Month: August 2009

Cow’s milk and other assorted beverages

Posted on by amberhj

"Where the HELL is my brie???"

"Where the HELL is my brie???"

I have somehow neglected to mention that Stella is now enjoying dairy. Holy cow! Yep, it appears that Stella has outgrown her cow’s milk protein intolerance. Or, who knows, maybe she never had it and something else in my milk was bothering her–like toxic waste. Toxic waste from my boobs. We may never know. I’m just thrilled that she can enjoy cheese!

We successfully weaned Stella off of Elecare and onto Nestle Good Start with Natural Cultures (it’s stage 2, for nine- to 24-month-olds, which just means it has more calcium, phosphorus and iron). This is a standard though supposedly gentle cow’s milk based formula, and probiotics are included so we no longer have to add them to each bottle. We now get twice as much formula for half as much money. No exaggeration whatsoever. Hello savings account, we’ve missed you! After a while on this stuff, we’ll try cow’s milk, a cost-effective transition that will allow us to retire in style at the age of 50.

That said, we need to figure out next steps re: Stella and beverages. She is currently (still) enjoying three bottles a day and takes only a couple of ounces of water at best from a sippy cup in-between. She uses these easy-to-grip shorties or, less often, these taller straw cups–both are The First Years’ “Take and Toss” and cost just $3.49 for several (and no, they don’t know I exist and have not paid me to mention them to you and my other reader). My theory is that it’s just too boring. She prefers to sip from our fancy un-capped glasses, especially if we are drinking fizzy water or citrus or other adventurous (by one-year-old standards) juices.  (Put it in a sippy cup and it’s suddenly repulsive–I tried!) Actually, she prefers to dunk her hand into our glasses, until her arm is submerged up to her elbow, then bring her hand back up to the surface and splash around as if enjoying a flavored, appendage-only bath. She’s been using a straw for a couple months now. I’m always amazed at how, after sipping icy-cold something-or-other from the straw with a very concerned and pained expression, she stops, recovers, then quickly gestures (points) for more. I can’t help but blame it on Cody and his genetic predisposition toward compulsive enjoyment of  “new and exciting” beverages–anything that just landed on the shelves, anything with “Extreme” in the name, any ridiculous and frightening combination of flavors. He sees these products as dares, and he’s always IN. See? Stella views our beverages the same way.

Last night, during our weekly trip to PCC, Cody bought a single can of Hell or High Watermelon Wheat Beer. While clearly named by a copywriter after me own heart, Cody’s ruthless palette immediately declared, “not watermelon-ny enough,” and moved on. Whenever he uses our car (we are one-car martyrs), a can of some never-before-seen concoction typically involving mango is left behind. Labels fall into two categories: 1) starburst-covered design tragedies sporting titles like Extreme Lemon Ginger Caffeine Explosion (100% Unnatural!) and Lavender Pomegranate Infused Ginger Ale with a Kick of Narcotic Wasabi and 2) ultra-minimalist, too-chic designs touting gems like Dry Cucumber or Simply Kumquat.

This shared tendency will certainly complicate trips to the grocery store with Stella, and soon. While other kids demand candy, Stella will likely throw a fit over some imported sparkling juice with floral essence. For now, we linger in the chill air of the dairy case.

Stella Enters Single Digits

Posted on by amberhj

Stella turned one on Monday. I should probably say something really profound and eloquent and heartfelt but all I keep thinking to myself is “HOLY SHITBALLS!” Over and over and over.

The birthday girl.

The birthday girl.

Okay, I’ll say that after 12 mind-blowing months, it feels like heaven to see her thriving, running, throwing, walking, laughing, smiling, waving, chowing, bye-bye-ing and doing everything she is “supposed to” and more, especially after all we went through with her feeding issues and the entity referred to as The Tube. Perhaps I appreciate this milestone more–who knows, maybe a lot more–than I otherwise would have. There were days when I didn’t know if she’d grow again. I couldn’t see a way out for us–no light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, it wasn’t a tunnel. It was a deep hole and we were stuck in what seemed like mud but it was too dark to really know. There were nights when terror had me by the throat and I literally had trouble breathing because I loved her so much and that feeding tube was hell and totally unacceptable and the tyrannical, suffocating thought, “WHY WON’T SHE JUST EAT?” robbed me of my own appetite and mental stability (what little I had to begin with). The really sad part, I suppose, is that I know there were stretches of time during which worry over her unwillingness to eat, and knowledge of the pain she was in initially, and the resulting lack of weight gain robbed me of much of the enjoyment of some her early little triumphs–the ones that are actually incredibly huge–and anxiety sometimes prevented me from savoring that fleeting, precious time in her life. That’s what gets to me as I look back.

