The Strong, Silent Type

After reading every book and website on speech delays, and after having a brief visit with a speech-language pathologist (SLP), we had Zephyr evaluated for developmental delays last Wednesday, and it turns out he is completely, smack-dab-in-the-middle-of-the-normal-curve normal. Except for speech. That part, he's only 79th centile.

Normally, they wouldn't consider this a far enough deviation from normal to qualify him for federally-funded therapy, but luckily the SLPs that evaluated him used their best professional judgment to determine that he'd be a good candidate for speech therapy. He might just be a late bloomer, or he might end up with literacy problems later if we don't do something now, early.

So now we wait for the Individualized Family Service Plan (IFSP) to arrive, and then we can start weekly, in-home speech training. I reckon most of the training will be for me and Scott, to help us help Zephyr. In the meantime, I just try to play with him more intently, annunciate more intentionally, use proper English instead of "toddlerese," though we still use the "toddlerese" to quell his thunderstorms, which come and go with frustrating frequency as he cuts four molars and four canines simultaneously, and is unable to communicate much further than pointing and nodding. And disdah. Disdah is, I think, "this is a car."

As in:

Disdah.

But dis is still used to tell me about other things he's observing. Like the white clovers in the garden and the busy little Hymenopteran sisters tending their nectar.

He tells me there are bees here, matter-of-factly. My budding naturalist loves squatting low to watch industrious honeybees and bumblebees, and buzzes alongside them. He loves blowing the fluffy achenes off of dandelions, and perfectly imitating the guttural melody of the American crow.

We spend lots of time at the park, providing happy respite from boredom (for both of us). We usually go in the early morning, so we have the whole place to ourselves. This doesn't really do his social development any favors, but it does help us avoid interactions like the one we had the other day. There's this one mom in the neighborhood, and her son, Liam, is about 6 months older than Zephyr. He's a really skinny little kid, almost always in her lap. He's verbally advanced for his age, but seems pretty shy and xenophobic and may have a social/emotional delay. Thing is, he always has really cool cars with him, which are irresistible to Zephyr. So like any other toddler, Zephyr grabbed one off the ground and started to try to take off with it to play. The other mom scoops up Liam, says something like "you don't want him to play with your car, do you?" and Liam buries his face in her neck and sort of says no, shaking his head.

This is the second time Zephyr has tried to play with this kid's toys at the park, so obviously he's established a pattern of behavior. This woman says to me, "he probably just senses that he can easily dominate Liam."

Yes, you stupid bitch, my 20 month-old son is a cold-blooded predator, can sense weakness in your son, and knew he'd easily overpower him to get what he wanted. He's cold-blooded, merciless and calculating. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he is a FUCKING TODDLER and the part of his brain that feels empathy or understands the concept of sharing has literally not grown yet. But go ahead and keep treating your son like a helpless victim. That should bode well for him socially, especially if he stays in the 10th centile for weight. You can protect him his whole life.

I muttered an apology, took the car away from Zephyr, handed it back and Zephyr started crying. I picked him up and we took off. If we see them again, I think I'll just tell Zephyr that Liam is too scared to play and we'll go to the other end of the park where he can't hurt anyone. The funny thing is, our friend's boy, Jude, is 14 months old, and takes cars from Zephyr all the time. Zephyr cries, then when it's time to part, we take the car from Jude and he cries. No one thinks Jude is a sociopath for not knowing how to share, and since Zephyr has almost ten pounds on Jude, it's clearly not that Jude thinks he can dominate Zephyr. I honestly don't know how anyone can go into parenthood without at least knowing that toddlers think everything is "mine."

But I can see how she'd think that Zephyr's a monster. I mean, look at this face.

Diabolical.

Walky Talky

Oh, what a long time it's been since I last updated this blog. Such a bad mommy I am! I've had lots of other writing to do, and I guess I let things slide around here a bit.

Zephyr can walk now - measurable distances, even. He slowly, carefully makes his way across the living room. It's funny, when he's holding something such as a sippy cup, he covers much more ground and with less trepidation than when he is consciously walking.

Other than that, not a whole lot is different. He said the word 'medicine' last night, then repeated it twice to assure us it wasn't an accident. "Mmmm-dsin," he says sweetly, yearning for that candy-syrup Tylenol. We only give it to him at night, when his impending molars seem to genuinely fuck with his head.


