Looking for Southern Comforts

As you probably surmised... Jack is back!

Maybe a bit later than anticipated, but back safe and sound. And life? It's really really good.

It was good before, but there's no mistaking the difference now that he is back within arm's reach.

The last few days and hours before his return passed at a snail's pace, especially for him and the other ~150 soldiers stranded in Romania. In those few days, it felt like yet another year was ticking by.

His flight arrived at 3:30am last Sunday, and considering the repeated delays they kept the pomp and circumstance to a minimum, which we all appreciated.

Yet, we weren't home until just before sunrise when we popped open a bottle of champagne and tried to coax the kid back down to a nap.

Considering all the timezone tweaking, Quinn went with the flow of being awoken in the middle of the night to bright lights and a blaring band.

She was momentarily out of sorts when I handed her off to Jack for the first time, but since then it's clear his is a familiar face to her. More than that, it's like she's living with a rockstar as she squeals with delight virtually NONSTOP!

Unfortunately, we haven't had as much time with her Jack-Daddy as we'd hoped because of the mandatory seven days of "reintegration."

It's the Army's way of saying in many different ways "don't be a moron" by: beating your spouse, drinking and driving, eating your child's homework, super-gluing your brother-in-law's bum to the toilet seat..." You know, the stuff people do when they return from a year of combat.

I'm all for screening people for PTSD, but I was about to go postal on Uncle Sam when it started to feel harder to have Jack home than in Afghanistan.

At least while he was there, I didn't have any illusions or delusions about seeing him; but now he's right here. That is, until 6:30 in the morning when he leaves for reintegration and then gets sucked into work stuff or other fanfare, and doesn't get home until late in the day or even evening.

It's nice not to have to worry about his well-being or safety, but it's a real buzz-kill to have him come home and not get a day off to truly celebrate since.

That will all change though, as of Wednesday we are headed back to the left coast.

There Quinn will meet her other set of grandparents, the "auntie" she's named after as well as another -- both of whom strategically set up Jack and me, to our great gratitude.

More blogging to come from the air and road, and pictures as well.

Being completely spent before 9pm each night has kept me so quiet. But I am certain now that Jack is fully "reintegrated" and we have a chance to get better reacquainted as a family there will be more time for keeping things current.

Many thanks for all the well-wishes and prayers -- they paid off!

Love,
Mama J, Miss Quinn AND Daddy-Jack

Going Grinch

Tick tock, tick tock. Time moves at a glacial speed when you're just days, if not hours away from being reunited with your loved one.

Jack's return has been delayed multiple times because the plane -- she's a broke. And the plane coming with the part to fix his plane -- she's a broke too.

Excellent system. Top notch sort of organization. Sad to say that when it comes to my own work I can relate entirely too well to such inefficiencies. Yet, I'm not schlepping the U.S. Army around, or the heart-strings of their families!

So for now, my loved one is stuck in Budapest. Confined to the hotel (because everyone is armed) people are starting to go batty. Someone was thoughtful enough to get a tour bus and take the soldiers out on a field-trip before someone lost their mind (not a good idea when armed). Jack didn't sound terribly excited so I mentioned that a friend did his mission for the Mormon church in Budapest and loved it. That's when he realized he was so out of sorts when he got there he thought it was Budapest, when it's really Bucharest! Silly silly Jack-Jack.

Even though I'm starting to feel out of sorts myself, I haven't lost touch of where I am... But it does feel like someone keeps promising me that Santa is coming tomorrow yet he never shows, he just keeps getting hung up there in the North Pole or some one else's chimney.

Considering how unfathomable it was that Jack might actually be coming home, I feel like the kid who always suspected there wasn't a Santa and is now finding evidence pointing to this sad reality.

Stupid reality. Stupid Santa.

Quinn is much more resilient and willing to bend her experience of said reality. She's adapting to seeing her grandparents as 2-dimensional beings over Skype, and seems willing to believe it's still them just a lot flatter.

While she mimics their sounds, they watch her snarf down multiple bowls of food, all the while slapping at me to bring her more more more.

Not sure I've ever mentioned it, but for months this girl has been eating the equivalent of a 150lb person ingesting: 6 bananas, 2 bowls of cereal, and 1 bowl of yogurt -- topped off with a sip of tea in one sitting! Who needs Santa when there's the Endless Belly of Quinn to be the 8th Wonder of the World?! Seriously.

With a new home to explore, she's having a blast with door-stops, a big tub, and even the poorly inflated inflatable pool (which I'm afraid has a lethal leak). Even though she had a few hard cries and has been a bit more clingy than usual, Quinn is adjusting to her new surroundings well. She's smiling at strangers and getting to know neighbors, it's really endearing.

I'll let you know if my Santa Soldier arrives, or if he is just a figment of my imagination after all.

Cheers to you and your Santa Somebody. And may you be worthy of receiving something much warmer than coal!

Impatiently,
J & Quiescent Quinn

The Kindness of Strangers

Last Monday, my parents loaded up me and the twerp for an early flight back to Tennessee. It was a year to-the-day since I packed up my car, my belly, the cat, the dog and drove across country to live with my parents.

Watching the rain come down in sheets for some reason made me less inclined to cry, even though it was feeling a little more bitter than sweet at the moment to leave the comforts of California for a long trip to our new "home."

Balancing one bag on one handlebar of Quinn's stroller, and the cat on the other, while hanging on to a huge bag weighted down with all the baby essentials, and mine as well, and a carseat base dangling from fingers free from steering the stroller -- I wasn't sure I was going to make it past security let alone to Nashville.

The line was longer than we had imagined, but that was in part to our late start out the door... Which all began with the moment my Dad picked up one of my two massive duffel bags and it literally began to burst as the seams. Thankfully he made a mad and successful dash to their attic for a replacement bag, and was well into transferring my oodles of stuff by the time I reappeared with a semi-awake kid.

Back to the fiasco at security. Let's just call it a cluster, of sorts. Shoes off, jacket off, computer out, boarding pass in hand, liquids and gels bagged. My fear was they would make me toss Quinn's breakfast of breast-milk, but that turned out not to be an issue. (The TSA lady mumbled something about doing some sort of litmus test on it... Yeah sure, I buy that.)


No, the nutty part was that they wanted me to take the cat and the baby out of their respective "containers" and hold both of them while walking through the metal detector -- AND showing my boarding pass. Now, I'll admit anyone who can make breakfast from their teets is pretty freaking amazing, but I'm not THAT talented, or stupid. Besides, my cat still weighs more than my baby (18lb>15lb), and both of them can have really sharp claws!

