I had a doctor appointment today. Just an overall physical, bloodwork, checking out my bum knee, that kind of thing.
So the doctor glances at my chart while we're wrapping things up. "Are you an athlete?" he asks me.
I decide this is the perfect time to make a crack. "Well, I do chase my daughter around a lot!"
"Huh," he says, unimpressed. "You have a very athletic-looking EKG."
Me! An athletic-looking EKG! It's not as great as having an athletic-looking tush, but heck, I'll take it!
My kitchen is: Lovely and shiny. Cleaners were here yesterday, and we ordered in pizza for dinner.
Matt and Sasha found a new, fun game today. Here's how they play: They sit together at the bottom of the stairs. Matt throws a yellow Nerf-style University of Michigan ball up to the top of the stairs. Gravity being a persistent phenomenon, the ball bounces back down, and Matt catches at.
Every once in a while, the ball instead hits Sasha on the head, and she laughs uproariously.
Despite the quality baby-daddy bonding going on here, I can't help but feel a vague, unsettled feeling -- like perhaps I should be putting a stop to this game. But since I am at a loss to put my finger on what, exactly, is the matter, I suppose I should not interfere.
My kitchen is: Eh. Not exactly messy, not exactly clean, either. Blasted newspapers.
Sunday, Sasha climbed the entire flight of steps for the first time. Previously, she had climbed only the bottom step, and only while I wasn't looking. If she realized she was being observed, she would give you a coy look and bang on the third stair.
Monday, emboldened by this sudden leap in her capability, Sasha climbed the entire flight of stairs a second time.
Today, she climbed the stairs again, not once, not twice, no. SEVEN times. She gathered speed the first three tirips, but I think muscle fatigue started to set in after that. On her fourth trip, she brought toys with her, though she abandoned them two-thirds of the way up. Perhaps she will grow up to be a mountain goat.
My kitchen is: Smelling of leeks.
I forgot Sasha's new hobby. She likes to bang her head into things, such as the wall. Most recently, it is my head. She rocks back onto her heels and then forward, like a little battering ram. She enjoys the "Ow!" sound that I make when she does this, and laughs with delight.
Good times, folks. They grow up so fast.
My kitchen is: Sticky.
Today, I was rocking Sasha trying to get her to nap. (I was ultimately unsuccessful.) I watched her stare off into the distance, face pensive, little fingers curling and uncurling, and I wondered: What does she think about?
I imagine every parent considers this problem at some point or another. At that particular moment, she was probably not really thinking about anything. Most likely, she was full of a sort of drowsy, Tao contentment with her lot in life. Not so different from how I used to be at around 10 o'clock of a Sunday morning, back when I was still in bed that late.
But how does she think? She doesn't speak words, but does she use some rudimentary proto-language to help her process her surroundings? She can clearly develop desires and goals, (pulling all the DVDs out of the rack; climbing up all the stairs) so she is capable of some abstraction. She has a sense of judgement, to evaluate what she likes and dislikes and react appropriately (she is loud when she is comfortable, but very quiet and observant in an unfamiliar situation). She can interact with other people (flirting and being shy, in turn).
She is learning about and exploring the world in a very methodical, logical, scientific fashion. There's somebody home, no doubt. But... I know that I have the narrator in my head, the "I" who is speaking to me, when I am thinking; the voice that tells me my thoughts as I have them. What does Sasha have? Is it all a succession of images and feelings? Does she mentally make use of the words she knows, but doesn't know how to say? Does she have a narrator? When she cries, is there a baby crying in her head to let her know she is upset?
Unfortunately, since it is difficult to have the meaningful kind of communication with a child her age that would illuminate these matters, I will probably never find out. A mystery for the ages. But one thing I am sure of: At the very least, she knows that she is happy.
On Sunday, Sasha took up a new hobby: being VERY LOUD. I think she just realized that she has a volume control, and is seeing how it works for her. Unfortunately, she took up loudness in her spare time while we were out at Cheesecake Factory having lunch. I would have ushered her out of there, but pretty much every other table around us had a stroller, so I doubt anyone came there expecting a nice, quiet meal.
Her loudness is not nonstop, thank heavens. But every now and again (several times a day), you can see her little baby brain ticking away and coming up with, "Hey, this would be a good time to be loud!" And she yells. She continues to emit a yell every ten seconds or so, until she feels she has reached her cumulative decibel goal. Then she goes about her regular business again.
Sasha had her first grilled cheese sandwich last night. She quite seemed to enjoy it, despite only having a tooth and a half with which to gnaw. Every day, she seems another inch taller.
My kitchen is: Being cleaned by somebody else, Right Now. Life just doesn't get a lot better than that.
Yesterday, Sasha crawled up to me while I was sitting on the sofa, and scrabbled at me as though she wanted to snuggle. I sat down on the floor with her for some hugs and playtime. She stood up, looked me square in the eye to be sure I was watching, and then let go of me. With both hands.
She stood there on her own two feet for a good 10 seconds before she lost her balance and grabbed me again. I'm not sure what I'm more proud of; the ongoing refinement of her gross motor skills, or the fact that she obviously wanted to show me what she could do.
Today, I drove to Princeton, New York. I left at 10:30am for a 1pm meeting. I arrived at noon. Later, I left at 3:15pm and arrived home at 5:45. Somewhere in there is a parable for life in modern-day New York City. Curse that Verrazzano Bridge AND the horse it rode in on!
My kitchen is: Cluttery but blessedly free of cans and bottles. Win some, lose some.
I've noticed that I draw quite a crowd of readers looking for information on co-sleeping, Ferberization, and other infant sleep topics. Since I seem to have an audience, I thought I'd give everybody an update on how little Sasha is doing.
Let's take tonight as a random example. At 8pm, I went upstairs with Sasha into her room. I dressed her in her sleeper, rocked her and nursed her for a few minutes, and then she rolled away from me to let me know she was done. I put her in her crib, where she instantly rolled onto her stomach; covered her with her blanket; kissed her and said goodnight; and went downstairs.
Yes, that's it. No crying, no fussing. She wasn't asleep when I put her down in her crib, but I know it wasn't long. She'll probably be up a bit before 6am. At that point, we will bring her into bed with us and try to convince her to catch an extra 40 winks (so WE can, too) but it seldom works, these days. Fortunately, she's been gradually sleeping later and later.
We're hoping with the switch to Daylight Savings Time, we can shift her bedtime to 9pm so she doesn't get up until 7am, but that is, of course, wishful thinking.
Given this evidence, I'd say our Ferberization is an unqualified success. It was only difficult for a week. After that, she would cry for less time than it took me to finish walking downstairs. Now, of course, she doesn't cry at all. We have had to duplicate the process a few times, as her schedule has been disrupted by teeth, illness, or other stresses, but we have not had to be firm for longer than two nights. Now, she practically can't wait to get rid of me!
And did we have to do anything special for night wakings? No. For you co-sleepers out there, you may find delight at knowing that, even now, if she wakes up in the middle of the night, we do still take her into our bed with us. But she wakes up less and less often with every week that passes.
I suppose I'm jinxing myself in writing about it, and tonight she'll be up every two hours. Even so, her pattern is promising. She goes to sleep nicely, and she sleeps sound and long. Life is good.
My kitchen is: really, um, not so bad. Really. I cleaned up the spaghetti sauce, I swear!