It's A Wonderful Life!

Wow! Daddy released the reigns to the infamous baby blog and Mommy gets to take a shot at it now. I don’t know though, Randy is a pretty amazing writer so I am not sure I will not do this thing justice but I’ll try!

Now where to begin…it seems like just yesterday when it all actually DID begin. Our little Finley Ella turned 8 months old on Sunday and it’s just so hard for me to believe. Other parents kept telling me that “it goes so fast” and now I believe it. I guess the most amazing part of this all is just that. Everything is sooooo AMAZING! Finley is such an AMAZING baby and Randy is such an AMAZING husband. We have this little family now and I never imagined I could be this happy. We have a really, really good life and sometimes I wonder what little ol’ me ever did to deserve all this joy! Just watching Finley grow and learn and just be a baby is so wonderful. What’s even more fabulous is watching her interact with her Daddy. They are so adorable together. As you all know Randy dotes on his little princess and she is the light of his life. I think Finley is the luckiest little girl in the world to have a Daddy like Randy. She will learn so much from him and have an insane amount of fun a long the way. I have a feeling though that Daddy will find it very hard to say no to his cute little girl. I imagine that it’s Mommy who’s gonna have to be the “bad guy” most of the time! But that’s okay. And I hope she gets some qualities from both of us. I hope she’s laid back like her Dad and has a love for life just like her Daddy does. However she will have to get her fashion sense from her mother. No tie-dye or Birkenstocks, please. And let’s not even get started on Daddy doing hair…I know Randy is a sensitive male of the 2000’s but there are just some things that need to remain a Momma’s job! But I guess when it’s all said and done the most important thing I hope Randy and I can pass along to Finley is just how very much she is loved. That she knows how much joy she brings us and how our world wouldn’t have been complete without her in it. I hope by being her parents we can help to give her a happy life, just like she is giving us. My little angel may only be 8 months old but what an 8 months it has been! And ah…..what a wonderful life, indeed!

~Mommy

Crime and Punishment

When you go into parenthood, you really have no idea how it will all play out. You can read an entire aisle’s worth of parenting books and get loads of advice from friends and family, but until you are in it, you have no clue.

It’s not like there’s any real parenting going on the first few months, anyway. In the beginning, it’s more of a care and feed operation. The baby can’t really do anything that requires the full-on parental overseeing-type guidance. In fact, I thought I had it pretty easy until about a week ago.

So far, I had been able to pick up this dad thing fairly easily. I became a master swaddler and can change a diaper with my eyes closed (when I remember to put the diaper on). The proper bottle-feeding position was no problem and my spoonwork with the baby food is going well. And the play stuff… I had that down way before Finley was a zygote. But last week, I did something that not only made me a real parent, but made me think about what’s to come. Last week, I said “no” to Finley.

I think it will still take her a while before she realizes what “no” means, but the ball has started rolling. From here on out, we have to make sure that until she can make her own decisions, it’s up to us to let her know right from wrong. And grabbing Daddy’s face with her hands and clawing with her little fingernails is wrong. Pulling on Mamma’s hoop earrings is no good, either. And until she figures that out, we have to keep saying, “no.”

This is the part of parenthood I was trying to avoid. I don’t want to be the bad guy. I want to be the buddy daddy and the fun dad. Heather is much better at laying down the law, trust me. But, it’s not fair for me to try and hog all the good stuff. As much as I’d like to have Heather take care of all of the judgment and punishment, I know I have to step up and bring the hammer down every once in a while. Besides she would whoop on me if I didn’t.

And that’s the great dilemma. Deciding how to punish... Deciding when to punish. It’s a whole new world in the land of raising kids. When we were growing up and you got in trouble, you got spanked. It wasn’t corporal punishment… it was a swat on the tail and you most likely did not become a repeat offender. But these days, you can’t look at your kids wrong without it being considered abuse. These days, a term like “time out” is part of the parental vernacular. These days, revocation of cell phone privileges seems to be the punishment of choice… when they get old enough, I guess.

We’ll have to learn to sit her in a corner, send her to bed and just plain sit through tantrums and tears. We’ll have to learn to read her body language and eyes to see if she’s hiding something or stretching the truth. But the most important thing we’ll have to learn is how to talk to her as we punish.

Because it’s not really just about punishment. It’s about respect. Respect for us as parents, respect for others and respect for rules. And if all she knows is frustration and sorrow from her actions, she’ll never learn how to properly respect all of those things. And she has to also learn that sometimes some rules and some people are difficult to respect and that there are proper ways to disagree and even help change things that are wrong.

