carl in casimirland.

I'm an entertainment center.
Casimir keeps grabbing onto the flesh of my stomach,-- er, not that there's much to grab, of course, on account of the 3 sets of 3 reps of 300 crunches that I do 3 times a day, every day, I swear-- and grabs as much as he can and just holds on. I don't know why. While nursing before bed, he often reaches up and explores my face like a blind man, sticking his fingers into my nose if he can, into my mouth, at first gently patting my cheeks and then trying to rearrange my nose and grab my eyelashes. Last night he started grabbing my lips and making this flubby noise as he plucked my lower lip like a bow, flup flub flub, and then would laugh hysterically. I am almost as much fun as a plastic cereal dispenser. I feel like Gumby, and I'm not sure I like it. I try to assert my autonomy with a firm No, but I'm never the victor in the war over my body. I wonder if he's thinking hello, you were my vessel, I own you. Just wait, though, I say to him. A few more months and it won't be so cute, and I won't allow myself to be played like a musical instrument so easily. I can be tough. Ask the cat. I don't even let him sit on my lap anymore.

Going places.
Last week I went downtown to meet up with these fabulous feminist bloggers. I always thought it would be funny (well not really) if you met someone from online and then logged on to their blog only to read some thinly veiled account of some totaly crazy wacko they just met, which would be you, and how they would never ever agree to meet anyone online again. Actually, I'd probably not really think it funny, but it sounds kind of funny, in theory.

Anyway, after I got off the commuter train and nearly wet myself at the prospect of getting out (free!) on my own downtown again (free!) and getting (free!) on the el, I took a seat in the Altoids car and looked out the window as we slogged our way to the North side to my destination. It has apparently been really long since I rode the el, because it felt like the red line down memory lane. I'd watch everything go by and play the Remember When? game with the sentimental compartment in my brain. It's so trite to say "as a mom, I never get out." But, I rarely get out, so there you have it. Like emerging from a coma, everything was new again. I was all, Look Self! That's where I used to work! That's where I used to wait to take the el home when I lived over there, that's where I used to volunteer, and there's where my mom used to take me shopping! Remember when you had dinner there with P? That's where I got drunk that one time! There's the stop where I got off for my grad school classes, back when I thought I was going to get an exciting job someday! And there's where my French class used to be, back when I had time to concern myself with conjugation! I used to be fun!! Wheee! That's where I walked, that one time... and on and on. Who knew so many locales could be viewed from the wondrous elevated tracks. It was kind of like seeing my life flash before my eyes, which I enjoyed, although I was sort of hoping that it wasn't indeed going to end in a fiery wreck and my demise by Belmont. Which it didn't. Remember that one time I rode this el when it went so fast round the curve and everyone got nervous and hollered and we felt like we were going to tip? Memories! I didn't even know I had so many memories with the city. Here I even thought I was bored with it. Now I want to get Casimir's little, nearly-suburban bottom downtown so I can show him the skyscrapers.
Everyone says that having kids allows you to see the world with new eyes. I didn't know that was because you hadn't gotten out in so long.

You know what? You can do so many things with an empty plastic cereal dispenser. I'm totally serious! When the cereal is gone, that is when it all begins, my friend. Oh my god, first of all, you can play with it on the kitchen floor, for like, ever. You can set it in the cupboard, and then take it out again, and then put it back again. Really! But WAIT there is so.much.more! You can throw it. You can put your pacifier in it, even. You can then shake the pacifier out. Whatever. It all works, I'm telling you. You can drop it. You can sleep with your arm draped over it. You can play with it for an hour in your bed, to wind down at the end of the day, and not get bored. Did I mention the lid? HOLY shit! The lid fucking opens! And closes! You can even take the lid off. You can hide the whole damn thing under the table. I'm totally serious. Get your butt to the store, and get yourself a plastic cereal container. One of the smaller ones, is better. You'll see what I mean. Go on, now. Get one.

Casimir loves to study his books sometimes, but he won't let me read to him. He just keeps turning the pages and turning, fast and faster, until I'm reduced to speed reading and eventually cut off at the first word and then just silenced all together when he decides to throw the book down. Fortunately I can recite Good Night Moon by memory now, which isn't really too hard. I really want to live in the room in Good Night Moon, too. The unrealistic perfection of kid's books is just so appealing when juxtaposed against messy reality- no dirt, no ugliness, no mean people, no coloring outside the lines. Just happy little talking bunnies and blue skies and pretty little rooms with a pair of kittens and a pair of mittens and a toy house and a young mouse.