But now, here we are at one year old. We made it! We kicked some ass. Holy crap. We moved MOUNTAINS, we hit the three-pointer at the buzzer, we saved the world! (Our little corner of it, anyway.) I could not be more proud of her. And you know what? I’m proud of me too. I love where we are now. She is such a happy and active child and so strong and vibrant and resilient. She glows! Everyone sees it. I am tempted to quote Jack Nicholsen here, which seems inappropriate and perfect: “You make me want to be a better man.” Because she has inspired me to let go of what doesn’t matter and to cherish what does. Heck, if she is this awesome (and she really, really is–like when she spots her Cookie Monster doll across the room and lowers her voice several octaves and talks in scruffy baby talk all the way over to him), I must be pretty great. So, to be better, I don’t really have to do much at all, except be kinder and gentler toward myself. That’s the example I want to set for Stella.

Just after proving that guacamole has a calming effect.

Just after proving that guacamole has a calming effect.

We threw a very small, delightful and heartfelt party on Sunday (yes, it’s true, a party can be heartfelt). My parents were visiting from Boston, which made it all the more fun. I think we were all shocked when Stella refused to eat her cupcake. Wouldn’t even touch it. We got her to lick the candle, an attempt to help her enjoy some of the Trophy Cupcake frosting magic, but it must’ve been too sweet for her, because she reacted as if she’d been force-fed a heaping dollop of Vegemite. (I reacted the same way, when, during a soiree I attended amid my study abroad experience in Melbourne, I loaded up a cracker with what I thought was Nutella. Let’s just say that I’ve never been more wrong about anything in my life.) Total disgust. However, she eagerly ate my mom’s super fantastic guacamole, and had some flaky crust from one of the three types of quiche (crab, broccoli, and bacon-loaded Lorraine–all were superb).

She looked as adorable as ever, but, not at all used to wearing a floofy dress, she tried to undress herself constantly. Also not accustomed to so many people (and all were adults save for one toddler) crammed into our small abode, she got a bit clingy. I have to say I enjoyed that, because she’s usually far too busy sprinting around or doing headstands on the coffee table (trying to, anyway) to be held. Oh my, she WAILED when we sang “Happy Birthday.” It was funny, and got a big laugh (which probably didn’t help matters!) but I really felt for her. Actually, I set her up. I know full well that when you sing to her on your own, she’ll not only be mesmerized, but she’ll often sing along, or more likely try to one up you with her angelic singing voice when you’re done. But don’t you DARE sing with anyone else! Not even one other person! It is absolutely *terrifying* to this otherwise fearless girl. Cody and I learned this a few months ago. I was singing some old Cookie Monster song (that Cody taught me) while feeding Stella, when Cody chimed in. She looked at me with an expression of total horror, then looked at Cody, and back at me. And then, the tears and hysterics began. Sometimes we forget about this and absentmindedly join in if the other is singing and holy cow does our self esteem take a hit when she gives us the biggest and most terrified thumbs down you can imagine.

Cody made a bound hardcover photo album recapping Stella’s first year of life, as a surprise for me. It arrived yesterday, and it’s fabulous. I just love it. (Thank you very much, Cody!) Somewhere toward the middle, there’s a photograph from Christmas day. She’s on her tummy, wearing her green candy cane (striped) PJ’s, with her fists restly cutely under her chin. Her expression is priceless. She is clearly thrilled and her grin could not be any wider, but there is an undeniably devilish glint to her smile. She’s up to something. The tube is there with its horrible, all-too-temporary tape job, but at first, I didn’t even see it. All I saw was her beautiful face. And as I realized this, I was struck with how far we’ve come.

Stella, happy, happy birthday! You are a wonder to behold. We feel so lucky, so incredibly thankful to have you in our lives. I love you so much I would stand on my head all day long just to prove it to you, or even eat a whole tub of Vegemite. May your second year be as triumphant as your first, and even more joyful! We can’t wait to see what you do next.

Let the games begin!

Posted on by amberhj

Having a ball. The belle of the ball. Insert other, non-offensive ball metaphors here.

Having a ball. The belle of the ball.

Stella’s father (Cody) and I met playing basketball. He was one of two men on our team, and ours was the only team in the league with women. Yep, it was a men’s league and we bitches crashed the party. They were GUYS, and even though most of us played some college ball (granted, division three) and most of them probably rocked JV in high school, they naturally assumed we were a joke and–holy shitballs–were they wrong. We won the league championship and I put that accomplishment right up there with Stella’s 32-hour unmedicated birth, and while we’re at it I have to throw in my leading the Bay State League in scoring my senior year in high school–I still  don’t know how that happened. It doesn’t make sense at all, except that I filled in any lack of social life with constant shooting practice at the outdoor court at Weston High School, usually surrounded by very impressed ten-year-old boys and their parents. And that was all the male attention I needed, thank you very much.

