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.

Labor Day

So, since this is a holiday and I get to take a day off, I thought it might be good to re-live our own very special “labor day” that happened six months ago. As I read through this account again, I remembered a few things that weren’t mentioned, before. I remember Heather’s mom coming to be with us and being very patient and very quiet. She wasn’t there to tell Heather what to do or how to do it… She was just there to be there… Which was perfect.

I remember Heather getting the epidural and finally relaxing and Heather’s mom heading out to the lobby to get some rest… And then less than five minutes later running out to get her because the baby was on the way!

I remember holding Heather’s hand and counting then looking from her face to the tiny head making it’s way out and believing in miracles. And I remember thinking how tiny and perfect she was… is. And now, six months later, she’s not so little, but still pretty perfect.

Enjoy!

rd

Being There

It's just over 24 hours since the birth of my daughter and I'm running on a cross between sleep deprivation, caffeinated beverages and pure joy. Mama and baby are sleeping soundly and I find myself a bit hyper, so I'll jot some thoughts down to get me to fall asleep. The past few days' blogs are a bit rushed, and I'm sure you understand why, so I'll try to fill in some gaps.

The curtain rose on our little symphony at about midnight on Thursday. Heather had been having a few Braxton-Hicks or "practice" contractions earlier in the evening and I joked, like I always do, that "THIS IS THE BIG ONE!" Then she'd shoot me that look. The one I know so well. It's how she says "you're an idiot" without opening her mouth. I think most husbands know it. After a few of the practice contractions you don't think much, because, well, they're practice. As we're getting into bed for the evening, she suddenly grabbed the side of the bed and shot me a new look. This one was definitely not "you're an idiot." This one was part terror, part pain and part "THIS IS NOT A DRILL!" Now, if you've been reading the blog, you know I wrote about wondering what it all would be like when it happens. How would I react? What would I say? And I had been hoping to come up with some eloquent or profound statement about the impending arrival of my daughter. So, what did I do? I threw up. Yep. Daddy hurled. It was something about the look Heather gave me. Something about the "this is really happening" vibe in the air. I thought it might have been something about the Mexican dinner we had, but it was just good ol' nerves.

I figured it was because all this time I had been so proud to play the strong one, the knowledgeable one. The daddy. But when it came down to it, I was just as scared as the next person. And that's okay. Besides, as I was about to find out, no person is stronger than my wife was for the next 48 hours.

After my quick trip to the washroom and a giggle between us, Heather and I attempted to get the last rest we would probably get... ever. She had some smaller contractions as the night progressed. Nothing too major.

That morning, we got up and Heather went to her already-scheduled doctor appointment. Doctor Tsang (pronounced "Jung"), is a very small, to-the-point Chinese woman who told Heather that she was 3cm dilated and would be surprised if we didn’t have a baby over the weekend. So, what did Heather do? She went to work. That's right. It was her last day before her leave, anyway, so she needed to tidy things up at work. Contractions and all. I think she's crazy. But then again, she married me.

Friday evening progressed with a few contractions and me finishing packing my bags. Heather, on the other hand, had been packed for almost two weeks. She's VERY organized, as many of you know. She likes to make a schedule and stick to it. So does her daughter, as we were about to find out. That night's sleep was decent. A few contractions here and there, until about 3am. That's when I awoke to the sound of my wife whimpering and the sight of her on all fours, clutching at her back. This was the first of FOUR heartbreaking moments I would experience.

I have had my share of back pain and those of you who know what it's like know that it is excruciating. It's the only pain I have ever had that has driven me to my knees, crying. My wife was now experiencing the exact same thing. And in a few hours she would be experiencing it almost every five minutes.

In the birthing class you learn about "breathing." About cleansing breaths and short, sharp pain-buffering breaths. It's really about focusing. Letting yourself relax around the pain and getting through it. My job was to keep her focused. To remind her to breathe and encourage her. And it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to go through.