Sicky.
The other day Casimir got all coughy-coughy on us again and made us worry. Each time he sniffles P wants me to take him to the early morning walk-in at the pediatrician's office for sick kids who don't have an appointment. Each time I say No, I'm not going to drag him there and then wait in a waiting room with hacking, sniffling children so they can tell us we have a cold and that it's not an ear infection or bronchitis or cancer. But then the coughing, and the way his little face reddens and he just coughs right in our faces was so heartbreaking, I relented. And oh, the waiting room. The Waiting Room. Two hours. Coughing children. Sniffling children. I'm terribly impatient. Two hours of: Look Casimir! A water fountain! Water comes out of it! Look! See the water? Water! An emergency door. See the glass? Want to look through? See the stairs? Stairs! Wow! Up down, up down. Want to push the elevator button again and again? See it light up? It dings! ding ding. Want to go look in the mirror in the bathroom? See? A faucet. OOOhhh what comes out of it? Water! Wa Wa! Let's go see the elevator again...

Of course it's just a cold. The coughing that woke us up all night practically stopped in the course of the wait to see the doctor. I mean that's a good thing. I wasn't crossing my fingers with my hopes up for some kind of infection. And I guess it was worth the two hours of waiting if it means no more worrying, even for such an impatient person as myself who passes the time vowing to get another pediatrician. Because, Oh, the worrying. That dark beast of worry does cast a shadow upon my soul. And the thing is, I know the next time I'm worried over some little coughy cough, I'll be right there again, getting impatient and pointing out cracks in the wall above the water fountain again.

I exclaimed that I was kind of annoyed with the universe for making him sick again, considering I take care of him and it's not like I'm dipping him in the cold lake and letting him dry in the wind and then dropping him off at a daycare with the highest ratio of sick children. P reminded me that children get sick and break arms and I better get used to it. And then I heard that my four year-old neice ran into a table and split her gums open and then took the stitches out herself one night, for fun. And then two days later her twin brother somehow, in the course of going to pee, wiped out in the bathroom and split his whole lip open. And my mom reminded of how my brother once took a hockey puck in the face and the other one cut that chunk off his finger that one time, and that one time and that other time and sputtering blood and wounds and broken bones and more falls and spills and stories of horror. So I guess I was properly put in my place and a couple days of wiping a runny nose are not as traumatizing as I had thought. Trying to use the bulb syringe on a baby's nose to suck out the baby nose snot is indeed better than getting gums sewn up. Or so I'm told.

What will I complain about when I'm not longer so exhausted I could die?
I let Casimir realize one of his dreams the other day and allowed him to just dive his hand right into the cottage cheese container. It was almost gone anyway. I think he enjoyed it, although on a functional level, he was about as successful as I am eating rice with chop sticks.

Casimir allowed me to realize one of my dreams last night by sleeping straight through the night for the second night in a row. Two nights ago he slept from 7pm until 5am without waking once. That means not at all. He did not rouse whatsoever. Never! And then last night he slept from 6pm until 6am with just one little peep which doesn't quite count, because even though he woke me up and wouldn't stop sputtering until I got there, he went right back to sleep half way in the air as I was lifting him up. That's pretty good, because even the cat howled longer at 3am when he was stuck outside.

Usually a fantastic night is followed by the night from hell, but we're on a roll, and I'm rolling along feeling very well rested and happy. My son is such.a.good.sleeper! He sleeps 10-12 hours without waking!! Does yours?! No? You must be doing something wrong! I'm going to try and pretend that the last six months of sleep trauma never happened. Also, I'm starting Project Sleep, and am going to bed each night by 9:30 pm, which is turning out to be way more fun than I thought it would be, even if I don't get to watch Law & Order or get things done. I know I'll still be tired, but it will be nice to have the energy to actually grind the coffee beans in the morning, instead of just making instant because I can't handle pouring the water in the pot and grinding up the little beans of wakefulness.

I've had some of the funnest google search referrals show up on sitemeter.
For the person looking for the gymboree hello song-- I know it!! Get your pen, here it is!
Hello, hello, hello and how are you? I'm fine, I'm fine, and I hope that you are too!
There! You can try singing it to the tune of Hells Bells, but that's optional.