It must have been the look I gave my parents like I'd might as well just turn around and go home with them that another TSA person offered something a bit more reasonable... that I carry one and then come back for the other. So, we survived, and I didn't get clawed to shreds.

Unfortunately, the chaos kept me from giving my parents a proper goodbye, but perhaps that was a good thing since I'd just start bawling and then the TSA would have to test my tears to make sure they weren't really a secret weapon of sorts.

The rest of the trip (two flights and a shuttle ride) went incredibly smoothly. That was entirely thanks to the kindness of strangers. It was awe inspiring. Three people, who weren't even with the airline, went way out of their way to help me and my traveling circus.

When I had ten minutes to make more moo before the next flight, someone offered to take a picture of Quinn on my lap (the cat is next to us but I reconsidered the temptation to get him in the shot too). Those individuals made our journey so seamless (unlike my duffel bag that morning), I can't believe I'd considered driving.

I must add that before she took our picture, the woman looked at me in horror when she thought Quinn had meowed. (I nearly fell over in hysterics when she asked me how she did that.)

My two travel companions were extremely relaxed and easy-going as well. Neither Quinn nor Carlos-kitty made a peep for most of the way. People had no idea either were on the flight. The only time Quinn did fuss was when I put some saline gel up her nose to help keep her from catching an airborne cold or flu.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling, which I say with some authority since I showed her I'd do it to myself before doing it to her. Only much much later (well after chatting the ear off a stewardess whose jump seat was next to mine at the back of the plane) did I realize that the stuff also has a tendency to bubble back out of your nose and hang there a bit like rubber cement. Cute on a baby, maybe. Definitely not cute on her mother.

So now we are back in Tennessee (swimming pool and all) awaiting Jack's return -- which is said to be tomorrow!

He's been underway since two days before I left for a total of five from Afghanistan. The jet-lag is sure to be brutal but I'm just thrilled to have him out of that country and soon in our own.

Pictures and more to come... but I'll try not to blather on so much (just got my internet connection hooked up today -- yay! I can function again!).

Happy travels near and far to all of you,
Mrs J and Her Traveling Circus

Dear Sleep, I've Missed You!

Sleep and I have been busy getting reacquainted this past week, and it has been grand!

The downside, is I've neglected everything from emailing and blogging, to sewing and eating and counting days on the calendar until Jack comes back.

Sleep has eaten up so much of my attention it seems that it's in short supply for the remainder of our stay here in beautiful California. It's now only a few days left before Quinn and I fly the Grandparents' coop and head back to where Jack will be meeting us in nearly a week!

It's hard to believe 50+ weeks has dwindled down to just one. In fact, I'm so doubtful of this new reality that I find it hard not to ask Jack if there isn't something I could send him (it's been weeks since shipping off his last care-package, which leaves me feeling rather delinquent).

In between intermittent rendezvous with sleep, I've been packing up all my belongings and the more useful baby stuff. Nearly all of it is already en route to greet us in Tennessee. My poor brother-in-law, Paul, (who has been taking care of our place) might second guess if I was the Octomom once the boxes of stuff arrive. It will seem not only did I go forth and multiply, but so did my crap!

To spare Quinn the experience of driving across the country twice (I'll explain later), and keep me from losing my renewed sense of sanity, she and I -- and the cat -- will be flying back, just a few days ahead of when we hope to welcome home Jack. It's very exciting, and very surreal.

It's been an ongoing adjustment to this "new normal" of being a quasi-single Mom, but overall, it has come feel comfortable. To change things up yet again, even in such a great way, is still a bit scary.

Neither Jack nor I have a need to romanticize what it will be like. We're not expecting to see something like Northern Lights shoot through the sky as he steps off the plane.

Besides, (in case you haven't noticed) I'm weird. Considering that it took me ten of his 14 R&R days to adjust to him being underfoot, and that after having only been deployed a few months; it might be a bit before I can fully relax into yet another "new normal." So, I know that, and don't expect it all to feel like roses and truffles -- or for my taste, orchids and sushi -- at least not at first.

Sounds silly considering how much I enjoy sharing Quinn's development with my parents, but in some ways I'm not eager to share her with someone who has equal say in how to rear her. Guess it's no shock to some that I'm a bit of a control freak, and don't mind being the boss, especially when it's something (or in this case someone) I've been working hard to take care of (ever since she was back in the belly).

All that being said, I'm certain it will be fantastic to have Jack back. The closer that time gets, the more real it feels.

And, just in case we're under-romanticizing it, I'll bring my camera to catch those stunning "Southern" Lights when his smile lights up our memories of how incredible it is to be together again.

Much love and sweet slumber,
J & and Miss Quinn

Slaying the Sleepless Monster

That was nice of you all who knew better not to tell me so that the whole "she's teething" theory is pretty much bunk. No no, really, I can appreciate a learning curve when it rises before me, with my ignorance looming almost as tall.

To no surprise to you of course, the teething tablets did nothing for Quinn's restlessness. Before packing up my various baby books I flipped through to see what they said about the joys of teething. All four said it was blamed for more than is reasonable. In fact, early in the 20th Century, a new tooth used to be charged as the villain for a child's (otherwise unexplained) death. Instead, all that can be attributed to a baby's pearly whites is some minor pain lasting only a few days.

This revelation made me wonder if I had unwittingly been roped into the soothe-the-bebe game this whole time. So I tried not responding immediately when Quinn started to cry in the middle of the night. If it continued for more than ten minutes, I resolved to only give her the nukie (pacifier) back, instead of a fresh bottle of milk.

Just as the teething tablets had failed, this too bombed. The decibel of her cry negated the need for a monitor in my room, and the nukie didn't last more than a second after I plugged it in her mouth. Dazed, I concluded she really was hungry so I resumed the pattern of giving her a bottle, until she fell asleep and I could wander back to my slumber.

As of last night, my latest theory was that Quinn wasn't eating enough during the day, so if I worked harder at stuffing her gut she wouldn't wake up hungry. So, I made sure she ate and drank plenty. All went well... until she went to bed. Figuring I was being played by her inherent baby games, I resisted coddling her after I put her to bed; only returning to give her the nukie and to keep her from scratching off her ears and pulling out her hair (this has become another nightly ritual).

Over an hour, Quinn's cries seemed only to escalate. When I finally picked her up she stopped crying only long enough spew her dinner of avacado, rice cereal, and breastmilk all over herself, the floor, her bed, and me. Copious amounts of puke... Yum. (And thank you Dad for being the clean-up crew!)

Of course, at the sight of this I was pretty sure I won the "Crappiest Mother" award for a failed attempt to steal some sleep by engorging the little girl. Quinn got over it as soon as I plopped her in the tub, refilled her belly, and deposited her back into a clean bed. That was until she woke up multiple times throughout the night, again.