Actually, the persistent waking has gotten so out of hand that we finally had to draw the line, and began the night weaning process last night. No, let me be more specific: we are sleep training him, for reals this time. We were having pretty good success with just letting Scott go in and give him a hug, but at 17 months, he really should not be waking up every couple hours hollering at the top of his lungs. Somewhere along the way, he forgot how to just suck his thumb or resettle, and learned to shout for us. So now, no more rocking him back to sleep in the middle of the night. We go in, pat him on the back, give him his blankie and wish him a good night. No more nursing in the night. He hates this. Last night, the first one, was very rough. From around 1:00am to 3:00am none of us slept. Scott didn't get back to sleep until about an hour before his alarm went off.

Today we're all pretty exhausted, but we'll survive. Hopefully it won't take long to get him squared away again.

I'll post again as there are updates, but for now, I'm just looking forward to Mother's Day with my guys.

Fluffer Nutter

Here's Zephyr an hour before surgery last Wednesday, giving the proverbial thumbs-up, being a strong little trooper at the hospital and charming the shit out of everyone. His surgery went well, and he's recovering nicely. I even held it together, only crying a little, and only once. It wasn't even over Zephyr per se, it was over some little boy being pushed on a gurney to or from surgery. The little boy was really scared and was just wailing. It just really hit a nerve and I had to duck into the waiting room kitchen for a tissue.

Rather, when Zephyr woke up from his sedation in the recovery room, I heard him crying from down the hall and went into Mother Bear mode, all raw adrenaline, and ran to him, undoing my shirt on the way. It felt amazing to be the thing he needed, to hold him and make him feel safe and loved. The nurse in the recovery room tried to cover me up to give me privacy, but coming off the heels of Big Latch On (in which we participated) I righteously shrugged off the blanket and insisted that more people should see a mother nursing her infant. The other mothers (their personal feelings on public breastfeeding notwithstanding) didn't notice, though, because they were too busy staring love at their own cubs.

But that's all done now, and he's healing up quite nicely. Now he can get back to the unfortunate business of cutting his two upper incisors. These ones are really fucking him in the head - for the first time, today he pulled away from the breast mid-nurse just to arch and sob. Not even cherry-flavored codeine could chase this pain, and it took sheer exhaustion (ours and his) to get him to nap for more than 20 minutes today. Adding insult to injury, this nap came at 3:30pm, so I had to wake him up after only an hour and a half so we could still get him to bed on time.

Good news, though: Zephyr has just learned that pressing his face against the mesh of his pack 'n play a) feels interesting and b) gets major laughs. He likes getting laughs. Since he can't hang out in his exersaucer while his nuts recover from being helped into their new location, he's been spending a little more time in his little pen. Or as I like to think of it: "Baby's First Prizzin!" Scott said he even saw Zephyr running his little cup along the mesh, like a prisoner running a rusty tin cup across the bars of a jail cell.

He got to spend a little time hanging out with his cousins Logan, Ellie and Charlotte over the weekend last week, which he loved. He absolutely adores them, for obvious reasons: they are hilarious and completely rapt with him, and this is a winning combination in his book.

To top things off, his Grandma was in town. It's been so great having her around this week - not for the help, necessarily, but because she is in love with Zephyr, and he with her.

Oh, his new trick of the week: demonstrative word recognition (is that a thing)? Besides "mommy" or "dada," that is. We've been seeing quite a few squirrels outside our window since I refilled the bird feeder. These are basically smaller versions of our cats, as far as he's concerned, and he screams with excitement when he sees them. New trick: we were reading I Am a Bunny and got to the page that shows the squirrels in their tree with the acorns and all that, and I said, "look! there's a squirrel!" to Zephyr, and he looked up and out the window at the tree where the squirrels normally hang out. It blows my mind that he's already absorbing information - my work is just beginning.

He has had such a great week overall. Plus, his nuts are finally in their proper place, so there's that.

Yay!

Infanta Dentata

He's teething. We hate it. Yet, Zephyr manages to (mostly) keep on a happy face.

Mostly.

...it just doesn't stick around as long as it used to.

Hopefully they'll cut the rest of the way through soon. In the meantime, we're giving him Tylenol, frozen mango and lots of hugs.