The thing about a baby blog, is sometimes I have other stuff to say that's not thematically in line with babydom. Sometimes I even feel a bit dippy blathering on about walkers and the miracles of mashed cantaloupe when bombs are exploding elsewhere in the world. "Mothering is not my life!" you want to make the blog subtitle say. But then I think, wait, it kind of is right now. Shit. It kind of is all I do. I never thought I could blog endlessly about babies and me, and me and babies, but the rich, thrilling topics keep presenting themselves: pacifiers! Gymboree! Whole milk!

Speaking of world news, gymboree is better again now, in case you were wondering. We switched into a class with older babies who could not only hold their own against Casimir, but could probably beat him up if they had to, so I don't feel like I've got Casimir crawling around in a china shop with little baby lladros.

Pe..
I took Casimir to the Dr. this morning because we were paranoid that his little uncircumcized peep was infected, which of course it is not and we only worried because everyone told us we were crazy for not circumcizing him and that it would get infected. I hate having to entertain him in a waiting room for thirty mintues, only to see the Doctor saunter into the office when I thought we were just about to see him. But as bad as that was, it is much worse to get into the office and have to say "penis" at least five times to an older man I hardly know. But then I'm a little uptight about that type of thing.

And I just wish I could have said to the receptionists who were admiring their own waiting room and saying out loud that it looked "really nice" and who spent twenty minutes rearranging chairs: Your waiting room sucks. It does. If there waiting room ratings in consumer reports, your rating would be crap. Because rearranging chairs all day won't make it comfortable. You're right, you do need space for strollers, and maybe, since pediatricians work here and all, you could get all wacky and have kid's books and toys and what not like even the bank does! We bring toys, but it still gets boring. And since there are often eighteen-hour waits, you could have a little play corner, like my old ped office had. Feel free to contact me if you need more ideas. No hard feelings, though.

The overtired dimension is where all the bad children go.
So if I go and check on a toddler during supposed naptime and he's cruising around the edge of the crib and squealing and throwing his blankets over the edge, does this mean he's not tired? He's probably overtired. I live in virtual fear of the state of overtiredness. Because the books warn you. Those damn books. They tell you how you have to catch that little sliver of a "window" when the child is tired, and not too soon, and not too late, or your babe will then be overtired and will supposedly enter a state of psychosis and go bonkers and never go to sleep, and after years of this he'll be a ruined adult. I think because Casimir has been so difficult to get to sleep since almost day one, I'm particularly susceptible to these little finger wagging warnings in the sleep books. I avoid that dreaded overtired state like it's some kind of bewitched dimension that they can fall into if they rub their eyes and yawn once, from whither they never shall return. It wears thin on me, because he gets enough sleep. He does. It's just difficult to make sure he gets it. So I'm basically a walking guilt bomb, wondering if he's overtired or I'm "doing it wrong" or if I missed that little magic window that we are to jump through into peaceful slumber each time I find him laboring to throw his blankie outside of the crib instead of cuddling into it.

I like to listen.
The other day at the baby zoo I mean baby swim class, where Casimir was the performing seal on the other side of the glass, P thought that I didn't look like I was interested enough in Casimir's antics during the Mighty Duke of York ensemble. I was, and I'm not sure how I can wave and smile and mouth HI POO POO in a more animated fashion, but I know when he was talking about. That's when I was eavesdropping on some other moms.
Mom #1: Her kids are out of control!
Mom#2 &3: hhmmrrmm.
Mom #1: They were throwing all the toys down the stairs! And not listening! And making demands! And throwing toys!
Mom#2: yeah.
Mom#!: And she's a teacher! I'm a teacher. My kids knew their colors and numbers by one and a half, so I mean...{laughs deprecatingly as if she's not really bragging..}

Oh dear. Maybe those kids were naughty at obeying adults, I don't know. But I sure as hell hope Casimir is a good boy, is all I have to say. Please Baby Jesus, don't let Casimir be the recalcitrant, aggressive, toy-throwing one. Poolside gossip is hell, let me tell you. Don't let the mom exterior fool you. That boss you once had, who you thought was a total hard ass and really mean? Well she probably quit her job and is in your future playgroup and guess what, she's still doing performace reviews. It's enough to make me step up the discipline regimen that much more. Make nice, Casimir. No. Mommy said No. No? No. nO. NO. no. I wonder when he'll start listening.