Today a stroke of sanity came my way.

One of the NICU nurses, Angelia, had talked Tiffany and me into getting a book on getting a baby to sleep. I hadn't read much of it since Quinn was a few months old, at which time the ongoing mantra is "You can never spoil a baby." So, I thought I was safe until she was a bit heftier and clearly getting spoiled.

Fat sleeves and all, it didn't seem like Quinn was bulky enough to ignore her cries for food in the middle of the night. And, considering she'd polish off a couple of bottles between 10pm and 5am, I thought it was safe to conclude she really needed those calories.

Apparently, I'd been had.

All I've been doing is perpetuating her and my on-going lack of sleep. By going into her room, giving her a nukie, or uttering utter nonsense to her is enough positive feedback to get her hooked.

Try it yourself sometime. It's hard not to want to soothe a baby and stop the madness of her cries. Evolution-wise, a baby's cries are supposed to remind us not to leave the helpless being outside the cave, at to feel like the sound alone could burst apart every fiber of our body.

Maybe the most evolved of all of us, my Dad has been the biggest pushover when it comes to any baby crying. Apparently, I was notorious for doing the same thing well into my toddler years (and all this time they have been blaming ME when it was really their reinforcement that kept it going so long!).

The few times I'd tried to let Quinn "cry it out," I'd click on the monitor's video only to see she had stopped crying because my Dad had scooped her up and was cooing her to more subtle sounds. Out of her bedroom she would come with a victorious smile, and I'd wonder if she started to prefer him over old-slow-to-respond Mom.

Not to mention -- back in the hospital, it was thrilling to imagine the normalcy of being sleep-deprived and having to feed and comfort her at home. Although I've complained now and then, it really hasn't been a big deal -- except I'm slightly less sane as the sleepless nights pile up.

As of today, no more soothing. Not by me, grandpa, or even the animals who after enough crying will flock to see what is amiss.

My parents read the parts of the book that seem to speak right to us and little Miss Quinn. Considering it is Thanksgiving week, it seems appropriate we go cold-turkey.

So Quinn's sticky fist doesn't rule all hours of the day any more. Her hours of operation have been cutback to the day-shift only, excluding naps.

From now on, she will be sleeping through the night, and so will I. I can hardly wait!

Goodnight to all,
The Hoodwinked Mommy & Bamboozling Baby

Gnawed Off Shotgun

This kid is ready for center stage. She is not only a handful, she is a handful of ham (as Jack put it).

The other day, she showed off to him by climbing up the entire staircase while he watched online. Today, she bounced around and squealed while stuffing fist-fulls of rice krispies in her beak.

I try to help by dressing her as a girly girl with a barrette one day, and then a punk rocker the next. That way, she can experience the gamut and be good at all of it. And then I will introduce her to my wig collection, and all will be holy and complete!

Tonight though, I'm hoping she takes an intermission from practicing for her Broadway solo by belting out the lyrics to her incessant teething pains.

Some sentient being creating chamomile tablets made for such a situation. After dissolving and then rubbing some on her gums I am told it should work to allow her to sleep without pain. Or maybe it just transfers the pain directly to my fingers since she nearly gnawed them off... Ouch! We shall see soon enough.

In case you were wondering, the gas tank boobytrap is still set... Once I do catch the siphoning simpleton, I will definitely let him/her get gummed to a pulp by the every chewing Miss Q!



Off to dreams of chamomile sans tea,
Not-a-Morning-Mama J & Broadway Que'd

Siphoning Sleep

For the past couple of months, I've been convinced somone is siphoning gas from my parents' cars.

At first they thought I was imagining things, then they started "imagining" them too when they noticed the needle on their tank drop suddenly after being out of town for a week. Sure, if I were back in high school I'd be the likely culprit of having burned off their fuel. But these days, my car is way more fun to drive, so they know it isn't me.

Similarly, as Quinn's teeth continue to make their debut, they are siphoning all the energy and sleep from my life.

I've again been reduced to someone who attaches only one of the bottles to collect milk while I pump, only to -- again -- have milk running all down my front and all over my parents' floors. (It's no wonder then why the neighbor's cat has been breaking into the house lately.) The other day I did something so inane I promised to forget it for fear of losing respect for myself... Fortunately, my memory is a little shaky too now.

The last several nights we are up at 45 minute intervals beginning around midnight... I imagine this is a bit what waterboarding feels like as we the sound of Quinn's screams feels like a deluge of noise that is going to drown out any hope of mine for a pleasurable night's sleep.

Good thing is that (so far) her distress over her incoming pearly-whites is limited to the night, so we spend our days bouncing about merrily merrily merrily merrily -- as if life is but a dream (since we don't know what dreaming is any more).

One of these nights I should get some entertainment for the night, if not sleep, and instead stay up to watch the jerk siphoning gas stumble into the pranks and Rube Goldberg trap I've set up to scare him. That would be a video worth posting!

Ahhh, but always the optimist, I'm heading off to bed in hopes of catching some zzz's instead of some thieves...

May you have a most restful slumber,
One Pooped Parent and the Soon-to-be Fanged MQ

Rants With Few Raves

Eleven months down, one to go. There is so much yet to do (so much still to sew!). And even as the timeline of Jack's deployment dwindles, I'm not ready to count my blessings.

It should be really interesting to see how Quinn reacts to him in 3-D; a bit hard to imagine really considering how she fawns over the many forms his 2-Dimensional Self takes online and around the house. Equally as interesting will be how he takes to her toothy grin, as well as the torture her new tusks cost her…

In many ways it feels as if time has done laps around me and it can’t possibly have been an entire year that we’ve been apart. And yet, I can’t remember a time where I wasn’t a Mom; it's as if that was a lifetime ago. Not to be Vanna Vanity girl, but of course there are moments where I worry about how much more real estate Jack will find in my back pocket since my body gave forth to another life. Or how many more wrinkles I’ve accrued due to the sleepless schedule of parenthood.

As if to reassure me that I’m not the only human in the room, Jack has his moments too. Obsessing for a moment about something other than the armed men in the mountains, he tells me how “flabby” and “out of shape” he is… which is just as ridiculous of a concern to my ears as mine are to him. All I want is for him to come back alive, healthy, sane and happy. That’s reasonable isn’t it?

Honestly, it's been a tough time. As it is for all of those out of reach from the people they love… particularly when that loved one is in harm’s way. It’s no fun. When a bad phone calls come (the worst news doesn’t come in a call, but by car), it puts life in perspective.

