Move Along, Nothing More to See Here for Now

I’ll be out of town this weekend, so no updates for a couple of days. Check back Monday night, and use your internet time for something more constructive, like stealing copyrighted entertainment.

Best. Rummage. Day. EVER.

I am a garage sale aficionado, or if you ask my beloved wife, a whore. Either way, I enjoy taking full advantage of people who are desperate enough to unload their child’s outgrown clothing that they’ll take anything they can get. The experience can be pretty hit and miss. I can waste five bucks in gas plus a couple hours of time just to find a $.50 shirt that, upon inspection without a child screaming in my ear, turns out to be a lot more stained and/or masculine than I thought it was when I bought it. Today is the type of day I dream of, though, when I awaken to anxiously circle newspaper listings hen pore over a street map to determine where exactly those sales are.

My first stop was a near mythical location: A reasonably priced virgin selection of a four-year old girl’s former wardrobe. This is why I leave in the morning, especially on days cold enough to cull the weaker shoppers. I scoured this sale for a good 30 minutes before leaving with a shopping bag stuffed full of pink-hued delights.

Off to the next sale I ventured. It was hidden deep in a residential area. When I found it, I discovered that it was only one of at least a dozen sales in a square block area, an area that was so dense with bargains and the hunters who love them that I had to struggle to find street parking. I finally claimed a spot outside one sale, and figured I would comb as many sales as Abbie, who was getting pretty cranky, would let me. The first sale had nothing that met my twin criteria of nice and cheap. The second sale had a few deals I bought. The third sale had a few more I bought, and Abbie was almost at the end of her patience, so I ambled back to the car. On the way, I spotted one final sale that I missed, and decided to push Abbie to her limit. I found a table and started scavenging.

The proprietor saw us and said, “We have a few little girl’s things but not many.”

Holding up a shirt I liked I replied “yeah, I see this, but I don’t see a price on it.”

“Well,” she said, “another person just dropped off a bag full of clothes, and if they weren’t concerned about putting a price on it, I won’t be concerned about how much I get from it.” Understanding the situation, I started grabbing nice items and mentally attaching lowball amounts, while Abbie progressively whined harder and harder. Then I found the large bag, the overflowing source of the ooey gooey name-your-price goodness. I pulled a few things out, continuing to mentally add, until I realized that Abbie was on a verge of a total meltdown. I stuffed everything I found into the bag and casually walked to the cashier.

“Will you take ten bucks for the bag?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I gave her the money and floated back to the car, fighting niggardly induced convulsions the whole way. We drove home (I drove, Abbie rode) having made many fewer stops than I had planned, but I couldn’t believe my fortune. By the way, what did I eat for breakfast for the first time in years this morning? Lucky Charms.

I say this not to nag or whine, but to prod.

One of the most surprising things I’ve learned about babies is how much they whine. Unless Abbie is just an excessive whiner, in which case I feel cheated.

When I say whine, I’m not referring to full-blown crying caused by things like pain from bonking her head on something hard or frustration from when we close the dog’s kennel so she can see the dog’s food but can’t eat any of it. Abbie does plenty of that kind of crying, too, but I expected that. When I say whine, I’m referring to the complaining she does usually when she’s bored, and Abbie is bored more often than her mother when she’s forced to watch the NBA playoffs. Complaining for her (Abbie, not Ellie) involves a constant string of “aaaaahhhhhh” punctuated by the occasional inhale. Sometimes she crumples into a ball on the floor and degenerates into full-blown crying, other times she’ll crawl over and grab my pants leg before degenerating into full-blown crying. Either way the end result is undesirable.

I wish I understood the thought process of a bored infant. When I force her to accompany me on a genuinely dull activity, like buying groceries or driving to the store to buy groceries, I can understand why she would be bored. When I need to do something important though, like write a grocery list, and I leave her alone on the floor surrounded by books and electronic toys and plastic shopping bags*, I cannot understand how she could be bored. I would love it if someone watching me left me alone with the toys and various fragile items with no expectation of good behavior beyond not complaining. Sure enough though, every time I’m scanning the cupboards trying to remember if that second to last letter is an “i” or an “o” in cinnamon (it’s an “o”), I get an “aaaaahhhhhh” followed by a tug on my pants and full-blown crying. I can’t wait until she’s old enough for me to understand “if you’re bored I’ll give you something to do.”

Don’t misunderstand me, Abbie is overall a good baby and I love her dearly. I just wish she wouldn’t grumble quite so often while I’m trying to love her.

* We do not let her play with plastic shopping bags, no matter how much she enjoys them

Abbie Goes to College

Like all Good Parents, we at Abbie Update are very concerned about Abbie’s future college prospects. That’s why I read several books to Abbie every single day. When it comes time for Abbie’s college entrance exams, she will be very well prepped on who exactly is hiding in the pigsty (answer: a pig).

We are also concerned with college costs. So concerned that today we invited a financial planner into our home to explain in mind-numbing detail our options for saving for the future. He described several plans, such as the 529, the 401k, the 403b, the 1040ez, and the 411aok. Apparently investors are like high school girls picking out their prom dress, in that they can’t possibly be seen in the same tax shelter as anyone else in the neighborhood. So when Joe and Mary Investor discover that all their friends have already taken all the good savings plans, they have to petition their congress people to add another section to the tax code so their neighbors can have the following conversation:

Neighbor #1: Check out the portfolio on that 682.032f!
Neighbor #2: Slut.