Wazzberries

Wazzberries (wāz'běr'ēz) n. the soft sound of a baby blowing a zephyr through his lips and tongue; "blfblfbbltlfbltfblt." Not to be confused with raspberries, the small, aggregate fruits that a Zephyr enjoys eating directly from neighborhood bushes whilst on strolls to the store.

So, it's been kind of a helluva week. Of course, it was the dreaded 4th of July last weekend, and I think any but the most redneck parent of an infant or small child curses Independence Day with fist aclench and brow afurrow. Zephyr did okay, I guess, all things considered. As usual, we kept his room pitch dark (but for a night light) and kept two loud, cool fans running to lull him into white noise oblivion. But a few epic booms from illegal fireworks (likely purchased from the 'Couve, Portland's armpit neighbor to the north) finally took their toll, and he was up at 11:00, crying, needing to be nursed back to sleep.

And then, as he has done every night for the past week, he woke up again at 3:00am. We thought those days were behind us. We were out of the woods! But, no.

Every night for a week, Zephyr has woken up once, sometimes twice, unable to put himself back to sleep. It varied - sometimes 4:00, then 3:00, 2:30, 5:00. Sometimes he'd wake only two or three hours after being put to bed. Last night he went back to sleeping straight through to 6:00, but who knows what tonight holds in store?

He's also been a bit of a grumpus the past week or so. Granted, this is Zephyr's version of grumpin', so it means he frowns and says "buhbuhbuh", not that he's throwing tantrums or anything. But lately, unless we actively distract him by singing or playing, he will cry actual hair-wetting tears almost every time we try to change his diaper or get him into a sleep sack for bed. I can't figure out what's going on with him that makes him this upset. So we just keep singing and goofing at him to distract.

We have, though, figured out that "buhbuhbuh" is his frustration/pissed off word, as it is always accompanied by a scowl (I like to think he's sounding out the word "bitch"). Other words: "dwadwadwa" (happy, excited, interested) or "blftlbltfbbttltft" (wazzberries of contentment). And this morning he finished one breast, said "moh" (more?) and then moved to the other breast to keep eating.

I think he's going to have teeth any day now, for real this time. He gnaws anything that drifts into his field of vision, and I can actually see the bumps under the gums. So, any day. This will be exciting for his diet, too, since he has recently developed the pincer-like grasp that separates him from the other primates! He can grab blueberries and get them to his mouth, and other finger foods will follow his ability to chew them.

His new favorite foods are pretty much anything that we eat, undumbed, but chopped up for his tiny craw. He loves my minestrone, and grits with blue cheese and corn, and I made him some tomato-roasted red pepper soup with tiny star-shaped pastina, and it tastes exactly like Spaghettios. On these hot days, he really loves shoving a whole wedge of cold watermelon into his mouth and gumming the rind while sucking the sweet juice. I also made him a smoothie by blending strawberries with frozen breast milk, and he really seemed to enjoy that.

Here's Zephyr hanging out with his towheaded friend Zane at the Stanley's raspberry party. Hopefully when they're a bit older they'll form a supergroup of z-named kids and will take over the playground.

Juneuary

It's the end of June, yet look how bundled I have to keep Zephyr. And the heat's still on! It's been such a cold spring this year. We've broken several records for precipitation and low temperatures. I guess I don't mind that much - it's easier to bundle Zephyr up in cozy layers than to cool him off, and his room is nice and dark and cool for blissful slumber. My tomato plants are hating it, but I can't say I really care. The rain doesn't keep us indoors, not one whit.

Just because I have a baby now doesn't mean I love children. I still sort of find most of them annoying, especially the little girl across the street. She's about 5 or so, and always hollering or crying or singing in that nasal Little Orphan Annie voice. The world is her stage, god help us all. But a long as it keeps raining, the insufferable Little Princess of Darkness stays indoors.

Anyways, this post is very late because we had our hands full with planning Scott's birthday pig roast (plus I had a lot of work-work to do last week, boo). And to celebrate his first Father's Day, I did (almost) all of the chores and party cleanup the following day. Three days of prep, one day of go-time, and one day of cleanup, and I'm just tired. But Zephyr performed admirable at his first shindig - he played happily with his baby friends, made a nekkid appearance (while I paraded him around, holding him over my head yelling, "blood for the blood god!") and then went right to sleep at bedtime.