Thoughts like “Is the expansion of my ass inversely connected to my memory’s constricting capacity?!?” don’t exist. The only thought that does is that someone’s life just changed in an instant, from one breath to the next, and how really painful that news is for them, and would be for me. Each of us can only hope to eke through this time without any serious wounds or damage, and every last day counts.

My friend Jill is in the same boat. It’s been entertaining to hear someone else put words to the feelings and frustrations of military life. We rant, and sometimes rave, but mostly rant. Having been in the high brow branch of military herself (the Air Force, of course), Jill isn't exactly a fan of the Army.

Recently though, her husband talked her down from "hating" it outright, but I think it’s safe to say she won’t be calling the Army her BFF (best friend forever) anytime soon. At least it is through the Army we have countless friends who can relate, and help buffer the headlines that can make for the most anxious of days...

Before I start counting days, I’m counting the many boxes I need to pack and miles Quinn and I need to travel to welcome Jack home… Once he is, I'll be counting all my blessings, that's for sure.

Still Suspended in Time,
J & Miss Quinn

A Quick Ascent

Quinn's metamorphosis if taking shape so fast, it's hard to keep up on what all has happened in a matter of days.

While I have been busy being domestic -- sewing all sorts of sundries including my first quilt, Quinn has been busy getting ready to rule the world. Seriously, she virtually already runs this house (albeit with a soft and often sticky fist).

In the past week she has sprouted a tooth, and as of today a second one is starting to pop through! It didn't seem like she'd have teeth anytime soon by reading her demeanor, but that too has taken shape in fits of fussiness as she expresses the discomforts of growing up.

Here I am impressed that I too could make a rather ugly quilt (which, technically isn't entirely complete, but nonetheless complete in its ugliness), and not only does she bring ivory to her gemlike face... Today, she had to show off just a bit more.

Watching her out of the corner of my eye while I read the paper and she scrambled about the living room, I couldn't believe it as I saw her lift her leg and (no, not pee like the dog, she doesn't copy them THAT much)... She climbed onto a stair. And then another. And then again! Like it was nothing. So amazing.

Just yesterday, she wasn't even trying to lift a leg, she was just heaving her torso onto the stair and trying to will her legs up as well. Today, she looked like she had done it a hundred times before.

So cool, and yet, so not cool. More barriers to come to the Bleiker House... Someday, not too long from now, my parents might have the freedom to roam their own house again sans swimming pool and other baby boobytraps. We shall see.


Love from the hurdling girls,
The So-Sew-ing Mom and Her Lil Mountain Goat

How to get a Screaming Headache

The canine police brought Millie back today.

Turns out ol' girl was having a romp on the highway. Kamikaze! Not sure what I did to push her to that, but lucky thing it wasn't the last of her dog days.

The puppy police officer was super nice, and was even more so when I explained the UPS guy must have let her out, since it was clear I didn't kick her to the curb myself, and there's no way a little glucosamine would make her able to do a high jump over the fence.

She was pretty spry though when she came back. Putting the other two knuckleheads in line, and then prancing through their water dish... Whatever that means in dog terms. (Think I'd be able to decipher for myself if she'd just peed in it.)

So the cacophony of crazy dogs is back at full decibel this afternoon. As loud as these three can be -- hooting, yowling, and woofing at other passing dogs -- it wasn't anything compared to Quinn's deafening blare at the doctor's office this morning.



In for her 9 month check up (she's been on terra firma now longer than she was in the belly!). Seemed a bit less than I'd expected as she weighed in at 15lbs 4oz, and 26 inches long; but the doctor was pleased with her growing girth. He remembered that we would be moving soon, and appeared a little disappointed to be losing Miss Q as his patient.

Whatever regret he had she quickly cured as she hollered and screamed bloody murder before he even touched her toes. Uncharacteristic of past visits, she shrieked, screeched and wailed the whole time he was there; I'm quite sure it cured him of being sorry to see us go. He quipped that it was greetings like hers that made some people go into dermatology instead of pediatrics.

With the headache like I'd been at a rock concert, Quinn and I made it into a better day by running errands, hitting the fun found at my favorite farmers' market in downtown, and coming back home to chow down before she hit the hay, which she got an early start on while still in her carseat.



A full if not entirely fun day all in all...

Achy J & Screaming Quinn

Breaking Up

I'm such a hoot as a house-sitter, the dog ran away.

It's so awful to say, but at least it wasn't my dog. That might have finished off my ego for good.

One of my parents' dogs (the old broad, Millie) has been known to flee on occasion (although these days it's at an arthritic pace). What she finds more alluring is a curious question since other neighborhood dogs try to break into our yard.

Brings to mind others (than dogs) who have run right out of my life... Yeah, it's a sore spot that I can't seem to leave alone.

I'll go all the way back to kindergarten and chastise myself for not: being more sensitive to the kid "Tyler" in our class who would cry on a whim, more artistic with finger-painting, having a serious crush on anything sweet, being the tallest -- and later -- the shortest, continuing to excel in math, becoming an professional athlete (then for thinking I even have the right to dream that was a possibility), having oodles of hidden talents, being good at telling jokes, forgetting about boys and focusing on myself, having a clue about the ins and outs of baseball statistics, getting the most out of college, reading so much into it when a friendship shifted, catching that typo, running off to Canada more often, thinking I was cool or smart enough to work on bikes, becoming something other than what I really am...

...It's an endless list really. Not enough words in cyberspace to fill all the blanks.

And then Jack's Aunt Sooz's voice enters my mind. She recently took over my own voice of Doubt, not to amplify it but to kick it squarely in the arse. Last week she gave me a talking to about all my self-deprecation, which for good reason sounds a lot like defecation...

Nothing has been able to break up Me-n-Doubt so far; it's a love affair I just can't seem to end. Yet, she said the only words that might bring me to my senses: I'll screw up Quinn if I can't get over all my failings and fallibility, and simply forgive myself for being rather imperfect.

Well, not only does that sound like a fabulous reason to leave Doubt in the dust, it actually might work! And, it has the potential to be so liberating. That is, if only I weren't so...

Really though, I look at Quinn and she doesn't have that kind of thinking (yet, and hopefully not ever). She doesn't look around and say "I wish I were the kind of baby that only poos my pants three instead of four times a day? Ugh!" Or "Why can't I be like that kid?! He has such a big and bulky head... And mine? It's so puny and proportioned. Hmph!"

She just lives. With such intensity and focus, there's no energy left to look forward or backward.

No less ridiculous is all the self-hating self-doubting most of us engage in; what a grand waste of time, and of life. So, I'm breaking up with Self-Doubt.