I cannot, must not, am not to blog or surf or drive the remote of anything until after Friday. I have forty hours of work to pile into the next five days. I've only procrastinated a couple of days, but it's not looking good. How I am to do this, I haven't quite figured out yet. I chose to accept this mission, so it's my fault, but I was a bit perplexed when I was told it could take "about30-40 hours." Wait! I was kidding when I said "what is it, like 40 hours??" I was kidding! I can't do it! But then, they thought I could finish up something "while the baby sleeps" within days of the birth, so I don't know. I think I might be doomed.

I suck at cutting hair. Especially on a moving target. This is especially horrifying not only because Casimir has a dorky haircut and it's all my fault, but because I was so into playing mommy hair salon. It's about a half inch long all over his head, except for this funny little, raggedy ceaser cut in the front that kind of goes down in a V. I was doing everything I could to avoid that middle-of-the-forehead, straight across cut I see on all my nephews. But I should have just left it long.
All my haircut anguish from my childhood started coming back to haunt me, but come to think of it, my mom's haircuts never traumatized me. I could tell her, blow by blow, that she was cutting too much or too little. It was when she started taking me to the cool hair stylist that my teacher started saying "Well Fiddle dee dee!" to me and my friends called me Hansel with my dutch boy cut and bangs up to the middle of my forehead.
I hate haircuts.

I sat in the "observing section" in baby and parent swim today. There's a big glass wall that separates the pool and the spectators sitting at the edge of their seats, and Casimir saw me right away. He spent the rest of the class turning his head to see me, and then waving, and then finally attempting to climb right out of the pool, which he can barely do now. Finally his dada just let him climb out and walked closely behind him as Caz crawled slipping and sliding to the glass, like a little animal in a zoo. He stuck his nose up to the glass and smiled at everybody and waved and looked otherwise thrilled to have the ready made audience. It was both cute and sort of embarassing. But in a good way. "What a showman!" one of the moms said. Just like his mama. Okay, just like absolutely no one in either of his parent's families. This should be interesting.

God, the news is depressing.
I'm becoming really aware of having to change the channel really quickly if I dare to watch the news in the morning while Casimir plays with his Old McDonald farm. When he was younger I think I underestimated what he could comprehend, stupidly thinking things like "oh he doesn't know the word murder and behead yet." Now I'm Ms. Parental Control and I don't even want him seeing all the crappy commercials that depict women as either toilet cleaners or eye candy. He can't even go online yet or go to movies and I feel like I'm facing a losing battle. This is going to be hard.

I'm also becoming overwhelemd by this whole compassion thing. Every time something awful happens to somebody fairly young, I think "they were somebody's baby." But I'm pretty sure that everyone ever born anywhere in this world was somebody's baby, so as you can see, this is very emotionally draining. I used to smirk at the Baby Einstein video in which the creator of it says, "Like most parents, my highest aspirations are reserved for my children." But I would say my strongest emotions, be they fear or hope or whatever, do revolve around Casimir/aka center of my universe at the moment. Sometimes this stuff is so emotionally draining I find myself getting teared up a lot- with happiness, with frustration, with just a lot of emotional stuff. The next time someone asks how I like being a mother, I think I may try to work up some tears on cue to illustrate how heavy all this emotion weighs on me, though I think this might give the wrong message. I think I'm one to suppress some emotions and all this potential for pain weighs heavy on a person who tends to keep such things to herself, vulcan style. I'm still working on saying "I love you." Usually when my niece says that to me I smile and say, "Thanks!" Now I'm really just saying it all the time, to get used to it. "Would you like more oatmeal, Casimir? I love you." It's getting easier.

Blood was splattered all over.
Casimir had to go get some routine bloodwork at the pediatricians office in Evanston yesterday. Instead of attempting to put a needle in his little vein, they prick his finger and then slloooowwlly fill up the vial by putting pressure on the finger and squeezing out his blood, drop by drop. I was really nervous, but the prick didn't phase him. It was forcefully holding his hand for the endless ages it took to get the blood out, drippity drop by drop, that pissed him off. And then the nurse attempted to cap the vial with one hand and toppled it over and all the blood we worked so hard to get went all over the computer keyboard. So we had to start over. I was mildly annoyed, and secretly feeling glad that they had to wipe up his blood from their keyboard after that mishap. I hope a letter sticks.