You're probably thinking, "god, does that baby ever make any other face?" The answer is no, no he doesn't. Oh wait, here's a different one (though he was in the middle of getting his grin ready, and not really screwing his face up in a frump).

Who Gives a Shit?

After a couple weeks of eating rice, bananas, squash, and anything else I could find and cook up for this kid, Zephyr has experienced his first bout of constipation. He hadn't pooped all week, so at his 6-month checkup on Friday I asked his doc, who told me not to worry about it unless he had very hard, small shits (but in a more doctor-y tone).

Over the weekend he strained to shit numerous times, but to no avail. His backed-up tummy was preventing him from getting comfy enough to take afternoon naps (and this was starting to trickle into the night sleep), so finally, yesterday, we decided to do something about it. We picked up some Pedia-Lax - suppositories of glycerin that come loaded in an "anatomically-correct applicator." Scott and I had a good, creeped-out laugh wondering what part of the anatomy it was supposed to correctly resemble, but they're basically a soft plastic pipette of liquid glycerin that you squirt up the baby's butt. I cautiously and apologetically administered the glycerin to Zephyr's pinched behind and he made the biggest, reddest "I'm poopin" face you ever saw on a baby. I felt too bad for him to remember to take a photo of this face (plus I was trying not to laugh). Scott and I exchanged uncomfortable looks and sympathetic words of support to our struggling baby, as I gently massaged his tummy in a clockwise motion.

Baby's first "Fuck you, Mom!"

An hour later, success! We had a poo. But it was a tiny stone of a poo, and I knew there was more. I fed him some apricots and greens, got him into bed for the night, and figured we'd try again today. This afternoon, he slept like the dead. Almost 4 hours. I ended up finally waking him up at 5:20 so I could keep him on schedule for bedtime. As I went to change his post-nap dipe, he started crying pitifully. He often needs a bit of a snuggle and chat before his diaper change when he wakes up, so Scott and I hugged him for a bit, then put him back onto the changing table, singing and goofing at him to stave off the tears. There was another tiny poo in his diaper, wedged up in his butt crack. Hooray!

Then, suddenly, came tears. A torrent of real tears, accompanied by cries of pain. He was straining to pass another poo, a big, dry, hard poo that was obviously hurting his tiny tushy! It was so sad to see my baby suffering, but what can you do? Yes, I finally grabbed that hard poo and tried to pull it out, but it broke off and his butt closed back, keeping the rest inside. I called the pediatrician, and we'll be therefore giving him a wee teaspoon of milk of magnesia tomorrow to help soften his stools (I'll also give him another round of glycerin to help him slide out the last of that mean old poo). And from now on, high-fiber foods will be dominant, and we'll be having less bananas and rice.

Other news from his 6-month check-up: at 27.5", he is off the charts for length for his age. They actually said he's in the 100th centile, and Scott and I laughed at this reporting error. "He's the tallest baby in the world!" He's dropping in rank for weight - 19lbs lands him at the 80th centile. His head is catching up with his body though, and has grown from the 50th to 80th centiles.

Zephyr also got his third round of shots. We thought about waiting until the 9 month visit, but we figured we may as well do it now while he still smiles at strangers. We braced ourselves for the screams that come with the injections, but they never came. The first two shots, not a peep out of Zeph. The third shot, only a yelp. Our brave little Viking took those shots like a champ.

So yeah, it's been an uneventful week. Sometimes shit doesn't happen.

Mommy Dearest

He used to be such a good sleeper. Brag-worthy four- and five-hour blocks of time were spent catching up on restful sleep, allowing us all to recharge and face our days, all smiles and productivity. But for the past few nights - hell, maybe a week or two? - I haven't gotten more than three hours of sleep at a time. In fact, the three hour chunk happened only a handful of times over the past week. More often, these days, Zephyr wakes up every two hours or less, wants to nurse, and is difficult to lay back down (even though he falls asleep while nursing). During the day, it lately takes an hour to get him down to sleep for thirty minutes. Scott badly wants to help, but alas, he lacks the breasts that allow Zephyr to succumb to deep, lengthy sleep (when I take time for myself, it's always at the expense of Zeph's nap schedule).