Besides, a friend in college once criticized me for being too much like my homeland of Switzerland and never taking a position on anything... Whereas others have found me too vocal of my views. Apparently, people will find a reason not to like me, or you, or any of us (except Quinn of course!).

So, instead of screwing up my kid, I say "screw it!" I'm going to enjoy being imperfectly me. Sure I'll try to evolve and stave off entropy, but I'm kicking Doubt to the curb, and making room for Self-Worth to be my next sidekick.



Now all I need is a great breakup song... and the dog to come home.

Still Short but Smiling,
Mama Murphy & Super Q

Paradoxical Parental Platitudes

"Just forget what I said and go ask that stranger for candy." What kind of mental monkeyshine is that supposed to be?!? It's trick-or-treat time, which I always find so oddly paradoxical to every other parental adage we've ever heard or said.

Then, after how many lectures about NEVER going somewhere with a stranger, we hang ourselves over the gutter of a street to get someone -- a complete stranger -- to pick us up and take us somewhere in their vehicle. To make matters worse, we don't even wear a seatbelt, that is, if there were any to be worn.

Reminds me of my days selling girl-scout cookies (because that really taught me oh so much about 1. what it means to a girl, and 2. the essence of "scouting").

Growing up I had the kind of luck a kid could really do without; which I couldn't have discovered more quickly than going door to door begging people to buy sweats from me. Even though I'll eagerly tear through a box of those Thin Mints (a more accurate name would be Thin Mint Chocolate Cocaine-like Cookies), I'm still a wee bit resentful that the company gets little girls to go bang on the doors of strangers so they can reap the profits on their addictive confections.

Most memorable was the guy who answered the door without wearing any pants.

Knowing I was in a most precarious situation, I pretended not to notice and just memorized his face hoping if I escaped I could at least properly identify him. When he bought two boxes of Somoas, asked when they would be in, and let me leave I couldn't believe I made it out of there alive.

Amazed and grateful he let me leave, my 9 year old brain couldn't help but wonder if I was so ugly a pedophile wouldn't want to bother with me, or if just freaking kids out was all he needed to float his boat.

When I got home and told my parents they immediately had the police (you know, "tell the police, they are good guys and want you to be safe") so I could tell them about the guy who bought cookies with no pants .

Well, Officer Boysenberry or Quesenberry (or some sort of berry-flavor of an officer) listened to my story and then responded by saying I'd probably made the whole thing up. That continued to be the police department's line although later that day they acknowledged the guy was a known sex offender, who was forced to move to our town just to get psychotherapy -- which, incidentally, he wasn't attending. Nonetheless, I was still a big fat liar who made the no-pants story up.

In that instance, I learned that you should talk to strangers, preferably to ask them for money, if not candy. Should the stranger come to the door without any pants -- don't bother telling an adult because they won't believe you, but just make you feel like a moron who couldn't have been more imaginative trying to get attention.

Armed not with much from the adult world, at least I remembered which doors to skip when I came back through the neighborhood to beg the same people to give me sweats on Halloween... and, of course, to bring my 120lb Saint Bernard.

Tricking and Treating from a Safe Place,
the Freak Magnet & Super Secure MQ

The Waiting Game

Less than 40 days until Jack climbs on a plane to head back to the States; I can hardly believe it! He's got the countdown to the hour, so it's safe to say he's ready. I'm not taking a day for granted with the never-ending stream of bad news from that side of the globe. Just get here safely, I tell him, I can wait wait wait a long time.



Quinn is learning that other people seem to have the knack for waiting (but it'll be a wait until she learns there are stupid and extraneous letters attached to words just to mess with those learning Engrish), but so far, waiting seems dumb to her and she's having none of it.

She's not into:

• Waiting for her food to be mashed up
  
• Waiting for her Moooooommmmmmm to rescue her from her crib
  
• Waiting for the cat to come to her
  
• Waiting to swallow what's already in her mouth before stuffing more more MORE in
  
• Waiting to look at the pictures before she slams the book closed
  
• Waiting for everyone around her to learn ESP -- come on people!

And she's about to bust through the computer monitor next time she sees her Dad online if he doesn't hurry up and get here already! Not soon enough, but "soon" I tell her. So we play the waiting game by distracting ourselves with hikes, naps (as many as I can drug her into taking), and this week... a hint of the H1N1 virus.

In fact, that was the cause of the worst lesson in waiting Quinn has had yet. It was awful. I really tortured the kid.

Hellbent on getting the H1N1 vaccine for both of us, I scouted out the only place within a 50 mile radius that had it. Having finished a 20 page paper the night before, I failed to wake up as early as intended and didn't arrive until 45 minutes before the clinic opened. By then, we were behind about 50 other people who didn't hit "snooze." Yes, 50 people BEFORE the place even opened.

Long story short, I was the freaky parent who stood by the wall, hardly talked to anyone, and kept my baby in her carseat and stroller for... (gulp!) SIX hours.



Horrible. I know. But we all kept thinking "Any minute. Any eff'ing minute they are going to call us. If I leave to pee, to eat, to change a diaper, I could miss our chance!"

After about two hours, Quinn just gave in. She must have determined I lost my marbles and this was her fate. It was kind of sad, although she'd still play with and smile at me, I felt like the nutjob I clearly am.

As if just being around that many people (even though she was practically encased in her stroller) wasn't exposure enough, I decided to get the "live" form of the vaccine for myself. Knowing it made me more likely to contract it, I wagered that it would just make Quinn more resistant if I could keep it at bay.

Fortunately, I only felt a bit fatigued and smidge out of sorts. So phobic of getting our premie sick, I wore a surgical mask for a day, but have since come to since she is totally fine. (Quinn -- and everyone else -- must have thought it was the lamest Michael Jackson Halloween costume yet... An honor I could live without and would gladly pass on to the woman I saw earlier today sporting the next lamest Michael Jackson costume. Although I'm not sure the sparkling glove hanging from her back pocket really was a costume in her mind, let's give her the benefit of the doubt.)

So, back to the other waiting game we know... According to the timezone in Afghanistan, it's only 39 days to go!

While we wait wait wait a little bit more, we wish you well!
Mama J Freaky Jackson & Baby in the Bubble

Back from the Brink

We are all alive and well. So terribly sorry for the concern...

I know, I know. I should have called when I got to Susie's house; and I definitely should not have eaten the pizza with the funny mushrooms. And when the car broke down, I should have just called you instead of thinking you wouldn't notice how late I was by hitching a ride with the fire truck, which happened to be headed in the wrong direction.

Who knew at 30+ I could yet again feel like a teenager, late for her curfew, not done with homework, only to remember she forgot the feed the fish... Who is now mysteriously trying to float belly-up. Tsk Tsk!

