Six-Month Snapshot

Little Asher Man,

What happened?  What’s with the crazy number of posts and then dead silence for months?  Well, you happened, Mister!  You’re a lot of fun right now–a lot more fun, in fact, than blogging or grading or cleaning or. . . really anything that doesn’t involve you.  So while you’re awake, we are all about you, you, you, and everything else just has to wait.

But right now, it’s 10:56 a.m. on November 9 (actually, it’s the day before, and I’m blogging during my office hour), and you’ve been out in this world for exactly six months, so it’s time for some documentation:

Nicknames — Grandma calls you her little Toot.  Daddy and I call you lots of things:  Squirt (still our favorite), AMP, Little Man, Peanut, Peanut Butter, and Squirtopotamus are the most often used ones.  Jimpaw and Nana still call you Asher, which is good because otherwise, with all these nicknames, you might not ever learn your real name!

Activities — You LOVE your exersaucer.  There’s a light-up, musical chameleon on it that plays repetitive songs about red, yellow, and blue (while lighting up in those colors), and you love making that thing play music.  And because you’re teething right now, you love chomping on the wings of the dragonfly, too.  You’re so long, though, that you’re about to be too big for that one.  You can almost stand up out of the seat.  The jumping seat still has some growing room, though, and you’re a pretty big fan of spinning a froggy on that one, so you should be entertained for a while.

You still like to listen to music and sing, but lately you’re doing a lot of babbling–your favorite noises being babababa and mamamama.  Oh, and the yelling. . . yep — that started this week, too.  I think you figured out that you can change the volume and pitch of your voice to tell us off, and you’re making good use of that skill.  You’re getting really frustrated lately because you know exactly what parts have to move in order to crawl, but you haven’t synchronized them enough to be mobile just yet.  It’s coming, though.  And in the meantime, you’re happy to just roll around to your chosen destination. When you don’t want to roll, you like to sit up.  Just this week, you started pulling your head forward to get to a sitting position all by yourself.  And with every new advance, I get excited and sad at the same time–excited that you’re growing and learning and sad that this is all going by so darn fast.  But it’s fun to watch.  And I am ALWAYS proud of you.

Oh!  And I can’t forget your comfort activity:  opening and closing your little fist on all sorts of surfaces–your head, your fuzzy pajamas, your soft blankets, the glider, my fleece jacket, daddy’s smooth dress shirts, the Pack-n-Play pad.  You do it constantly while you’re nursing and while you’re getting ready to fall asleep.  And because your little fists are still pudgy and dimpled, it’s the most adorable thing ever.

Favorites — Red is still most definitely your favorite color.  If it’s red, you’re all about it–even if that means Ohio State football games (we’ll talk about that bad choice later).  You LOVE banana.  You’re not so in love with rice cereal or apple. . . not even on a red spoon out of a red bowl.  And really, you’re not so in love with eating from a spoon either.  I think you’re just impatient because you want to get that little belly full faster, but we’re working on it.  [Edited to add:  We discovered today that the real "problem" is that you're so independent that you want to hold the spoon yourself.  EVERYTHING gets eaten if you get to (help) hold the spoon.]  Good thing, too, because we’re expecting those two lower little teeth to show up any day now.

Personality — You are the happiest, sweetest kid I’ve ever known, and that’s not mommy bias.  Everyone comments on how happy you are and how much you smile.  As soon as you wake up, you’re smiling.  When you meet a new person, you smile.  When Abby walks into the room, you smile (and sometimes giggle, too).  When Daddy comes home, when we play Superman, when I open the back door to get you out of the car, when I ask you any version of “Who’s the _____est kid?!”. . . all smiles.  A few people have said that you look like me, but I think it’s all the smiling.  You’re affectionate like mommy, too!  You like to put both hands on people’s cheeks to show affection, and very recently you’ve started giving open-mouthed slobbery kisses, even to the dog.