All of this stuff is wildly complex. Going in, I was proud that I knew the difference between a Roth and simple IRA. Turns out, this was perhaps the simplest concept to grasp all afternoon. Understanding the jargon was made all the more difficult by the fact that I spent the session keeping Abbie entertained and her shrieking to a minimum. Somewhere in my brain, I’ve likely mixed the two activities, so there’s probably an important piece of stored information that reads like: “The main advantage of the yellow square plan is the blue circle can be used to red square at tax time. (Applause) Yay!”

The bottom line is we made it through, and we’ve now made an important first step to ensuring that Abbie can afford an enlightening college experience. Either that, or she'll have a more comfortable year hiking across Europe as she hides from her adult responsibilities.

First Steps

Abbie took her first honest, unsupported, wobbly steps tonight. Ellie made her stand, then backed up about a foot, called to her while sitting on the floor, and something in Abbie’s brain finally clicked. She took two or three steps before falling into mommy’s lap. We cheered wildly. Ellie reset everyone, and Abbie took another two or three steps before falling forward again. We cheered wildly again. I’m amazed at how easily we’re entertained these days.

Abbie had been building to this for weeks. Going back to Easter, people were saying she would walk any day. She could already sort of walk back then. We would have to hold her hands and walk with her, but she would stumble her way throughout the house for minutes at a time, which is hours at a time in baby terms. She still loves doing this since it lets her chase the dog, or, if she prefers hunting a stationary object, a cat. All we really need is a feather-touch on both hands for support, but as soon as we break contact, her knees lock and she stops moving. She cannot be coaxed into walking again, even with food as an incentive. Then, as if taunting, she will slowly kneel down. Surely a kid who can do little baby squats has the facilities to take a few steps on her own.

Tonight she finally did take those few steps on her own. I’m guessing that we’ll spend most of tomorrow cajoling her into going on tiny baby-sized marathons. Soon she’ll be running all over stores, pulling things off shelves and sneaking them into the cart. What grand entertainment.

Here’s a bonus food item. I heard babies like avocado, so I bought one for her. She tried it, and didn’t think much of it. Now I have most of an avocado to somehow use if I don’t want to waste it. This will be a challenge since the only ways I’ve found to use avocado are (1) making guacamole which I don’t really care for, and (2) vandalizing cars.

To Sleep, Perchance to Drea...zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Abbie had a rough sleeping day today. She normally naps great, and falls asleep easier than Adam waiting in line for Weird Al tickets. I suppose these days will happen, though, especially with sinuses still full of snot and a tooth still determined to cause as much anguish as possible before rupturing the gum line. That’s unfortunate since I use her naps to do important work, like blog or take my own nap.

It started early this morning when she woke up about an hour early from her overnight sleep. “Not good,” I thought, “but at least she’ll take a nice nap later in the morning.” Ha! I’m sure I’ll look back on that thought and laugh some years from now, just like I’m sure I’ll be able to laugh eventually at my 2003 thought “there’s no way the Cubs can blow a 3-1 series lead.”

Abbie did not take a nice nap later in the morning. I’m not sure she even took a morning nap. She was silent for a short while, but she may have just been quietly plotting an escape with her crib mate, the hanging Pooh Bear. After a brief respite, she began screaming again, possibly frustrated by Pooh’s silence. So I pulled her out of the crib far earlier than usual, and started counting the seconds (13916) until I could put her down for the afternoon nap while praying it went better than the first.

The afternoon nap started well as she fell asleep with minimal fussing. I finally had a chance to catch up on some important work (post-NFL draft analysis on espn.com), then started supper hoping I could throw something in the oven before she woke up. No luck, as she again woke up earlier than usual, although to be fair it was only by ten minutes and I was rattling the house by attempting to pound a chicken breast flat at the time. I decided I needed to finish making supper, while Abbie, with a house full of toys to play with, decided that hanging on my leg and screaming would be the most constructive use of her time.

Fortunately, the day’s sleep deprivation didn’t affect Abbie too much, and she was no crankier for the night than she had been the last few days. Or, to put it another way, unfortunately Abbie was just as cranky for the rest of the night as she had been the past few days, but it could have been worse. Either way, we survived the evening and Abbie went to bed without much protestation. She is now sleeping quietly, as you may have been able to tell by the fact that I now have time to do important work, like blog.

A Further Point

So Abbie doesn’t point. Big deal. She can do lots of other things. She can crawl. She can use her thumb and index finger to pick up small objects, like peas and dog fur, and put them in her mouth. She can cry, weep, sob, blubber, snivel, whimper, bawl, shed tears, howl, AND wail.

One learned behavior she’s very good at is throwing her hands in the air. This is a valuable skill that she can use in many situations later in life, such as at football games to signal touchdown, or at rap concerts to act “like you just don’t care.” We honed this skill through many games of “So Big,” where we (Ellie and I) ask, “how big is Abbie?” in a high pitched voice, then throw our hands in the air while exclaiming “so big” in an even higher pitched voice. At first, Abbie would simply stare blankly, but eventually she started throwing her hands up, though she may have just done it to quiet her squealing parents.

