Thursday, July 31, 2008

Local Duck Found

One Duck, of Dickson, Tennesse, was recovered yesterday when local authorities found him at nearby Cheekwood Gardens in Nashville.

Duck was first reported missing by one Papoosekin, also of the same residence in Dickson, at lunchtime yesterday. Papoosekin was unable to report the time or location that Duck had last been seen. Luckily, Papoosekin's mother was on the scene to assist with the search-and-rescue plan.

"I remember seeing him in her stroller as we were approaching the mansion. I kept looking over to make sure he hadn't fallen out. But now that I think about it, I don't remember seeing him when we left the mansion. She was only holding her mum-mum."

A Cheekwood spokesperson has been quoted as saying that the mother's story was crucial in conducting investigations. "We'd never have found Duck so fast, if she hadn't been able to narrow the search parameters," he stated.

Duck and Papoosekin were reunited yesterday afternoon at 2:00 pm. Other Cheekwood officials had already located Duck by the time he was reported missing and were holding him in a detainment cell as he lacked identification. No injuries were sustained. It is thought that Duck may have fallen out of the stroller during a particularly steep climb approaching the mansion. Unfortunately, Duck was unavailable for questioning regarding his role in the caper.

Celebration continued into the night as local paparazzi caught the pair, apparently leaving the Living Room. Papoosekin would only offer, "Do, do, do!" Duck gave no comment.

Papoosekin's mother is said by an anonymous source to be looking into purchasing opportunites of spare Ducks.

Lessons from My Brain

You know when you learn a new word and suddenly you see/hear it everywhere? They say you're just more aware of it now because you finally know what it means.

I thought I knew what the word "depression" meant. When do you learn about that? Middle school? Probably sooner for some kids. Depression, I thought, was what happened to some people, sometimes, when they become very sad and down and need to go to doctors to help them get better.

As we got older, they started with all those dang pharmaceutical commercials. But I bet we all learned a little better what depression is. "Where does depression hurt?" But like so many things in life, you don't really know until you've been there.

I linked to some posts recently that probably were a bit of a buzz kill to some. I think it made my family nervous. Then, after my "depression coming out post" (term credited to mooshinindy's recent tweet), I'm sure it made a little more sense to people. I've read so many depression coming out posts since then. I feel like they're everywhere, all of a sudden. They all sound exactly the same. Well, not exactly. I seem to like to slap myself upside the head with how much worse everyone else has it. Horror stories of NICUs, fantasies of hurting self or child, so many health problems that I'm so happy we've been blessed not to have to survive.

But I try not to let myself play the who-has-it-worse or, even more fun, who-deserves-to-feel-depressed game because it's stupid and I never win anyway. We've had our share of hard times. My baby's healthy, but I scare easy, and we had a rough start. We moved across the country. The Husband is in a new job. We're in a new, small town. We've been sick with virus after virus after virus. After virus. My back went out. I haven't slept. We have carpenter bees, and water damage in an outer wall, and dangerous wiring that had to be replaced, and ticks in the yard, and some kind of orange lawn rust disease, and a flooding dishwasher, and no refrigerator when there was supposed to be one, and somewhat shoddy construction in our utility room, and cracking kitchen tile, and asbestos under that tile, and no smoke detectors, and our car gave up the ghost, and the borrowed car was broken into, and the Husband's laptop was stolen, and oh yeah the identity theft, after virus after virus, and my back went out again. And the ten baby pounds I can't lose. Probably because I'm depressed and therefore want to eat all day. And the separation anxiety of the Papoosekin kept me out of the gym until very, very recently. Bah.

And then there are things that the Husband and I have endured that no one knows about, and no one will, and neither will you, Internet, because everyone has skeletons. But man, they weigh you down.

That's my inventory of Why Things Suck. I know I've left some out. Probably a lot. They sneak up on you, and depression sneaks up on you, and you wake up one morning and realize you never want to get out of be anymore (I used to POP out of bed, even on weekends, raring to go. Drove the Husband nuts.). And then you find yourself crying on your baby while she's trying to nurse. And you're biting your husband's head off like some demented preying mantis (praying mantis?). And you can't identify what's actually wrong.

And you're only one in a gazillion mamas, all in their own, isolated little boats!

