As a quasi six-monther, Quinn has been inducted into the world of solid foods. Oh joy. Just when we have some stability with her diet, why not toss in a monkey wrench?!?
According to my Mom, she transitioned me to solid foods at six weeks. By that standard, Quinn has been living the lavish liquid diet for long enough.
Not that she'll stop drinking mama's milk any time soon, as I still have fourteen square feet of frozen milk to be consumed by Thanksgiving -- or else I'm making some seriously homemade holiday cookies. Watch out neighbors... might get more than you ever wanted for Christmas!
Too many studies show American kids are getting more obese at a younger age with each generation (it's equally pathetic for the English language that "obeser" is throwing its weight around to nudge its way into our lexicon).
Coming from a long line of farmers and cheese makers, it wasn't exactly popular when I went vegan for a few years... in part out of fear of becoming portly myself.
Had my parents tried to feed me the kind of slop I'm feeding Quinn, I would have been certain they were plumping me up to for the butcher's block like baby veal.
So it's a stretch to say what she's eating can be classified as truly "solid." More like paper mache. Which is awfully similar to the "gruel" my Dad forced me and a friend living with us to eat every day one summer.
The Story of the Family Gruel. . .
After going fishing with my brother-in-law, my Dad wasn't about to waste the leftover salmon heads from the fillets they made.
A little too much energy and being alone in the kitchen he added a little of this, a little of that, a dash of cayenne, a pinch of pepper, a splash of soy sauce -- threw it all into a blender -- with the treasured fish heads (eyeballs and all) and... wha la! Gruel!
The most vile concoction ever forced on a child by a loving parent.
Uncertain of how we endured or if we could again, the word "gruel" became taboo for more than a decade afterward.
To this day you can hear my Mom gasp, and catch her flashing me a look of fear and dismay as if I were about to utter something vulgar whenever I tip-toe in the direction of that memory as a means of teasing my Dad of his cooking "abilities."
Jack, on the other hand, truly qualifies as a self-taught cooking connoisseur. Me? Cooking? Not so much. (At the firehouse, guys would take pity and make me scrambled eggs after watching me screw that up a few times.)
Instead, I qualify as an excellent eater. I mean, I don't know about you, but I personally like food; in fact, I like it so much I eat more than enough every day.
So of course we'd love for our little girl to grow up to be a true foodie too. And, so far so good.
Even if our little Quinny-locks is eating porridge that looks and tastes like kindergarten glue (coming from someone who distinctly remembers), until she spits it back at me, it appears we have another bon viveur in the making.
Bon Appetit!
a Mama with Milk on the Menu and the Gruel-free Girl
Friday, July 31, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Fat Sleeves
So we had the big weigh-in this week, as Quinn is by one count 6 months old.
A month ago, her pediatrician talked me into testing her on a 100% breastmilk diet, supplemented not with formula but lactase enzyme drops in case that solves her residual digestion problem.
To my amazement it did!
Considering her plump cheeks, her fourth chin, and the creases at her wrist that make it look like she's wearing fat for sleeves, you'd think as her milk machine I'd be down to a single digit percentage for body fat...
Ah, so betting isn't your thing, and no such luck for me. Seems this is one (and only) place I am ultra-efficient!
Personally, I'd rather own a hybrid than be one, but...
It's worth it to see Quinn so healthy and ridiculously happy. And it's a gift of real relief that at 12.5lbs and 24 inches, she is sneaking into the "healthy" zone for a full-term kid who is 6 months (when in actuality, she should be turning 4 months).
It's astonishing she doesn't burn all her incoming calories with the endless kicking, flailing, squirming, rolling, and now inch-worming she is doing.
Jack and I were warned during more than one doctor's visit that we could expect this kid to hit the floor (practically) running -- because during every ultrasound and heart test she made the technician work up a sweat trying to catch her.
True to form, Quinn is propelling her way around for much of the day, even if it comes at the price of getting rug burn on her face!
While my folks are on the road for work, I'm seriously considering fashioning the doofus dog with a saddle, and the kid with some chaps, in hopes it wears both of them out.
I'll let you know who is the last one standing (don't think I'd place my bet on me!).
Milking Mama & Quick-n-Nimble Quinn
A month ago, her pediatrician talked me into testing her on a 100% breastmilk diet, supplemented not with formula but lactase enzyme drops in case that solves her residual digestion problem.
To my amazement it did!