But all bad bloodwork ends in a fun reward, right? We went for a muffin so big it defeated its lowfatness, picked out a little toy, (Relentless Inner Mommy Monitor says: Muffins are bad for him! Do not give toys as rewards! Bad Mother!)and went for a buggy joy ride by the lake. It was such a beautiful day, and swarms of babies and toddlers were out with their people and handlers. Casimir got to eat sand and get his feet wet and swing while overlooking Lake Michigan instead of Harlem Avenue. And with all those moms and dads out, I thought of our local and usually empty parks and was a little sad that we don't live in Evanston anymore, even though we have peace and quiet and our own home and yard now. I don't know where all the people in our neighboor go. And I love how you always hear different languages in Evanston, I guess because of Northwestern. I suppose I hear different Chicago accents where I am now (Do yous hear two or tree languages at da parks by you?) but this is not as fun, even though I sometimes make fun of the stronger ones later on and pretend I don't have one.

Once upon a time, there was this one great house in Evanston that sort of got away when we were house hunting because we didn't bid fast enough (well also because it cost a lot of money, which tends to make one hedge) and I usually woefully bring up "the Evanston house" every time something goes wrong with this one. The Evanston house already had a fence and a new bathroom. The Evanston house probably had magic powers in it. The Evanston house was perfect. So last night I started in on that a little bit again to annoy P, because I was jealous that we aren't three blocks from the lake anymore and can no longer go for a dip in a diaper and come home sandy at a moment's notice. But I guess our neighborhood now is nice and quiet. And safe. [Bad side effect of parenthood, at least for me: FEAR. All it took was one rich white man who fled to Wilmette as fast as he could- okay, my brother- pointing out the gang graffiti in our neighboorhood, and the flames of parental fear were fanned. Visions of Casimir getting caught in gang crossfire on his tricycle when he's three haunted me, sadly overshadowing everything that that town has to offer and visions of all the other families happily living there in safety. Ah well. It was too expensive, anyway.]

Remember when? No?
I pointed out to Casimir where I used to take him swimming when he was four months old, but he only looked at me blankly. I don't think he remembered. It's such a bummer that he not only doesn't remember the first few months of his life, but won't remember these months either, in a few years. Which reminds me that I should be taking more video. I keep telling myself that all these experiences are "shaping him," even though he won't remember them, as if he is a little lump of modeling clay ready to be molded and squeezed into the form of a walking, talking, law-abiding grown up. And when will he start remembering actual events? I know I always underestimate how fast he is changing and how quickly he is learning because I still think of him as my tiny little baby, and I do think he is a very smart, amazing little person. But I guess I'm unused to dealing with children, because there is always that element of "Will he remember this? Can he understand this?" that makes you feel like you are dealing with a little foreigner who doesn't speak your language well and has some early onset Alzheimers. Or perhaps a little alien, from a much cooler planet. And yet every day, when he does things like put the toothbrush in his mouth, or hold the car keys up to the window and make the car alarm go off (that made me so proud), he also shows me that he is learning more and more and suprising me. For all the frustration of not being able to explain to someone why they can't have your cup of coffee and that you are not trying to be mean to them, it is satisfying to see such quick progress and be surprised so often with some new example of (to quote BoohBah) "Look what I can do!!!"

Happy Mother's Day! Now get back to doing endless unappreciated labor.
Motherhood is kind of kicking my ass today. Last night I slept really poorly because my heel kept itching. I don't really get it either, but that's what happened and I felt really, exceptionally negative and crummy today and couldn't even blame it on Casimir. We even went out for a walk and got rained on-- I guess in case I didn't get the idea that today was sort of a bad one, the world just wanted to add some symbolism for me to really highlight that point. Rainy days are only fun when you can read in bed all day. The good news was that Casimir seemed to like the rain and didn't really get wet, so nyah nyah to you, universe.

We had a nice mothers day, though. Casimir made me a southwest omelet and put on his three piece suit for his church choir solo, in which he sang "I love you mother." Not really. He's only one year old. But I did get to sleep in til the ripe hour of 8:30 am, which is kind of what I get to do at least once almost every weekend thanks to P, but Casimir unknowingly complied with mother's day standards by not piercing my slumber with his trademark "eeeEEEEEEEeeeEEEEEE"s (translates to: I want that thing there that I cannot reach, no not that, but THAT.)We had a nice lunch out too, sort of. We were feeling risky so we tried eating out with him for the first time in months, and it wasn't all that much fun I have to say, but I think we got a free dessert out of it because our duress and strident efforts to keep the food and pacifier off the floor did not go unnoticed by the kindly waiter who must have children. We had to buy Casimir's compliance with endless pieces of french bread, but there was a younger baby who I noticed required his parents to stand and rock him and not eat, and a toddler who was making himself heard, so at least we weren't surrounded by happy, shiny, babies and toddlers sitting peacefully in their high chairs while their parents swilled Chardonnay and poked at their baked Risotto.