Abbie has also learned to shake her head from side to side. I haven’t found anything that triggers the action, but it seems to happen when she’s thinking very hard, like the little hamster has stopped running in its wheel and only a good shake will make it move again. I’m also not sure where she learned this behavior. One possibility is she enjoys watching mommy’s ponytail move when mommy shakes her head, so she shakes her own head to make her hair move. Another much more disturbing possibility is she learned the motion from the dog when she shakes a toy in her mouth. Abbie learned to like dog food from the dog, so why not a head shake? Maybe we should train the dog to point.

Point/Counterpoint

While gearing up for Abbie’s birth about a year ago, we visited a few “baby fairs.” These resemble conventions where expectant parents can visit booths operated by organizations just dying to give you free advice about raising a child, like a baby-centric version of the Varied Industries building at the Iowa State Fair but with fewer fried foods. The groups running these booths range from non-profit organizations who are genuinely concerned about your family’s welfare, to for-profit companies who are genuinely concerned about making money from your concerns. These groups hand out lots of free stuff, such as logo-festooned pencils that don’t write because the lead is off-center, and logo-festooned pens that don’t write because they’re filled with some substance that’s thicker and cheaper than ink, like dehydrated mud. The most useful thing I found is a development wheel from Iowa Early ACCESS, with ACCESS, of course, being an acronym standing for Always Choose Cameras for Extremely Stable Service. Just turn the wheel to your child’s age, and it will give you age-appropriate suggestions for safety and development, along with milestones meant to send you into a hyperventilating hysteria if your child fails to reach them in time. The wheel has five years worth of goals to fret over.

So far, the milestones have been pretty simple, like “smiles” or “spends less than half the day screaming,” and Abbie has hit every one in time (though she did fail to meet the latter goal today {sigh}). Nearing five weeks to go, though, Abbie needs to buckle down and work hard to reach some of her 12-month milestones, specifically milestones related to communication. One goal, “say a few meaningful words” is doable. She can say a few words right now as long as you count “a,” “ah,” and “uh” as words. All it takes is one magical moment for her to connect sound with objects and make a word, and then it’s off to the enchanting world of wondering if I’ll ever have a minute of peace and quiet again.

Another goal, “point to a few objects when asked to find” will be more difficult. Abbie doesn’t point, possibly because I never point. Only recently did I consider that maybe pointing isn’t instinctual in infants, like sucking is, or peeing as soon as the diaper comes off. So now I’m playing catch-up and pointing at everything. She gets the idea while reading and will randomly point at things on the page, though she may just be searching for a flap to lift. She has yet to point at anything with a third-dimension, though. I’ll just keep working at it, pointing and speaking, and hopefully Abbie will get the point (ha!) before the neighbor kids start calling me Crazy Pointing Guy.

Tissue Troubles

When the much-publicized cold ravaging Abbie Update began to take hold, I left several strategically placed tissue boxes scattered throughout the house. My thinking was when Abbie had one of her foot-long snot streamers dangling from her nose, I could quickly grab a tissue before she had a chance to use her hands to, um, do undesirable things with it. Also, I could easily grab a tissue for my own use without needing to leave the room and guess what Abbie had in her mouth when I returned. This part of the plan worked well, but I ran into trouble when I left the tissue boxes on the floor since that’s where we spend most of our time, at least until she learns to crawl on furniture up to perilous heights. By leaving them on the floor, I was leaving them within Abbie’s grasp. When she discovered that she could pull one tissue out, and have it replaced by a completely new tissue, she moved fast enough to pull four out before I could stop her. She generally only works that quickly when food is involved. Prying tissues out of her hands is a challenge since they tend to rip easily, and they quickly turn into disgusting goo when she puts some in her mouth. We can now add tissue boxes to the list of things to never leave within her reach, a list that includes things like remotes, skin lotion bottles, and kitties.

Fun with Phones

I had some Important Phone Calls to make from Abbie Update world headquarters this morning. At this point in my life, an Important Phone Call can be defined as “a phone call made for the purpose of something other than ordering food.”* In Pre-Abbie days, making a phone call was as simple as (1) picking up the phone, (2) speaking uninterrupted to the desired person, (3) hanging up. Then it was off to the shopping mall in my puke-free two-door coupe to spend large wads of disposable income.

In today’s Abbie-filled world, a phone call can become a test rivaling in difficulty any I encountered in college, such as my music theory final, or even the quest to discover how much Home Team pizza a person can safely ingest.** First, I must find the phone hidden between mounds of burp cloths and toys, a task made all the more difficult by Abbie’s constant rearrangement of the mounds. If I have an incoming call making the phone ring, the auditory clue makes finding the phone easier, but it also adds a time constraint. Lunging across the living room also sets off a cacophony of chimes and battery-fueled music as I knock tons of toys in my haste, which annoys me and leaves the person on the other end wondering if I’m listening to Phillip Glass.