I feel like I'm completely losing my shit, and I'm shocked at how quickly I go from a creamy Madonna to a hanger-wielding harpy when my precious sleep is compromised. Sometimes I get so frazzled that it takes an hour or more for me to get back to sleep (and by the time this happens, Zephyr often starts fussing again). Then I crumble into frustrated tears and wonder what I was ever thinking, deciding to have a kid.

I should put things into perspective, though. He is still the sweetest, goofiest, smiliest and happiest little baby I've ever met. He grins so big that it splits his face in two. He is not a difficult baby at all, not by any stretch of the imagination. The little guy is teething, and is covered in eczema that he scratches until it bleeds. He is merely guilty of being a baby: mutable, unpredictable, inconstant. He evolves at an hourly rate.

What kind of monster loses her cool at a tiny baby, just because he won't sleep? This one, evidently. During those wee hours of sleeplessness, I worry that I will never be good enough for my precious little changeling. I spend so much time in that dark place in my heart that tells me that I can never be the mother that my son deserves. I have spent the better part of my life obsessing about being the polar opposite of my intolerant, dictator father (the dominant parent in my family), but I am terrified that, if pushed, I might still have his capacity for violence. The worst thing that can happen to Zephyr is for him to be raised by someone who hates children.

In case you have already dialed six of the seven digits to call Adult and Family Services, I should let you know that I don't beat my infant with a hanger, or shake him, or anything like that (I have yelled at him, though, I'll admit it). It's just that my own anger frightens me. It's so early in this ride - how awful will I be when, in a couple years, he starts throwing tantrums in the grocery store? Or when actually looks me in the eye and talks back?

In the meanwhile, I will learn to take deep breaths. I will take Zephyr's nap-free days as opportunities to play more and count my blessings that he is such a joyful creature. And I will hope fervently to gain the grace that only restful sleep can bring.

(Note: as I finished typing this, Zephyr just woke up from a 3.5-hour nap. Just to prove me wrong and make me look a harpy fool. Little bastard.)

The doughnut shop is now open

Okay, last time, I promise. I'm gonna talk about sleep again. We had a little breakthrough this week. I should say, I figured out a few things, just by taking a step out from all up in Zephyr's Kool-Aid, so to speak. Get this: if I leave him alone after he wakes up in the first half hour of his nap, HE FALLS BACK TO SLEEP ON HIS OWN. I know, right? If I just leave him the fuck alone, he sorts that shit out all by himself. My coddling and doting was just reinforcing his awakeness, and he seriously only fusses for like a minute or two (I timed it) and then quiets back down to sleep. And then he sleeps for two and half more hours. Brilliant. I suppose it's kinda like moms rushing to their kid's scraped knee is what really makes the kid cry, not the scrape.

We had his 4-month checkup on Friday, and he's still in the 95th centile for weight (at 18 lbs., slightly less than I thought) and 97th centile for length (at 26"). Dr. Martin is really laid back and thinks Zephyr is doing great, told us to ignore the books that say the babies are supposed to sleep through the night at his age. Of course, I can't. I decide she's just trying to make us feel better and take matters into my own hands.

So, last night I decide we're gonna try our hand at sleep training. I'm drunk on power, having discovered the secret to getting Zeph down for solid naps (and seriously, getting two 3-hour breaks a day is delicious), I think we can totally do this. I formulate a plan: when he starts crying, give him five minutes, then gently soothe him back to sleep by patting his back but not picking him up or feeding him. That's what the No Cry Sleep Solution book (err, the summary of it that I read online) said to do. So we give it a go.

We go through the bedtime ritual: rub him down with calendula cream and get him into a dry dipe and jimjams. Upstairs to the bedroom, snuggle in bed to read I'll See You in the Morning and then into his swaddle he goes. Then we lay down for a nurse, and I tuck him into the Arm's Reach sidecar co-sleeper thing, kiss his little head and say good night. Fifteen minutes later, he starts fussing. "Just let him fuss for a minute," I reinforce the plan to Scott. He stops fussing, and we clink our wine glasses and high five each other and enjoy an hour or two of grown-up time.