When did all these mamas get depressed? Ninny, they've been everywhere, always, you're only just noticing because now you're one of them. Parenting's hard. Hormones suck. Depression sneaks up on you. And this is what else I've learned about it:
  1. You're convinced you're alone, but you're not.
  2. At least half your friends have battled depression, even if you don't know about it.
  3. It feels exactly like you're wrapped in seran wrap: you can see everyone and everything around you, you can see all the good things and good people and love that's out there, but none of it can touch you. That's stolen from another blogger, but I have no idea whom. (If you recognize it, let me know, I'm happy to link to and credit them)
  4. Nothing is wrong and everything is wrong all at the same time, and you will never be able to explain this to your husband, much to both of your dismay.
  5. The last thing you want to do is talk about it. You want someone else to notice and then save you. If they do, you're lucky. Most likely you just have to wait for it to get bad enough that your common sense gets so freaked out that it screams loud enough to make itself heard through the haze.
  6. There are good days and bad days and the good days may come all in a flood of sunshine and rainbows and kittens and make you feel like yourself for the first time in months and it will feel so good and so right and maybe you're not even actually sick after all? and then BOOM! You get knocked on your ass so hard and so fast and with no warning, and let that be a lesson to you. Depression does not up and walk away one day. DO NOT cancel your appointment with the doctor because things seem rosy again. It's an illusion. Things are crap and you need help.
  7. You cannot will yourself out of depression.
  8. Depression and anxiety can be hereditary. This information doesn't necessarily help, but it's interesting.
  9. You can still smile and laugh when you're depressed. This may fool people around you into thinking the other times are just bad days. This can be good if you're trying to fool people. It can be bad if you're begging someone to notice.
  10. It takes a lot of guts to start talking. For me it came out of desperation. But once you do, it's sooooo much easier. Then you want to talk about it a lot because you're so happy not to feel so alone and to feel like someone (finally!) gets it! In fact, a lot of someones get it. Which is both sad and heartening.
Part of me wants to apologize for all the doom and gloom I've posted recently. My three readers probably get sick of it. And part of me is absolutely not sorry at all because this is important and I started this blog for me, not to become one of the famous bloggers who pays their mortgage with their blog. Although, now that I think about it, many of them start this way. But anyway. Things will get cheerier around here when I do. And it will happen, I know. Hopefully, you'll still be with me when it does. At any rate, I'll still be here.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Monday, July 28, 2008

Milk Factory Shutdown: Phase 1

I spent much of Friday staring at two pieces of paper currently magneted to the refrigerator.

The Husband and I both had a hunch, when I was pregnant, that I could be one of the unfortunate women who might end up with post-partum depression. Do you think there are some people that just have more of a propensity to end up battling depression at some point in their lives? Not in that, "Yeah, I always thought she had a screw loose!" kind of way. Just people who's natural personality traits may make them more vulnerable to it? 'Cause I kind of do. And I'm including myself here, so you know I don't mean these people are weak or mopey or whiney or whatever horrible little stereotypes you sometimes hear. I don't think I could define this personality type. But I know there are people in my life that I just can't imagine being likely to ever suffer from clinical depression, and people about whom I wouldn't be surprised, though I would be sorry, to hear of battling it.


I finally went to the doctor. My general practitioner, not a psychiatrist. I had had an appointment with a $300/hr psychiatrist several weeks ago, but canceled the appointment when the three preceding weeks were the first time I'd felt like myself in months. I didn't know...about that symptom that everyone else seems to have known about...that depression is like that, with the ups and downs.

So now I have two pieces of paper from the doctor magneted to my fridge. One is a presciption for an antidepressant. One is for anti-anxiety meds. I have not filled them.

There are two reasons for that: First, I'm pretty sure I have a pathological phobia of taking meds. Okay, maybe not that bad. But it is a battle to get me to take Advil when I have a headache, Nyquil when I have a cold, any kind of pain meds stronger than Advil after knee surgery. I'm sure it's terribly annoying to everyone around me. And I don't know where that comes from or what it's about. Probably some horrifyingly transparent reflection of my control-freak nature. But there it is.

More importantly, I can't start meds while nursing the Papoosekin. This is the main reason I didn't make this jump three months ago when the Husband and I realized that I was "not well." I saw my doctor then, too, and he got it, and he wanted to give me a prescription then, warning that my marriage would need it. But he also got it about the nursing. And that I'd had such a hard time getting started and that six months was way too soon, for me personally, to wean. He got that I so wanted to make it to 12 months. So we compromised and he sent me off for some cognitive therapy to try to bridge me to the nine-month mark without losing it completely. Nine months, we agreed, was not too early.

