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
Monday, September 7, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Class Clown
Back to news about the kid. (Considering that last entry, seems I could use a therapist not a blog!)
Quinn is doing amazingly well. Growing like seaweed, she will make your arms arthritic after a good twenty minutes of toting her around.
Chances are if she isn't eating or sleeping, she's giggling at herself or one of us. As if the class clown, she finds a way to crack herself up over anything, and has developed a laugh that is bubbly until it ends in a shriek. And I still catch her chuckling in her sleep.
When I've had to wake her from a deep snooze, for things like taking my parents to the airport, Quinn doesn't wake up sobbing. Instead, she smiles and snickers as if it's a funny secret that we're both up at an ungodly hour.
For well over a month, she's been playing a game of her own creation. Ok, so maybe a few of you have heard of peek-a-boo, but no one taught her; so she gets extra credit for tapping into the archetypal baby game and initiating it with me whenever she wakes up and I'm nearby.
Raising her head to get her bearings, she'll look at me and then guffaw just as she turns away and pretends to be sleeping again. A moment later, Quinn looks back at me and giggles just to turn away like she's hiding and can't be seen.
Reminds me of what a riot I thought hiding around the corner from my friends in elementary school was. In anticipation of popping out to scare them as they approached -- I'd laugh so hard at the mere thought and summarily pee my pants.
After a few incidents like this, my little joke looked like a bizarre private habit I had of going off to some corner to piss myself. Good memories.
So far, Quinn has more class than that. She also seems to know who is worthy of the more intelligent games as she plays peek-a-boo with me, she tries to converse with Grandma by mooing and sticking out her tongue at every chance she gets. To make myself feel better, I tell my Mom it's just her big teeth and silly Swiss accent that intrigues Quinn.
Of course, she's also gathered that Grandpa is too sophisticated for the elementary games she reserves for me. So she saves the most tricky of games for him. The one where he's wrapped around her little premie finger.
He's a sucker for her nutritive needs, so she works it so that he feeds her as much and as often as possible by being irresistibly cute. Even as she spews mashed bananas and rice cereal all over him and the room, he smiles and coos at her, and she grins knowing just how whipped he is.
So, all is well here as nothing is done without a good laugh.
Hope you are finding much merriment in your world too,
J & the Class Clown
Quinn is doing amazingly well. Growing like seaweed, she will make your arms arthritic after a good twenty minutes of toting her around.
Chances are if she isn't eating or sleeping, she's giggling at herself or one of us. As if the class clown, she finds a way to crack herself up over anything, and has developed a laugh that is bubbly until it ends in a shriek. And I still catch her chuckling in her sleep.
When I've had to wake her from a deep snooze, for things like taking my parents to the airport, Quinn doesn't wake up sobbing. Instead, she smiles and snickers as if it's a funny secret that we're both up at an ungodly hour.
For well over a month, she's been playing a game of her own creation. Ok, so maybe a few of you have heard of peek-a-boo, but no one taught her; so she gets extra credit for tapping into the archetypal baby game and initiating it with me whenever she wakes up and I'm nearby.
Raising her head to get her bearings, she'll look at me and then guffaw just as she turns away and pretends to be sleeping again. A moment later, Quinn looks back at me and giggles just to turn away like she's hiding and can't be seen.
Reminds me of what a riot I thought hiding around the corner from my friends in elementary school was. In anticipation of popping out to scare them as they approached -- I'd laugh so hard at the mere thought and summarily pee my pants.
After a few incidents like this, my little joke looked like a bizarre private habit I had of going off to some corner to piss myself. Good memories.
So far, Quinn has more class than that. She also seems to know who is worthy of the more intelligent games as she plays peek-a-boo with me, she tries to converse with Grandma by mooing and sticking out her tongue at every chance she gets. To make myself feel better, I tell my Mom it's just her big teeth and silly Swiss accent that intrigues Quinn.
Of course, she's also gathered that Grandpa is too sophisticated for the elementary games she reserves for me. So she saves the most tricky of games for him. The one where he's wrapped around her little premie finger.
He's a sucker for her nutritive needs, so she works it so that he feeds her as much and as often as possible by being irresistibly cute. Even as she spews mashed bananas and rice cereal all over him and the room, he smiles and coos at her, and she grins knowing just how whipped he is.
So, all is well here as nothing is done without a good laugh.
Hope you are finding much merriment in your world too,
J & the Class Clown
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A Rising Wind
So, I've kind of stalled.
Stalled writing the many things I've thought would be interesting, important, or at the very least, humorous. But if the air around me could speak, it'd say I've stalled in a whole different way -- midair -- or so it feels... And here I am stalling as I peck out these words.
No longer gripped by apathy, I've taken a sharp turn and gone headlong into serious empathy. Strangely, not for any one, but for the many.
Overdosing isn't a habit of mine. But now I can't seem to stop gathering the details of challenges faced by people unknown to me, chased by a curiosity bordering on preoccupation with those I do know. All of which make for quite a concoction when life feels filled to the brim as it is.