So that was Saturday. Every five to ten minutes Heather would get a contraction that would last between a minute and a minute and a half. And I would do my best to help her through it. Unfortunately, she was suffering pain in her back and not really feeling anything in her stomach/uterus area. At first we thought it was because the baby might be facing the wrong way and the back of her head was pressing against Heather's tailbone. But we would find out it was for a different, and in the long run, better reason.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, the contractions weren't consistent enough to get us to the hospital. Then her water broke. We zipped to Evergreen and got set up with our Bulgarian nurse, Boriana. She was very attentive and helpful and worked with Heather to try to alleviate the pain. It was just too much. At about 10pm Saturday night Heather leaned to me and said she just couldn't take it, anymore. Then came heartbreaking moment number 2. With tear-filled eyes she said, "I'm sorry." Are you kidding me? What did she have to feel sorry about?

Heather wanted to go as far as she could without medication and I was behind her 100%. But I also wanted her to be as comfortable as possible and what she had been going through for nearly 13 hours was far from that. She had done her time in labor. She deserved some relief.

The epidural came at 10:30pm and she finally began to relax. This also allowed Boriana a better chance to find out how the baby was doing. It turned out that our little girl wasn't facing the wrong way. The reason Heather was in so much back pain was because Finley had actually worked her way down inside the birth canal. In fact, she was ready to be born. We were just waiting on the dilation. It also turns out that her water had probably broke much earlier than when we noticed. It's just that her had was so far in place, that it acted like a cork and didn't let any of the fluid out.

Once they determined that Finley was close, they hooked Heather up to Pitocin. This is a birth-inducing drug that helps speed up dilation. And boy, did it. When Heather got the epidural she was dilated at 5cm. Within an hour of getting Pitocin, she was at 9cm and ready to go.

And that's when the show started. In came the extra nurses, the lights and the machine that goes "bing." And in came Dr. Tsang, the conductor, all dressed and ready to go.

There are many reasons why I was glad to be there, but one I didn't expect was to play translator for Heather. Heather's contractions were now become pushes and it all had to be choreographed. The doctor had to keep track of everything and relay that info to the main nurse who would tell Heather what she needed to do. Not too complicated, right? Remember, the doctor is Chinese and the main nurse is Bulgarian. In a feat of translation not seen since Versailles, I was able to coach Heather through the next thirty minutes and heartbreaking moment number three.

This is when my wife became my hero. Finley's middle name is Ella, which is in honor of my Grandmother who was really the only grandparent I ever knew. Once, when I was little, I asked her what it was like to have a baby. She said it was "like crapping a watermelon." Now you know where I get my sense of humor. I don't pretend to guess what it was like for Heather in that thirty minute time frame. I don't want to know. But after all the back pain and all the mental and physical stress, she somehow found a way to push that baby out. Grandma Ella would be proud.

At 12:22am, on March 11, 2007, Finley Ella Dickey entered our world. Technically, she was ready to go a few minutes before midnight, which means, like her mama, she stuck to her schedule. My friends, this was heartbreaking moment number four. And you dads out there know what I mean. I saw my daughter being born. I watched as she took her first breath. And I held her as her little cloudy eyes looked up at me. What was that first thought that I had been waiting for? One word: Beautiful. I think I had been wondering so much about what it was going to be like and what it was going to feel like, that I didn't realize what she would look like. She looks like every dream I ever had that I wanted to come true. She looks like the greatest story I've ever written. She looks like perfection.

And now, 24 hours later, as I hear her gurgles and whimpers I wonder some new things. I wonder what she's going to be when she grows up. I wonder how I could ever love anything or anyone more than my wife and my baby. And without being too political, I wonder how we could get the world leaders to watch a birth every once in awhile. I can't see how you could go through this and want to ever hurt another soul. I guess from my point of view, we all need a few heartbreaking moments now and then, to keep us human.

Six Month Mark

Here we are at 24 weeks and not too much worse for wear. It certainly seems like it took a lot longer to get to six months when Heather was pregnant than it did for Finley to make it to half a year. It really is crazy how fast things go. I was playing with her this past weekend and spent my time just watching everything about her, as intently as I could. I kept thinking that before I know it, she’ll be running out the door to go to a friend’s house and I won’t have this kind of Daddy time any more.