It's Good To Be....A Middle Class Work-At-Home Mom is not on E!
During his second nap today, after he woke up twice after ten minutes and I could no longer nap and resigned myself to watching E!(this is what I watch while the rest of you are watching CNN) I felt mildly comforted by Reese Witherspoon saying that motherhood isn't just hard, it's hard. Because she has nannies, right? And it's still hard. So this brass ring of lots of childcare that I thought was kind of out of reach for me on certain levels and that I thought would make everything perfect is probably just some kind of fantasy. I'd still probably be tired, even if I had a sitter every day. It's kind of like this trap you can fall into: If only I could lose those five pounds, then I'd be happy... Well I was doing that with the nanny idea.


Random items that I feel like venting about without getting into, you know, naming names or identifying factors so that I don't inadvertenly bury myself should someone I know actually find this blog:
1. Eating as a family at Hooters is just wrong. Really religious fathers who do so are strangely more upsetting. And Casimir will never eat wings if I can help it.
2. People who tell me about the final Friends episode and lecture me with condescension (Duh! It's romance, don't you get it?) that Paris will always be there, but the love of your life won't, when I express annoyance with an ending in which Rachel abandons Paris for Ross, well they make me hostile.
3. Asking me if I'm thinking about trying for a second child will get one of two responses, depending on my mood: a) No, I already have one b) Shut up.

The guilt never ends, my friend.
You know, for all the pressure to have kids, when I finally did have a baby, I didn't really expect any kind of tangible, stamped certificate of approval like the presidential fitness award certificate I got in grade school gym class. But I did think the pressure to get knocked up would subside a little, you know, since I already had one. But some people are already asking again, if we're trying for a second. And as wrong as it is, I noticed that I feel some of that pressure from myself, too. I mean, the thought that I was attempting to prevent pregnancy precisely when some people are trying for number two (that whole "two years apart" thing) had run through my brain a couple times. But I didn't realize that those thoughts were really affecting me. But then. Lots of moms in Gymboree with kids Casimir's age are pregnant and some already have two kids under two. It really surprised me when I finally sat down with myself one day and put my finger on what was bothering me after meeting some of these women. I realized that part of me actually felt inadequate, as if it means that I don't have my ducks in a row, my child sleeping through the night, and my body and mind rested enough to eagerly turn the gestation time clock on again and start over, this time with Casimir in tow. Why do I feel that way? I think I want a second child, and before I'm 45, but that's fourteen years away. It really bothers me when I know I shouldn't fall prey to some ridiculous pressures put on women, and do anyway. I could probably use that losing-five-pounds analagy here again, but perhaps shouldn't. Anyway, I think we're doing just fine right now with our one, blogged-about child, thank you very much, Self. So a) shut up, and b) I already have one.

There's tired, and then there's tired and then there's tired.
This funny thing happens each day, where I'm soo tired and lethargic and dragging my sad self around in Casimir's wake, asking if it's nap time yet or if Dada is almost home. But then Casimir goes to bed and what do you know, I can't go to bed because I am suddenly rejuvenated, just like that- ready to to take on the day, at 6:30pm, and ready to start living my life again, one evening at a time. I feel a little guilty for feeling that way, and I know I should just go to bed really early or bottle up some of the energy in a sippy cup or something. But there's just something about baby aura that really saps all of the energy from surrounding beings and forcefields.