If time is any compass to how I got to the land of heightened empathy, it'd point to a phone call I received on July 4th.
The tenor in the house, even one rather heady as my parents', was quite playful as we poked around to the sound of Garrison Keillor and like every other Saturday, I made Quinn dance with me to the Buttermilk Biscuit song. When a call came on my parents' phone for me, my Mom chuckled that someone had tracked me down.
Eyebrows cocked, I was sure it was a solicitor... Until I saw the name on the caller ID. A call from Clarksville, Tennessee could only mean a call from the Army. Now, I knew it wasn't the worst possible news because those words don't come by phone, but rather dressed up in Class A uniforms. Sometimes though, that kind of hell has a prelude by way of phone.
I gulped.
The voice on the line was of a woman I got to know to some degree before Jack deployed. Consistent with my previous interactions with her, she was as collected as ever. Steadily she told me that among Jack's unit, a helicopter had crashed under enemy fire earlier in the day. The same kind of helicopter Jack flies. Her voice was calm but a unsteady nerve underlined her words, and I wondered what she might say, or what she might not - yet knew.
Only by the grace of God was the news that the two pilots (no passengers) were alive and unharmed. She shared their names. Neither of which were my husband... but one was hers.
After a brief conversation laden with the best virtual hug as I could offer, she conceded that she need not be the person to make the rest of the calls to alert others before they caught something of the crash on the newswire. So I began down the list.
Just as my Mom had answered the call for me, so many others took the calls I made. Each time, a gasp could be heard when the other person realized I was calling on behalf of families for the unit, and a deafening silence reverberated over the line as the phone was passed to its rightful recipient.
It was in those tender conversations that I felt a connection I have been longing for since the day Jack left.
Perhaps it is an ache to align my heart and nerves with others that has launched me into this curious trend to be fully saturated with compassion for the plight of others. Not that it brings me enjoyment of course. Rather, it allows me to mourn things I have not lost.
Maybe my fears find solace in the stories of others, and give me a place to grieve all that I have not and hope never to lose...
Although not as morbid as it sounds, and I'm quite truly happy, it can't be a good habit I'm honing by reading online utterances of grief by other premie parents ( tragically not as fortunate as I), or collecting a stack of dark articles and Dear Abbys with the most heart-wrenching of stories.
So, I'm sobering up and admitting my dependence... and hoping that will release me from this long stall.
With warmth,
Mama Murph and her beloved Little Little
Stalled writing the many things I've thought would be interesting, important, or at the very least, humorous. But if the air around me could speak, it'd say I've stalled in a whole different way -- midair -- or so it feels... And here I am stalling as I peck out these words.
No longer gripped by apathy, I've taken a sharp turn and gone headlong into serious empathy. Strangely, not for any one, but for the many.
Overdosing isn't a habit of mine. But now I can't seem to stop gathering the details of challenges faced by people unknown to me, chased by a curiosity bordering on preoccupation with those I do know. All of which make for quite a concoction when life feels filled to the brim as it is.
If time is any compass to how I got to the land of heightened empathy, it'd point to a phone call I received on July 4th.
The tenor in the house, even one rather heady as my parents', was quite playful as we poked around to the sound of Garrison Keillor and like every other Saturday, I made Quinn dance with me to the Buttermilk Biscuit song. When a call came on my parents' phone for me, my Mom chuckled that someone had tracked me down.
Eyebrows cocked, I was sure it was a solicitor... Until I saw the name on the caller ID. A call from Clarksville, Tennessee could only mean a call from the Army. Now, I knew it wasn't the worst possible news because those words don't come by phone, but rather dressed up in Class A uniforms. Sometimes though, that kind of hell has a prelude by way of phone.
I gulped.
The voice on the line was of a woman I got to know to some degree before Jack deployed. Consistent with my previous interactions with her, she was as collected as ever. Steadily she told me that among Jack's unit, a helicopter had crashed under enemy fire earlier in the day. The same kind of helicopter Jack flies. Her voice was calm but a unsteady nerve underlined her words, and I wondered what she might say, or what she might not - yet knew.
Only by the grace of God was the news that the two pilots (no passengers) were alive and unharmed. She shared their names. Neither of which were my husband... but one was hers.
After a brief conversation laden with the best virtual hug as I could offer, she conceded that she need not be the person to make the rest of the calls to alert others before they caught something of the crash on the newswire. So I began down the list.
Just as my Mom had answered the call for me, so many others took the calls I made. Each time, a gasp could be heard when the other person realized I was calling on behalf of families for the unit, and a deafening silence reverberated over the line as the phone was passed to its rightful recipient.
It was in those tender conversations that I felt a connection I have been longing for since the day Jack left.
Perhaps it is an ache to align my heart and nerves with others that has launched me into this curious trend to be fully saturated with compassion for the plight of others. Not that it brings me enjoyment of course. Rather, it allows me to mourn things I have not lost.