But that all comes from us. We have to not only show our disappointment in her actions, but confirm for her several things. The most important thing we have to tell her is how much we love her. That no matter what rule she’s broken or trouble she’s gotten into, we love her no matter what. Then we have to explain - especially when she is little - what she did wrong and why it was wrong. And we have to help her realize the consequences of her actions and how she can either fix the problem or make sure she avoids making the same mistake again. And as we all know, mistakes are an important and necessary part of life. They are what help us learn how to be better.

I know this all sounds pretty straightforward and looks great on paper. I also know there is no way it is going to be as easy as it sounds. So, I will rely on my partner in parenthood to help me along the way. As long as Heather and I do our best to stay consistent and talk to each other, we should be okay. Well, as long as I stay consistent with Heather’s rules, we’ll be okay.

I know I can’t be the happy, go-lucky, fun dad all the time. I know I have to be strong and stand firm with my parental decisions. But I have to say, it certainly isn’t fair when I know those little blue eyes will be staring up at me with guilt and maybe even a little fear. And that’s the LAST thing I want… for her to fear me. But I know, with Heather’s help, those little eyes will look at me and learn that what I’m saying and doing is only to help her become a better person and, eventually, the great parent I can only hope to be.

Still Crazy After All These Years

My daughter is crazy. And I’m convinced she gets it from her Momma. When we last left Finley and her quest for becoming mobile, she had just about learned to roll in both directions. Well, she’s not only accomplished that ability, she’s working her way toward the dreaded crawl.

The way she does this is by flopping over onto her belly and hoisting herself up onto all fours. This part she has down. It’s the next part that is crucial to her development. She has not quite learned how to move her knees in the vital locomotion way. In fact, she pretty much does everything else EXCEPT move her knees.

She’ll flop back down onto her belly. She’ll roll one way or the other. But her favorite by far is to get up onto her tip toes and point her diaper butt straight up into the air in a sort of jackknife position. In the yoga world, this is known as the “downward dog.” In our house, it’s just hilarious.

Of course, she can only hold this position for a short time and usually flops back down. On the bright side, she moves forward about an inch… So she’s making headway. Most of the time she needs to rest after this exercise and rolls over to her back with whatever toy she’s managed to grab. At this point, she attempts to put most of said toy into her mouth and let out her shrill little scream of joy/frustration (It varies by the hour).

This continues for quite sometime. She lurches another direction. Rolls the other way. Runs into a toy or a chair, decides whether or not she can put it in her mouth then rolls another way until she sees the next toy to target. Then she launches into her crawl attempt which turns into the yoga move which ends in the high-pitched squeal.

Now she’s added a couple of new twists to her repertoire. First, there’s the new move she’s added to the end of the downward dog. Instead of flopping all the way down to her belly, she know rolls halfway onto her side with one arm holding her up and the other arm placed on her behind. She’s got one knee on the floor and the other is straightened out. It’s a very model-like pose. It’s almost like she’s asking for a photograph to be taken.

The other new move happens while she lies on her back. She thumps her legs on the ground a minimum of three times before bringing both feet to her mouth. Of course, her whole body convulses during this feat, which helps me to decide that my daughter, indeed, is crazy. And isn’t it great?

You see, in the first nine months of her being, she was folded up inside her Momma. She was yanked and pulled through a 10cm doorway then wrapped up in swaddling blankets for another 2-3 months after. Then she was confined to a small bed and not allowed to roll over at night, for safety reasons. But it’s not like she would have gotten anywhere, anyway. Her little muscles hadn’t quite developed and her best muscle was used for eating.

As each month progressed and she realized that her arms were more than a couple of things to flap around, her neck got stronger and those little legs began to squirm a bit. Suddenly, tummy time was more than a face-down endeavor. She could hold her head up and look at this world that was now beginning to come into focus as her eyes began to clear. That meant there was something to see and something to try and get to. Something these new little fingers could grab. So, she kept trying to get there.

Every day there were new colors and sounds and tastes to try. And every day she got stronger and stronger to the point that she could pull her little body toward something or roll toward something, just by changing the position of her legs. Now she knows that by getting up as high as she can, she can reach that new, interesting and possibly tasty item that has caught her attention. And that is pretty darn amazing, but not the best part. Well, not to me, anyway.

The best part is that in those moments when she decides she can’t quite get what she wants, she takes a little rest and tries again. And if it still doesn’t work, she stops, takes a look around and has fun. In fact, she gets silly. She screams and giggles and wiggles her whole body and flops around like a seal and bumps into things. She blows raspberries and slobbers and tastes EVERYTHING. Then she squeals again and looks around for Momma and Poppa for approval.

