Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas, Your Flight Has Been Canceled

With family in Minnesota and on the East Coast, Christmas has become a days-long celebration starting in Minnesota with the Cheslas and the Olivers and ending in New Jersey shortly after the actual holiday with the Partenheimers. But when traveling between two locales with the ability to produce snow, I should know that even the best-organized plans can be interrupted by winter storms. Oliver and I were supposed to fly out this evening to Philadelphia so we could celebrate a belated Christmas with my family, but Delta canceled our flight on Christmas Day in advance of the snow that is now falling across the Mid-Atlantic states.

I am quite thankful that Delta decided to err on the conservative side and cancel flights well in advance, which saved me from unnecessary packing, and more importantly, from enduring flight delays and endless hours in an airport with a baby. But Delta, please answer your phones! For over 24 hours now, I've been trying to rebook my flight, but the website isn't showing any "alternative flights" and the reservations line plays a pre-recorded message about not answering calls due to "extreme weather conditions."

If I have to be stuck anywhere, at least I'm "stuck" here at home, where everything is baby-proofed and set up for Oliver. While we wait for flights to open up, I can get a head start on the post-holiday to-do list...or I could just relax. As exciting as Christmas is, it's tiring! I think I need a few days to recover.

I successfully did all my Christmas shopping online this year, saving myself from dragging a baby to the mall, but cleaning the house in time to host Christmas Day lunch ended up being too challenging with a rug rat following me around ready to make a new mess. So Chris took Oliver to his brother's house for the better part of Christmas Eve and while he got to play, I got to clean. The cold that had presented its first symptoms the day before was in full swing and I just about physically wore myself out, but I had received the rare satisfaction of being able to make timely progress on a full-house scrub-down. When our little family reconvened that evening, Chris announced that watching Oliver is tiring too. The recognition of how energy-depleting full-time child-rearing is may have been the best Christmas present ever.

We spent Christmas Eve at Chris's parents house who were hosting the Chesla clan - Grandma Ann and Grandpa Joe, five of their seven children, their spouses, over half of the kids of kids and three great-grandchildren, with a fourth enjoying the festivities in utero. I jokingly describe the Cheslas as being the Polish version of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Oliver is still trying to make sense of this large, boisterous extended family he was born into, but he surprised me by how much he warmed up to a large crowd. His two older cousins arrived with a plastic bin full of toys and despite a room full of people, he happily played with them. At his usual early hour of 6:00 p.m., he was ready for bed and thankfully went down without a protest in the pack 'n' play we had set up in an upstairs bedroom. With Oliver sleeping, Chris and I were able to enjoy dinner, the gift exchange and socializing without interruption.

He was sleeping so soundly that Chris's mom offered to let him stay overnight and she'd bring him over the next morning. It was an attractive offer, but I couldn't bear the thought of missing out on Oliver waking up at home on Christmas morning. Even though he still doesn't know what Christmas is, I'm really sentimental about him being at home and waking up in his own room on the 25th and coming downstairs to see what "Santa" brought. And as thankful as I am to have married into such a large, loving family, I want Christmas morning to be a time Chris and I can call our own with our new family.

As will be the case for years to come, our Christmas morning started early when Oliver woke up around 6:30 a.m. We ate our breakfast, played and then attempted to open gifts, but postponed in favor of a power nap for Oliver. (I suspected another ear infection and today filled the prescription the doctor had given me a week earlier as insurance in case an infection popped up over the holidays or while in New Jersey.) After a nap and a dose of Ibuprofen, Oliver finally joined us for opening gifts. As expected, he didn't quite get it. I would peel a piece of the paper away and tried to talk him into pulling the the tab of paper the rest of the way, but he just sat back and watched me open them. However, he was quite interested in what was emerging from the wrapping paper and happily played with his new gifts. The scene was in quite contrast to last year where he spent the entire gift-opening time nursing.

By noon the Olivers and family friends from Montreal, who are currently living in St. Paul, were over for lunch. Fellow new moms were always surprised to hear I had offered to host on Christmas Day. But this gathering was for immediate family, and since their big meal is on Christmas Eve, their traditional Christmas Day meal consists of soup and sandwiches. And that I could handle. I made the soup a couple of days in advance, bought fresh bread from the coop the day before, and served cookies from the cookie exchange I participated in the weekend before.