If only I could claim "the dog ate my homework." When really, my homework ate my brain...

To sum up my long break from the blogosphere: I had multiple long and tedious papers to write, discussion forums, and my usual ongoing and escalating duel with my professor (when will I learn that does NOTHING good for one's grades?!?).

Then, we had a power-outage for more than two days, during which I dropped everything (but the baby) to, yet again, save all that damn frozen mama milk.

Throw in a final paper, a touch of H1N1, and a need to withdraw from all things electronic and 'Stan-related after some really awful headlines.

Good times!



But I'm back, and pictures and video will poureth forth... to the point it will make YOU want to poureth forth, in a projectile kind of way.

No more homework, no more papers, no more loads of reading... Just me and you, and too much time to do anything kosher.

Back before becoming a pumpkin,
J & the little Pumpkin

Handful

Quinn has fared well, or so I tell myself, during her solo week with me. No doubt she will be elated when her Grandparents return on Friday, but we had some fun breaking the rules and staying up late like it was a nonstop slumber party.



To get the attention she was missing from my folks, Quinn reached out to the numerous animals in the house. They all (three dogs, two cats) are quite tolerant and willing to have handfuls of hair yanked out now and then; probably because they see how she doesn't play favorites and treats everyone with equal opportunity for hair pulling, myself included.



In fact, Quinn has a slightly more sophisticated method of pulling on the head of her hirsute Mama. She waits until I lean over her, then she latches on to my locks and her feet commence serious kicking which are conveniently (or cunningly?!) aimed at my chest.

Let's just say, after nine months of producing milk, it doesn't exactly feel like a welcome massage, but it definitely gets my attention.



Thankfully, by midday Friday, Quinn can go back to yanking on her woolly and bearded Grandfather and give the rest of us creatures a break until next week.

From the land of locks,
J & a Handful of Q

Talk Derby to Me

I think I'm catching on to the secret of this whole parenting thing.

It isn't about some act of evolution nor altruism, it's simply a means to live out all the things we as individuals missed out on. Imagining all the things Quinn might do differently, and certainly better than I did is exhilarating. It makes me feel like I get another shot a life. And yes, a whole decade of therapy is probably called for based on that statement alone, but I'm just vocalizing what most others probably feel. No?

In my visions of her future, I see Quinn being a multilingual, outgoing, full of confidence, dynamic person. Unlike her Mom, she'd never give up on things before she started them. And she'd dare to do things I still can't try in my dreams... Like becoming a Roller Derby star.

Ah, but in the meantime I just provide her with the sustenance of life and try not to get too ahead of the lovely stage she is crawling in, and all around.

All this crawling makes being the sole person to watch a baby a bit of a challenge at times. And pretend I might that I would never use the devil box (aka TV) as a babysitter, just give me three days without another adult in the house and I'll convince myself all kinds of things on TV qualify as "educational."

Not because of forethought about my parents' imminent absence did I order some DVDs for Quinn. It was more out of hope I could pique her interest in learning Mandarin since after so long of listening to it over a streamed radio station she starts to cry like I make actually make good on my threat to send her (and the living room pool) back to China.

Tonight as I tried to talk Quinn out of giving the DVDs a big thumbs-down, she caught five seconds of a WWF commercial, and her eyes and whole body locked on the tube. I too froze to watch her reaction, and then she started to squeal and bob up and down enthusiastically in her bouncer seat. Seeing her get so animated made me feel like the educational stuff is virtual torture, or worse, its turning her brain to glue.




Problem found, problem solved. The easy solution is that I'll just have find footage of Chinese WWF fighters, so at least she knows some choice Mandarin words (and grunts) to use for her Roller Derby days.

A big thumbs-up from us to you,
Mama von Catastrophe & Quickly Kickin' Quinn

Misses Behaving

Geesh! I take one day off and all of a sudden I come to, and it's nearly two weeks since I last made an online peep. Might as well drink the good stuff if I'm going to blackout like that.

Quick update, and then I'll get back into the habit of babbling about all over cyberspace on more frequent basis -- because I'm sure ya'll missed me (and not just Miss Q), right?

Oh yeah, so the update... The pool in the middle of the living room is a party place, according to Quinn. She will hang in it for a while by herself, but after about 15 minutes, she wants company. If a pal in the shape of a Grandparent, Mom, or captured cat doesn't show up within nanoseconds her sirens go off and then the pool is ruined until she too blacks-out and forgets that it's really the kiddie corral.



The Grandparents have set off for work in other territories this week, so Quinn is left in my care alone. My Dad left me a list of things to do since he has become the best Nanny in the house, and I have no grey matter in my cranium.

Too bad he didn't mention being careful where on the counter I place defrost frozen breastmilk, such as NOT directly above the steam vent for the dishwasher... Needless to say, my parents will return to a slightly more slippery, but much more glossy and nutritious kitchen floor. I know, I am a Guinness.

Strangely unsupervised,

Stupid & Super Q

Quickly Becoming Quinn

Halloween is more than a month away, and yet Quinn completely spooked Jack and me today.

Catching up with her Dad online, I tilted my webcam down towards Quinn who was futzing with toys on the floor. Just back from a run, I plopped down beside her and laid back so Jack could see us both in the camera frame.

While we adults bantered about the details of my day (not because the world revolves around me -- doesn't it though? -- but because the happenings of his day usually qualify as "classified," and he can only tell me gory details like what he ate for dinner, or who is snoring the loudest in his hooch), Quinn crawled over to climb all over the sweaty mountain of Mom.

As she lumbered about, she seemed to take notice of Jack's image. Craning her head towards the computer so her image filled the screen, she babbled something directly at him. Then while still in view of both of us, as if in celebration of today being her 8th month mark since her birth, the kid freaking stood up!

I couldn't believe it. Still can't really. Thinking about it makes my head hurt, and like I just might hurl. That she's been crawling for two weeks has been a bit overwhelming, but today was too much.

No she didn't stand up and recite the Emancipation Proclamation. Nonetheless, using me to steady herself, she made the inkling of leaving the world of four-legged creatures and becoming a girl with some starch in her spine.

I have to admit, it was a little concerning considering just last week, like the dog, Quinn was carrying toys in her mouth, and earlier today when she gleefully gnawed on a teething cookie that tasted just like a dog-treat (I wasn't stealing candy from a baby, just had to make sure it wasn't poisonous... or something like that. Besides, I gave it back when I discovered how nasty it tasted).

The rate at which she is changing makes me feel carsick, but I can't seem to get her to slow down. Sure, it's great to see progress, definitely encouraging after such a bumpy start. But now, I'm done with these milestones... At least for a while.

