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.

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.

I swear Archie has started to identify green as an unappetizing color. 

Admittedly, I've been pushing the dark leafy greens pretty heavily since he was taking solid foods. I think he can see that earnest glint in my eye when I present him with mush that I've super-packed with nutritional goodness; like he knows I want him to devour it with an unnatural fervor and then smile graciously at the prospect of eating such wholesome foods throughout his long and healthful life...

...And he resents that. 

He wants to eat sweet things.  Just like all humans are pre-programmed to do.  He doesn't get any stuff with sugar added, but even naturally occurring sugars - like bananas - he just goes nuts for.  Tantrums all over the place.  Big tears.  Balled up fists.  Baby rage.

If you're sensing a power struggle emerging, you wouldn't be that far from the truth. 

Deep breaths, mama. 

Okay.  I'm finally ready to announce it:  Archer is sleeping through the night.

Only new parents can appreciate both the precious and precarious nature of sleep in the first year; something that simply cannot be forced, bargained for, or coerced in any way.  You just have to dimly hope that some day, some sweet sweet day in the future, this devil child who fiendishly keeps you from uninterrupted sleep for longer than you once thought was healthy, natural or humanly possible, finally will give up the ghost and sleep all the way through the night.

And then, once he does, it is a trick.

It is a trick because babies are about the least consistent beings on the planet and even though he strings together three solid nights of sleep in a row and you dare to think, "Wow, my little treasure is finally sleeping through the...", something tiny but perceptible only to the child will shift in the universe and cause wakeful sleep for the next two weeks.  Dark, spongey bags again swell under your eyes as the blissful sleep you'd brushed up against ever so lightly wanes and you fall into a fretful  awareness that you may never again experience a day in which fatigue is not the underlying theme. 

But then, a magical developmental milestone actually occurs, and just before his first birthday, he falls asleep at night and doesn't wake up until morning.  And then he does it again.  And again.  Repeatedly.  For real.

So I'm shouting it from the rooftops (blogtops?), jinxes be damned: "My kid is sleeping through the night!"  The tyranny is over.  For now.

Whooping and shouting, "ROAD TRIP!" no longer has the appeal it once did. 

In fact, anything longer than a quick jaunt to the store conjures a sense of looming dread.  Having a miniature human harnessed Indy 500 style into the backseat has a way of diminishing fun by the mile.  This I know.  I just returned from a weekend trip to Bend.

I had planned to cut the trip into tidy little parts, stopping frequently to let the little guy unstrap and do baby things.  This plan worked well on the way down.  Stops in Seattle to visit Grandma and Auntie, Portland to stay overnight with a good friend.  I timed it so that most of our driving was done during his nap times.

But on the way back home, I pushed it.  Not good.

The last hour was a battle.  Archer screaming as I am literally throwing toys and food and his blankets and bottle at him to quiet him for 15 second stretches.  As we climbed into the hills along I-5 from Mount Vernon, he had resorted to cramming his fingers into his throat and gagging himself, howling with boredom and discomfort.  I grew alternately livid and morose. 

As we pulled into our driveway, I had sworn off road trips until he was 16 and could drive a separate car. 

More drama with the floor bed:

So today I've been taking Archer's toy bin out of his room when I put him down for a nap.  This is so he won't fight sleep in order to clank around with his toys for an hour.  This morning it worked like a charm; he was snoozing within five minutes.

But this afternoon I've been cringing as he scoots over to the door and bawls intermittently.  I've buckled and gone in twice, only to discover that he had tossed his blankey somewhere unreachable.  Hmmm...he has gifts in the Manipulation Arts.

Now he is gurgling and humming quietly.  Ugh - he's back at the door.  Commence bawling.  

Is that the choice then: the toys stay in the room or I suffer continuous blankey rescue operations?  Damn this kid is gooood.

I was wrestling around with Archer on our bed today, and after about five minutes of squeals and giggles, he pulled himself to standing on the headboard, grew very somber, and gazed intently out the window.  Confident that I could lure him back into our whimsical play, I threw a blanket over my head and roared like a monster. 

He looked back at me and fake-laughed.  

It was a short, monotone chuckle that was clearly designed to let me know that he had moved on to other interests, and I really wasn't all that funny anymore. 

This new fake laugh can now be added to his repetroire of counterfeits: the fake smile (pictured below), the fake cough, and the fake cry.

At eleven months, I'd call it advanced acting.

Those who know me are well aware that I've gone and done a zaney thing: I've set Archer's room up with a floor bed instead of a crib.  At about 5 months, he went straight from his cradle to a double-sized futon on the floor.  This early introduction to a floor bed is part of the overall Montessori environment that is supposed to promote freedom of movement, exploration, and independence.  Having Archer sleep on a floor bed, which has no bars to hold him in, means that we had to childproof the hell out of the room, while still maintaining a pleasent asthetic quality and opportunities for him to engage with his surroundings.

For the most part, we have been quite pleased with the results.  But sometimes (especially lately)...

...I'll put him down on his bed for a nap and he'll fake like he's drowsy until I leave the room.  Then, once the door is closed, I hear him roll over and start talking to himself in the mirror.  Shortly thereafter, he'll crawl directly over to his toybox and start banging and stacking and tossing around the goods.  Eventually, sometimes after an hour of raucousness, he'll grab his blankey and put his head down for a nap.  Wherever he happens to be.  Occasionally, he just never settles down for a nap.

Every once in a while this behavior stresses me out.  Like he is not really getting the point about "nap time."  I keep thinking that babies who sleep in cribs get bored quickly after being left alone, so take the hint and just fall asleep.

So - what is more important?  Strict naptime routine or freedom of movement?  Immediate self-soothing or exploration?  Sleep or play? 

I'd write something terribly clever right now, but Archer is whining piteously and tugging at my pant leg.  I hear this lasts until he is 18 months old.  Chance of survival is looking extremely tenuous.

The whining has turned into wailing now.  I'm out. 

How lucky are we that we live in Bellingham and raise our kids here?  Lucky enough to enjoy SEASONS.  I woke up yesterday and yelped, "It's snowing!" with childish enthusiasm and began shoving Archer's limbs into a ridiculous amount of warm clothing.  Out the door and into the chilled winter wonderland for his first experience with snow!

I am actually seeing the wonders of each season through the eyes of a child again; having Archer join us in late February has given us the opportunity to pay attention to the local landscape as it changes each month.  I remember walking with Archer through neighborhoods this Spring just as he was learning to reach out to touch the swatches of airy blossoms and new green growth sprouting up and out from each branch and patch of dirt.  Then came the high sunshine of summer (seems like it just barely made it to "warm" this year, never "hot" -- such is Bellingham, I guess) and a regular frequenting of Fairhaven's fountain park and Padden's cool shores.  Of course, summer always ends too soon in this part of the world, but autumn brought crunchy piles of fallen leaves to sink into and play, not to mention the yummy squash and apples just in time for Archer's first taste of solid foods.  And yesterday, the piece de resistance, a spectacular dusting for snow angels and tasting.