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

This is a tribute to all of those caring, engaged, lovely adults who are influencing my son.  Sure, sure - he has four of the greatest grandparents ever to walk the earth, and aunties-to-die-for.  But, above and beyond the above and beyond, he has this incredible community of nurturing, charismatic big people who are totally in his corner. 

Take Rich Murray.  He is our roommate.  I call him King Richard because I am but a humble servant in the shadows of his tremendous generosity.  Phil calls him "Daaaawwg" because, you know, he is a best friend.  The guy you can count on.  And now, he is inextricably a part of Archer's life.  I couldn't be happier.

One of our first mornings together as new roommates, Rich began his morning oatmeal ritual, which involves stirring whole oats vigorously on the stove until boiling, then scooping two heaping mounds into a plastic dog dish (don't ask) and adding a thin layer of skim milk.  But instead of wolfing down his portions as he usually does, he spun the dish around so that one side rested in front of Archer and...

...shared.

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. 

...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.

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...

When we began thinking about having kids, there always seemed to be a lot of hubbub about how much our lives would change and how incredible the experience is.  Key ideas kept emerging and repeating, swirling around us like some widely accepted canon of you-can't-go-back propoganda.  Well, now I'm on the other side of the birthing bed, and while it has been a remarkable transformation in our lives, I'm here to dispell a few common myths about being a new parent:

1.  All babies are cute.  Come on.  It is okay to admit that some infants, especially just-out-of-the-oven ones, are more lizard than human.  I myself come from a long line of ugly newborns.  My mom says a neighbor lady came by to see me when I was a few days old and remarked (pointedly) on the lovely baby blanket I was sleeping on.  And I am secure enough to admit that my own son had a bad case of the uglies that he couldn't shake until he hit the two month mark.  He was like a earthworm-octopus child; all squishy limbs, scrunched face and mottled skin.  Of course we love him all the same, but the myth lives on - our friends and family became adamant about how cute he was.

2.  Your body wil never be the same.  Sure, initially it is difficult to walk across the room for fear that your junk will actually drop out of your pant leg onto the floor, and the boobs become blue collar workers whereas they used to be white collar execs, but in time the body can restore itself to essentially its old familar self.  I feel like it is a common misconception that any Tom, Dick or Harry can tell just by looking at a woman of birthing age if she is a mother or not; the extra sprigs of gray hair, the loose skin dangling from her waistline, the breasts that dangle and droop.  Poppycock.

 
3.  Your single and childless friends will disappear.  This is a myth I have been pleasantly surprised to find completely untrue.  It is so endearing to witness our bachelor friends hang out with the baby during a football game on Sunday, or call on our single friends to babysit while we run to a evening meeting. Some of our best new friends are a couple who don't have kids, and we always have plenty to talk about over dinner and drinks without dwelling on diaper rashes and nap schedules.  Sure, my spouse and I do appreciate that we have some very good friends with kids about the same age as Archer, but that is simply an enhancement to those friendships, not a requirement for all things social.  I feel so happy to still have my single and kid-free friends close, with no threat of that mythical lack of commonality that presupposes parents and non-parents are different species.

4.  Say goodbye to travel.   Babies are highly portable.  Their stuff - maybe not so much.  I admit that the amount of gear that is necessary to maintain a baby's health and hygiene while traveling is nothing short of absurd.  We used to be able to dash away for weekend jaunts with little forethought, but now it takes checklists, reservations and multiple laps to the car for loading.  Still, babies can be fantastic travel companions: they don't have an opinion (or can't voice it) about the vacation spot, they can be carried and don't take up too much space, they fly free until they are two, and they are usually good conversation starters with the local folks wherever you go.  No need to file away those passports.  Add one more to the pile and go forth by train, plane, bike or foot to exotic and mundane locales near and far.

5.  You'll know how to be a mother instinctually.  I've asked around, and it's not just me who feels terribly ill-equipped for this job.  With no formal training, no manual (I'm still searching for that succinct book, study or article to tell me what the hell to do), and no practice or scrimmage before the big game, it is on, and you'd better work some serious voodoo magic or this kid will be ruined.  Or at least damaged.  In some way.  Now.  Use your intuition.  Every woman inately knows what's what in the wide world of child rearing, right?  Nope.  Don't think so.  With so many possible choices in so many possible scenarios that ultimately carry such grave and undeniable importance, how can it be mothers' insticts that produce happy, healthy kids time and time again?  I think it more plausible that kids are resilient enough to survive most parental choices - right or wrong, lucky or unlucky - and that ends up being dubbed "A Mother's Instinct."  

When we began thinking about having kids, there always seemed to be a lot of hubbub about how much our lives would change and how incredible the experience is.  Key ideas kept emerging and repeating, swirling around us like some widely accepted canon of you-can't-go-back propoganda.  Well, now I'm on the other side of the birthing bed, and while it has been a remarkable transformation in our lives, I'm here to dispell a few common myths about being a new parent:

1.  All babies are cute.  Come on.  It is okay to admit that some infants, especially just-out-of-the-oven ones, are more lizard than human.  I myself come from a long line of ugly newborns.  My mom says a neighbor lady came by to see me when I was a few days old and remarked (pointedly) on the lovely baby blanket I was sleeping on.  And I am secure enough to admit that my own son had a bad case of the uglies that he couldn't shake until he hit the two month mark.  He was like a earthworm-octopus child; all squishy limbs, scrunched face and mottled skin.  Of course we love him all the same, but the myth lives on - our friends and family became adamant about how cute he was.