The truly difficult part happens after successfully completing the call. Somehow I must correctly communicate with another person despite distractions from a screeching baby, various toys, and occasionally a barking dog thrown on top just for fun. A kennel will silence one of those distractions. Go ahead and guess which one. The other two can be silenced by picking up the baby and holding her for the duration of the call, but that brings up the problem of Abbie grabbing the phone. She loves grabbing anything with small buttons like remote controls. If I give her my car keys, which combine the thrill of a car remote with the excitement of jingling metal, she will approach a state of happiness that she may not reach again until she eats a warm brownie topped with triple fudge ripple ice cream and whipped cream. I’m thinking of letting her have this much sugar for her 16th birthday. Because I haven’t posted any pictures of her for a while, here’s proof that she enjoys phones.





Updating the snot watch: We’re both still sick. And the letters in "nuclear mucus" can also be arranged to spell "mucus can rule."

* Pizza from Felix & Oscar’s may be an exception
** Answer: Not much

"Our Snot-Nosed Family" or "It's Snot Funny"

Good news! Abbie Update has conclusively determined that Abbie has a cold, not allergies. How do we know? Because I’ve caught Abbie’s cold! So now I’m sick and tired, my pseudoephedrine has worn off, I have building sinus pressure, and I’m blowing green nuclear mucus out my nose. I now have a new appreciation for Abbie’s crankiness over the past few days. We spent much of the day commiserating on the living room floor, fighting back the haze to properly push the shapes into her Death Star. As much as we both enjoy reading, I just can’t fight the cold in my throat well enough to read extensively. Besides, reading with the bug in my throat could produce a growling voice that would make her scared of more than just tigers and puppies. I’m going to bed now, and have nothing more to add tonight, besides the fact that the letters in “nuclear mucus” can be rearranged with punctuation to spell “A clue! Run, scum!”

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Tiger?

Abbie is now showing fear. This is an important emotion for her to learn to recognize now, or else when she’s a teenager she won’t be able to ignore her fear of punishment when she breaks curfew. While I have heard of young children frightened by fairly innocuous things, like chairs or Scott Baio, Abbie’s fears are so far confined to a couple of semi-legitimate sources, both books.

The first book is filled with photos of puppies. Even though the staff at Abbie Update own a dog, and has several neighbor dogs in the area around corporate headquarters, the only dogs Abbie shows any fear of are in this book. Fair enough, since many of the puppies are shown from odd perspectives, and seeing an otherwise cute puppy with a freakishly large body part, like a head or a coccyx, honestly creeps me out a little. Nothing specific scares her, but after a few pages she’ll start screaming

The other book that frightens her is about tigers. It’s eight information-packed pages detailing the important parts of a tiger, like claws, fur, and eyes. The last two pages are the ones that scare her. They contain the words “(a tiger has) a growl to tell you she’s hungry, and she’s standing behind you, so RUN!” The illustration accompanying these words show the tiger chasing the same monkeys that she peacefully cohabitated with a few pages earlier. These pages understandably scare Abbie, and I don’t know what other effect they could have on a child. It’s like the publishers said “let’s make a book to punish all those parents who don’t thoroughly read it themselves before reading it to their children! We can charge more than $.50 per page for it!” To her credit, it took Abbie a few readings before showing fear of this part. After the first fear-induced crying fit, I tried reading the words sweetly but got the same result. Then I tried not reading the words, and she still started crying, possibly triggered by the ancient tiger habit of sneaking up behind babies when they’re hungry and growling (the tiger, not the baby). So Abbie shows fear. I’m sure her teenage social life will thank her for finding it now.

Our Snot-Nosed Kid

Abbie currently has a cold, or possibly allergies. The principles at Abbie Update have had some disagreement on this. Either way, the outcome is a lot of snot. A lot of crying comes along, too, as the grumpiness and mucus rivers overwhelm me and I roll up into an ironic fetal position and bawl. Abbie cries a lot, too. Her mood varies, but when she’s at her most cantankerous, like this morning, she has a very short list of activities that won’t end with her crying. That list does not include playing alone on the floor, which is unfortunate because I use that time for chores around the house like vacuuming the floor, cleaning the bathroom, and reading the newspaper. The result is we live in a slightly messier home, and I develop a headache while trying to decipher the subtle humor in that day’s Garfield.

The hard part is there’s little I can do for her besides provide comfort when the trauma that is sinus pain sends her screaming. I could give her a decongestant like Benadryl, but it doesn’t do much to decongest her at this age. It will help her sleep, but fortunately she’s still sleeping well so no point in doing that. Anyway, I’m not the type of parent who would drug his screaming child just to put her to sleep unless a show I really want to watch is on television, like a pivotal sporting match. So our sick days involve a lot of reading, a lot of carrying the baby around the house and outside if possible, and a lot of snot wiping. We could minimize the snot wiping if she would just let me suction her nose, but that throws her into a fit more violent than a Red Sox fan at a Gary Sheffield look-alike convention. With little to do to help her, we just deal with and hope that the next day, or even hour, is better than the last one. Sometimes it couldn't be worse.

This Lamb and Rice is to Die for

I never know how much to feed Abbie. She could help me by giving me some cues when she’s full, but she never has. That’s okay since I’m probably not observant enough to notice a cue short of her suddenly saying “knock it off, dad, I’m full.” Right now the only sign I see is when her tummy gets overloaded and she horks the excess back at me. As long as she keeps her copious gut fat reserves, I’ll just assume she’s eating enough.

