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

Until We Are Unleashed

Nearly six thousand miles, nine time zones, and five languages away from where Quinn wrestles with gravity, the 91 year old body of her great-great aunt gave way as she slipped from this world last week.

Gertrude Kohler was a stout name for such a petite woman, so she was better known as "Trudy." As she rose to be our family's matriarch, all the while dwarfed by the height of younger generations, we called her "Tante Trudy" (a title reserved for more senior and noteworthy aunts) as an expression of our respect and adoration.

When my grandmother (Trudy's older sister) died unexpectedly leaving four young children motherless, Trudy was yet to be a mother herself. Nonetheless, she offered herself and her home to her nieces and nephew as they matured and needed a balance outside of their father's views to lean upon.

Even if Trudy could not lend the same support had it been her own daughter, her endorsement of my parents' marriage, when no one else would (for it was between two people of incongruent classes), unleashed them from a shadow of family discontent. Trudy's blessing carried over into the next generation, as my sister and I always thought of her sweetly, and were grateful to get a sense of her from our intermittent visits.

Certainly there was much we will never know about Trudy as things are invariably lost in translation, but her quick laugh and serenity keep company with my memories of her. And although Quinn will never know Trudy directly, I will try to share the essence I understood of this tiny blue-eyed woman, with a soft voice, two small dogs, and boundless energy.

It is regrettable that none of us who loved Tante Trudy were present with her when her body let go and she left us for good. A dark fear of mine comes to mind when I think of Trudy in the care of a virtual stranger during life's last significant milestone . . .

Perhaps not a thought to have shared with Jack, I confessed how hard it is to imagine bringing Quinn into this world, being her guardian throughout what I hope to be a long life, and yet to have died myself before I could hold her and comfort her on her journey out of this life. Of course I should perish before Quinn does, as she should live decades beyond me, which is how this world works. Yet, I can't help but feel scared that she too could be alone or without loved ones when she passes.

Then I come to my senses. As a hospice volunteer and even as a firefighter, I've been in the presence of strangers when they succumbed to circumstances or illness. It was not necessary to have known them their whole lives, or even for more than a moment, to have utter compassion and concern for their comfort and well-being.

This sentiment is a form of love that one shares with other beings. I trust Jack and I will lead Quinn to create her own life in which she will have nothing short of that.

For now, it is more important to help guide and shape the little girl we hope becomes an old lady into and through this life while we are all still in it. And so I shift my focus to what Mother Jones put so well: Pray for the dead, and fight like hell for the living!

May peace and the fight for a good life be with you,
An Aging J & Little Miss Quinn