She’s at such at great age, right now. She’s figuring out how to get around, even though it’s just rolling. Her hand-eye coordination improves every day and she can grasp and hold things quite well. Of course every one of those things she grabs winds up in her mouth or close to it.

I like the fact that she still relies on us, for the most part. I mean we have to carry her from place to place and set her in her bed or amongst her toys. She has that great baby-on-the-arm technique where she can look around while you’re carrying her, yet still have at least one hand firmly attached to your shoulder. But the best part is how easily entertained she is.

Peek-a-boo is a favorite and any interesting or crazy noises seem to illicit a quizzical look, followed by her timeless, toothless smile. Much to her mother’s dismay, she likes it when I flip her around or toss her in the air (I’m building up her rollercoaster tolerance, so we can hit all the cool rides when she’s older). And she likes it when we sing to her. Actually, she pretty much likes everything do when we try to entertain her. Which is why this is such a great age.

Right now, I’m not just the only clown in her life; I’m the only boy in her life. And that suits me just fine! We won’t even touch that subject for quite some time. And I have a feeling I will be deferring to the Momma for rules and regulations on that front. In fact, I have a feeling that I will be deferring to the Momma for most of the serious and/or girl stuff to come.

I’m certainly not going to express my fashion-impaired judgment on my daughter’s wardrobe. Even though the first few years will be filled with tutus and some wacked-out princess dresses with jeans. It’s the time when she starts THINKING about what she’s wearing and what she wants to put on her face that will signal the exclusion of Dad on all-things girl.

I’ll still be around for anything tomboy or fixit related. I’ll buy her a baseball glove and teach her how to keep her weight on her back foot, and if she decides she’d rather spend her time swinging a curling iron than a bat, that’s okay. At least she will have had the option. And that’s really the best I can do… Give her options and guide her along with the ones that are down my alley. Otherwise it’s all Momma all the time and I’m just there for support.

All of that, of course, is way, way, way in the future. Well, most of it anyway. I know it will only be a matter of time before dolls or books or TV shows become much more interesting than Dad’s funny faces. There will be the times when she’d rather run around outside and have a tea party than hop on pop’s lap. And I know that the day will come when one, if not all of my goofy antics, will be met with a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to entertain her! In fact it may spur me on to try even harder. But by then it will probably be just Heather and me in the house and the wife will be the one rolling her eyes and shaking her head… Kind of like she does, now days. But, until those days come, I’ll be working the room with my best dumb jokes and funny faces because there’s a little girl that can’t seem to get enough of that.

The Tooth Hurts

It was bound to happen. I mean, she’s been such a good baby that I knew, eventually, there would be one bad evening. For all the good moods she’s been in and all the laughs and giggles we’ve shared, there had to be a melt down. But here’s the thing… Her “meltdowns” are probably pretty tame compared to other babies. Nevertheless, it was pretty dramatic to me. What am I talking about? I’m talking about the non-fun Finley and I had Wednesday evening.

Momma had to work late at an event, so that left the daddy flying solo. No big deal. A typical night with the daughter. Typical, that is, until she woke up from her nap at her usual 7-ish time. At first things were great. She was making a little noise and I went to pick her up and saw that great big smile she gives me when I’m within eyesight. I picked her up and talked to her a bit as we went to the changing table. She was still a bit sleepy, but responsive. But then after a quick diaper stop, it was more than her pants that had changed…. Her mood took a turn, too.

From what seemed out of nowhere, she gave a little whimpering cry and stuck that little lip out in a pout that said more sadness was on the way. But it wasn’t her typical, “I want something” or “I’m bored with this” cry. It was the cry I’d really only heard once and I didn’t like it then. It was the “I’m in pain” cry.

She had made this little screaming wail a few weeks earlier when she bumped her head in her crib and it was not a sound Heather or I ever wanted to hear again. And now, it was starting up, once more. It’s a cross between a scream and a cry and the more she does it, the more manic she becomes. It’s like she is not only hurt but scared and it’s very difficult to get her to calm down.

The first thing I thought was that maybe I had put her diaper on too tight or had accidentally pinched or scratched her. But as her cries began to drone on, it began to occur to me that she may actually be teething.