Currently her typical meal involves pureed fruit mixed with baby cereal and bread, a handful of generic Cheerios or peas, half an apricot, and a couple ounces of milk to wash it all down. That sounds like enough food to fill up a 10.5 month old, but sometimes she starts screaming frantically when I say she’s finished eating. She managed to rip the bottle from my hands a few times and resume sucking, until she realized the bottle was empty, and then she got really mad.

For dinner tonight, she just couldn’t get enough Tasteeos, so I eventually cut her off and set her on the floor. She complained for a bit, but then she noticed the dog was eating. Joy! Off she clambered to the dog food, only to be disappointed when I locked up the dish. More complaining ensued, and not just from the baby; the dog clawed at her kennel to get her food again. I opened the door, the dog resumed eating, and the baby stopped complaining long enough to try to snag a few kibbles. I locked up the dish again, and this cycle repeated a few more times. Finally I wised up and toted the baby into her room to read to her while the dog ate in peace. The dog, disappointed she no long had an audience, followed us into her room and laid down until we had the free time to watch her eat.

Battling the Death Star

One of Abbie’s favorite toys is the star-shaped shaped contraption you see her using in the photo above these words. The toy’s premise is you reach into the large center hole, pull out one of the brightly colored blocks, then push the block through the appropriately shaped hole back into the toy. Your reward is lights and music every time you reach into the center, and every time you correctly push a block back into the toy. While simple in concept, it’s actually more stimulating and gratifying than some jobs I’ve held.

Abbie doesn’t always use it in exactly the intended way, though. For starters, she is way too young to cognitively grasp the concept of matching a block with its correct hole, thus daddy starts the block through the hole so she just has to finish pushing it to get her lights and chimes goodness. Sometimes that short-cut isn’t good enough, so Abbie finds the little yellow button inside the hole that triggers the lights and chimes and pushes it repeatedly to get her reward without the bother of pushing a block. Then sometimes Abbie just wants to chew on a block, but not just any block; she wants the block that she just pushed back into the toy. Instead of reaching into the large center hole with ample room for both hand and block, though, she attempts to retrieve the block through the same hole it disappeared into. (See above picture for illustration) The result is Abbie screaming frantically while she struggles to free her hand from this toy turned baby-trap (the “Death Star” if you will), and daddy fighting back laughter while he waits for Abbie to let go of the block so he can pull her hand back to safety. Showing no signs of the certain emotional damage she just suffered, she’ll often reach back into the same hole to reclaim her block, restarting the whole ordeal. Brave girl.

Speaking of Star Wars references, I picked up the novelization of the third (sixth?) movie the other day, and am determined to read it before the movie opens so I can casually blurt out plot spoilers. For example, Anakin’s father is actually Eric Cartman’s mom. I need to enjoy this book because I don’t plan on seeing the movie until it hits DVD. Before Abbie I enjoyed going to theaters often, but I can count on one hand, with digits remaining, my theater visits since her birth.

Speaking of battles, my wife has been spending her limited free time recently redecorating our bedroom. I’m not much of a pillow guy (I sleep on one pillow filled with a smattering of well-pulverized feather molecules), but I walked into our bedroom this afternoon to find seven (7!) pillows adorning our full-size bed. Still, I may tolerate our over-pillowed bed if it’s the price I must pay to get a freshly made bed every day.

My Compliments to General Tsao

Abbie visited her first buffet this afternoon, a good-sized Chinese place a couple miles from home. We want to expose her to as many different kinds of foods as possible now so that we can spend the next ten years or so saying “you used to love eating this” whenever she turns her nose up at something. A buffet sounded like a good place to give her a wide variety of food, plus we ate lunch late and were really hungry. Unfortunately we copped out and gave her a plate of mostly garlic bread and fruit, stuff we knew she’d eat. At least some of the fruit was new to her. We did give her a little bit from a broccoli and chicken dish and something called a Mongolian meatball. Genghis Khan must have found a pretty good meatball recipe while conquering most of the known world because Abbie enjoyed that round amalgam of mystery meat.

Generally when I go to a buffet I like to move nice and slow, graze if you will, to give my stomach time to talk to my brain. Body parts, like the fingers or the part of the foot directly touching a rock in the shoe, get a direct line to the brain to communicate quickly and repeatedly if necessary. The stomach, though, communicates with the brain much more slowly, possibly because it’s forced to use secondary roads where it ends up caught behind large farm vehicles, and can take up to 15 minutes to say “I’m full.” As championship-winning competitive eaters like Takeru Kobayashi could attest to, 15 minutes is plenty of time to pack in a painful amount of food. So I like to move slow and avoid overeating. This philosophy is not compatible with dining with a young child. You need to stuff your own mouth while the kid is content, and rest by feeding the kid when she starts fussing. So I ended up eating too fast, but I compensated by taking her with me while loading up my plate. That way I have to slow down to battle her for control of the serving spoon, and to keep her mitts out of the moo goo gai pan.

When we rose to roll our bloated stomachs out the door, I left a tip, something I wouldn’t have done at a buffet pre-baby, to help soothe the cleaning staff that would have to wipe up baby remnants. I think she enjoyed the trip: lots of new sights and tastes, a limitless supply of banana, and the prospect of receiving a fresh slice of garlic bread every time she threw an old one on the ground.