As I predicted, you are by far the coolest kid I’ve ever known.  And even when you’re teething and constantly hungry from a growth spurt and having a hard time breathing through your snotty little nose, you’re still an easygoing, fun, happy little guy.

And I’m one lucky mama.

Oh, Little Mister Squirt,

You are, without a doubt, the most precious thing I have ever seen.  You are adorably happy in the morning.  There’s something about that gummy smile on that sleepy face.  It is pure sweetness, and it makes any otherwise unattractive morning hour not only tolerable but welcome.  Why, hello 4:30. . . so nice to see you!  

You’re really starting to hold your head up and look around now, which must be exhilarating for you since you’ve been very interested in the world the entire time you’ve been out in it.  Everyone’s always commented about how alert you are, and I love watching your face, knowing you’re taking it all in and figuring out life.  That’s a magical thing to watch.  And I’m so proud of you and happy for your development, but I’m holding on to every last precious second that head stays on my shoulder because I love our snuggle time.

And the giggles.  They’re still rare prizes, and for some reason they tend to happen as you’re falling asleep (which I’ll take as a good sign that you’re enjoying this life business), but they are definitely here.  We still haven’t figured out exactly what combination of faces, noises, and movements will consistently earn us one, but your daddy and I are working hard for them because they are stinkin’ precious.  Irresistible even.  Oh if you knew the power you have. . .

I have to go back to work in eleven days, and don’t I know those days are going to zoom by.  It has come so soon, and you’re so much fun right now; I can’t believe we won’t be spending our days together.  I’ll get used to it.  You will, too.  And we’ll both enjoy the time we do get together even more because of it.  Plus, you and I both need to do other things.  There’s a whole world out there for you to meet and explore–beautiful, kind people for you to befriend; amazing things to learn and experience–it’s all going to contribute to who you become.  And I, well. . . I need to go back to doing a job that I’m sure I’ll still be passionate about but that has undoubtedly moved down on my lists of Most Important Things I Do and What I Love Most in the World.

You know one of the most beautiful things about love?  You can never run out of it.  You can run out of gas.  Your swing runs out of battery power.  People can definitely run out of energy.  (Dogs do, too.  Just wait until you start chasing Abby around.  You’ll see.)  And it’s a sad truth that, especially in this house, you can run out of yummy treats.  But we all have an endless supply of love in our hearts.  So even though I’m going back to work and won’t be with you all day every day, and even though I’ll be opening my heart to lots of other people, that will never change how much I love you.

And if that wasn’t true?  If there was a limit to how much love we could give?

Then I would save the biggest and best parts of my heart for you.

That’s funny

. . . not funny ha ha. . . funny like interesting and notable and unexpected.

This is the month the dookey* hits the roof.  With help from my mom and my half of the tax refund, we’ve made it successfully through all of my months of little-to-no pay (because of the bed rest business) up to now.  My savings ran out about two weeks ago, and I just paid bills today, leaving me well short of the funds required to cover my half of the mortgage.  Note that this means there’s absolutely nothing left on my side for upcoming childcare expenses, groceries, or other essentials for the month.  And because Plump has to make up for the missing chunk of my mortgage payment, he won’t be left with much to work with either.

But this morning we sat on the couch and had coffee while Squirt snoozed in the swing and Abby snoozed in the same position on the couch, and I thought Life has never been better than this.

_____

*Seriously, if I’m going to pull off this grown-up censoring for the kid thing, I’m going to have to come up with my own substitutes because dookey just isn’t doin’ it for me.