Considering her plump cheeks, her fourth chin, and the creases at her wrist that make it look like she's wearing fat for sleeves, you'd think as her milk machine I'd be down to a single digit percentage for body fat...
Ah, so betting isn't your thing, and no such luck for me. Seems this is one (and only) place I am ultra-efficient!
Personally, I'd rather own a hybrid than be one, but...
It's worth it to see Quinn so healthy and ridiculously happy. And it's a gift of real relief that at 12.5lbs and 24 inches, she is sneaking into the "healthy" zone for a full-term kid who is 6 months (when in actuality, she should be turning 4 months).
It's astonishing she doesn't burn all her incoming calories with the endless kicking, flailing, squirming, rolling, and now inch-worming she is doing.
Jack and I were warned during more than one doctor's visit that we could expect this kid to hit the floor (practically) running -- because during every ultrasound and heart test she made the technician work up a sweat trying to catch her.
True to form, Quinn is propelling her way around for much of the day, even if it comes at the price of getting rug burn on her face!
While my folks are on the road for work, I'm seriously considering fashioning the doofus dog with a saddle, and the kid with some chaps, in hopes it wears both of them out.
I'll let you know who is the last one standing (don't think I'd place my bet on me!).
Milking Mama & Quick-n-Nimble Quinn
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Old Toothless
There must not have been enough to do in little ol' Laramie, Wyoming when I was a kid because before I even had teeth I was obsessed with brushing them.
My sister, Stephanie, was quickly vaulted into the status of "Best Sister Ever" when she splurged and got me a toothbrush for my second Christmas-present frenzy.
She had already secured her place in that category when she spared me from the most ridiculous name two Swiss immigrants could come up with for a child: "Rawhide." (Although I never heard her argument, I suspect the term "porn star" might have been used heavily when Stephanie talked them out of ruining my life -- and hers -- with such an absurd name).
While I dodged one unfortunate name, by my second birthday I had become known as "Old Toothless" as I was still gumming my food while other kids were having fun biting their parents and other kids on the playground. Nonetheless, thanks to Stephanie I had a toothbrush and happily began brushing my phantom teeth.
Not much has changed since then, as I still am fastidious about dental hygiene, and pretend it is a sport or a hobby like making hood ornaments shaped like ducks.
Oddly enough, I now wonder if that was the cause of Quinn's early delivery.
While searching for something completely unrelated, I came across some research done at Case Western Reserve that suggests a woman doesn't necessarily have to have gum disease to trigger premature labor.
From there, I found an online discussion where one woman, who also had an unexplained premature delivery as did I, speculated that it was the result of a teeth cleaning she had three weeks before her son was born. Appealing to other moms with similar scenarios to partake in her impromptu poll, I was startled to find that several had the same timeline before they went into premature labor.
In the volumes of literature expecting parents are flooded with, this was one I was sure I wouldn't let be a factor in my pregnancy. Which is precisely why I had my teeth cleaned in early January. . . just 18 days before Quinn was born.
Although the "poll" isn't large in number, and anything but scientific, it sure makes me wonder if there is a cause and effect connection there. (If anyone -- or their fourth-grader -- is looking for a good science or statistics project, here's a theory to test out. I'll even help hunt for a grant!)
In the meantime, I'm cautioning my pregnant friends from going to the dentist, and I personally won't go if I get another shot at baking a baby.
Gotta go brush these teeth. Night night!
Old Toothless & Miss Que'd
My sister, Stephanie, was quickly vaulted into the status of "Best Sister Ever" when she splurged and got me a toothbrush for my second Christmas-present frenzy.
She had already secured her place in that category when she spared me from the most ridiculous name two Swiss immigrants could come up with for a child: "Rawhide." (Although I never heard her argument, I suspect the term "porn star" might have been used heavily when Stephanie talked them out of ruining my life -- and hers -- with such an absurd name).
While I dodged one unfortunate name, by my second birthday I had become known as "Old Toothless" as I was still gumming my food while other kids were having fun biting their parents and other kids on the playground. Nonetheless, thanks to Stephanie I had a toothbrush and happily began brushing my phantom teeth.
Not much has changed since then, as I still am fastidious about dental hygiene, and pretend it is a sport or a hobby like making hood ornaments shaped like ducks.
Oddly enough, I now wonder if that was the cause of Quinn's early delivery.
While searching for something completely unrelated, I came across some research done at Case Western Reserve that suggests a woman doesn't necessarily have to have gum disease to trigger premature labor.
