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

It was actually Phil who finally broke down:

"My god.  I can't handle it.  We need to cut that kid's hair."

After Halloween, when Archie vehemently refused his costume all day long and I was forced to throw his long, thin swath of hair into a ponytail and tell everyone he was going trick-or-treating as a little girl, the family made an executive decision: 

Lose the mullet.

We anticipated lots of writhing and gnashing of teeth, but in the end it was a quiet Saturday morning after breakfast; we took the electric shaver to his head as he preened in the mirror with dispassionate curiosity.

And so the delicate wisps of spun gold that have tickled the neck of my child since he emerged from the womb now lay encased in a sandwich-sized Ziplock baggie, while the dapper little fellow who shed them bolts unencumbered into boyhood.

All of these many months of hand-wringing and despairing about the fruitless job search and suddenly:  I get a job.

Gulp.

WHHHHAAAAAAAAAA!

I don't WAAANT to work from 8 in the morning until it's dark outside.  I don't WAAANT to sit in meetings with colleagues and "collaborate" on upcoming events.  And I REEEEEALLY DON'T WANT to be away from my precious baby boy for, well, most of his waking hours.

This was my mindset when I set out to secure a childcare "situation" that would allow me to return to work after almost two years of being out of the game. 

Well.  I quickly discovered that finding an open spot for a 19 month old in ANY daycare in Bellingham - let alone a good one - was akin to my own desperate quest for employment; namely, frantic and demoralizing.

I didn't really even know how to start.  I asked around to friends.  I asked a few strangers.  I checked the boards at the Co-op. I surfed the web.  I did Craig's List. I dropped in at preschools.  Finally, someone told me about a service provided by the Opportunity Council, where you fill out a form with your name and child's information, as well as your childcare needs and preferences, and they generated this list of childcare providers that fit your criteria.  Nice, eh?

So I get this list of about 18 places and start calling:  "Sorry, I'm full for that age group."  "Nope, we can't take anymore under two."  "I can put you on our wait list."  Hang up and repeat.

When I had dailed all the numbers, I had two leads.  Two.  Way out in the county.

Over the next day and a half, I got a few more returned phone calls and was able to visit a few places.  Wow.  Between the smoke-saturated furniture and television-as-the-main-learning-activity environments, I began to question the wisdom of returning to work.

There is a happy ending.  We lucked out and found a solid program for Archie three days a week, and a nanny for one day, and a family member for one day.  It ain't cheap.  We're piecing it together for now.  And we're on wait lists.  Yes, I've joined the ranks of those modern bourgeois parents who get their kids on wait lists for programs, schools and activites so far in the future that they are inconceivable in our every day lives.  

But if it means I'll stop bawling every time I think about sending my kid away for the day without me, it's totally worth it.

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.

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.

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.

...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.

Nope, this isn't a sentiment expressed by my emerging toddler.  Rather it is my stubborn inner-brat: I don't WANT to wean my baby yet!  I don't WANT to leave him for a whole weekend!!  I don't WANT anyone to tell me I have to!!!  whaaAAAAA!!!!

Never in my wildest dreams would I have predicted being such a clutchy mother.  But I get all steamy-eyed when I consider the upcoming weekend trips I have planned - a girls weekend in Colorado, a kayak jaunt in the San Juans, a backpack trip along the PCT - all sans Archie.  Sob.

After so many months of feeling trapped by this dependent creature, now it appears I am the needy one.  

Uh huh.  We did it.  My hubby and I went snowboarding at Baker this weekend.  It was bliss to get back on the mountain after a two-season hiatus a la pregnancy and newborn.

We crammed into a sporty little hatchback with another couple, Archer happily in the middle of his parents in the backseat, and zipped up to the slopes for a day of shredding the groomers.  We even got a few sunbreaks and a momentary view of Shuksan in all its rugged, snow-capped glory. 

The hubby and I split shifts with the kid, alternately doing lodge time chasing him up and down rickety staircases and getting in a few well-deserved runs.  It certainly helped to have friends to keep us company throughout the day both on the snow and in the lodge.  A half day of boarding was just about right for my return - the thighs were burning after two hours.

And now we're feeling ambitious - next month it's a weekend at Whistler for spring skiing and baby's first concert: Michael Franti and Spearhead.  Woohooooo...

It is with some urgency that I pass along the following advice:  don't give your child unrestrained access to his whole birthday cake.

As you will read in some other posts, Archer's first birthday celebration was a tremendous success in every way accept this:  he woke up barfing huge amounts of carrot cake and cream cheese frosting the next day. 

Refined sugar is just not really a part of Archer's diet.  In fact, it is part of my things-to-avoid acronym: PST.  (P)lastics, (S)ugar, (T)elevision.  Sure, he gets plenty of sugars in his fruit, yams, and breastmilk, but nothing close to the magnitude of the unbridled throwdown he experienced at his birthday party.

So, when a mom neglects to step in and stop the madness, when a baby eats nearly a pound of cake (mostly frosting), and when said baby's stomach has little tolerance for such decadence, well, he pukes.

And like a strange and delicate fossil, his vomit told the story of the previous day's exploits in perfect detail.

Next year, the simple indulgence of just one piece of cake will do nicely, thank you. 

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.