The problem with cleaning closets

This weekend, while Nana and Papaw were busy being entertained by Squirt and the hubs was quietly recovering from what must be heat exhaustion, I started cleaning out my closet.  I do this pretty regularly.  I mean not regularly enough so that you can just pop into the Plump place and find an immaculately organized closet on any ol’ day but regularly enough that the clothing donation bin knows my car.*  I like to throw things out.  Purging (of closets, medicine cabinets, the pantry. . . pretty much any potential mess that hides behind doors) makes me feel like a better person.  Yes, I know that’s silly and probably something I should get looked at, but instead of questioning or analyzing, I just go with it.  I feel better when things are clean and organized.  Of course, this purging often occurs in response to a seriously shameful mess.  I’m talking the open-the-door-and-get-hit-by-a-soccer-ball-falling-from-the-top-of-the-pile-of-rubble kind of mess.  And this weekend’s purging was no exception.

My closet housed fossil record layers of pre-pregnancy summer tops, giant maternity sweaters, both pre-pregnancy and maternity jeans (jumbled into the same quasi-stack), pre-pregnancy (and never again to be worn by my feet) shoes, and a giant pile of whoknowswhat that landed there the last time I had to do a quick clean-up of my room for company.  It was worse than any teenager’s closet.  Truly.  And because I’ve been wearing the same three pairs of pajama pants or maternity capris and alternating the same four tank tops since the baby was born eleven weeks ago (HOLY CRAP), and because in just a couple of weeks I’ll be returning to work (HOLY CRAPOLA), and because breast feeding has killed nearly all thirty-four pounds of the maternity weight but done nothing for the new configuration of soft spots on my body, I really needed to get in there and figure out what seasonally and work-appropriate clothing I had and whether it would fit.

So here’s the problem. . .

After organizing everything into garbage, donation, giant maternity, probably-not-getting-there-again skinny, maybe next summer, and doesn’t-really-fit-right-but-covers-everything-as-it-should piles, I have four pairs of ill-fitting and faded maternity jeans that could be worn to work. . . in a pinch. . . on a tired day when other things are more important than my feelings about how I look.  Nope — there’s not another sentence coming to cover the tops.  Well, ok — there are two tops that I could wear unbuttoned at the top with a nursing cami under if I had to, but that pretty clearly shows that I’m unable to cover my newly giant breastfeeding boobs.  And I have some cardigans that I could throw over something if the heat index weren’t over a hundred degrees and I didn’t mind displaying my newly soft center.

Yeah.  What I’m saying here is that I have nothing to wear.  But I do have one seriously clean closet.

_____

*Eeep!  Correction:  the clothing donation bin used to know my car.  It has not yet seen the new gifted car from that sweet, sweet Amanda.

And Now Presenting. . .

The many faces of our little AMP

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I need a supplies allowance

You know how in some professions–usually those that require uniforms or schnazzy dressing–employees get a yearly clothing allowance?  I think professors should get a yearly semester-ly supplies allowance.  (I was going to propose a long list of must-have school supplies like schoolkids get now, but that wouldn’t help with my lack of free funds.  So. . . the supplies allowance. . .)

Oh how I love me some new, pretty school supplies.  And how much more I would love them if they were paid for by my employer.  Actually. that would make me love my employer more, too.

I’m not talking about my usual required purchases.  At least once a year, I buy or am gifted a new set of my favorite pens, a new set of rainbow EXPO whiteboard markers, and a pretty new planner.  These are essential to the operation.  I can’t possibly grade papers in black or blue medium ball point all year or write and have my students write on the board in black or (gasp!) red whiteboard marker.  Nope — the multi-colored writing utensils and OCD-supporting calendar paraphernalia are essential.  Actually, it would be nice if those were paid for, too.  But I’m thinking of this as more of a luxury item allowance–something that I could save up for a few semesters to finally get that MacBook Pro I’ve wanted for-E-ver or something I could use for online shopping at See Jane Work.

Since this is my little fantasy, we’re going to pretend that I’ve already saved up for and secured the dream laptop, equipped with all the programs I want and a protection plan, of course.  And said laptop already lives in a funky-fresh lime green bag.  And now I’ve strolled out to the mailbox with Abby (the only outside time she gets these days because of the ridiculous heat index) to find–SURPRISE–my $500 supplies allowance gift card (Shut up.  It’s a FANTASY.).  How do I spend said funds?  Like this:

Well, first I spot this much cooler laptop bag and think about blowing half of my budget on it.

