobile phone.

Crazy enough, all this connectivity is relatively recent, and smartphones in particular didn't enter our lives until about a decade ago. Even the pinnacle of mobility, the iPhone, has only been in our hot little paws since 2007. It seems like it's been around far longer than that. Am I the only one having technological amnesia, or do others out there have a hard time remembering life before iPhone? Perhaps owing to our rapt attention towards all things Apple, these amazing advances just run together now.

Depending on where the moon is in its orbit, I'll admit I'm prone to some occasional theatrics while conversing with DH. However, I don't think I'm being dramatic when I say (and I often say): our parents never had cellphones! and they were fine! and we turned out fine! (Ok, maybe I am a little bit dramatic). The fact of the matter is, the world is moving quicker than I care to keep up. There are days that DH and I fantasize about living somewhere really remote, far from cellphone signals and wireless internet, in hopes that Ben won't demand an iPad at age three. We quickly follow that up with visions of our degenerate child, unable to keep up or perform in life due to our hobbit life, and we know that somehow we must find a balance between the two extremes. In our pre-Ben days, I marveled at the druglike effects that a smartphone and its myriad offerings could have on a baby. I thought to myself, my baby won't need an iPhone. 

Life with baby: precious snuggles, giggles, and other general heartmelt. Life with baby, also: sudden onset of attention redirect disorder (difficulty paying attention to anything other than baby when in baby's presence, especially heightened once baby is mobile), much left unfinished (even sentences), and resorting to measures you thought you were above (particularly while sweating, flustered, looking around apologetically due to the tempest brewing in your stroller).

I've been rethinking a lot of ideas I had about parenting before becoming a parent. Funny how baby, your baby, arrives just in time to set you straight. I'm not above anything anymore, especially when it comes to buying a few minutes of calm. Which is not to say that I'm getting an iPhone. Not yet, anyway.

*We miss you, Frankie.

Turn, turn, turn

It finally turned chilly enough here that the electric fireplace (still quite a novelty for this girl who grew up with gas) has bumped the coffeemaker down to second in command on morning duty. We've traded in baseball for football, peaches for pumpkins, and flip-flops for fleeces. The sun is on flextime. Coughs and sniffles fill the air.

Fall has arrived. And with it, our baby's first cold. Following suit, DH caught it the day after. Hopefully he kicks it before he heads off to Alaska for work this week. The two are finally both napping, the kitchen is tidied, laundry whirring in the dryer. A moment of peace. A moment which, dear reader, I'm glad I get to share with you.

On Friday night, congested and crying so hard he threw up, Ben had me feeling like public enemy #1. After we got him cleaned, calmed and tucked back in for the night, I ran through the previous few days trying to pinpoint where and when Ben caught his little bug. As our circle expands in Seattle, Ben has the opportunity to socialize more often. Which is adorable, albeit a little messy. Babies are awfully forward, even on a first date. Fingers probe, saliva gets swapped, belongings are mouthed by all. Theirs is an equal-opportunity inquisitiveness.

I realized it doesn't matter how Ben got sick. There will be many more sniffles along the way. Heaven help us, there will be times we'll be wishing it was something as minor as a cold. But we can't stop Ben from exploring the world around him. It's important for him to spend time in new places, making friends. It's important for me to spend that time meeting friends, too. If we're lucky, Ben will get a tiny boost to his immunity with every bug. Until the next season.

Friday Fiction goes Saturday

How are you guys? I missed you the past few days. Ben came down with his first cold, so we've set up Sick Kid Bay here on the hill. Luckily, Sick Ben is less needy than Sick DH.

Here's an excerpt from a short story I'm working on. 

<Working title: To Go> 

Sunhee stared as buildings became toys. Green and brown ran together faintly, like a sad seaweed soup scraped together from empty cupboards. Puffy stratocumuli appeared and disappeared like steamed rice buns in someone’s hungry dream. The constant thrum of non-noise blanketed anonymous emissions, coughs and burps, sighs. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her belly with both hands. With Soojin running out of space in there, Sunhee found it difficult to get comfortable even while stretched out on her bedroll on the floor. Now, shrinking away from her chain-smoking husband, her bulbous body propped unnaturally forward, she thought that perhaps Soojin wasn’t the only one feeling stuck. 

The lights blinked and Sunhee looked around, alarmed. Both of them unable to speak English, a heavy blanket of dread had settled on her shoulders ever since Minsu got the message from his cousin in Chicago that there was work for him at the factory. She had not left Busan in the nineteen years since her birth, and the arrival of this day had surprised her, despite the month of anticipation. Early that morning her brother-in-law had driven them to the airport with a borrowed car that seemed to run only in fits and starts. Half-drunk, as was his custom, he swore at mopeds and pedestrians who narrowly escaped his unlicensed path as they rumbled out of Busan. Even with the windows open, the sweltering, muggy morning was more concentrated inside the car than out, like a jar of fermenting kimchee. Her husband Minsu snored with his mouth open for most of the drive, quieting now and again for a cigarette. Sunhee arrived at the airport sweating and sick to her stomach. She had no family but Minsu, but in Busan she had her tailoring job and a few friends.