Maybe my fears find solace in the stories of others, and give me a place to grieve all that I have not and hope never to lose...
Although not as morbid as it sounds, and I'm quite truly happy, it can't be a good habit I'm honing by reading online utterances of grief by other premie parents ( tragically not as fortunate as I), or collecting a stack of dark articles and Dear Abbys with the most heart-wrenching of stories.
So, I'm sobering up and admitting my dependence... and hoping that will release me from this long stall.
With warmth,
Mama Murph and her beloved Little Little
Friday, July 31, 2009
Grueling
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
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
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.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Baby Biology
I admit it. I'm a total slacker.
Nothing has changed from my high school days. . . Still needing some sense of pressure or potential failure to turn in an assignment, even a blog post. Seems I can't conjure up anything until late at night, and rather aimlessly when I do. Not a trait I hope to pass on to my dog, let alone my daughter.
If looks are any hint at whose genes might prevail, then Quinn will do just fine as has her Dad. . . Well I should qualify that: as long as she doesn't get a VW Bus and stays clear of Grateful Dead music.
Then there is the savior of all sciences -- epigenetics. It's the notion that we might turn off whatever DNA isn't en vogue, or we wished hadn't been transcribed from our chromosomes to hers. Love how tidy biology can be!
So far, Quinn seems to have Jack's furrowed brow and (to my eye, his impeccably good) looks, her Grandma Nguyet's chuckles and chortles as punctuations on a conversation (even for dialogue without words), and a little something I inherited from my Mom --a tendency to giggle in her sleep.
With copious amounts of other DNA roaming Quinn's bloodstream and bones, I can only hope that she won the lottery of lineage luck.
Maybe she will inherit her Grandpa Jim's quick wit and comprehension of tomes of information, her Uncle Paul's serenity and modesty, her aunt Stephanie's ability to be methodical and meticulous, her Grandpa Hans' mastery of good design. . .
But she could just as easily wind up getting the less flattering traits coursing through our families' histories: The failure to ever be on time, a weakness for books, a tendency to hoard things that could never be categorized as treasures, some seriously strange feet, a temperamental sense of smell, a near paranoia about the perception of others, and hairy knuckles (oops, looks like she might have already expressed that last little gene!).
While I may not save her head from looking like a paperweight, there is still time to potentially head off some of these untoward genes.
So, with my arms full of Quinn for much of the day, I'm hoping there is some truth that by just having her near me, some of the unforeseen and unwanted genes will stay forever muted.
And if all else fails, if I can at least keep Quinn from working on any kind other than a fire pole, I will have done fine. And if she never even knows what any other kind of pole would be, then I will have really succeeded.
May we all express only the best of our genes!
The Former Firepole Mama & Unknown Quotient Quinn
Nothing has changed from my high school days. . . Still needing some sense of pressure or potential failure to turn in an assignment, even a blog post. Seems I can't conjure up anything until late at night, and rather aimlessly when I do. Not a trait I hope to pass on to my dog, let alone my daughter.
If looks are any hint at whose genes might prevail, then Quinn will do just fine as has her Dad. . . Well I should qualify that: as long as she doesn't get a VW Bus and stays clear of Grateful Dead music.
Then there is the savior of all sciences -- epigenetics. It's the notion that we might turn off whatever DNA isn't en vogue, or we wished hadn't been transcribed from our chromosomes to hers. Love how tidy biology can be!
So far, Quinn seems to have Jack's furrowed brow and (to my eye, his impeccably good) looks, her Grandma Nguyet's chuckles and chortles as punctuations on a conversation (even for dialogue without words), and a little something I inherited from my Mom --a tendency to giggle in her sleep.
With copious amounts of other DNA roaming Quinn's bloodstream and bones, I can only hope that she won the lottery of lineage luck.
Maybe she will inherit her Grandpa Jim's quick wit and comprehension of tomes of information, her Uncle Paul's serenity and modesty, her aunt Stephanie's ability to be methodical and meticulous, her Grandpa Hans' mastery of good design. . .
But she could just as easily wind up getting the less flattering traits coursing through our families' histories: The failure to ever be on time, a weakness for books, a tendency to hoard things that could never be categorized as treasures, some seriously strange feet, a temperamental sense of smell, a near paranoia about the perception of others, and hairy knuckles (oops, looks like she might have already expressed that last little gene!).
While I may not save her head from looking like a paperweight, there is still time to potentially head off some of these untoward genes.
So, with my arms full of Quinn for much of the day, I'm hoping there is some truth that by just having her near me, some of the unforeseen and unwanted genes will stay forever muted.
And if all else fails, if I can at least keep Quinn from working on any kind other than a fire pole, I will have done fine. And if she never even knows what any other kind of pole would be, then I will have really succeeded.
May we all express only the best of our genes!
The Former Firepole Mama & Unknown Quotient Quinn
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