And then I don't even mind getting up in the night to comfort him. The problem part is waking up in the morning after getting up in the night. It's more like Ms. Hyde wakes up, or more like Ms. Hyde if she were hungover and in withdrawal from prescription meds, and in a bad mood, and reeaallly tired. That's me, sitting in a crumpled pile of sunken, defeated exhaustion on the couch in front of Boohbah at 6:30 a.m. Lovin' it. And this morning P took to singing "Lay, Lady Lay.." and wouldn't stop and thought it was actually funny when it was driving me nuts. Well, it wasn't. I heard that song at the gym yesterday (as if I just exercise all the time), and for the first time realized that those bad lyrics actually go on to say "Lay in mah big brass bed." I never knew that. And then I discovered that song which I thought was some horrible, redneck one-hit wonder from 1974 was really from the mouth of Bob Dylan. No wonder I never liked him. And P was verbally hammering me with it over Boobah. Right at 6 a.m. is when I'd have the nanny come over, if we had one.

Desperation eclipses worrying, at times.
Yesterday I was at the gym (omigod! exercising! me! for the first time since I had to be careful and do level 1 and carefully balance my watermelon baby belly on the bike and stare down complete strangers who apparently disapproved of me barely moving on the exercise bike) and I wasn't afraid to leave Casimir in the daycare at all. Go me. It's just that this is what happens if you don't go back to a job early on or don't have a phone list of babysitters. You end up like me, hedging at the idea of handing over your one year-old to a stranger, because you've not spent more than ten mintues away from him unless he was watched by a blood relative. I'm not uptight. Blame it on the lack of sitter funds. If i had had a nanny, I'd have been at many double features by now, trust me.
So, I thought it would be really hard, and it was a little heartbreaking when I came back and I saw him just kind of sitting there, like a pumpkin, watching an older kid play. Hello, why weren't they interacting with him every second? But for the most part I was OK with it and I think he was safe and not too terribly neglected. I just handed him over, kept myself from issuing any kind of obvoius, be-careful-and- don't-let-any-three-year-olds-maul-him warnings, and happily trotted off to make my muscles really sore. What a great invention- baby joints in gyms. No wonder moms lose weight. I can even drop him off and leave the building if I want! I don't think I will yet. But I could.

More griping.
But Gymboree. I hate it now. (I never really stay positive about anything, you see.) There's a whole new crop of kids in it, and they're all so much younger and just sit there like little drooling buddhas and don't move and the moms look like they fear that Casimir might pluck out an eye, Kill Bill style, if Casimir even nears one of their pink puma-clad babies in an exploratory hello. So for forty-five minutes I basically am the vulture that swoops in and scoops him up any time he enters a two-foot radius of another younger baby. Which is all he does. He's gentle. I'd never let him just plow into another kid. But he just really wants to just interact and goosey (that's nose touching. should we not have taught him that?) It was so much better when there were older boys in his class, not because boys are cool with rough and tumble but because in my thus far very limited experience, their moms are. The toddlers would all say hello by way of bumping into each other and patting heads and if any hair was fisted in a preliminary pull or toy theft was attemptd, we intervened and it was fine. It seems that the moms of some of these baby girls think that the girls are made of glass. Pink glass. I find it frustrating.
Anyway. And people keep saying they want to see him stand, and that he'll be walking soon enough, and blahblahblah. He's not walking yet, world. Deal with it. He moves fast enough, and I don't think he needs a mini wheelchair. We'll get there.

I saw this sign on the road as I entered Niles. It was one of those little, triangular rusted signs attached randomly to a stop light, usually beseeching motorists to never drive drunk or buckle up. But this one read: Niles. It's all here. I just thought that really said it all, and decided that was going to be my big catch phrase.

Someone needs to open up a hair salon with a daycare center attached so you can check your kid in and get your ends trimmed. I'll bet Sweden has that. I'll just bet.

Three things I was grateful for today (It's all about the little things):
1. That I could drop off my baby/toddler, inbetweener at my parents when I really, really needed a haircut.
2. That I was able to finally drop the wad on a decent haircut after that Supercuts debacle two months ago. Even if I had to listen to my hairdresser call her friend a whore and talk about The Bachelor.
3. That I found a driving buddy (duh, Casimir!) who won't make fun of me if I talk to myself while driving and attempt to mimick the Irish accent of the NPR broadcaster, just to amuse myself in between tolls.

Proof that it's not really all here:I keep breaking into bad, fame-style entertainment that wouldn't even make it into American Idol ridicule. My latest song is titled "Post-nap cheese snack" which isn't really emblematic of my Supergrass and Badly Drawn Boy influence, but we like it. The problem is when it won't leave my head, and then I have to constantly refrain from breaking out into "cheese snack" lyrics in public places. (I probably wouldn't normally admit that. It might be the Alka Seltzer cold talking.) I'm not always that chipper and fame-like, though.

