We have SUCCESS!

Tada!!!!



I know, to you it just looks like a cute pair of shoes. To me it's much, much more.

You see, one month ago, Bubbles wore a size 1 shoe. My brother in law is getting married this weekend. Bubbles is a flower girl. The other flower girl (a five year old) is wearing silver shoes. So I went on the hunt for silver shoes. I found a pair of size 2 silver shoes on clearance at Babies R Us. Score! I figured since she wasn't in size 2 yet, and had just moved up from size 0, that a 2 was reasonable.

Fast forward to the day she turned 15 months. One week and one day before the wedding. And her size 2 shoes fit. The next day, Saturday, exactly one week before the wedding, I couldn't get them on her feet. Even her size 2 sneakers were a tight fit, and wound up cutting her heels. So Sunday I was off, on the search for size 3 silver shoes. 1 Payless, 2 Targets, and 3 Babies R Us later, no silver shoes. Each place had some - in a size 2.

Now the panic sets in. What is Bubbles going to wear for the wedding? I hopped online and started searching for infant silver shoes. Most results didn't actually have them available. And then I was at Zappos. I thought I had tried there before with no luck, but I must not have. Because they had a bunch! All more expensive than any other shoes we've bought her, some 5 times as much, but they had them. Although I had some concern, because size 3 is supposed to be 6-9 months. Not 15. But, one expensive pair of shoes and expedited shipping later, and I can start breathing again, because they fit!

Now to make sure the dress still fits!

"Free-Range" parenting

Many moons ago I saw part of a Dr. Phil episode on extreme parenting. In it he talked to two different mothers, one with a "free range" approach, and the other a "helicopter" mom. The first let her (I think 9 year old) son take the subway and bus alone, the latter sat outside her daughter's friends house to keep an eye on her. The difference was startling, and my initial reaction was "they're both nuts!".

It made me think though. And I found myself looking for more information. I saw a clip where Dr. Phil talked to the boy who rode the subway. He wanted to do it. He wanted to show he could. And he rode it with his family enough to feel safe. So it made me keep thinking about the concept. And thinking about my own daughter.

My daughter is 15 months. Helicopter parenting is the only way to go, at least in public. She doesn't have a concept of what is safe and what isn't. I'm teaching her not to go into the street, but I don't know that it's going to take. And I know that Lenore Skenazy (the free-range mom) wouldn't fault me keeping a close eye on a toddler. In our own home I've protected against the biggest safety concerns (like a fall down the stairs), and I let my daughter spend a lot of time on her own. Exploring her surroundings. As she learned to walk, I let her fall. And I reassured her that she was okay when she got back up. On cement I try to catch her when she's going head first, so people outside our home are under the impression I never let her fall. It doesn't help that if she's within arms reach I tend to reach out without thought - so I do catch her even if she only stubbles. I let them judge. I'm confident in my decisions regarding my child falling.

When Bubbles gets older, I'm not sure what I'll do. I like the concept of allowing children to do what they are capable of. To let them show maturity and responsibility. When I was in elementary school I was in a very unsafe neighborhood. It was so gang ridden that I had an out of district transfer for school. My parents tried to protect me (and were successful). When I was preparing to go into Junior High we found out I couldn't continue on an out of district transfer, so my parents moved. We wound up in a neighborhood that was really nice. Most of the people had money - they owned their houses, had nice cars, didn't really want for much. My schools were good, people got into ivy league easily with a little work (not me, I was a dance person). It was safe. So I did walk. I walked to and from school - 2 miles, without a care in the world. I looked out for things around me, obeyed the traffic signals, and felt independent. I still called my mom when I got home to let her know I was safe. Then I'd go looking for my brother who liked to wander in the canyons. I started babysitting a 6-month old and 4 year old, alone, at 12. My mom was always a phone call away if I needed her, but I did it myself. I was ready

I like the idea of trust (particularly with teens), until they've shown reason to not be trusted. Then expect more oversight. I don't know how Bubbles will progress, at what age she'll be ready to do what. The idea of sending her alone on a subway gives me a panic attack, but then again, so does the idea of me riding a subway alone. I want her to be strong, independent, and able to trust in her own abilities. I'm just not sure how to get past my own insecurities. And again, kids are all different. I don't know who Bubbles will be at 5, 9 or 13.