She needs to give it a break and just be a slobbering, blathering, bundle of baby-ness before she grows up and leaves her childhood in the dust. Otherwise, I just might throw a tantrum of my own.

All the best,
From the home of a quickly growing Quinn

Breaking Out the Bebe Manual

Well, the pool is inflated and in command of half of the living room. But if a look could pop it, Quinn might just have the sharpest needle.

Having failed to consult her on this purchase, she is not exactly sure why all the hoopla because she certainly isn't getting in that thing without someone to entertain her! Good thing for me, there's room for two.

While I'm there, I'd better bring a book because it appears I need to brush up on the Baby Manual.

Those of you who are without kids underfoot, if a fear of how to rear them without instructions (from someone other than your mother-in-law) is holding you back -- fear not! This generation comes with an incredibly accurate manual.

Although it has not escaped my notice that the guidebooks get pretty murky when the kid approaches her teenage years. I pray they'll have that one out in time for this model of Murphy. Hey, if I can teach myself how to do basic electrical wiring without catching the house -- or my hair on fire, then why can't I learn how to be kid's custodian from one too?!

There are many versions stocking the bookstore shelves, but the one Jack and I picked out last year is always on the money with advice and pointers.

Point being, since starting up my graduate studies again (one measly little class), I've become a dismal student of all things Quinn. Unfortunately for me, she might be the toughest teacher I've had yet.

She is pulling out the pop-quizzes and impromptu presentations by blaring out a surprise cry that startles everyone, and is so piercing it makes the dog's hair stand as he dives for cover.

In the middle of the night, when her yowl threatens to wake the DNA of ancestors deep in my bones, I try and make nice by letting her curl up in my bed while I comfort her back to sleep. Instead of sheep, I count foolish testaments I've made over the years scoffing how I wouldn't be such a pushover parent when my turn came.



So, no more hooky for me; after tonight I'm going to be hitting 'dem books of Quinn.

From the Principal's Office,
a Truant Mama and Madeline the Baby Mentor

A Bad Influence

The kiddie corral has arrived!

We're letting it air out so Quinn doesn't get hooked on the toxic fumes of vinyl made in China. (It'd be another thing if they were American fumes.) I suppose a lesson on "How to melt your brain with substances," isn't exactly my idea of giving her a leg up anyhow.

Besides, if I'm going to be a bad influence, I want to have way more fun doing it.

Speaking of bad influences. . . It's a good thing the pool has arrived because yesterday, Quinn made it abundantly clear that she is spending far too much time with the dog:









And all this time I thought her tendency to squirt pee on me and everything in between was just a baby thing.

You know, if she starts sniffing people's hind-quarters, then I might just have to send her and the kiddie pool back to China where she can be reprogrammed. . .

Love from,
Mama Murph and the K-9 Kid

Going Quinoa for Quinn

The upside to this elimination diet I'm on (to spare Quinn from a body rash that looks like she sleeps in a verdant bed of poison oak) is that I can't just grab anything and throw it down my throat.

That is good news -- not because I'm masochistic -- but because I should just cut out the middleman of digesting food and tape it to my ass since that's effectively what happens to anything I ingest.

Thanks to limited options, I'm finally fitting into my "skinny" pants... Well, ok, don't know I've ever owned such pants, but "less fat pants" isn't quite as catchy.

Craving some carbohydrates though, I broke down and decided to be all domestic in my Momness, and actually baked some muffins. Since I was starving to taste them, it didn't even occur to me to grab an apron and make an event of it.

Since the ingredients couldn't contain gluten (wheat), dairy, soy, chocolate, or tree nuts I was grateful that at least bananas were still permissible. I broke out the Quinoa, a kind of wheat substitute, some chickpea flour, rice milk and more bananas than a monkey would know what to do with.

The kitchen burst with the awesome smell of baked goods, the muffins looked golden and perfect. Just as my parents returned from the gym, I was eagerly placing them on a plate to at least feign a willingness to share them before I devoured every last one.

And then, I bit into that delicious looking, banana-filled, muffin of my dreams. . .

Make that muffin of my nightmares! The thought of eating them still makes me gag.

I've decided next time, I'll save all the bananas, Quinoa, and wasted effort and just vomit in my mouth.

Couldn't help but share. . . but bon appetit to you!

Mama with the Munchies & the Little Penguin

Bona fide

Now that the kid is on the move, my parents and I had to wrack our brains about how to make her relatively safe in this somewhat chaotic house. I had to admit, my Dad's first impulse of making Quinn a leather helmet sounded both archaic and just what would make me feel a bit better. But then I imagined her head always being puny because it wasn't allowed to grow freely, and well, I suppose her grey matter squirting out her ears wouldn't be so cute either. So we kept brainstorming.

We needed to devise some way to pen Quinn in, but the portable crib I have irritates her now, and she's just starting to become mobile. So that wouldn't do.

Then it came to us. . . a kiddie pool! Without the water, of course. Duh!

My Dad bolted for the computer before the thought was hardly out of my Mom's mouth. Stretching a measuring tape across their living room, we talked ourselves down a couple sizes from the most gigantic pool in cyberspace, and then it occurred to me. Not only had my parents stepped off (yet another) deep end, but I was freely joining them. Maybe this is my rite of passage that I'm actually an adult now. A crazy adult, but one nonetheless.

My folks have always been a bit eccentric, but in a brainy way. Me? Not so much. Being rather bland on one hand, and not so academic on the other, it's questionable where my DNA spawned from. And with my anal retentive ways, there's NO WAY I'd let my home be overrun by some pip squeak who freely sneezes in my face, farts in my arms, and flips me off way too frequently for it to be a mistake. But, they are way cooler and laid back, and will do anything for their grandchildren.

For now we wait for the pool to arrive. When it does, we'll displace all of the adult furniture, and pretend it is normal to have a kiddie pool as the centerpiece of a home.

My plan from here out is to intercept any visitors outside; out of fear if they even peak in the front door, they'll have DSS on speed-dial to come rescue the poor kid from the three bona fide nuts.

Love from the funny farm,

The Three Nuts and One Cute Q

Marking Her Milestones

(I like alliteration, leave me alone, it sounds good... At least it does in my head.)

Not only does Miss Quinn outpace me in the gestational development stage of life, she is starting to take off now that she has figured out those hands are hers, and the feet she is obsessed with follow her everywhere. So they too can be relied upon for new adventures.

Last week, Quinn decided rolling about wasn't cutting it any more. So she broke out into an actual crawl. My parents and I were stunned. Suddenly the house felt way too small and way too hazardous. Quinn has been squealing with delight oblivious to the dangers about her.