And what do we do? We plop down on the floor next to her and make silly noises and tickle and kiss her and blow on her belly. We shake the toys and make them talk in funny voices. And it is absolutely fantastic.

It’s funny how we start out on the floor and work and work to get up on our feet so we can become adults and go to work and make money because that’s what we’re told makes us happy. But my little girl has taught me that the secret to happiness is to spend as much time as you can on the floor, being crazy with the people you love being. It’s a lot more fun and a lot less stressful.

Sugar and Spice

A funny thing happened on the way to this blog. For the first time since she was born, it really hit me that Finley is a girl. Yes, I know that anatomically speaking, I have been aware of her wiring since day one. And, she has more pink clothes and dresses than should be allowed. But, she really doesn’t wear dresses too much and after a while, you get used to pink.

The thing is, she’s got such a cherubic, chubby little face and crazy hair that UNLESS she’s wearing pink, most people would not be able to tell that she’s a girl. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just the way many babies are. They all wear generic onesies and pajamas and without the sex-mandated blue or pink of the clothes, the babies can come across as generic, too. Heck, we even gave her a name that would be good for a boy OR a girl.

But this past week, Heather did something to drive home the fact that OUR little Finley is in fact, a girl. She gave her pigtails. Well, not pigtails in the sense that she had little Pippi Longstocking braids, but with Finley’s thin, wispy hair it was enough to make her awfully cute… and awfully girly.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to make it seem like a bad thing. I guess it’s just something that had not really hit me, yet. Finley hasn’t done any particularly girl-type things. Sure, she has a doll or two, but they’re really just stuffed things to put in her mouth. Momma has put little skirts and dresses on her, but those are just things to drool on. She hasn’t been a girl. She’s just been a baby. But now, after seeing her with her little antennae, I can tell that this is just the beginning of a long, girly road.

I’m sure those dolls that are chew toys, will soon become her friends and daughters. There will be tea parties for these friends and the pushing of daughters around in little strollers. If I’m lucky, I may get to attend a tea party or two and even get to change one of her babies.

I’m sure there will be dollhouses and maybe even a Barbie or two. There might even be kitties and puppies and ponies or even a rabbit on somebody’s birthday wish list. And slowly, but not slowly enough that wish list will expand to include nail polish and lip gloss. Of course, that’s when I will defer to the Momma for expertise.

I have no problem with building a dollhouse or a cage or habitrail. I’d probably be the one cleaning up after whatever pet we get, anyway. But, when it comes to female war paint, I’m done. Because in my mind that all leads to one thing: Boys. And I’m not EVEN ready to think about that. And I sure am glad she’s not ready, either.

It turns out I have a little bit of time before that all kicks in, anyway… Before the female chromosome begins to overpower the male. I’m not sure when, exactly, that happens… When the kid decides to head in the direction of all things girl. It might be in kindergarten, when they segregate the bathrooms (Maybe that’s why women always go to the can together). At any rate, I figure I have at least two years before I get the “Daddy just doesn’t get it” look.

So, in the meantime I can still take advantage of “neutral” fun, like tickling and kissing cheeks and singing. We can watch baseball and cartoons together and Momma and I can read non gender-specific books to her. Because, at this point, Finley doesn’t care. Well, really she doesn’t know. And that’s a good thing. As long as she smiles and giggles and squeals with delight, that’s good enough for me. And as long as when she cries out in the middle of the night, she knows we’re there to comfort her, that’s fine, too. Girl things can wait. She’s got a plenty of time before she needs to worry about being a little girl. But I’ve got the rest of my life to worry about it!

Toy Story

Here’s how dictionary.com defines “toy:”

toy – noun

1. an object, often a small representation of something familiar, as an animal or person, for children or others to play with; plaything.

2. a thing or matter of little or no value or importance; a trifle.

3. something that serves for or as if for diversion, rather than for serious practical use.

It’s funny as I look at the definitions, how the order is the exact order in which I have felt about toys in my lifetime. As a kid, my life was all about my toys. In fact, there were two things that drove me; What toys I had and what toys I was going to get. In the beginning, I liked just about anything I could get my hands on. But, as mentioned in the first description, if it is something familiar, like an animal, then it had more meaning. Which is probably why I still have the Winnie the Pooh Grandma Ella gave me when I was five.

But as I got older toys changed from little shiny things to big shiny things. Cars, stereos, TVs. All of which, in the long run, fit into description number two. Which brings us to definition three. Which is where I am with toys, today.