I am so smart! S-M-R-T!

In Abbie’s first couple of months, when she was awake she wanted to be held. Setting her down for any selfish reason (such as preparing a bottle, running to the bathroom, or putting out a grease fire) ran the risk of a full-blown meltdown. Now that Abbie is a little older, she tolerates, even (dare I say it?) enjoys a little time on the floor. While on the floor, her favorite activity, besides hunting for dog food, may be looking at books. Even though she has a stockpile of battery-powered toys with irritating sounds and epileptic seizure-inducing lights, she spends the most time with those brain-building books. We’re raising a genius. Here’s a photo for visual reference.



She can spend minutes at a time quietly sitting on the floor, skimming through the pages, pulling the flaps down, discovering creative ways to bend cardboard. Even though she reads only durable board books, she’s been very good at figuring out how to destroy them. Several pages have been bent. (If a page won’t turn, just push harder!) Some books are falling apart at the binding. She has a pop-up book that she treats like a lift-the-flap book, and that one I removed from her clutches before she could fully detach its pivotal pop-up plot points. She actually managed to destroy the book she’s reading in the picture by tearing off the back cover/last page. Not by any malicious yanking action mind you, just by attempting to turn that final page a little too far.

King of Pain

Some days, caring for Abbie is pure joy. When she smiles, she radiates and infectious bliss that permeates the room, like the aroma of homemade cookies emerging from the oven. These times make being a parent worth all the headaches and troubles. Tonight was not one of those times. Tonight was one of those headachy, troubling times that make you wish for unprompted giggling lasting for several minutes, or at least a break in the screaming for a few seconds.

Near as I can tell, Abbie is teething again. I can feel her top front left tooth just bulging against the gums, like it’s fighting to remain submerged and if it has to come out everyone will have hell to pay. Abbie is coping with this very erratically. This morning, she was mostly content. In the afternoon, things started go downhill, but nothing that had me reaching for the naproxen, yet. Then this evening, one minute she sat contentedly reading books on the floor, the next minute she screamed. Not just general complaining screams either, but full blast, tears flowing down the cheeks screaming. I see the same reaction when I eat a sandwich in front of her without sharing.

Recently, she’s been keeping her vocal chords engaged while inhaling, which makes her even more upset when she discovers she can’t do that without coughing. Go ahead and try it at home; scream at the top of your lungs, then inhale quickly while still vocalizing. Hack. Cough. Wheeze. She sounds like she’s choking, and that really give me some soothing to do.

The screaming continued off and on for about 90 action-packed minutes until bedtime. Fortunately she went to sleep easily. Thank you generic infant’s Tylenol! Hopefully we’ll both have a restful night.

Cold Enough for Ya?

As the weather changes, I have a hard time deciding how to adorn Abbie. The other morning, I went rummaging with the tot, and dressed her for the occasion in long sleeves, long pants, and socks, but no coat. When we arrived at the first sale, I realized I probably should have dressed her a little warmer. The temperature was in the mid-50’s and pretty humid; a little chilly, but nothing terrible. I didn’t get too concerned because a) she likes the cold, b) she hates being bundled up, c) I only planned to make two stops, d) we wouldn’t be outside for more than a few minutes per stop, and e) I was wearing short-sleeves so I figured I’d get cold before she would.

By the time we disembarked at the second sale, Abbie had kicked her socks off. I decided not to bother fighting to reattach them since we would only be out for a couple of minutes, and marched over to the throng of women furiously examining the variously stained clothing. As I perused the merchandise, a couple of women noticed us.

“Ooh,” one of the women scolded, “you’re taking your baby outside without socks. She’s gonna catch a horrible cold.” I guess I missed the studies showing a direct correlation between contracting crippling head colds and spending brief periods outside in slightly chilly weather without socks.

“She did have socks,” I responded, “but she kicked them off.”

“Ohhhhh,” they agreed in unison. The rule I discovered is babies should always be warmly dressed, unless they manage to remove part of their clothing, then it’s okay to not want to struggle with them. I can still call myself a good dad.

“We won’t be here that long anyway,” I added.

“I heard that.”

Darn right.

Fork Feeding Update

Abbie is now using both hands to grab the fork. Today she decided to mostly use the right hand. Here is a disgustingly adorable picture for proof.

Forkin' awesome

Abbie took another big step toward being a fully-contributing adult member of society recently when she started feeding herself with a utensil. Actually, I have to load the utensil with food and hold it out for her to grab, but it still counts as feeding herself. Oh, and it only works with a fork, not one of those baby-safe spoons (which she still insists forcing me to put in her mouth), so we do need watch her closely to make sure she doesn't poke herself in the eye. Soon, though, Abbie will be completely able to feed herself. No longer will I have to waste my time sitting in front of her guiding a spoon into her mouth. Instead I will have to waste my time cleaning up the horrific mess she'll make. I guess that's an improvement.

For anyone looking for an early sign on which hand will be her dominant one, Abbie is grabbing the fork with her left hand. Yes, my plan to force left-handedness on her is coming to fruition...