I can admit that, while Stella has not yet entered single digits, I’ve been trying to deny my desire for her to enjoy (okay, fall head-over-heels-in-love with) basketball. I’m trying to keep it at bay or at least on a simmer, but it’s like buying a bag of Kettle Chips the size of a suitcase, because it’s a much better deal than the individual serving bag, and besides, it’ll last you a couple weeks because you will only eat a handful a day with lunch, and then an hour later the bag is completely empty, not even crumbs are left, and your cube smells like salt-and-vinegar burps, CODY. I can’t help it. I love basketball. It was at or near the center of my world all the way from middle school through my early 20’s. When, in middle school, my friends were developing obsessions with NKOTB and attending Marky Mark concerts, I was cultivating an unhealthy attachment to the Boston Celtics, watching their games instead of doing homework and plastering my walls with posters of Larry Bird, and then Reggie Lewis.

I’m trying hard not to label Stella. But for the love of all things sporty, she sure seems like an athlete to me. The toy that makes her eyes most sparkly and bright is a ball (followed closely by books: STUDENT ATHLETE, anyone?). It is green with blue polka dots and very bouncy and by far her favorite *thing*, and she’s been playing catch–no, really, I mean throwing the ball to you and waiting for you to roll it back and throwing it to you again and so on–for a good five months now. She’s strong as an ox, lean and muscular and solid. She’s fast. She loves the water, and will actually try to swim if you let her. She thinks the shallow end of the wading pool is crap, preferring to (attempt to) take rafts and beach balls away from the rambunctious eight-year-old boys in the deep(er) end. Splash her in the face–she’ll laugh and splash you right back. She never, ever stops moving–in fact, she’s been very squirmy since birth, by six weeks could hold her head up for long periods of time as she was desperate to look around and find someone to yell at because boy, did her little cow’s-milk-protein-intolerant tummy hurt with the pound of cheese I ignorantly ate at every meal. (Yep, I’m even proud of her neck strength.) She was never content to sit around, which is exactly what have I wanted to do since I became pregnant and especially after giving birth.

Her walk is really more of an easy yet brisk jog. She runs up and down the hill at the park and if during her ascent she falls, she’ll steady herself and then use the grass to pull herself back up and continue with dogged determination. During descents, I usually offer my hand (she accepts when on very uneven surfaces like giant boulders or flowing lava) because the sight of her running down an steep-ish incline is nerve-wracking. But she doesn’t take my hand, and she doesn’t fall. So I let her go and I savor the sight (really more of a blur) before me. Lately, she’s been trying to stand on her head, or so it seems, and winds up in a downward dog position, hanging out upside down and peering back through her legs with a sly smile. I expect she’ll have mastered the somersault by Monday and if not, we’ll be hitting the gym to work on her core strength, and probably do some suicides in which case Stella may need to take it easy while I get back in shape.

We are at the stage where she is now a very good mimic, an eager and quick learner. We have so much fun. In recent weeks, she’s been putting the phone to her ear and if I hand her a brush or comb, she’ll move it across the back of her head, because let’s face it, the front pretty much styles itself. Yesterday morning, I taught her how to kick, and she hasn’t stopped since. The video below is from yesterday afternoon. At first her dribbling seemed like a fluke, but she’s done it about a dozen times since then, and I can’t help but be completely dazzled. I’m her mom and that is my job and it comes very naturally to me, as it should. This video, below, co-starring PaPa (Cody’s dad), may be very ho-hum to you but it warms me up and makes my heart grow at least another centimeter in diameter. Until yesterday, she’d walk up to the ball, then pick it up and throw it. She never let it touch her foot. But now she is purposefully kicking it along and it’s just about the best thing I’ve ever seen. And tomorrow, she’ll do something else for the first time and it will be a new best-thing-I’ve-ever-seen. Every parent knows exactly what I mean.

Stella relishes every adventure, “big” and small–from trips to see the seaplanes and kites at Gasworks Park and tours among the elephants and giraffes at the zoo, to forays to the fridge to examine bottles and jars and visits to the dust bunnies in the bedroom closet. She expresses her joy with ecstatic physical outbursts. Bouncing and arm flailing and squealing and rolling with total exploding exuberance. She’s my happy little athlete. Yes, yes, I know. That’s a label. And it’s very possible that she’ll one day eschew soccer balls for fluffy pink tutus, and that’s okay. (Though, let’s face it, passing over a basketball for a soccer ball is pretty much the equivalent–KIDDING, sort of.) Really, I’m just following her lead. Trying to keep up and shaking my head in amazement, with gratitude and Stella’s goose-poop-covered shoe smacking me in the face.

Why I haven’t written in so long

Posted on by amberhj

You know Nervous Nelly and Debbie Downer. But have you met Anxious Amber?

