Neighborhood-Kids All Local. All for Kids. All the Time.

Before we left for our sailing trip I conducted exhaustive research on baby pfds, knowing that Archer would be living most of his days toddling around the open decks of our sailboat out in deep water.  The less bulky and cumbersome the better, I thought, but of course it had to be the kind that righted him in the water if he happened to take a tumble into the open blue. 

I found the most streamlined jacket on the market.  I tested it in swimming pools.  After some initial fuss, he took to it quite nicely.  Outlook: hopeful.

Didn't really turn out.  He hated every minute of being constrained in a life vest, aside from the one time he played so long on the beach in the hot sun that he fell asleep while his Grammy put it on him for the dinghy ride back to the boat.

So I resorted to limited use of the thing -- only during rocky seas and dinghy rides.  I just couldn't bring myself to keep him locked up in this puffed up vest when it was 90 degrees and humid.  We played on the boat and beaches sans restraint -- except for the occasional tightly held hand. 

Now, back in Bellingham, Phil and I hope to start taking Archer canoeing, so we'll be revisiting the "battle of the baby pfd."  Who knows, he might take to it quickly with more and more exposure.  After all, he only whines occasionally when I put his bike helmet on him nowadays.  Safety first -- ARGH.

I have just returned from a glorious evening at Boulevard Park with my husband.  We ate barbequed salmon, chatted with friends, and watched the sun set into a vibrant pink swath across the bay.  We did this at our leisure.  Without the kid.

This, and other similarly adult experiences, have been made possible by the most genius of all arrangements: a friendly and equitable babysitting cooperative among a few of our parent-friends.

The simple and elegant agreement is as follows: three families agree to take turns sending a mom or dad over to babysit at someone else's house (which usually just means eating their ice cream and perusing magazines while their child sleeps) and the favor will be returned to you and your spouse so that you may enjoy perhaps one night each week out on the town together.  Sanity restored.  

So I had to sit right down and write a little ode to my dear friend who came over and watched over Archer tonight.  I always look forward to returning the favor. 

Being a stay-at-home mom doesn't necessarily mean you literally have to stay at home, yet I find myself holed up every so often - and looking the part.

Picture if you will: greasy tendrils of hair flattened to my skull, a white-turned-ecru ribbed tank top layered atop an overstretched sports bra, wide-legged cut-off sweats that hit just below mid-shin, and a pair of paper-thin $4 flip flops.  It is so comfortable.  

But now (actually, as of two months ago) I'm on the job hunt, and I'm forced to spruce myself up a bit.  Where to start?

Well, it is labor.  For me.  Truthfully, I sorta like dressing like a slob.  My favorite sweatshirt is a faded and ripped sweatshirt that I actually found on a field down in Burlington five years ago.  I've worn it to dinner at the Nimbus.

Yesterday the hubby came home and actually suggested that I spend money on a stylish cut and color for my straggly hair.  "For the job search," he said sheepishly, "Ya know, ya have to play the game."  I had to laugh, and couldn't be offended.  My last haircut was close to a year ago.

I guess I bring all of this up as a sort of lament.  It is the realization that as I move back into the work-a-day world, I will miss being a stay at home mom - if only for the dress code. 

In a extraordinarily uneventful manner, I have stopped nursing Archer.  My body just finally pooped out on the lactation front, so now the little one must settle for a story and a snuggle when he wakes up, takes a nap, and goes to bed at night.  He doesn't seem to mind. 

It was just an unremarkable Tuesday in June. 

Good grief.  What does it take to get just one professional quality photograph with a toddler?  Thanks to digital photography and a talented friend, we've discovered that it may take up to 27,000 crappy shots to get a decent one.  Our first official family photograph session has come to pass.

Things I've learned:

1. Don't schedule a photo session at the child's bedtime.
2. Do check the tide schedule if you plan to walk along the beach for your photos.
3. Don't wear pants that make your ass look huge.  You want your precious child to be the focal point of the photo, not your tightly clad ba-dow of a booty. 
4. Do have infinite appreciation for your friend who is hooking you up for a fee that is way less than she's worth.
5. Don't expect your candid shots to look the same way that candid shots look in magazines.  It is tough to look nonchalant on purpose.
6. Do laugh at yourself and your ridiculous quest for the perfect picture.

My child is a voracious eater.  It is common for him to throw down adult-sized portions of his gruel and still be unsatiated.  He begs for food from total strangers.  His belly visibly distends during meals.  The only baby sign language he uses consistently is - you guessed it - "FOOD".

Archer took his first steps...about a month ago.

He's also said some words...whenever that was.

First tantrum happened...can't remember the circumstance.

He doesn't use bottles anymore...not sure how long ago that stopped.

Should I be feeling more nostalgic about these things?  Keeping records?  Will the 38-year-old Archer ask me to recall these things for him during some intimate dinner with his adoring and curious wife (or husband)?

I think I've blown it.  Suddenly I feel the urge to write mounds of sentimental poetry about nursing and baths and his pouting lips and pudgy knees.

A friend recently told me that her high school buddies used to call the short-in-front, long-in-back hairstyle the "Yupnope," because when you are approaching the person from the front you think to yourself, "Yup..." but then when you get closer and realize the whole situation you immediately think, "...nope." 

Call it what you will.  My son has one.  Yes, his hair grows naturally into a mullet. 

He came out of the birth canal sporting a dark mullet, then lost all of this infant hair, and now he is regrowing a more permanent one.

I feel helpless to stop it.  I could cut his hair, but...well...no I really can't cut his hair.  I love it too much.

Damnit, son, I love you and your Yupnope.

The hubby came home from work the other day and promptly slumped onto the couch.  Usually I am not on the couch around that time, but this day I was.  Archer was playing with his red Radio Flyer and hustling around the room, drunk with silliness and chirping all the way.  Sunshine brightened the walls, and a slight breeze puffed through the opened windows.  We adults slouched there and looked on contentedly, my legs strewn across his lap, his arm tucked under my lower back. 

Swept up in a rare (and quite cliché) moment of domestic bliss, my husband leaned over and kissed me.

Archer paused.  He looked at us.  His mouth spread wide and he let out a snarky "AAaaah." 

Before we knew it, he was upon us, pulling himself up to eye level with me.  

He kissed me.  Lips puckered, with a loud "MMMMMWWAAH!"  He looked at his dad and grinned.

Hubby bent down again and kissed me again.

Archer followed suit.

Hubby hovered an inch above my face and launched a full scale attack of smooches.  Archer retaliated with a bevy of wetter, more audible kisses.  I was utterly overtaken by these two boys simultaneously laying claim to my face.

Finally, in an ultimate show of power and shamelessness, Archer put his little body between my husband and me, grabbed my face with both hands, and planted one squarely on my chin.

By this time, all three of us were nearly falling off the couch; our howling laughter echoing out of the open windows. 

...in a few short hours I will be leaving Archer for the weekend.  This is my first overnight away from him.

Today I breathed him in at every moment; awash in his laughter, soaked in his tears, softened by his dewdrop skin.  I'm awestruck by the beauty of this boy.  I'll miss him.

But I gotta say: sleeping in as long as I want, snowboarding all day, and roaming around Whistler Village with good friends will be - well - very nice.