Musings before bed

I’m singing Ruth to bed. I’ve been doing that ever since she was born. She’s an anxious girl, nervous about going to sleep on her own. I don’t blame her. She’s always been small for her age, and I’d like to think that made her feisty.

The sound of my voice stops her from talking. It helps her calm down enough to close her eyes. Lately, because she’s scared to lie down, I tell her that when I sing, she can lie down, because it makes “all the bad stuff go away.”

Wouldn’t it be great if I really had that magical power, eh?

Lucas, however, must be held and cuddled to bed. I don’t think the singing matters as much for him. For him, it’s all about touch and closeness; knowing you’re near through the electricity of contact.

Lucas goes to bed much more easily than Ruth now, but he’s a lighter sleeper. Go figure. I can sit next to Ruth and yell her name, and she won’t budge.
What a pair.

The scar

Lucas nestled in my arms this afternoon, nursing quietly in between fits of talkativeness and enthusiastic whapping of various toys. I held his left arm–thick and padded–in my hand. I thought about the miniature skeleton underneath it, so delicate and sturdy at the same time.

Then, I noticed it–his scar.

A few weeks ago, we discovered that Lucas was strong enough to open the oven door entirely on his own. We learned it the hard way. Yes, he cried, but not nearly as much as his injury warranted. An ugly scab formed in a loose crescent shape on his left forearm. As with many childhood injuries, it dissipated quickly, almost miraculously.

The skin is now pink and smooth in a plastic way, as though someone taped the scar on to his soft, delicate baby skin. I’m sure it will fade easily over time. I may grow to miss the scar, even, because it symbolizes my boy’s strength and curiosity.

I hope he’s learned his lesson about ovens, though.

Moments from today

I promised Ruth that we’d go to the playground. We took a potty break, got suited up, and ready to go, only to discover that part of the stroller buckle was mysteriously missing. When running back to the house, and Ruth fell and skinned her knees. It was QUITE a piece of drama. She didn’t want to be cleaned up; she seemed more upset about not going to the playground than about getting a scrape.

After cleaning her up, trying to find the buckle, and failing, I simply put her in the stroller, instructed her not to get out, and off we went to the playground. We weren’t halfway there when I looked down and saw her slumping forward. It was 6:30, and she had fallen completely asleep. Afraid that she would fall out of the stroller, I took her, wheelbarrow-style, the whole way back.

And she’s been asleep ever since. It’s 9pm.

…

Mamou volunteered to take over nighttime duty with Lucas last night–a huge undertaking. We’ve been puzzled for some time as to why he wakes so often at night: is he truly hungry? does he just want momma? is it pain?

Well, the report this morning gave us quite a bit of information. He drank NINE ounces last night. NINE. The kid is hungry. That’s almost as much as what a newborn would drink during the night. Not to mention a light sleeper (but we knew that already).

So, then plan: bottle-feeding at night, slowly diluting the formula down until it’s only water. It’s been over a year since I’ve had a full night’s rest, and hopefully this will help speed the process of night weaning up a bit.

…

Waking up this morning after a full night’s rest was almost like waking up on Christmas Day. Or, waking up on the first day of summer vacation. Or, the feeling you get after you’ve had a nice, long afternoon nap, but wake at just the right time.

…

My dedicated helper, Margaret, left today. I miss that extra pair of hands while my husband is away.

a narrative of Father’s Day

A trip to Patapsco State Park’s tire playground and then a dinner at the Olive Grove was how we celebrated Father’s Day 2010!

Daddy turned a big stick into a little stick, and other folks put on “shows” in the miniature amphitheater.

‘

Ruthie bossed Mamou around.

And Lucas finished off Papa’s steak.

More photos from May and June, too!

Of Cowgirl Boots and Favorite Foods

Ruth: it’s hard to know where to start.

The little munchkin is growing rapidly (don’t they always?). She’s still small for her age, according to those doctor’s charts, but boy, is she strong and coordinated. She walks and runs with assurance, and even attempts a jump or two. She’s brave, but a little on the shy side, preferring to observe kids at a safe distance before making friends.

Tiny Wonder Kid

Sickie Sickie

Ruth freaked me out yesterday–a high fever, lethargy, rapid breathing… needless to say I made an emergency visit to the pediatrician, who told me to give her ibuprofen and keep an eye on her, calling should complications arise. She perked up in the evening, which put me at ease. Then, she woke in the middle of the night burning up and crying hysterically, which brought me back down into Worry Town.
Today, she’s been consistently clingy, moody, whiny, tired, fussy, all that wonderful stuff. She eats, but in a limited amount, and drinks well. I think she’ll be on the mend tomorrow, but I’m not sure my sanity can stand another day of velcro baby. I’ve gotten as near to zero things accomplished as ever, and I have clients waiting for me. Of course, I can’t really hire a babysitter for a sick child; why would I want the babysitter to spread germs to all the other kids?
I’m hanging in there; it’s nice that Steve comes home and immediately knows I’ve had a long day. I just wish that Ruth were okay with giving me a break. The sicker she is, the more mommy-centric she gets, which eats at Steve’s morale and exhausts me, of course.
But those back rubs sure do help.