We had been noticing more and more drooling, as of late and the extra wetness combined with her age puts her right in the target area for tooth time. Which is a pretty crazy concept if you think about it. It’s one of those life events that happens early so we don’t remember how lousy it is.

I can remember being six or seven and messing around with a loose tooth or two. Twisting and prodding at it because of the curiosity of the pain. Then the moment of yanking it free or having it fall out only to spend the next several weeks rubbing my tongue in the left over flesh gap that remained. But having the teeth actually rise up (or down) out of my gums? I don’t remember. It can’t be too pleasant. Especially when you’re barely six months old.

I imagine it’s not unlike geology in your mouth when all this happens. Toothtonic plates are shifting and grinding, working their way up (or down) through the surface of the gums. Then one little peak peeks its way up like a volcanic eruption and, viola… Mount Cuspid. And if she’s anything like her old man was, she’ll have peaks and valleys like the Alps.

So, Finley’s mouth is the San Andreas Fault and I’m looking for every teething device we own. Some are in the fridge, some are in the freezer and some are who knows where. Then I remember two very important items I overlooked: Baby Orajel and Baby Tylenol.

A quick dab of Orajel on dad’s finger and it was if I had dipped my digit in chocolate. Then a little dose of Tylenol and we were set.

She started to settle down as I held her, but every now and then a few whimpers would find their way to break my heart. Before too long she had drifted off to sleep and I was able to stare at her as she lay in the crib, as if the whole night never happened. I wished it would have been that easy for me!

The whole event lasted less than three hours, with the main crying going for only about thirty minutes. But I was wiped. And like Heather would say when she got home… THIS, is parenthood. It’s not the feeding or the diapers or saying “no” or time outs or groundings or taking the car away. It’s seeing your child in pain and never wanting to see it again. It’s worrying. It’s having that feeling in the pit of your gut that will probably never go away. For me, it will probably mean getting a lifetime supply of TUMS.

But if we’re good parents… and I think we’re on our way… as she gets older and more responsible, that feeling of worry will lessen. It won’t go away. It will never go away. And as I think about it… I’m not sure I ever want it to go away. I’ll have it as long as she’s my daughter. And that’s a price I’ll pay.

Taste Test

It seems like, as of late, most Finley-related events usher in a new era. We’ve seen her develop her raspberry skills. She’s become mobile by learning how to roll. And because of her newfound mobility, we’ve moved into the world of baby proofing.

But every once in a while there comes a development that will create a chain reaction of events to last a lifetime. This week, we experienced just such an event. On Sunday, Finley had her initial foray into the land of solid food. Well, as solid as we could give her, anyway.

Momma mixed up a secret concoction that can only be described as rice cereal, formula and banana baby food. It was sort of a banana-rice frappe’. Needless to say, she wasn’t quite sure what was going on (You can watch it all happen in the latest Fin Clip).

In her 22 weeks of life, Finley has relied upon one thing to give her sustenance. A nipple. Whether it was real or synthetic, this magic font of food delivered liquid goodness to her awaiting belly. But now, the vehicle for her meals is a plastic-coated spoon. Unfortunately for her, this spoon does not allow the food to flow easily into her throat. No, she has to actually work at it. She has to get her tongue and gums to work together to get that stuff down the gullet. Not that easy, if you’ve never done it before.

We all take for granted how easy it is to bite into an apple or chomp on a burger. We would eat in our sleep, it’s so easy (And oh, how I’ve tried). That’s because we don’t remember the first time we tried eating. Plus, most of us have a full set of incisors, canines, bicuspids and molars to help us tear the food to pieces. Most of us aren’t limited to a tongue we’ve yet to master and gums that are only really good at gnawing at a teething ring.

Then there’s the whole taste thing. For the past five-and-a-half months, Finley has maybe experienced 10 or 12 flavors. There’s the regular tongue-in-the-mouth taste and the afore-mentioned two nipple types. There’s the flavor of momma’s milk and the flavor of formula. Throw in a few different types of toys and her personal favorite… her hand… and we’ve pretty much covered it. But none of those tongue teasers were really made for taste. None of them were designed and tested by babies in lab coats to simulate bananas. And let’s not forget the texture of mashed up rice and banana. That’s a new direction, as well. So it’s no surprise that when she experienced her first banana flavoring that it sent a shockwave of reactions to her brain.