When Finley was born, we had no need for toys. She had no way of knowing what they were or what they did. She couldn’t hold on to them or really even see them for that matter. Which is why most of the parenting books say kids don’t need toys until about six months. So, now that we’re at month seven, her once empty toy box is now crammed with somewhat soft and brightly colored noisemakers. And that’s what they are, in their simplest form; noisemaking light shows.

In the store, I pore over the different toys to see what sort of educational value they hold. I’m sure that as she gets older, some of these toys will hold true to their enlightening ways. But for now, toys in Finley’s world need to have flashing lights, music, voices, or be able to be chewed on. A toy that falls into all of those categories is a a bonus.

We’ve got the “smart” toys. Those are the ones that have a voice explaining what’s happening in English, French and Spanish. Most likely, this includes the name of the color that is currently flashing and/or whichever letter in the alphabet is also flashing.

We’ve got a rabbit that laughs and is very descriptive about its ears, nose and feet. And there’s a turtle that asks our Little Einstein™ to press the appropriate colorful, lit-up shape on its shell.

And then there is what I refer to as “The Space Capsule.” The actual name is “Excersaucer,” but it is more of a cockpit surrounded by every single sensory stimulation device known to man. Basically, the subject is lowered into a padded seat that dangles them mere centimeters above the floor of the capsule. The seat is designed to spin, so that our subject can experience a full 360-degrees of sensory overload. The full-circle dashboard contains objects of silly design, supported by springs or any number of pliable and stretchable stands. These objects, of course, are meant to be chewed and slobbered on and make some sort of sound, battery-induced or not. This toy… this capsule, is the ultimate kiddie distraction.

And that’s what toys are. They’re diversions. Some have practical and educational purposes. Many kids develop a love for building and design from playing with erector sets and Legos™. And there are those kids who turn a fascination with toy musical instruments into a career. But, in my first run-through as a toy-buying parent, I am beginning to see toys as not much more than battery sucking, song repeating, tripping hazards.

The makers of these toys are geniuses, of course, because they know what they’re doing. They know that the more noise the toys make and the brighter the lights are, combined with a song repeated over and over and over, will not only drive the parents nuts, but send the kids into a gleeful spasm. And that’s what it’s all about.

We will gladly suffer the same song over and over and over for days if it keeps the kid happy and distracted. As long as the baby is holding on to a musical teething ring or enthralled in the capsule, we can throw a load of clothes in the laundry or wash a few dishes. In this way, distractions are good. We can get things done when the kids are distracted. Then, once the baby is in bed, mom and dad can cuddle on the couch and watch TV.

Air Finley

Last Friday was Finley’s six-month checkup. Like all the other checkups before, it consisted of the weighing and measuring of our little girl. And, like all the others before, it ended with a few needles finding their way into her little legs. To her credit, she took the shots like a champ and only cried a little bit.

Other than the promise of health via immunizations, the more notable news from the visit to Dr. Zimburean was related to the weight and measurement department. Finley weighed in at a healthy 17lbs, 10oz (80^th percentile) and measured 27-1/8 inches long (90^th) percentile. The latter measurement caused Dr. Z to comment that “she is very tall for her age.” Very tall for her age?

So I start calculating. If she’s 2 feet 3 inches at six months, and she’s grown a little over an inch each month, then she should be nearly three feet tall when she turns one. And, according to more outrageous daddy math, THAT would mean by the time she’s 15, she’ll be easily 6’-3” – 6’-5” tall (Give or take a few feet, but that has nothing to do with this ramble).

Suddenly visions of the WNBA begin to enter my realm. Of course, this flies against my Team USA softball plans and her pro golf career. But, it’s a little more realistic than my goal to see her be the first female quarterback in the NFL. Then again, at 6’-5”, she would have no problem seeing over the offensive line. Peyton Manning is 6’-5” and has a name that could work for a girl or a boy, too.

Of course, the shoe deal she gets will only help her modeling career. But, that’s only when she has time from her charity work and when she’s not busy saving lives at the hospital or saving the planet from greenhouse gases. And, if her momma had her way, there would be a ballet career and possibly a country music tour to throw in.

Ask Finley in a few years what she wants to be when she grows up and my guess is she would choose something along the lines of a princess/veterinarian. And, like all of us, those ideas of career goals change. I was going to be a detective and an oceanographer. No doubt, solving underwater crimes involving sea creatures. I changed my mind to journalism and pretty much stayed with that for most of my life.