It was the low-key Christmas Day I wanted, although with folks gone before the sun had set, I lamented that despite all the anticipation and preparations, Christmas just goes by too quickly every year.

Documenting the Quest for Boston

My brother, Scott, the artistically creative one in the family, not only trained months for the Philadelphia Marathon, but at the same time created a short documentary of his quest for Boston. You can see the final product on YouTube. 3:10 to Boston

The documentary wouldn't be what it is without someone behind the camera, which in this case was his girlfriend, Kathleen. He trained, she filmed. Her quest for documentary footage was captured by a race photographer and immortalized, where else, but on Facebook. http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/photo.php?fbid=464466413364&set=t.503223364 The picture makes me chuckle out loud.

Congrats Scott on fulfilling a dream and to both of you, a job well done with the documentary.

Visit with Grandma and Grandpa

Oliver's grandparents decided they haven't seen enough of Oliver lately and asked if they could take care of him this weekend. They'd even drive to St. Paul to pick him up to save us the trip!

I'm fortunate to have in-laws I don't hesitate to let care for Oliver. Except you would have wondered with all the last-minute instructions I gave Grandma before she left with Oliver. I handed her a lunchbox loaded with more food than he could eat in two days, even as she reminded me that they do have food at their house. Toys and a booster seat. They had that too. I felt the need still to point out every item in the diaper bag, just in case she wanted to know ahead of time in which pockets specifically I had stashed the wipes, his sleepsack, extra pacifiers, spare sippy cups, his lovey, his sleepsack, the Ibuprofen in case his ears or teeth were bothering him, but if she thought it was the teeth, there was also this gel she could put on his gums, and the antibiotics he needs to take with his lunch and here's how you fill the syringe, you know, just in case you've never seen the ingenious design Target uses.

Chris interjected that they'd manage fine even without all the detail I was providing. Realizing that with the teething, ear infections and early wake-up that morning that Oliver's schedule was probably completely off and last-minute reminders about his usual snack, meal and nap times would not be applicable, I decided that information already provided was going to be sufficient. Besides, Grandma looked like she was anxious to start her day with her grandson. So off they went.

I was free! For a few hours at least.

And what did I do with my time? I ran a load of dishes, vacuumed without worrying about waking the baby and mopped the hardwood floors dirty with the residue of meals Oliver still hasn't mastered keeping on the table. Fun stuff, huh? I was desperate to get a head start on cleaning in preparation for having guests on Christmas Day, even though my house was going to be dirty again by Saturday. But at least it won't be as dirty.

Thankfully I had planned an afternoon of cross-country skiing with friends, or I never would have actually used my free time to do something for myself. With our meet-up time looming, I finally put away the mop and the vacuum and went out to the garage to find the skis I hadn't used since the early months of my pregnancy two winters ago.

And Oliver? Because he spends so much time with me and is clearly attached to his mom, I'm always anxious about how he'll handle separating from me. But when he smiled at Grandma when she entered the house, I started to have confidence that the day would go well for both Oliver and his grandparents. Aside from some crying when he arrived at Grandma and Grandpa's house and realized Mom hadn't come with him, he had fun. And Grandma and Grandpa got plenty of enjoyable quality time with him. All the activities that can become monotonous for me because I do it day in and day out, like dealing with mess at meals or reading the same book over and over again, were new and exciting for them.

It Will Be a White Christmas

On a quintessential Minnesota December day with its cold, crisp air, a fresh blanket of snow and flakes gently falling from the sky, we drove out to the Krueger's Christmas Tree Farm near our old hometown of Stillwater to pick out the family's first real Christmas tree. Yes, Chris had successfully pleaded the case against another year of decorating with an artificial tree. We strolled among the snow-packed rows of trees and I realized it had been years - well over a decade - since I'd helped pick out a Christmas tree and I remembered how much fun it had been as a kid to find the "perfect" tree. I always wanted a huge tree, like you see in home decorating magazines, but my mom steered us towards the littlest ones. Now that I had more say in the decision-making process, I had other factors to consider - what was the skinniest we could find to fit with our child-proofing plan of wedging the tree between the couch and two walls in our living room?

We've been talking, reading and hearing about child-proofing since before Oliver was born and not once did anyone ever mention the child-proofing consideration needed with a tree. At first I wasn't thinking about the dangers a tree could pose, but rather how the spot in the living room where we set up the tree last year is now Oliver's toy pile. Then I realized that a Christmas tree is just a festive equivalent of a bookcase full of breakable knick-knacks. Child-proofing experts recommend that you bolt tall furniture to the wall and relocate anything small and/or breakable within reach of your baby. So what about the tree?