But that counselor was a horrible, guilt-tripping, insensitive wench who basically told me to suck it up, create more energy (from where?), and that it was pretty much unacceptable that I wasn't cooking and cleaning more. I tried to put a brave face on it at first, but some distance has made enraged at how horrible she was. I only saw her twice, then stopped because I entered that three-week remission. It's apparently a big, huge given that cognitive therapy doesn't do crap for PPD anyway.

So I have the prescriptions and we've started weaning. And the Papoosekin takes a bottle, even from me, so it's really not that bad. But I'm still battling this guilt about not making it to 12 months. So, so stupid, I know. I would never hesitate to agree that this is the right decision if it were someone else; in fact, I fully know that this is the right decision for me. But I didn't want to wean at nine months and it's hard because she is obviously missing those two nursing sessions we've dropped and I know it's just a habit because when she's tired, she wants to nurse...but it's hard.

I'm not really sure how fast we'll get through this and how fast I'll need to cash in those two pieces of paper on the fridge into nasty little pills that I'll have to take for god knows how long. But it's coming. And I'm both relieved and resentful all at once.

Without even an attempt at a segue, I'm going to just dump some pictures of a very happy Papoosekin in here to make us all feel better.

See, Papoosekin loves her bottle, too. Especially when cuddled up to the awesome Mr. Ouiser, sunburn or no.

Saturday, we went to an Irish Barbecue Picnic. The Papoosekin did not get to have any barbecue. She had a Wagon Wheel.

A little extra laundry to do...

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

8 Hours

I fell asleep around 10:00 last night. The Papoosekin didn't get up until almost 6:30 am. I didn't wake up until the Husband's alarm went off at 6:00 am.

I didn't wake up.

Holy healing power of writing.

I slept through the night.

And the Papoosekin rewarded me with her first step today.

This is a Wordle of that last post. I'm going to focus on that big, purple word.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

The Day This Blog Got Real

I used to be a good sleeper. I won the award for Best Napper in kindergarten.

In eighth grade I had mono and, as I recall, it took weeks for my parents to realize I was sick because I slept so much anyway.

I spent most of high school getting home from practice (depending on the season, x-country, track, volleyball, whatever) at around 5:30 or 6:00 pm, passing out in my room, missing dinner, getting up around 8:00 or 9:00 pm, finding something to eat, talking on the phone until 11:00 or 12:00, then finally getting around to doing my homework.

I don't even remember when I got most of my sleep in college. I was a rower, which meant getting up at 5:00 am or earlier every morning for practice. Because dorms don't quiet down to any decibel level that is remotely reasonable for someone trying desperately to induce sleep until at least 11:00 pm, I think I did most of my sleeping during my 8:00 am calculus class. I had notebooks full of pencil marks skittering off the page or becoming so minute that it required a magnifying glass to read the equations.

After college, the Husband and I lived in Philly for a while, and for part of that time my brother- and sister-in-law lived in the same apartment building. Right across the hall, in fact. I'm pretty sure my brother-in-law became convinced I was an undiagnosed narcoleptic because he woke me up from a nap every single time he came over.

That long history of a good, healthy sleep appetite ended, as it does for almost every mother I've ever heard of, during pregnancy. I had some back issues during pregnancy that were a bit more severe than average. I had to stop working early because of them and spent a lot of time at home, nesting for the baby when I could walk, taking in a lot of tv when I couldn't. And napping. And the naps at that point were some of the more reasonable and justifiable of my life because, hello, I was pregnant and exhausted anyway, but also because, like most pregnant women, I wasn't getting much sleep at night what with the bladder squished by the weight of a whole human sitting on it, the back pain, and the general discomfort of hosting said human with free room and board for ten months.

I knew sleep would be scarce with a new baby. Duh. But I didn't expect the complete and utter sleep dysfunction that life has thought fit to bestow upon me. Apparently all those early years of robust somnolence were leading up to a major drought.

The night the Papoosekin was born (or was it the next day? It's all a blur.), I had a nightmare that the Husband was holding her and dropped her. Not like she just somehow wiggled out of his arms, or he tripped, or anything remotely accidental. He just let go and watched her fall. I know that sounds like some major trust issues with my husband, but it actually had nothing to do with that. I woke up with my heart racing, but with no untoward feelings about him. Just terror about the safety of the Papoose and a desperate need to identify her whereabouts and that she was still breathing.

This never stopped

That first nightmare haunted me for weeks, awake and asleep. I can still replay it in my mind in vivid detail and actually feel my heart rate escalating as I type this.