It will be interesting to see what Finley will become. I’m sure there will be a few things she’ll try and decide not to continue. I have piano lessons and wrestling in my past. But there are also the things we dabble in. The things that we may not have seen all the way through, but still resonate in our lives. There’s all the time I spent in boy scouts and my five years in band. There’s a year or so in martial arts and the semester I spent in choir in college. And although I may regret not getting my Eagle Scout or a black belt, I apply many of the things I’ve learned from all of those endeavors into my life. And that’s really what it’s all about. Experience.

Finley may not like basketball. She may even hate it. She might not want to learn how to throw a curveball or work on her putting. She may care next to nothing about leading a receiver or laying down a bunt and that’s okay. I just want her to try it. Just once. She may find joy in sports or she may decide that it could ruin her nails. As long as she tries.

In the long run, I just want her to experience as many things as possible. If ballet trumps baseball, then so be it. If she’d rather dance than dribble, that’s okay too. She can do anything she wants and I’m here to let her know that. That doesn’t mean I won’t buy her a glove. And it certainly doesn’t mean she won’t play catch with her old man in the backyard when she’s home from saving the planet.

Nose Woes

Somewhere the nose gods are content. And somewhere, shareholders of the Kleenex™ Company are smiling. The torch, or in this case, the tissue, has been passed from mother to son. You see, my daughter, like me, is literally a snot-nosed kid.

In Finley’s short little life she has learned a few things; she’s learned how to roll. She’s learned how to grab and hold toys. And she’s learned how to turn her head from side to side in defiance when the snot rag goes for the face. She’s a tiny, smiling ball of mucus producing joy and she’s just like her old man.

You see, most of my early memories consist of a hand with a Kleenex™ in it, thrusting toward my nose. My mom or sisters would chase me down and rub my honker raw. I absolutely hated it. As I got older I learned to give in and blow into the tissue, or as it turned out, several hundreds of thousands of tissues. This was the late ‘60s and early ‘70s… BEFORE the “aloe-infused” or “soft” days. This was one-grade above T.P. and one-grade below the paper towel stuff. My nose was so red, I looked more like Rudolph than Randall. And now there’s a certain little girl with a runny nose and a certain dad with tissue in hand. We haven’t graduated to having to chase her down, just yet.

Heather is convinced it’s just a sniffle. That it’s a small cold all kids get when they go to daycare. In fact, we read somewhere that in the first year of daycare, most kids get twelve colds and the parents end up with six. Two weeks ago, Heather got her first and I wound up with it last week. Oh, the joys of daycare!

Of course Finley has been the carrier in our family. All those little ones, crawling around, chewing on toys and each other… If Heather had her way, she’d send Finley to school in a space suit. But, reality says that exposing her to germs at this age will actually help her develop a tolerance and keep her from being really sick, later. We’ll let you know how that goes. Meanwhile, mom sterilizes every toy, article of clothing and exposed skin that Finley brings home.

But none of that can help the fact that our little princess has the sniffs and the snorts, especially at night. She gets so clogged up that we have to give her saline nose drops, which she hates. And as I watch her struggle against the drops and the wipes, I can only tell her how much I feel for her. Daddy has been there and, unfortunately, still visits the land of sniffles a little too often. And although Heather is probably right and Finley may just have a cold, I have a feeling I’ve passed on “The Curse of the Schnoz.”

I’m not sure if I desecrated some nose-honoring temple in a past life, but I have paid the price with my nasal and sinus passages since the beginning. I had my adenoids removed with my tonsils only to see the adenoids grow back. I’ve had my sinuses nearly explode on long plane flights. I’ve even had surgery where they drilled to make my nasal passages bigger. So, now I feel a little pang of guilt when I have to wipe that little girl’s nozzle.

I want to tell her that her nose isn’t angry with her. I want to tell her that it’s just the body’s way of getting all the bad stuff out of her nostrils. And, I want to tell her that it will all go away. But daddy nose better. Daddy remembers going to get his tonsils out when he was little and winding up staying in the hospital for a few days because he stopped breathing during the operation. Daddy remembers getting the nose drilling and having the equivalent of a pair of rubber gloves stuffed with gauze jammed up his beak.

Of course, she’s only six-and-a-half months old, so she may not have actually developed daddy’s nose problems(Well, at least I’m hoping). So, I won’t pass along my sniffer stories quite yet. But, if those cranky nose gods decide to bestow daddy’s curse upon her, you have to believe that the best person to go to for a wipe will be me. I will have the gentlest of hands with the softest tissue out there. But more importantly, I will sympathize with her. Because daddy knows.