Orla Kiely Laptop Bag -- $240

Then I spot the owls.  Bah — owls are too trendy right now.  But I’ve always loved birds, and these are perfect for my (planned) pretty blue and green color scheme.  Of course, then the internal debate begins:

Bee:  Are those too childish for a professor’s desk?

Other Bee:  Dude.  Have you seen your desk?  Have you seen yourself?  This is what you’re all about, Ms. I-only-wear-jeans-and-Chucks-because-I-refuse-to-use-my-wardrobe-to-gain-false-authority-and-equally-artificial-respect.

Bee:  I know, I know.  I’m not selling out.  What I’m questioning is whether these are more funky than kiddy.  I want funky.

Other Bee:  They’re on See Jane Work.  They’re funky.  Plus, you’ve been looking for a green dice calendar for a long time.  If you end up hating the owls, you’ll still have the calendar.

So into the virtual shopping cart they go.

Owlsley Desk Set -- $32

And then I just get overcome by all of the gorgeous green goodness.  I decide to throw it all in the shopping cart first and cut back later if I need to.

Semikolon Magazine Box -- on sale for 11.70, so I'm going to need three in lime and two in that pretty, springy blue that the company has misnamed turquoise

Green Bungalow Collapsible File Tote for carrying papers back and forth to class -- $21

Sticky Tab Dividers -- only $8 for an incredibly useful and colorful little tool. Oh, just imagine the color-coding possibilities. I'd better take two of these.

The school won't let me paint my office in chalkboard paint, but these peel-and-stick chalkboard decals are a nice substitute -- $58 for a set of four.

Basic Letter Trays -- $10. I'll need five of these in a stack: grass, ocean, snow, ocean, grass.

Basics Pencils -- $7. My students regularly forget writing utensils (yep -- even in college), so these would be nice loaners, and they'd pretty up my pencil cup in the meantime. I'll take them in white, grass, and ocean.

And I stop there.

And I do some basic math.

And I figure out that even with all of those pretties to make my office look nice (and make me much more organized, efficient, and effective, of course), I can still afford the outrageous laptop bag.  So I go for it.  Because really. . . what’s the point of having an outrageous laptop if you’re not going to carry it in an equally outrageous bag?

Just as I push the purchase button, it occurs to me that I’ve not browsed Levenger for anything, I have some gorgeous file folders on my amazon wish list, and I really would like to have my own kettle and small french press for the office.

But that can wait until January’s check comes in.

May 9, 2011

Ok, Squirtopotamus (that’s what I’m calling you these days),

You’re ten weeks old. For ten weeks, I’ve been thinking about how I want to tell the story of your arrival. And while I’ve been writing and rewriting it in my head, lots of other sweet Asher stories have come to stand in line and wait their turn. I keep forgetting that done (as well as you can) is better than perfect. So before I forget all of the other stories I want to tell, I’m getting this one down.

During bed rest, I had gone to the hospital twice, thinking you were coming early.  I was wrong both times.

When sweet Dr. Dudley released me from bed rest, she said you could come any time. “If you have contractions that you can’t talk through every five minutes for an hour, get to the hospital.”  Those were her directions. And you know how much I’m into following directions. So a couple days later when I had some crazy contractions for three straight hours, I called your daddy and told him to get home and get me to the hospital. In we went. The nurses all looked skeptical because I was smiling. (Women in real labor are apparently not supposed to smile.) We sat. We got monitored. We got checked. The very nice nurse, Mary Beth*, told us to walk around, so up and down the hallways we went for thirty minutes. . . the same four hallways, back and forth, back and forth, stopping once in a while when I was in so much pain that I couldn’t take another step but otherwise moving like people on a mission.  Mary Beth checked again and said very apologetically that it wasn’t time yet, and she sent us home.