The Papoosekin slept in our room the first couple months, and I woke up at the sound of a pin dropping, but hearing all her coos and sighs and wee coughs while sleeping actually soothed me into assurance that she was still alive and well. She moved into her own room shortly before the big move across the country. I can't remember if the major nightmares started before or after that, but they started with a vengeance. I didn't actually have proper nightmares, per se, but I would half wake, convinced that she was in the bed with us and that we'd accidentally fallen asleep with her there (we never coslept, so I don't know the origin of this exact manifestation of my clearly major neurosis), and that she was suffocating. I would start frantically ripping the sheets and blankets off the bed trying to find her. I'd wake up the Husband, grabbing his arm or shoulder or face, thinking it was her, and trying to pick her up, talk to her, make sure she was safe. I don't know how many times I must have scared him out of his skin during this mania before he got so used to it, he'd just mumble, "She's safe, she's in her crib, go back to sleep" while I had my hands on his cheeks cooing, "Hi, baby!"

Sounds almost funny, when I read it, but it's so, so not. It would often take minutes to wake up enough to realize that everything was okay, that my baby was safe. And by then I was wide awake, so it took a while to get back to sleep. And a while to get my heart out of my throat, calm the nausea in my stomach, and feel that it was safe to close my eyes again. Only for it to happen again and hour later. And again. And again. And again.


Once I was searching and searching our bed for her and couldn't find her anywhere. I saw a pile of blankets on the floor next to me and thought she'd gotten wrapped up in them and fallen off the bed. I looked at the bundle carefully for any movement and saw none. I reached a hand down to feel if there was any movement, any breathing, and there was none. I thought she was dead. For minutes. A lifetime. Until I got up the nerve to unwrap the bundle and found there was nothing but blankets. My sobbing woke up the Husband that time.


When the Papoosekin started crawling, the nightmares shifted from the suffocation theme to a falling-off-the-bed scenario, whereby she was either on the floor injured or crawling around on her own in our not-entirely-child-proofed bedroom, about to hurt herself. So now I got to leap out of bed, searching wildly around the room trying to find her. The worst part about this new variation on my own personal hell was that now the half-awakenings were proceeded by very realistic dreams of her waking up in the night, me going to get her from her crib, and bringing her back to bed with me. Which never happens in our house. But it does in lots of others', so it's a very logical and reasonable imagining. As I gradually woke up, even to the point of full awareness, I had no idea whether I had actually gone to get my baby and she might truly be in the room, or whether the whole thing was a dream and she was asleep in her crib as she always was. The bright side was that at least I wasn't waking up the Husband anymore. At this point, I was going through the whole routine about a dozen times per night.

After almost nine months of this, as you can imagine, I've been nearing a breaking point. Obviously, I haven't been getting any kind of quality sleep at all. I wake up at the sound of the cats walking across the floor. I wake up every time the air conditioning comes on. Downstairs. I wake up when the Husband rolls over. Wide awake. Every time. And I don't wake up like a normal person, opening the eyes, looking around half-awake to make sure everything's okay, and going back to sleep. Nor even like a normal insomniac, who wakes up, realizes they won't be able to get back to sleep, and stumbles downstairs for some water, or tv, or Internet. I wake up with a whiplash-inducing suddenness, ramrod straight, sitting up in bed, one thought, and one thought only, at the forefront of my mind, pulse racing, almost in full-on panic attack mode: "WHERE IS SHE?"


What's that? Where am I going with this horrifically depressing story? Why am I weighing you down with this kind of grief? Shut up with the terrifying description of motherhood that is sure to make all childless readers glue their legs together to protect themselves from this particular curse?

I do have a point. A point besides my own catharsis at getting this out in the open after months of keeping it between the Husband and I. I've been going through a lot of stuff for months and have started opening up to those closest to me only fairly recently. And it's helping. So there's that.

But more importantly, I CAN'T BE THE ONLY ONE THIS HAPPENS TO. And someone out there may need help, too. And maybe on some Google or Technorati or whatever search for anxiety and new mother and sleep disorder this post will come up, and some other woman won't feel so alone and so helpless.

Other new mothers to whom this is happening: We have an anxiety disorder. Get help.

Yeah, Scarlet, I'm finally listening to you. No, I was listening all along; I'm finally hearing you. And I'm getting proactive on this shiz.

And here's my other piece of advice and the reason why I'm writing about this now: Three nights ago, I decided, out of nowhere, that a mantra might help.