2.  Your body wil never be the same.  Sure, initially it is difficult to walk across the room for fear that your junk will actually drop out of your pant leg onto the floor, and the boobs become blue collar workers whereas they used to be white collar execs, but in time the body can restore itself to essentially its old familar self.  I feel like it is a common misconception that any Tom, Dick or Harry can tell just by looking at a woman of birthing age if she is a mother or not; the extra sprigs of gray hair, the loose skin dangling from her waistline, the breasts that dangle and droop.  Poppycock.

 
3.  Your single and childless friends will disappear.  This is a myth I have been pleasantly surprised to find completely untrue.  It is so endearing to witness our bachelor friends hang out with the baby during a football game on Sunday, or call on our single friends to babysit while we run to a evening meeting. Some of our best new friends are a couple who don't have kids, and we always have plenty to talk about over dinner and drinks without dwelling on diaper rashes and nap schedules.  Sure, my spouse and I do appreciate that we have some very good friends with kids about the same age as Archer, but that is simply an enhancement to those friendships, not a requirement for all things social.  I feel so happy to still have my single and kid-free friends close, with no threat of that mythical lack of commonality that presupposes parents and non-parents are different species.

4.  Say goodbye to travel.   Babies are highly portable.  Their stuff - maybe not so much.  I admit that the amount of gear that is necessary to maintain a baby's health and hygiene while traveling is nothing short of absurd.  We used to be able to dash away for weekend jaunts with little forethought, but now it takes checklists, reservations and multiple laps to the car for loading.  Still, babies can be fantastic travel companions: they don't have an opinion (or can't voice it) about the vacation spot, they can be carried and don't take up too much space, they fly free until they are two, and they are usually good conversation starters with the local folks wherever you go.  No need to file away those passports.  Add one more to the pile and go forth by train, plane, bike or foot to exotic and mundane locales near and far.

5.  You'll know how to be a mother instinctually.  I've asked around, and it's not just me who feels terribly ill-equipped for this job.  With no formal training, no manual (I'm still searching for that succinct book, study or article to tell me what the hell to do), and no practice or scrimmage before the big game, it is on, and you'd better work some serious voodoo magic or this kid will be ruined.  Or at least damaged.  In some way.  Now.  Use your intuition.  Every woman inately knows what's what in the wide world of child rearing, right?  Nope.  Don't think so.  With so many possible choices in so many possible scenarios that ultimately carry such grave and undeniable importance, how can it be mothers' insticts that produce happy, healthy kids time and time again?  I think it more plausible that kids are resilient enough to survive most parental choices - right or wrong, lucky or unlucky - and that ends up being dubbed "A Mother's Instinct."  

On our way home from Mexico, Archer and I were enjoying our tight little capsule of space on the airplane when he experienced an abrupt shift in attitude.  Until this point, he was the very essence of politeness and good humor; flirting with other passengers, sitting patiently on my lap, playing coy games of peek-a-boo with surly teenagers in the rows behind us.  But he had finally snapped, determined to fulfill the crabby-baby-on-long-flight-from-hell stereotype once and for all.  I had been nursing him intermittently, achieving the desired effect of calming him and helping him to doze, but we were approaching the fifth hour of containment, and I felt I had to pull out the secret weapon: a big ol' bottle of formula.

I reached blindly into the bag at my feet while he squirmed and whined, straining to find the tall glass bottle with the pre-measured amount of magic powder.  When I finally clutched it and brought it into Archer's field of vision, he went nuts.  As I beckoned the flight attendant for some water to mix it up, he began straining and clawing at it as if it were the holy grail.  This desperate clambering continued until I got the water and began to shake the bottle.  Simultaneously he lunged, jaws open. 

Tooth met glass with a mighty clink, and Archer's mouth spread wide in a bloody, silent sob.

Fortunately the bleeding stopped immediately, as did the crying when Archer got his lips around the bottle's nipple.  When he finished the formula and was contented again, I stuck a finger in his maw to assess the damage.  Sure enough, a chunk had chipped out of his top left tooth. 

I'd love to report that the woes ended there.  After all, it was a tiny little chip in his baby tooth.  But no.  This story ends with me nursing him a few hours later and discovering that this little snaggle tooth had become a demented torture device, acting as a chard of broken glass that would eventually bore a hole in my nipple that would in turn become infected and cause intense burning pain.  

This incident gets categorized under plain old wierd stuff that happens to moms I guess.  I ended up filing the tooth down with an emory board and pumping until the nipple wound healed.  Crazy. 

My friend's neighbor is this mawkish fellow who slumps out onto his porch to retrieve the paper each day, always coughing, snuffling or groaning meekly.  When my friend offers up a word of greeting or concern, he stares at her sleepily. 