The “B” drawer in the little file cabinet in her head opened up and a new index card was dropped in:

Banana: Tart. Mushy. Weird.

Over time, more cards will be dropped in and new notes will appear next to older cards, but it has begun. The enormous world of taste is now open to her. And, like the rest of us, the limit of what tastes good, horrible, sweet, sour, spicy and bitter is limitless. Imagine having your taste memories erased and you have to start all over again. Think about how many millions of tastes you’ve experienced in your lifetime and how many more you’ve yet to try. It’s a bit overwhelming. Now think about starting all that at 22 weeks of age. She has no idea what great and potentially disgusting things are headed her way.

“But what about this chain reaction?” you ask. “What about all of these other events connected to her first solid food?” Fair questions. And ones that have been much on my mind, as of late. The first thing that comes to mind is the combination of all this mushy food and the lack of dexterity in a five-and-a-half month old. In my daddy crystal ball, I see an increase in the amount of child laundry, and if she’s really good, it will correlate to an increased amount of parent laundry. I see the obligatory all-over body wipe at the end of meals and the occasional washing of the child’s hair. This, of course, all depends on how much actually gets into her mouth.

Then there is the inevitable change to the other end of her body. There’s no real delicate way to put it, but my daddy crystal ball is getting cloudy… as in stinky… as in a distinct change in the weight of diapers. Which means a distinct change in the content of the diapers. Yes, solid food in… solid food out.

All of this leads, of course, to the eventual land of potty training and the next thing you know, she’s off to college. Okay, so I’m ahead of myself a bit, but you can see how a spoonful of banana-rice frappe’ will change the world. And that’s okay, really. It just means our little girl is getting bigger. Which means I can teach her the glory of the potato chip, the wonder of peanut butter and the subtle nuance of sushi. But ultimately it means that she will join us for meals and the three of us will get a taste of what it means to be a real family. And that will be my favorite flavor of all.

Safe at Home

Now that Finley is mobile… or at least partially mobile... She can roll in one direction, but hasn’t quite figured out how to roll back. So, now that she is partially mobile, we hit the stores last weekend to find everything we could to baby proof the house.

If you think about it, it’s technically not baby proofing. That would mean we were doing everything we could to keep from having a baby. And, everyone can clearly see that we failed at that. In a good way. What we are really doing is creating a very large padded cell. It’s true. We’re not trying to keep Finley from getting hurt as much as we’re trying to keep her from hurting herself.

And it’s really not her fault. Just because her balance resembles some of my best nights in Pullman and her motor skills are as accomplished as a UW quarterback, we are supposed to cushion every edge and corner in the house. The accidental trips and stumbles are all a part of being a baby. But, if we can keep the trips to the hospital to a minimum, then we’re doing alright.

The real baby proofing is for when she gets curious. It’s for the times she decides she wants to find out what flavor a power socket is. It’s for when she wants to pull the bookcase down because of that shiny thing on top. And it’s especially for when she’s sure there’s candy in that cabinet below the sink.

The crazy thing about all of these “safety measures” is that most people think most of these curiosity calamities would only happen if we weren’t watching them. And who would do that? What kind of parent would I be if I wasn’t keeping watch on my baby 24/7? The answer is… A real parent.

As much as we like to think we have a handle on every situation, the truth is that those rug rats are wiley. That’s right. Those munchkins can move. You turn your back for two seconds and they’re halfway to Mexico.

Case in point: Heather comes in from work and I set Finley down on her rolling blanket. Again, she can only roll one direction and she’s new at it. Heather and I have a welcome home moment and the next thing we know, Rollergirl is under the dining table. I think I might have to put a heavy weight on one of her legs so she’ll just roll in circles.

But that’s the whole point. We’re not making the house safe for the times we’re watching her, we’re making it safe for the times we’re distracted. Even if it’s a load of laundry or a phone call, that dryer buzzer and phone ring is basically the starting bell at the track.