Scott and I settle into bed at around 11:00pm, and after a couple hours of blissful slumber, Zephyr starts fussing. I decide to firmly ride it out for five minutes, instead of just reactively bringing him to my breast like normal. His fussing escalates into full-blown crying. I pat his back, "it's okay, Zephyr, go back to sleep." No dice. I look at the clock. 12:50am. The crying isn't slowing down, and now Scott and I are both completely frazzled. Zephyr is starting to totally unravel. I try patting his back again, with no results. I look at the clock again. 1:11am. Sigh. This feels mean and neglectful and exactly like the cry-it-out method (which I'm pretty sure has never been attempted in a cosleeping situation), I'm at my wit's end and scoop up my baby to soothe him and fret for being such a disastrous mother, planting apologetic kisses all over his tiny, tear-damp head. He starts mouthing on my shoulder before I even get him to my breast, and then nurses frantically back to sleep. It takes me probably two hours to get back to sleep after the ordeal.

At 5:00am, same story. This time I figure out that four hours is about as long as he ever really goes between meals (and I already feel like a failure for having caved at the first attempt), but not before he cries for five loud minutes. I nurse him to sleep again and finally get back to sleep myself after Scott's alarm goes off at 6:00.

This afternoon, I read the Going Through the Night Without Being Fed section of Penelope Leach's Your Baby & Child and realize that I hadn't been doing anything wrong at all until I decided that we were going to try to fuck with Zephyr's sleep habits. The kid needs to eat a couple times at night, and this is completely normal! I feel renewed as a mother, have reinstilled faith in my pediatrician (whom I already trust and should've just listened to in the first place). One neat trick that Leach offers, though, is to wake the baby to nurse when I go to bed instead of waiting for him to wake up at the four-hour mark. I can reset his tummy-clock myself to get a full four hours of sleep for myself. Now that's sleep training I can get with.

In other news, today Zephyr had his first poop in FIVE DAYS. I know it's normal and common for babies to go several days between poops at this age (particularly breastfed babies), but holy shit, it totally freaked me and Scott out! And then when he finally did poop, it went all the way up his shoulder blades and required a full bath. But lemme tell ya, he's been a much more pleasant kid since. Tummy time was thus extended with comfort and ease, offering me a chance to shoot him in his new pants. It's motherfucking doughnut time.

Consistently persistent

It's been a tough few days for Zephyr (and me). The rough patches on his legs, arms and abdomen (that I'd heretofore been blithely treating with Burt's Bees after baths) is eczema. This isn't much of a surprise and I know it's pretty common, but something - possibly allergies inherited from Scott, or the recent addition of OxyClean to the laundry regimen - has triggered the rash to become so itchy that Zeph has begun scratching himself raw. We had to make a late-night call to the pediatrician's triage desk the other night because, after nearly three hours of trying to get him to sleep, he began sobbing inconsolably and was starting to break the skin with his scratching. Now he's on hydrocortisone and is wearing sock mitts to prevent scratching, but coupled with teething and a lack of good sleep, he's been kind of a Fussy McCrabberson. I just really hope he doesn't end up with allergies and asthma (the other two legs of the Nerd Trifecta).

At some point, I guess I can stop talking and thinking and fretting about sleep. There has to be more to parenting an infant than worrying about sleep, right? He used to be so good, even a week ago, at the onset of transitioning him out of our bed. Now? I'm lucky to get four hours. I usually get two (particularly if I succeed in getting him to bed at 9:00, in which case his first "long" stretch is overlapped by me and Scott trying desperately to relate to each other as friends and partners). Last night he never slept more than two hours at a stretch. He slept better as a newborn than he does as a "settled" infant, when he's supposed to be finally sleeping through the night. The main difference between my energy levels now versus when he was brand new is that now he weighs 20 pounds and it physically exhausts me just doing day-to-day tasks like diaper changing and lugging him from room to room.

I think I'm most frustrated by his inconsistency, when I'm working so hard to be persistent with his routines. I don't really know how to bounce back when he, say, naps for only 30 minutes instead of a couple hours. Am I supposed to try to get him right back down? And how long do I keep trying if I don't succeed? I usually give up after about an hour or two, and then try again in two hours. Sometimes he cues that he's sleepy right away, and then wakes up right after going down again. Repeat ad nauseum. What I'm most sick of, though, is talking about his fucking sleep problems.


Hey, though, on the plus side, I found some new camera apps for my iPhone, and have been thoroughly enjoying photographing Zephyr (as any of my Facebook friends can attest). One more way to obsess over this kid. Just what I need.