"How old is your baby?"

The age question is The Question. I hear it constantly while toting around Abbie. People apparently feel a need to establish some level of verbal communication with the parents before making goofy faces and noises at the baby. Disturbingly enough, some people are impressed that I know my child well enough to rattle off her age accurately to the half-month. I guess I'm not one of those fathers who leaves the baby in the care of its mother, only taking charge of the child when mommy loses conciousness and sprawls across the kitchen floor in exhaustion after attempting to dice one-too-many carrots for dinner.

So speaking of exhaustion and dinner, I was too exhausted to prepare anything for dinner after the weekend with the grandparents, so we went out to eat fast food. I grabbed Abbie on our way out the door, and stopped at the drink dispenser to get a refill when I heard The Question. I could tell the wannabe goofy-facemaker directed her question at someone other than me, and since I knew the wife was throwing away our trash, I ignored The Question. I then heard the question again, and turned to see the woman was asking the complete stranger high school girl standing next to me how old "her baby" was. Poor thing. She probably just came out for free water and unlimited breadsticks while discussing potential plot lines in the next OC when some strange woman morbidly embarrasses her.

I had a good laugh at the wilting girl's expense and left, asking my wife how someone could think I could have fathered a child with someone about 8 years younger than me. She told me to take it as a compliment. Probably true, considering that I never could have dated a girl who looked like that even when I actually was in high school. I then reminded my wife that she's the most beautiful girl in the world. Or should have.

I love you, toybox

We're back home after a trip to see the grandparents. It's always interesting to head back to my childhood home to see how Sioux City has changed. Woodrow Wilson Middle School, my old haunt, has been torn down to make way for a "neighborhood school." So many memories. Sigh. So many horrifying, crippling memories.

Sadly, Abbie was an absolute terror for my parents this weekend. She cried, she fussed, and maybe worst of all, she spit up. A lot. And when I say "a lot," I mean she potentially ruined a very nice top with massive quantities of partially-digested carrots. She napped poorly as well, almost skipping her Saturday afternoon nap. I wish I knew what set her off. Maybe it was the long car ride, though she was fine when she arrive back home. Maybe she has allergies, though lord knows what kind of allergens we don't have in our home thanks to the menagerie of pets we house. Maybe she just missed someone. Mom? Kitties? Toybox?

Phoning it in this weekend

I'm going to be on the road this weekend visiting my father for his birthday. There will probably be no update Saturday (maybe I'll update Sunday if I'm feeling spry). Instead I'm going to cheat by cutting and pasting an e-mail I sent to a friend.

My baby daughter was watching TV the other night. By "watching" I mean "chewing on the remote and munching on random buttons." She can turn it on and off, mute it, and change channels. I'm sure there's absolutely no significance to her actions, though I was a bit concerned the time she left the TV tuned to Fox News.

So as I was saying, the other night she was watching TV and turned on the spanish-language channel. Though I have the spanish-language skills of a milk carton, I immediately recognized the program as a Latin version of Family Feud (hosted by I imagine the guy who plays Senor Borland on the Mexican version of Casa Improvemento). I decided to leave it to see if I
could decipher anything. Before long I recognized names like Fidel Castro and Adolpho Hitler, and I
assumed the topic was something like Evil Dictators. Then came names like Che Guerva, George W. Bush, and
current Mexican presidente Vicente Fox. Now I'm thinking the topic is just general world heads of
state. Next I think someone guessed Jesus Christ, and that pretty much killed that idea. Finally, the #1 response came up, which was, I swear, "El Papa." So if you have any idea what all these things have in common, let me know.

Fly me to the moon

Abbie's latest bad habit is grinding her teeth, and boy does that bother her dad. While walking around with her, she'll suddenly start sounding like she found a piece of granite to gnaw very loudly. Most horrifyingly, she only seems to grind her teeth when I carry her, and not when her mother carries her. Apparently children enter the world with an innate desire to ruin their teeth, and since I give her very little sugar, she has to take matters into her own hands. I'm anxiously awaiting the day when she can comprehend me when I tell her not to do something. Then I'll know that, instead of not being able to understand me, she's just choosing to ignore me. I view that as progress.

Here are more pictures of Abbie in the park. She's sitting on a rocking rocket ship thing, and not quite getting the idea. Just being outside is still enough entertainment for her, though. That's our dog in one of the pictures.




If anyone is interested in helping, I'm making an effigy of LaTroy Hawkins to burn. Is it possible that maybe, just maybe, another Cub would be better in the closer role?

But, it's English.

Updating an earlier post, it turns out Abbie putting a little English muffin in Abbie's cereal does not stop her from blowing raspberries while eating. On the contrary, it seems Abbie hates English muffins. Let me repeat that; Abbie hates English muffins. This is the same baby who gleefully devours things I won't even eat, like spinach or stinky cheeses like gorgonzola and bleu cheese. This is the first time I've ever seen her actually refuse to eat something, not counting the time she had that stomach virus. At the next meal, I experimented by throwing some shredded ordinary bread in her cereal, and that went in the mouth without being followed by a raspberry. And the parenting ballet continues. Now I just need to figure out another way to use English muffins. Cough, cough, (meatloaf), cough, cough.