I’ve found that anxiety is a worthy and conniving foe. We’ve battled it out for years and so far, it hasn’t defeated me. But, as is required for proper tension in any comic book or superhero flick, it does get the best of me temporarily and puts into question my ability to keep the upper hand. Perhaps the worst incident occurred during my senior year of high school (pretty much a living hell), when, after being verbally attacked by a fellow member of the softball team, I collapsed at the bottom of a stairwell and literally could not move my strangely numb, curled-up fern frond arms for a good hour. That has happened–without loss of arm function but with complete loss of my head–numerous times since Stella’s birth, most notably during her now legendary, but thankfully resolved, feeding aversion. This past Sunday, anxiety dealt me a huge blow and it took two days to catch my breath. In an extreme bout of panic and lingering postpartum depression I projectile vomited despair in every direction, not as actual puke but in the form of desperate phone calls and/or emails t0 Dooce (yes, I emailed a celebrity blogger who doesn’t know me from a speck of dust on her fancy “#26”-engraved computer monitor), a member of my PEPS group, my sister, my mom, and my therapist. At the time, I thought I was going to break. My recurring thought was, “I can’t do this anymore.”

What caused this latest attack? I have been pondering this question and, amazingly, reached a conclusion, which I rarely do, preferring instead to roll around in indecision and agonizing in-between-ness. First off, I don’t take care of myself. I drink less water than is required to keep a cactus alive, I stay up too late, and I eat about half as much as I should and most of what I do eat is chocolate and coffee. I rarely take the supplements that I invested $250 in, thereby dismissing the solid hour that I spent with an insightful nutritionist in order to come up with a way of out feeling so crappy.

That lack of self-care puts me on shaky ground. I’m not nearly as stable and healthy as I should be, and perhaps because I’m not on solid ground, I still worry about Stella too much. Or maybe because I worry about Stella so much, I don’t take care of myself. Either way, it has to stop. Afterall, Stella is thriving to such a fabulous degree that I cry when I think about it.

The thing is, I’m an incredibly determined and persistent person. This helped me get Stella off of her feeding tube–I mean, no other outcome besides “Stella, with no tube, eating happily on her own” was acceptable (I told her doctor this) and I literally would have cut off my arms off if helpful. But there’s a dark flip side. When I don’t have anything to worry about, I find something to worry about, damn it! I recently realized/admitted that when I don’t have anything tangible to obsess about, I swear, there is an uncomfortable void. So in my spare time, I’ll read a book or website that plants problematic mental seeds. Voila! Worry and a sick sense of order are restored. Stella had a small mark above her lip this weekend. I convinced myself that it was a cold sore that I caused by kissing her, and that I had doomed Stella to a life of humiliation due to constant cold sore outbreaks. The mark was gone on Monday, and was clearly not a cold sore at all. More likely a little nick from her razor-sharp finger nails which I don’t cut enough because Stella. Never. Stops. Moving. I don’t even get cold sores. Nope. But my worry was hungry, and I fed it.

I believe I am addicted to anxiety. I’m so used to it that I can’t function without it. Granted, I function poorly with it, and it’s really no way to live, but I simply don’t know how to live without it at this point. And that is what I need to work on and move past.

I find that it helps to have other people around. A healthy distraction, a necessary part of a balanced life. We don’t have family in the area, except for one fabulous cousin, so that doesn’t help matters. I have kept a possible move back east (I’m from the Boston area) on the table, and we continue to consider it, though the economy seems to get in the way. I know that moving wouldn’t solve my problems, but it might help create some much needed breathing room and comfort.

At the end of the anxiety-ridden, dehydrated, unshowered day, I have to ask myself, “Why?” Why don’t I take care of myself? The answer is probably very simple, and sad. Though I must say, most new moms go through this and in that way, I’m pretty normal. I realize that. But I think that in my case, it’s a bit extreme–the lack of self-regard and eating and whatnot. On some level, the simple truth is that I believe I am not worthy of care. I don’t deserve it. I’m awkward and “less-than” and disorganized and crazy and, for lack of a less cheese-tastic cliche of a term, unlovable. Yet, amazingly and immediately, when I look these hidden beliefs in the face, when I pull them into the light and dust them off, they start to fall apart pretty quickly. They’re old and worn out and need to be tossed out like the garbage they are (as do the entire contents of our basement). I am a really, really great mother. I care about Stella, and all babies and people, really, so much that sometimes it’s hard to bear. I am practically Gandhi! (Yes, I know I sound ridiculous but I do care a lot.) But if given the proper balance, that sensitivity is a powerful and good quality. I am a warrior and I can do any-f’ing-thing I want. I can help myself and others, with great success. I’ve proven it time and time again. Now it’s just time to pick myself up (again) and do it.