Further proof: P told me he was glad when I said I was going to the bookstore to pick up a book I really wanted to read.
"Good" he said. "Hopefully it's not a book with mother or baby in the title?"
"Acutally, it's called Mother Shock." Oops? I will get to that reading list of fiction and history, really, really soon. I know I'm overdoing it with the baby literature, but I got defensive anyway. It's not Pat the Bunny, for Christ sake. I am learning stuff.
"What are you reading? Another chess book? Or your Sci-Fi fantasy again? Are there gnomes in it this time? I think my mom saved my Encyclopedia Brown and Choose Your Own Adventure books, if you're interested" I shot back.
Then he put his head back on and gave me a meany look and walked away. Anyway, the book after Mothershock in the line up doesn't have "mother" or "baby" in it. But it's got the word "mobile" on it. And a picture of a baby. I can't wait to read it.

Wobble wobble
Casimir still can't balance his bulk entirely on his own yet, but he can grab this lawn mower-like, walker thing on wheels and just cruise right through the house to the walker's tune of "I've been working on the railroad." Only he doesn't really bend his knees too well, so it's kind of like a mini Frankenstein walk, with the chirpy railroad song occasionally broken up by a bang right into the wall, whereby little franky backs up and keeps on cruisin', little goose steps marching to the railroad song. It's fun when you hear him coming, but it's not quite the same as hearing him crawl and clunk along on the floor, with the clank of the extra pacifier in his hand hitting the floor. And isn't it a bit odd that one starts walking with a plastic little walker, and often ends up again walking with a metal walker? No?
I have to be careful though, and either put his booties on or let him go barefoot or he slips and slides despite the fabulous, non-skid star decals on the bottom of his socks. This is difficult, because my mom put the fear of god into me about letting his feet get cold and I've had difficulty overcoming this indoctrination. I think his little feet have only felt the joy of fresh air for a few mintues since last August. Apparently, they told the previous generation that babies should be as bundled as possible, and then flipped that, and now warn that overbundling can cause SIDS. And of course the ads now all show nothing but bare feet, so clearly that is the cute way to go. So basically, you have to hit that middle ground, and then fend off the questioning suggestions from each generational school of thought--the one that thinks babies should he be wearing woolly socks and Ugg boots all year long, with a winter cap, and occasionally aired out, and the other that warns that extra warmth=death. It's hard. Anyway, no socks is usually more aesthetically pleasing, since his daddy has taken to pulling his socks all the way up to his knees, making him look like a referee with really stiff legs. But then, when else will you be able to dress in mismatched clothes, socks pulled up to your knees, with perhaps food on your shirt, and not be considered a bit off? Might as well milk it (hahapun) while you can.

I wish I got that much cuter with each new day.
I was looking through some of Casimir's really early pictures, back when he was bald and a bit spindley. And he was a cute newborn, sort of, but I can see now under the harsh lighting of hindsight that he was not quite as physically dazzling as I thought he was, or as I think he is now. It's funny how those early hormones really trick you into thinking that even the blotchy little newborn that is your baby is so adorable. But comparing a picture of Casimir at two months to a foto of Casimir, new and improved, at twelve months, is kind of like looking at an Extreme Makeover "Before" and "After" pictures. We've enlarged his eyes, cleared up his skin, transplanted some hair, and injected some fat to really fill out his face. It's just a more natural look he's got now. His family can't even recognize him!
It's not that he wasn't cute in the early days, and I really miss some of those early expressions his tinier face created that will, sadly- like the favorite little newborn gowns- never ever be trotted out again. But realistically, he was spindley. Now, he's really actually cute, and getting cuter every day. But I can't ever imagine looking back and thinking that he is not, at this moment, the.cutest.ever.

Naughty thought of the day: I briefly wished the parents would come home and take over and give me money.

Bizarre primal fear I'm coping with: In contemplating taking Casimir camping to Yellowstone someday or heck, to the Brookfield zoo, I realized that I have some weird fears. I realized that I have some bizarro phobia about wild animals getting him. Not pedophiles. Not cars. Cougars. And bears. Can you imagine the horror of an alligator in your yard, approaching baby before you can get there? And why do I, since I live in Chicago and not Florida? Leftover from earlier life as cave mom? Or bizarre urban fantasy that I live in nature and not cementland? Not sure.