Picture Policy

If anyone would like a higher quality version of any picture you see on this blog for printing or whatnot, just send me an e-mail at mtb002@yahoo.com . The photos you see here are chopped down so they'll load faster, but I have much bigger and better versions on my computer that I can e-mail you.

Swing Swing Swing

We've enjoyed some beautiful weather here in Des Moines the past few days. Apparently we've entered into that short, wonderful transitory period between "Frickin' Freezing" and "Burn Your Hands on the Steering Wheel Every Time You Enter Your Car." For Abbie, this means that, for the first time in months, she can spend extended periods of time outside. I'll carry her around, watch as the neighbors friendly golden retrievers gleefully run each other over trying to sniff the baby, and let her stare at trees with endless fascination.

Abbie's favorite current outdoor activity is swinging at the nearby playground. I wish I knew why she loves the outdoor swing, but barely tolerates the indoor mechanical swing that her aunt spent good money to buy for her. Here are some pictures of her on the swing to create a simulation of you endlessly pushing her while dodging just in time to avoid being kicked.

Only one would dare give me the raspberry.

Abbie has now developed one of her more annoying habits to date: blowing raspberries while eating. I’ll give her a spoonful of num-nums, she’ll swallow most of it, and then jut her tongue out between her lips and blow, sending tiny food particles on a trajectory no bib can hold. Until she learns to talk, I’m going to have to guess why she’s doing this. Maybe she hates her food. From what I can tell about baby cereal, I wouldn’t blame her if she did despise it with all her being. If she didn’t like her food, I’d think she’d fight more to prevent it from going into her mouth in the first place. Maybe she’s discovered that she can do something the despot called Dad can’t control, and danged if she’s going to give it up. Maybe she’s just cleansing her pallet in anticipation for the next scintillating bite.

I’m not sure what to try to stop her from spraying oatmeal. I’ve tried saying “no” firmly, but she just laughs internally at my futile attempts to oppress her. Plus that’s a good way to ensure that her first word is a stern “no.” Ellie suggested I stop feeding her for a bit, and that’s worth a try. Oddly enough, when I added some of the banana muffin I was eating this afternoon to her fruit-and-cereal concoction, which stopped the raspberries. Maybe she just wants a little bread with her cereal. Unfortunately, I’m out of banana muffins, so I may try a little english muffin tomorrow.

Bonus food item!: Abbie tried all sorts of interesting foods for supper tonight, including baked beans, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. This is after eating carrots, chicken, and a little formula. Ellie doesn’t call her the Easter Ham for nothing.

When pants become Culottes

Here's an actual conversation I had with a store clerk today:

Clerk: (Fawning over Abbie) How cute! Are we wearing shorts today?
Me: Well, they're not supposed to be shorts.
Clerk: So they're capri pants then?
Me: Ummm, sure...

Those blasted pants were supposed to be full-length. And they were full-length as soon as I could set her down and unbunch the cuffs from around those thunder-thighs she's developed. I hate the way baby clothes ride up. Abbie doesn't help things either with her need to be carried. If I leave her in the shopping cart for more than a couple of minutes, she cons me into picking her up by chewing on the cart handle. She must know I hate that, and I'm pretty sure that she can pinpoint the most germ-infested section to commence munching. Once I have her in my arms, she usually begins squirming in a desperate attempt to learn what happens when she falls on the floor from a distance of four feet. After a couple of minutes, pants become shorts, and baby T-shirts become baby shawls. That's why my daughter will be wearing onesies for as long being carried is her primary mode of transportation. Bless the man who invented onesies. I think his name may have been Carter...

Who are you?

If you've stumbled upon this page from elsewhere on the internet, or in case you just need a refresher, here's the introductory post explain the blog's cast of characters. Our family lives in Des Moines, IA, in our modest home with a dog, two cats, a chinchilla, and two fish tanks. As for the human family members, here's a picture:



The star of the blog is on the bottom right. That's Abbie in her costume from last Halloween (no, we don't just randomly disquise her as an animal colored in an unnatural hue for fun). Abbie was born 5/30/04, and was about 5 months when this picture was taken.

Holding Abbie in the top right is my wife, Ellie. Ellie is a medical resident here in Des Moines. While I'll be the main writer for the blog, Ellie may contribute periodically as she finds free time (ha!) from healing patients.

On the left is me, Matt, your host here on Abbie Update. I take care of Abbie all day long, making me a stay-at-home parent just like millions of moms and dozens of dads across the country. In case you're curious, UMBC on the shirt I'm wearing stands for the University of Maryland - Baltimore County. No, I don't have any connection to the school, I just got the shirt for free on a business trip, and I love my free T-shirts.

Hi. My name is Matt, and I'll be your blogger.

The idea behind this blog will be to help family, friends, and I suppose any curious strangers keep tabs on our family, especially the little one who lends her name to this site. Future posts will be witty, insightful, and comprehensive. This post, however, is being written at the end of a rough day, so it will be short.

Abbie is growing fast, and eating everything in sight. She's taken to eating anything I'm eating, including broccoli right off my fork. Now if only she'll do that for the next 17 years. She's also teething, drooling all over and being generally grumpy, hence the rough day. For now, I need sleep, though I hope to post pictures once I figure out how.