"Ron.  How you doing?  You don't look so good."

"No, I been better.  I got The Sick."

The Sick.  That always struck me as the perfect phrase.  You know, that certain breed of illness that seems to come from nowhere, hangs around too long, has no cure, and just feels gunky, crappy, icky.  The Sick.

My son has The Sick.

The day after Christmas, my husband and I brought little Archie into bed with us, he nursed contentedly, sat up, and barfed.  And barfed.  

That was the beginning of a long descent into a hellish quagmire of vomiting, diarrhea, fever, rattling chest, messy nose and a hacking cough.

It's worth mentioning that we went to Mexico for a week during all of this.

We are approaching day 17 of The Sick, and I thought that when I took him to the doc a few days ago that we were in the clear; he hadn't had a fever, diarrhea or vomiting in over a week.  But yesterday it all started up again, like a boorish guest who refuses to leave the dinner party and sticks around drinking all of your best liquor.

To his credit, the boy has been a real trooper through all of this.  Aside from a ratched-up level of clingyness, he has smiled and babbled on through the worst of it.  He'll puke and then immediately grin and squeak with joy.  And when he blows out his diaper, he lays there cheerily as I frantically mop up the morbid stench from his skin and surrounding area.  Even when he sounds like he might actually cough up a pudding pack, he flaps his arms and crawls around without a care in the world.  If only we could all be so happily ill.

So we're back to the doc today.  The on-call guy at Madrona Medical will be the third pediatrician to assess The Sick for poor Archer.  Here's hoping this dinner guest finally has the good sense to call it a night.

Before Archie was sick, I was chatting with a friend at a Christmas party.  She has a daughter (her first) who is one day older than Archie.  I asked her if she really felt like a mother yet, at almost ten months in.  She said she felt the most like a mother when Aya got sick for the first time; wanting desperately to make everything better for her child, needing the hurt to go away, feeling absolutely driven to give the best care possible. 

Two days later Archie got The Sick.  And I'm a mom.

It seemed like a great idea at the time.  A multi-family outing on a gloomy Saturday; a meeting at the Farmers' Market, a walk along the waterfront to Fairhaven, paint-your-own-pottery at CreativiTea.  Splendid.  Pack up the diaper bag and jogger, I'm out the door.

The stricken looks of the three young employees at CreativiTea should have been enough to turn us around in our tracks.  We had just tromped in to a crowded shop during the height of the holiday rush as a band of five soggy adults and three clamboring infants with their bulky jog strollers. 

"Any tables?" we aked innocently, scanning the walls, careful to avoid the precariously stacked ceramics and knick-knacks that seemed (to me) strangely maniacal, ready to leap off their shelves at us and ruin our chances of ever leaving this place unscathed.

"Um," offered one girl, her eyes jabbing at us as if to say, "How could you do this to me?"  Soon there was some furtive talk between the three employees, then a sort of secret negotiation that was probably something like, "Look, if you deal with these idiots, I'll work your next four Saturdays for you, and I'll clean the men's urinal."  The male employee finally took us under his wing, allowing us to squeeze into a set of tiny tables near the front of the store, provided we would keep our strollers outside on the sidewalk.  Fair enough.

As we began to settle in to our new digs, I was finally able to assess the situation for what is truly was: a terrible idea.  We were bringing three babies, all well under a year old, into an itsy bitsy shop filled floor to ceiling with shatterable dishware, semi-toxic paints, and boiling hot tea.  If we could escape this place without major accident or injury it would be the true miracle of Christmas. 

I'll spare you the suspense: it turned out fine.  We moms and dads banded together to entertain and feed babies, smear paint on little hands and feet for sloppy imprints on our cups and plates, wipe up minor paint spills, and avoid catastrophic burns/cuts - all while enjoying a few luxurious sips of tea (creme Earl Grey, spearmint with lemon) and guffawing at the fact that we ever doubted this scenario would work out perfectly.

Today we journeyed to Whoville for a photo shoot with Mr. Grinch.  Village Books has this great display, including little Who-hats and little Who-bows as well as an incredible curved wooden sled that was designed and built by Western students. 

And then there is the jolly-good sport who is dressed up in this tight-fitting polyester Grinch suit: he had to wear swim goggles because the molted rubber mask was poking him in the eyes. 

Ten bucks (mostly donated to Blue Skies for Children) got us a professional quality photo in this delightful Suessian storybook world.  It was worth every penny. 

My friend was in front of me in line, and her six month old sat demurely on Grinch's lap then, just the right moment, flashed a sweet little smile for posterity.  Archer took one look at the huge green monster and started to bawl.  I resolutely shoved him toward Grinch man, jumped out of the frame and said, "Just take the shot.  Crying works for me."

Archer's first real Christmas photo.  This may sound wierd, but I was hoping (a little bit) that he would cry.  Just because that is so cliche as the thing that every parent dreads.  I think it would be hilarious if we made it a sort of family tradition to always have our annual Christmas photo include a fussing, whining, or otherwise belligerent child.