I was so upset. I’d followed directions.  I was having the contractions the doctor told me about–the ones that meant you were coming. But you weren’t coming. So how was I going to know when you really were coming? I told your daddy in no uncertain terms (Mommy was a little grumpy by then) that I would NOT be sent home again, so we weren’t going back to the hospital until you were definitely coming. In fact, the only way I was going back was if my water broke because that was the only certain sign. I was tired, Buddy. I hadn’t slept more than a couple hours in weeks, I was really uncomfortable, and I was FOUR FEET around. See:

That's you in my belly!

That picture was taken on May 7 — a Saturday.  That day, I sat outside on a lawn chair and watched your daddy clean flower beds.  I wanted some sunshine no matter how silly it looked.  After he was done, we took a very slow waddle around the block.  That night, I had some crazy contractions again, but I wasn’t convinced.  You had been teasing me for months, and I was still smiling.  So May 8 (Mother’s Day), we went for another little walk, and this time I moved much faster; I moved like I was ready to meet you no matter how out of breath I was!  At about 10:30 that night, I got up and told your daddy if he was planning on sleeping at all, he’d better get into bed.  I had a feeling you were coming, little man.  And at about 1:30 that morning, my water broke.  And guess what — I was STILL smiling!

Everything at the hospital went the way we expected it to.  When we got to the ER, a man smiled at us and said, “Well, Happy Mother’s Day to you!”  We were so stinkin’ excited!  But when it was time to push you out, your big, beautiful 98th-percentile head got stuck, and you were REALLY stuck!  Your daddy and I were scared because your heart rate kept dropping, and we had not just gone through all of those crazy months, especially the hard bed rest part, to lose you at that point.  We were already in love with you.  You’d been having dance parties in my belly for months.  You’d been kicking daddy in the nose for nearly as long.  You were already our little Squirt, and we wanted you out and healthy.

Dr. Dudley came in to see if she could help, but you were not budging, so she decided to go in and get you.  Even then, you were pretty stubborn, and it took some serious convincing by two doctors and a whole lot of nurses for you to finally come out and make some noise.  That’s why I have that sweet, gnarly scar on my belly–the most beautiful part of my body.  Every time I look at it, I think of how tough I was that day, how well your daddy took care of me and then you, how we finally got you out and, in that moment, we became a family.  All of those little miracles in that one jagged, bumpy red line.

Finally

It was 10:56 in the morning.  You were 8 pounds 12 ounces of chubby, healthy baby boy.  You were 19.75 inches long, and you had a head full of dark brown hair.  You already looked exactly like your daddy.

And I was one proud and happy mama.

_____

*There was a bad Mary Beth at another hospital.  We’ll tell you about her later.

Bee Bakes: Biscotti

Coffee — it really is so good. I think I’m predisposed to love it because my mom drinks it all day every day and always has. I was probably baking in a 50% coffee solution as an embryo. So, we’ll give Mom the credit for my love of coffee. To Dad will go the credit for my naughty love of baking and sweets. And what baked goody goes better than anything else with coffee? Biscotti, of course.

My love of this cookie is a little surprising because I’m not a fan of dipping or dunking. It kind of grosses me that the hubs dunks his Oreos. . . especially when he leaves the cookies in so long that they crumble and sink to the bottom of the glass. Come to think of it, I’m really not a fan of liquids mixed with solids at all. When I eat cereal, I scarf, scarf, scarf so that the cereal doesn’t get soggy. I never take a drink with food in my mouth. Food and drink are separate entities in my universe, and they are designed to stay that way.

So what’s with the love of biscotti? I don’t know. But I do know that I ate every single cookie of the last batch I made in record time, and I enjoyed every last morsel of coffee-soaked goodness.