From there, I found an online discussion where one woman, who also had an unexplained premature delivery as did I, speculated that it was the result of a teeth cleaning she had three weeks before her son was born. Appealing to other moms with similar scenarios to partake in her impromptu poll, I was startled to find that several had the same timeline before they went into premature labor.
In the volumes of literature expecting parents are flooded with, this was one I was sure I wouldn't let be a factor in my pregnancy. Which is precisely why I had my teeth cleaned in early January. . . just 18 days before Quinn was born.
Although the "poll" isn't large in number, and anything but scientific, it sure makes me wonder if there is a cause and effect connection there. (If anyone -- or their fourth-grader -- is looking for a good science or statistics project, here's a theory to test out. I'll even help hunt for a grant!)
In the meantime, I'm cautioning my pregnant friends from going to the dentist, and I personally won't go if I get another shot at baking a baby.
Gotta go brush these teeth. Night night!
Old Toothless & Miss Que'd
Monday, July 6, 2009
Days of Disengaging
Looks like I'm on an extended vacation. The other morning, I barely showed up in time to catch breakfast with two local friends (ok, my only local friends). But so glad I did.
Being the devious people they are, they promptly took Quinn out of my grip and started in on asking me how I'm "really" doing... You know, with that look that only someone who knows you all too well can give you.
Before I knew it, I was admitting that not only have I been a hermit for the last couple of weeks, I'm teetering on the edge of not depression per se, but serious apathy.
"I guess I'm on a vacation from caring" I said. Their eyes narrowed and then Jodi quickly quipped that she might like to join me.
We laughed and I felt some relief that maybe my need to withdraw from much of the world, or at least communicating with the rest of the world, isn't just excusable it may even be healthy. (Probably not so healthy for my friendships, but those things seem to have a life-cycle out of my control anyhow.)
Usually I just like to write as though I'm hitting my head with any blunt object within arm's reach, but lately I'm wishing there were more of 'em lying around.
Lucky for Quinn, she has added so many layers of gristle she's not nearly sharp enough to appeal to my masochistic ways. Besides, she tends to hang on me more like a wet noodle sloppily spilling her cuteness all over the place, thereby ruining any progress I'd made at being utterly grumpy for the day.
In fact, Quinn as my epicenter, is the only person that I feel like being around (myself excluded). Well, the only one in the this hemisphere (and no, I don't have a mistress in Argentina).
Her giggles and impromptu games make my apathy instantly vaporize; I'll make any kind of ridiculous face or sound to keep hearing her laughter bubble up from the well within.
So from afar, I thank all of you for being so patient while I mutter curse words to myself, and try to reengage in all that there is to love in life.
Most likely, my detachment from all beyond the periphery of Quinn will pass within a matter of mere days, but as my friends reminded me, there's no rush to come back to the world of productivity and cattle prods.
Being the devious people they are, they promptly took Quinn out of my grip and started in on asking me how I'm "really" doing... You know, with that look that only someone who knows you all too well can give you.
Before I knew it, I was admitting that not only have I been a hermit for the last couple of weeks, I'm teetering on the edge of not depression per se, but serious apathy.
"I guess I'm on a vacation from caring" I said. Their eyes narrowed and then Jodi quickly quipped that she might like to join me.
We laughed and I felt some relief that maybe my need to withdraw from much of the world, or at least communicating with the rest of the world, isn't just excusable it may even be healthy. (Probably not so healthy for my friendships, but those things seem to have a life-cycle out of my control anyhow.)
Usually I just like to write as though I'm hitting my head with any blunt object within arm's reach, but lately I'm wishing there were more of 'em lying around.
Lucky for Quinn, she has added so many layers of gristle she's not nearly sharp enough to appeal to my masochistic ways. Besides, she tends to hang on me more like a wet noodle sloppily spilling her cuteness all over the place, thereby ruining any progress I'd made at being utterly grumpy for the day.
In fact, Quinn as my epicenter, is the only person that I feel like being around (myself excluded). Well, the only one in the this hemisphere (and no, I don't have a mistress in Argentina).
Her giggles and impromptu games make my apathy instantly vaporize; I'll make any kind of ridiculous face or sound to keep hearing her laughter bubble up from the well within.
So from afar, I thank all of you for being so patient while I mutter curse words to myself, and try to reengage in all that there is to love in life.
Most likely, my detachment from all beyond the periphery of Quinn will pass within a matter of mere days, but as my friends reminded me, there's no rush to come back to the world of productivity and cattle prods.
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