The best moments

A friend and I were discussing that her proudest moment of her daughter was not her rolling over, or her first steps, but the first time she listened to her mommy. In the same vein, while the big stuff is exciting, those aren't my favorite moments.

My favorite moments are the quiet ones.

Usually it's just Bubbles and me. Dad is out, and Bubbles is playing happily, but decides she wants to be near me. So she'll keep playing, but move so that she's touching me. Today she backed up until she could sit in my lap.

There is no photographic or video evidence, because no one else is here. But it's those moments that I know she loves me too. I appreciate every one of those snuggle moments, because with a toddler, they are few and far between. And I know, the older she gets, the less she will want to cuddle with her mom.

So the best moments, are right now.

15 Months

My baby is 15 Months today.

It's so hard to believe.

2 years ago, we didn't have any idea how much our lives were about to change.

1 year ago, Bubbles was having a dedication ceremony, my Mother-in-Law's church's equivalent of a baptism for babies.

1 year ago, we were still worried about Bubbles' health, and going to the pediatrician for frequent weight checks.

Now, at 15 Months, Bubbles is closing in on 20 pounds. She's almost in to 12 month sized clothes. She walks, runs even, and while she doesn't really talk, she definitely understands.

Each month is a blessing. And on the 7th of each month, I commemorate her growth with a photo.




My baby is growing up, too fast.

Routines

The say routines are good for babies. I think they are good for parents. Some days I just crave knowing that I'm going to have certain times to myself. Not because I don't love my little girl, but sometimes I just want "me time".

Growing up my Dad was really strict about routines. He didn't like unexpected plans. We had to tell him a week in advance, or we couldn't do whatever it is we were hankering to do. I'm a little more flexible, but that concept is ingrained in me. So my husband, who likes to make plans a few hours in advance, drives me crazy. Particularly because he makes the plans, but I'm the one who has to pack up the baby and anything else we need (like oh, by the way, we need to bring food tonight!). So I feel a little justified in wanting some prep time.

What amazes me is how easily Bubbles falls into routines. She knows when Daddy is supposed to get home. She knows that's when she usually gets to play outside. And she's ready, banging on the gate with her shoes, or, if we're already downstairs she'll go and sit in front of the stairs with a pair of shoes, trying to put them on.

Bubbles didn't start out well routined. We tried to create some, but particularly since she was breastfed - she ate when she was hungry and slept when she was tired. We tried to go with her flow, so things like growth spurts didn't put us in a frenzy. It's easier to do that kind of thing when you're home. I'm sure if she was in daycare she'd had a great schedule going.

So I wonder, when she grows up, will Bubbles be spontaneous like her dad. Or a planner like me?

The NICU Experience

The NICU experience is an interesting one. They warn you that it’s a roller coaster, and they aren’t kidding. One day to be told your little one is going home, only to have that yanked away the next is emotionally exhausting.

The first trip to the NICU was so surreal. They wheeled me down with all our family members in tow, to see our little girl. She looked so tiny and fragile under the heat lamp. I just wanted to touch her. I couldn’t believe she was mine. She was blowing bubbles, so we immediately began calling her Bubbles. When they sent me back to my room (I wasn’t allowed to hold Bubbles, she was still too little), they sent a photo of her with me. I treasured that photo. It was the only thing in my room that reminded me why I was there. I had just had a baby, even though she wasn’t with me.