Here’s the recipe I used: http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Biscotti/Detail.aspx

I stuck to the recipe faithfully, and I was rewarded. But because I didn’t have the brilliant idea until halfway through that I should start blogging my baking escapades in a weekly recurring feature, I don’t really have process pics. I just followed directions. (This Bee Bakes business does not require talent. It’s not about displaying my mad cooking skills. It’s not about playing with recipes or creating my own, which I couldn’t possibly do. Nope. This is just about me finding recipes for yummy sweets and seeing if I can make ‘em. . . while taking care of a newborn, going back to work, keeping the house kind of clean-ish like, oh — and getting my flat tummy and missing rear back again).

So. . . halfway through, at the cutting stage (after the logs have already been in the oven the first time), here’s what they looked like:

Ready for toasting

Back in the oven for toasting and back out again, these yummy biscotti were perfect: not break-your-teeth crunchy like the ones from the grocery store but just enough to soak up some coffee and still be solid. Yum.

So good (despite the bad iPhone photography)

Next up? The story of my slightly overbaked cinnamon banana bread and soon after, the s’mores cupcakes adventure.

Our Little AMP

I didn't buy this outfit. I promise. But someone did, so I had to put him in it, right?

It took us a long time to name this kid.  I bought the books.  I looked at the websites.  All of that just got me a list of 1.7 million names I’d never, ever consider dumping on my offspring.  Heck, I wouldn’t even name my pet hedgehog most of those names (except maybe Oliver.  Oliver seems like the perfect name for a pet hedgehog.).  Of course, this wasn’t made any easier by a serious conflict in parental M.O.s.  I, you see (and probably already know if you know me at all), am a planner.  A listmaker.  A visionary who believes in making specific plans if only because of the potential power of affirmation.  The hubs?  Well, he’s more of a fly-by-the-seat, come-what-may, adventure-by-the-minute guy.  So while I started attempting to name the baby months in advance, Daddy wasn’t interested until the deadline (that I kindly, gently proposed and he kindly, understandingly agreed to).  The only thing we had set in stone in advance was a middle name:  Martin.  Plump’s great-grandfather (I think) was named Martin, and by all accounts, he was an incredible man, so all of the firstborn men to follow carried his name as a middle name, and I was happy to honor that tradition.  I think it’s nice for names to have meaning and purpose.

But around came April, and we had nothing but a list of ok, acceptable, will-work-if-they-have-to first names, and no one wants to give a kid just an ok name.  No.  Your child’s name should be something you love, something you get excited about, something you will adore even when shouting it after having stepped on another effing LEGO, right?  Right?!  Right.

So one night, out of nowhere, Plump says, “What about Asher?  I think I like Asher.”

“Hmmm.  Maybe.”  That’s what I said.  But I was thinking Isn’t that kind of trendy or hip?  I thought he didn’t want one of those names.  Hmmm.  Asher.  I haven’t had any bad students with that name.  I haven’t had any students with that name period.  No ex-boyfriends.  No friends’ kids.  It doesn’t start with a P or an E (which were both off the table because we didn’t want his initials to be PP, and we didn’t want all of our names to start with the same letter).  I don’t know anyone with that name.  His initials would be AMP, which is pretty cool because it’s another musical connection.  I should do some research. . . (because that’s what I do)

So I did, and I learned that the name means happy, lucky, and blessed.  And that was all I needed.  (Oh, but I did check the numerology on his name, too. . . not because I necessarily believe in that numerology business, but covering bases is never a bad idea.  And that showed a promising person with a good spirit, too.  Research done, and on with the story.)

In that name was everything I wanted for my baby.  Every time people had asked what I wanted him to become or what sport he was going to be a star in, my response was always that I just wanted him to be happy.  Even now that he’s here and looking like he could have a promising career as a linebacker, happiness is what I want for him.

Of course, that hasn’t stopped us from coming up with perfect nicknames. . . like our current favorite, Squirt.  It’s appropriate.  That’s all I’ll say about that.

Note to self

When a screaming baby inexplicably quiets as you turn to grab a wipe, grab more than one because said baby is once again peeing on everything: the changing table, the wall, himself. . .