Unsurprisingly, I've developed a fear of going to sleep for the past two or three months, keeping me up later and later at night as I lie there, afraid to go to sleep, but afraid of the dark places my mind was going in my fear as well. The Husband kept urging me to find a sentence I could repeat in my head to help me fall asleep. I mostly ignored him because I always used to do that: "One, two, three, four, five; one, two, three, four, five..." Worked like a charm for me for years. His is: "I must stay awake. I must stay awake." But I couldn't get my mind to settle on anything and was just frustrated and resentful. Finally, I hit on something without even trying one night and I knew it was going to work. I just had to find the only thing my poor, stress-addled brain remotely cared about: The Papoose is safe in her crib. The Papoose is safe in her crib. Over and over. And I fell asleep.

The magical part? When I woke up for the nightly terrorized room search, the sentence popped back into my head: The Papoose is safe in her crib. It still took a few seconds to feel the meaning of that sentence and believe it. But seconds! Not minutes!! And I didn't have to fully wake up and I fell back asleep smiling, repeating my magic phrase.

The Papoosekin, safe in her crib.

I'm not fishing for a bunch of comments worrying about me and how I'm doing and whether I'm really okay. I'm not. But I'm talking to people about it now and I'm making decisions and I'm figuring out what path is going to be right for me to make this better. And I do know that it will get better.

The main points of this post are threefold (come on, every book--and I know you won't argue with me on that word choice--needs a good conclusion!):
  1. Writing it out helps.
  2. Writing it out may help someone else.
  3. This blog is obviously no longer a craft blog. And if I want it to be something more than just a place to show my friends and family the latest cute pictures of the Papoose, then I've got to get more genuine and honest and make people want to read it. And I do want it to be more than that.
So there. There's a big chunk of my soul out there. Have at it. Gently, please.

Monday, July 21, 2008

YouTube Love

So, since it's clearly a YouTube kind of a day, I've got two more I feel compelled to share.

A lot of you have probably seen this one from JibJab by now, but I feel it's well worth posting for anyone who hasn't, or for anyone who enjoyed it so much they want to see it again. As it's been called by many, a little equal opportunity ridiculing:

And to warm your cynical hearts...this made me cry, in the good way. But I'm a nursing mama, so I can blame the hormones. What's your excuse, crybaby?

There's a Joke About Someone Walking into a Bar Somewhere in Here...

A few nights ago I was out for coffee with Mr. Ouiser. We were talking about parenthood and how much more sensitive you are to all the bad things happening in the world once you have a child.

The discussion reminded me of this quote by Elizabeth Stone:

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."

But I couldn't remember the quote at the time, so my description went something like, "You know, it's something about having your heart outside of your body and it's out there just walking around and how that's like being a mother..."

Or, as his brain translated that, it's something like this:

Power of Positive Thinking

Want to win $50? Robyn's Online World is giving away a $50 gift certificate to a randomly chosen reader who leaves a comment on her blog stating one positive thing that happened to him or her today. (I get an extra entry for sending you there. What can I say, I'm an Amazon junkie. I'm also diluting my chances of winning by pointing this contest out to you, but what the hey.)

Better yet, tell me one positive thing that happened to you today. It's a feel-good exercise for everyone.

It's only 9:00 am here, but so far, the best thing that has happened to me today is hearing the sound of the Papoosekin laughing when I kiss her, and listening to her babble away to herself and me and her toys and Chewy and anything else she can think of as she plays.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

When It's Not About the Baby...

We had a lovely time at Ouiser's father-in-law's 85th birthday party tonight. We had a delicious dinner, we all wore funny hats, we kept the Papoosekin up past her bedtime, we watched some Poppins. Then we came home.

To water all over the basement floor, dripping from the ceiling, wear it apparently had been pooling for days in the subflooring, waiting to unleash all its dirty nastiness all over my washing machine and general laundry area.

Apparently, the dishwasher is broken. No love lost there; we hate this Frigidaire monstrosity, and Ouiser has the same one and curses it at least once daily, too. But someone previously inhabiting this house fancied themselves a do-it-him (or her)-selfer and really so, so wasn't.

According to the Husband, the tile that is in our kitchen was installed improperly. Well, it's really a fantastic display of ineptitude captured in one glorious disaster of a kitchen floor. The specific dysfunction that applies to this story is the fact that the kitchen tile was installed on top of plywood adhered to linoleum, rather than a cement basing, and this tile does not extend under the dishwasher. So, when it flooded, we saw nary a drop, as you usually would, with the flooding flooding itself all over your floor. Instead, it just soaked into the subflooring. For at least two days. Now, we walk by the dishwasher and water squeezes up through cracks in the grout and pools on the floor. It's lovely, really.