Thankfully, she has regressed just enough for me to adjust to her mobility. This week she is flailing her arms and legs as if she's swimming, not moving more than a few inches while her ever growing belly weighs her down. It's a comical sight.

Maybe Quinn found my ability to multitask, I clearly lost it somewhere in this parenting process. Because just in case we weren't impressed enough, the kid has thrown in another milestone -- saying "Mama." Hearing it over the phone, I reassured Jack I tried to make "Dada" her first word, but she isn't dumb. She is resourceful and has found that muttering the "M" word is far more effective than anything else she might mumble.

It seems to be a catchall word (much like another four-lettered word that comes to mind). She says it when she tastes something yummy, when she is feeling sleeping and wants to be held, and it is on instant repeat when she is upset and wants someone to pick her up out of her crib "Mama! Mama! Mmmmmmaaaaammmmaaa!"

With one word, she shows me who is boss as my false hopes that I am still an autonomous being slip out of my hands (along with everything) as I run to her at the sound of a single word.

May your week be full of great memories if not milestones,

J & the Multitasker

A Letter to Generation Q

Dear Quinn,

As much as I look for the angle from which the glass appears half-full, I still have twinges of freaky weird luck. Not necessarily bad luck, but as your Auntie Stacy will tell you, I have been known to have some of the most bizarre things happen, and that's not counting the use of my head as target practice by birds up above.

In light of this freaky phenomena, it's best I don't assume I will have all my marbles, any idea where I put my marbles, or the teeth to sound out certain words by the time you might find a fraction of what I mumble to be noteworthy. For that reason, I'm going to start jotting down a few flecks of "wisdom"... all for you to ultimately discard anyway -- as we all do with hand-me-downs of horse sense from our parents.

Here's a start...

1. Never ask Grandpa what's in the stew he made, whether it's fishheads, or watermelon rind really doesn't matter and no one should be privy to such a vile recipe. Just hold your breath, drink it, feign a smile then down a pack of mentos. If those are ancient and don't deaden your taste buds, (as some things in your grandparents' home tend to be a wee bit stale), then find a jar of Ben Gay and eat that because that stuff never goes bad.

2. On the topic of eating, follow the advice of moderation from my childhood neighbor Mrs. Sullivan: Never eat more than two cookies in a day. (I managed to forget the time interval and discovered along with a need for fat pants it wasn't "Never eat more than two cookies in a two second period without lots of chocolate milk to wash it down.")

3. Get a sense for the very few times in life that it is really worth "fitting in," and learn colorful language for the other occasions. (Just don't tell anyone your Mom taught you such words.)

4. If in the fourth grade you dare a friend to eat the glue in art class in exchange for $10, and then he actually, stupidly eats it... Do the right thing and pay the poor kid. His bum will be paying for the dare a lot longer than it took you to earn that much money from your penny-pinching parents.

5. Your eyes really could freeze in that position if you keep making that ridiculous face behind my back.

6. Skip the kool-aid. You might look like the odd one out, but whether it be hairdos, clothes, music, piercings, political thought, or a particular religion. . . Find what truly suits you so that later in life you don't have to make excuses for how you got sucked into such nonsense, and then have no pictures of your childhood because you had to torch all of 'em.

7. Just say "no" when someone says "Oh my god, that's awful! Smell that!!!" Nothing good ever comes of that.

8. Don't get nervous sleeping over at a friend's house. Your Dad and I will still be there in the morning; we won't have moved or abandoned you. Well, if by chance we did move overnight, we'd definitely leave a forwarding address.

9. Find a guy (or girl, we'd rather you be happy than try to shock us) that works hard, but plays hard; has more toys than you, and shares all of them with you.

10. Surprise people with your strength, but then expect to carry all the heavy stuff.

That's it for now. Until next time, I will hunt in a place better than my own backend for more nuggets of wisdom.

Love,
Mommy

Her Skin as My Canvas

The ever-trusting Quinn has yet to associate the doctor's office with nasty things like needles, and bright lights being shined in all sorts of private places.

Not that I'm complaining, but I suspect sooner than later she won't be so cheery upon arrival. Then again, being an official Army brat, we'll move frequently enough that the setting will change just around the time she figures out whose waiting room we are in.



This week, it was all smiles and glee. Even while the doctor looked up her nose, in her ears, and past her pupils. Then came those damn vaccines.

I realize some people hesitate with giving their kids vaccines, and with the MMR (Measles/Mumps/Rubella) dose, I might too. With all others though, I'm seeking any and all she is eligible for. This week, it was another one for meningitis, and one of several to prevent the flu (and ultimately the swine flu).

Quinn is getting the hang of it though, as she forgives both the doctor and me quickly and doesn't turn her bruised thigh and feelings into an all day affair; she limits her disapproval to mere minutes.

The other news of the visit was something I'd discovered on my own beforehand.

For the last several weeks she has had an ever increasing and somewhat alarming body rash. It was clear that it became worse depending on how much breastmilk she drank, so I added yet more lactase drops and even some more formula to offset the reaction (both of which had worked in the past). At a certain point though, that didn't seem enough, and just as I was going to contact her doctor, a neighbor who is a retired pediatrician told me to try the elimination diet again.

In some disbelief that it would work, I relented and stopped eating dairy, gluten, tree nuts, and chocolate. Within a few days her entire rash was gone! That was without the use of hydrocortisone, which her doctor had encouraged me to use to keep the rash under control; but I later learned if used too frequently, hydrocortisone causes cataracts for anyone, regardless of their age!

Today a rash appears to be reemerging, but that was after I reintroduced dairy. So, I hope her skin returns to its smooth and healthy look as I omit milk and such from my diet again.

Considering the grub available at Whole Foods and Trader Joe's, I would rather just stay off these foods than make Quinn's skin the innocent canvas to my dietary whims. Yet, it would be good to know what doesn't work for her system before I find out by having her consume it directly, so I'm going to continue reintroducing each food group until I know if any others cause an irritation as well.

All the while, she is growing growing growing. Nearly ten pounds heavier than her birth weight (13lbs 12 oz), and finding clothing sized for 9 month olds most suitable, she is outgrowing things I thought she'd wear for years.

Apparently the premie games are boring her too, as she is trying to sit-up on her own, mimic someone talking (she's so close to saying "Moooom"), and holds her bottle more often than not.

Already, Quinn has outgrown most aspects of her title as a premie, both in girth and physical ability. It is amazing what a tiny person can accomplish in a matter of months.

And then as I change her diaper, in the split second that she is somewhat exposed, she pees like a famous Italian geyser all over me, herself, her clothes, and my bed. And I realize she may never outgrow this premie game . . .

From the Fountains of Quinn,
J and Miss Q