BZZZZZ! Clothes are done. AND THEY’RE OFF! Finley’s out of the gate, followed closely by “Let’s go under the coffee table” with “Penny on the Floor” right behind. “Penny on the Floor” is getting closer and here comes “Penny in the Mouth.” “Mom” makes a late charge and at the wire it’s “Mom” taking away “Penny in the Mouth” in a photo finish.

The reality is that we can’t be everywhere at once. We also can’t be responsible for every bump and bruise that’s lurking in the shadows. But we can take a few extra measures to make sure that those scrapes and scratches are minimal. We all have to learn from mistakes, but if we can avoid trips to the emergency room, those mistakes are a lot easier to swallow. Well, easier to swallow than a penny, anyway.

Rock and Roll

It’s over. It’s all over. Our world of the contained baby has come to an end. For the past five months, we’ve been Finley’s sole mode of transport. Whether we were carrying her in our arms, in a sling or in a front carrier, she’s relied on us. In the car or in her stroller, one of us was always driving. But on Sunday, her five month birthday, our little girl got from “a” to “b” all on her own.

Finley rolled from her back to her tummy to her back. Then did it again. And again. If she could, she would roll out the door, down the stairs and up the street. As cute as it is (you can see for yourself in the Fin Clips) it just means we’ve crossed the big parenting threshold of keeping all eyes on baby.

Even though she’s pretty limited in her range and direction, it doesn’t mean she won’t figure out someway to get into something. Which means this weekend we’ll be shopping for baby proofing tools. Covers, guards, straps and whatever else they make to keep kids out, off, in or from. But it’s not just doors or latches. It’s checking the carpet for anything we’ve dropped, moving things from lower shelves, covering outlets and keeping cables out of baby’s reach. And that’s just the start.

Her rolling will eventually turn into crawling and crawling leads to pulling herself up on anything she can find. So shelves need to be secured into walls while coffee tables and couches need to be kept clear because she will attempt to grab anything grabable and put it in her mouth.

It’s not that we won’t be watching her, it’s just that one turn of our back to answer a phone or grab some laundry and she’ll be off. Even now, we have to make sure everything is within reach when we’re changing her or she’ll do her best to roll off the changing table.

We know we won’t be able to catch everything, but short of duct-taping her to a wall, I’m sure Heather will find everything we need to keep baby safe. I’ll be the one trying to figure out how it all works… And scraping the duct tape off the wall.

Which makes me wonder how I ever survived my childhood. We didn’t wear helmets when we rode our bikes. We bounced around without seat belts in the backs of the cars. Most of my toys were made of metal and had sharp edges. If you didn’t have a tooth knocked out or some sort of scrape on your knees or facial area, you weren’t a kid in my neighborhood.

But that’s all changed. I guess the kids my age and older were all the test subjects so OUR kids could have the soft, cushy toys. We got the concussions and broken arms so the big companies could charge big bucks for helmets and pads. Do kids even wear casts anymore? I can’t remember the last time I saw a kid with a cast. In fact, the last time I saw one, it was bright orange. A real cast was flaky white and covered with more signatures than a yearbook. Now you can probably get a cast to match what you’re wearing that day. Where was I? Oh yah, Finley is rolling and now she’s even rockin’!

Another big event of the week was a family outing to Finley’s first concert. Well, it was a concert for Mom and Dad, but since it was at the Woodland Park Zoo, we brought the munchkin along. The band, Pink Martini, played cocktail lounge tunes, while our little family spread out on the zoo lawn and had a picnic. It was a great evening. And Finley loved every minute of it. She was quite amazed at the amount of folks and is becoming quite the people watcher. She even had a “dance” in her dad’s arms at the end of the show.

I hope this is just the beginning of her awareness of music. She’s got the toys with the 90 different versions of “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star” and I played plenty of Beatles for her while she was in the womb. But getting out and experiencing real music, especially live music is a new deal for her.

I’m hoping she not only continues to discover music, but finds the real joy in it. And I can’t wait for the time when she’s moved past rolling and crawling and can get up on her little feet and dance with her dad again.