The Husband is currently trying to determine whether he can repair it, we should call a repairman, or dump the hateful thing and buy a new one. I am helpfully staying out of the way. I did clean up some of the basement, but my back warned me against being the one to scrub and mop the floor.

So, we knew we were going to tear up this floor anyway, but don't really relish being forced into doing it NOW. This house is not so much into the gentle nudges.

Meanwhile, here's a funny blog on the ineptitudes of Pepperidge Farm to take our minds off the ineptitudes of Frigidaire.

Or something to make you think. A lot.

Or funny things from munchkins.

Links from Fussy.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Next Top Model

Last week was one of the longest of my life.

After being sequestered from the Ouisers' for what felt like forever, we finally enjoyed a great dinner at their house about 10 days ago, when it seemed like they had beaten back the plague yet again and it was safe to have us over.

Alas, 48 hours later, my Papoosekin woke up with major nasal congestion and proceeded to puke all over me later in the day. She ran a mild fever, we had multiple diaper blowouts; it was ugly all the way around.

Finally, FINALLY, on Friday she turned a corner and has been gradually getting her appetite back, nose has dried up, things in diaperland are much safer.

And none too soon because Saturday we had a photo session with Angela Crutcher, a local children's photographer. If you are in any way a photophile, check out her website, seriously. It will blow you away. Ouiser noted, and I 100% agree with her, that the woman's use of color is phenomenal.

But you can look at all the color later. Start by looking at my beautiful girl in her modeling debut. I am so over-the-moon happy with the way these turned out. I can't wait to see the rest, including some color ones. But I cannot believe how amazing these black-and-whites are.

Angela did a great job working with us, too. The only real professional photography I've had done (that I remember. My dad did a lot of great stuff when I was little, but I think I got so used to the camera that it ceased to make any kind of impression on me.) was with our wedding photographer. Angela was great at directing just enough. She came into our home, took a tour, identified the areas with the best lighting, picked out some outfits from the Papoosekin's closet, and got down to business. I think the whole thing took about an hour and a half, and that's with time out for nursing and some tears (the Liliputian's and possibly mine; I can't remember. I can't fully go into it or I'll submerge into an ocean of guilt again. Let's just say there was an incident with a baby sitting in a basket and tipping forward into a full faceplant. Broke my heart...Anyway, moving on. She's okay.).

I totally expect that we'll use her again in a few years. Once we take a second mortgage on the house to pay for the prints.

Friday, July 04, 2008

Walk Score

Wondering how "walkable" your neighborhood really is? Actually, I think this is more useful if you're considering moving to a new neighborhood. Presumably, you've walked outside your own home enough to have an idea of what's within walking distance, but I could see comparing that knowledge to a new locale you're not so familiar with. At any rate, this website shows you what businesses are within walking distance of your home: groceries, movie theaters, coffee shops, libraries, etc. I don't know about you, but I'm looking for ways to save on that gas mileage! The only drawback is that the program can't account for paths that take you through bad neighborhoods, busy roads, areas without good sidewalks. Cool concept, though. For fun, see how your neighborhood stacks up here... Mine got a 58 out of 100.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

Keep on Truckin'

My Liliputian is eight months-old today and not exactly partying hardy. She woke up a gazillion times last night, and I had no idea why. But when I went to get her from her crib at 5:30, finally, her breathing sounded like a freight train and she had a rough time of it trying to nurse. So, she's a snotty mess, low appetite, light fever. I put her down for her nap half and hour early, elevated the one end of the mattress, and gave her a dose of Tylenol. Hopefully, this bug won't last long.

This was yesterday's fave activity. I think we spend about 20 minutes walking up and down the hallway. She was pretty pleased with herself.

We met some other moms at a pool on Monday for the Papoose's first swimming experience, which mainly involved me holding her with just her feet and legs in the water (which was cold, BTW!), then floating around in another baby's inflatable crab. She loved that thing. If we start going to the community pool more often, she may need her own inflatable crab. Because, really, doesn't everyone?

We also went to storytime at the Nashville Public Library. Dickson has its own, which we haven't been to yet, but I tend to think it probably does not involve the theater stage, three microphoned readers, puppets, live music, and 50 other kids, mostly under the age of two, that this one did. It was great. Obviously, she had no idea that there was a story going on, but she was totally enthralled with all the other kids and the crawling space.

No big 4th plans around here. Hangin' with the Ouisers, if Papoose is not too sick. Grilling some 'babs. That's about it. Have a safe and fun one!