We were very lucky when it came to Bubbles’ health. Her lungs were strong, and she had no major health problems. They kept her so she could gain weight, hold her own temp, outgrow the bradycardia, and they did have to figure out why she was spitting up so much (they settled on reflux after a sleep test). They tested her constantly for jaundice, but it never developed. The bradycardia was the hardest. Thinking of my little girl just forgetting to keep her heart rate up scared me. And everytime we told her she was coming home, she would have another, thereby resetting the 7 day requirement. One day they put in a feeding tube, which was hard to see, but she pulled it out and they didn’t put it back in.

While we were lucky with Bubbles’ health, it’s still emotionally draining going to the hospital several times a day to see your baby. I didn’t feel as though she was mine. Surely, if she lived at the hospital she didn’t belong to me. After the first couple weeks I slid into a deep depression. My husband had gone back to work, and it was just me, getting myself out of bed to see my baby. And I stopped. My husband would get home to find me still in bed, having never gone to see Bubbles. Crying, because I wasn’t with her. And he would get me out of bed, and take me to see her. All I did was worry about her, and want to hold her, but I couldn’t bring myself to go. I didn’t want it to be real. I just wanted her home. At the time, I felt completely alone.

Since then, I’ve discovered a rich online community, full of people who have experienced the same, and much much worse. I wish I had it at the time. It’s really helped put things in perspective. The internet can be such a wonderful thing.

History, or so it would seem

I never thought I'd be referring to stuff from last year as history. But, it is what it is. And as far as this blog is concerned, May of 2008 is history. It's also really where all this began.

In October of 2007, my husband and I found out we were expecting our first (and only, thus far) child. She was anticipated June 17th, right after Father's Day. What a wonderful present for my husband! Little did we know, she would arrive before Mother's Day!

I had a very uneventful pregnancy. I actually felt better than I had in years - my asthma and migraines both went away. Even my depression lessened. I was so excited about every little thing - the first sonogram, feeling her kick, feeling her hiccups. I read about her development every week. We called her bozo, just as my parents referred to me before I was born. We had picked out her name in February, but we weren't sharing. The only downer was the constant barrage of intrusions - everyone had an opinion, was more than willing to share, and expected me to follow along. I particularly enjoyed the "Wow! You're huge! Are you sure there's only one in there?" I only gained 12 pounds people! I just started quipping that I was having triplets, and left during the stunned silence.

Tuesday, May 6th started out pretty ordinary. I woke up feeling like I was coming down with a cold. Not a huge surprise, I got sick every trimester. I didn't want to go to work, but my boss was flying in for two days to meet with me, wanting to make sure everything was settled before I left for maternity leave. So into the office I went. I had some meetings, and was going about my day, when everything changed.

My coworkers threw me a surprise baby shower! Complete with a "Happy Labor Day" cake. My husband was there, there were piles of gifts, and lots of good food. I had an amazing time. The guys took all the goodies to the car for me, and I finished up the day with a smile on my face. I left abruptly just after 4 pm, when two coworkers engaged in an aerosol air freshener fight over my cubicle, prompting an asthma attack. I knew I'd be back the next day, so I rushed out the door, and asked my husband to come pick me up.

After the work day came to a close my husband and I went to see our chiropractor. It felt as though Bozo was doing somersaults all day, bouncing on and off my bladder. Dr. D asked if I was certain about my due date. My husband and I knew for sure when I got pregnant (within a few days of course, have to allow for the inexact science of the timing) so we responded that we were certain. After the visit we went for dinner with my in-laws, then home to bed. We got home so late we left the gifts in the car, figuring we could bring them all in the next day.

Then 2 am arrived. And with it my water breaking. I don't think my husband will ever forget me waking him up to tell him that. I was at 34 weeks, and Wednesday made 1 day. I frantically threw stuff into a bag and we rushed to the hospital. I wanted so badly for someone to tell me that it wasn't my water that had broken. I wanted to have imagined it. I was put on antibiotics and bed rest. 12 hours from the time we got to the hospital, our little girl was born. And rushed off to the NICU. Which will be a story for another day.