Friends with cats recommended tying fishing line to the top of the tree and securing it to a hook attached to the wall to prevent it from being pulled down. Some of my mom friends bought table-top trees; others decided to skip the tree altogether. Since we've managed to successfully leave our floor-level wine rack un-baby-proofed, we decided to take our chances with a tree and opted for the barricade method. The tree is blocked on three sides and if Oliver really becomes curious about the tree, we can block the fourth side with the coffee table. We had tried to include Oliver in decorating the tree, so when his first instinct upon being handed an ornamental ball was to fling it at the ground, we were relieved to remember we'd bought the shatter-proof ones back before we weighed how baby-friendly anything we bought to display in our home was. Oliver, meanwhile, enjoys looking at the tree, especially with the lights on, but so far he's stayed mostly away!

Luckily we bought our tree last Sunday, because this past weekend we were housebound and shoveling ourselves out of the biggest snow storm to hit since the legendary Halloween blizzard of 1991. The snow shut down the airport and the one of the main interstates, forced even snowplows from the roads and warranted two back-to-back snow emergencies in the City of St. Paul. Twenty-four hours of snow came first, (about 18 inches in St. Paul) followed by a deep freeze with high temperatures in the single digits and wind chills far below. Chris and I alternated between taking care of Oliver and shoveling, and the front of our house looked like a system of snow trenches after we shoveled from our front walk to the street and the sidewalks.

I love a big snow storm when I don't have to commute or be anywhere. I used to have a long commute that turned hellish with even a little bit of ice or snow. So I was thankful this weekend to have nothing to do but stay home, decorate the tree, and yes, shovel. But snow is the only reason you see your neighbors during the winter in Minnesota, so in between breaks from shoveling, I caught up with neighbors, and met some new ones.

Oliver got his first first-hand experience with snow. I'd never bothered taking him out to play in the snow in previous snowfalls because, honestly, it seemed like too much work. Layering up a non-walking baby to go sit in the snow didn't seem worth it. But this snowfall was too big to pass up. We had to say Oliver had gone out in a blizzard, or else he'd be somehow rejecting his Minnesota roots. I think Oliver was wishing he'd been born in a warmer locale though.

He cried while we put on his thick, stiff parka and snow pants, and then his boots gloves and a hat that snapped under his chin, and we spent more time with this process than he spent outside. But once out in the cold air, he perked up and actually seemed to enjoy the blast of fresh air. I got pictures of him standing next to Oliver-high snow banks and he liked watching his dad try to make snow angels. But then he got snow down his snow pants, which ended his intrigue with the snow.

Ear Infection, Round Three

After the second round of antibiotics to treat Oliver's ear infection was completed, I was told by his pediatrician that I didn't have to bring him back unless his symptoms worsened. They didn't worsen, but the problem is that his symptoms never actually cleared. And I finally accepted that I was just as miserable with Oliver's crankiness as Oliver was with whatever continued to ail him.

Unlike classic ear infection patients, it was not putting Oliver down for a nap or to bed that was a problem, it was when he woke up. The first half hour to an hour after he woke up from his nighttime sleep or his afternoon nap has been a constant struggle. He rarely woke up crying, but if I tried to get him up shortly after he woke up, he was a wailing, thrashing mess. However, if I just left him in his crib to give him some time to (possibly) fully wake up, his happy babbling quickly turned into persistent crying. So I would check on him and maybe give him his pacifier and change his diaper. If I was lucky, he'd go right back to sleep for another 30-45 minutes. But often I found him bouncing around his crib and looking happy and excited to start or continue his day. Because he was probably fully awake, if I left him there, he did not go back to sleep and would stand in his crib and cry. But if I took him out, his mood took a 180 and I would be back to having a cranky baby. So I'd put him back in his crib and repeat the process of checking in on him when he started to cry and only knew I was able to get him up for good if he didn't scream during the next attempt to take him out of his crib. Needless to say, I was frustrated by this process and missed the days when I'd come into Oliver's room to find a smiley, happy baby who stayed happy when I took him out of his crib to change and dress him.

I was confused by what was causing the end-of-sleep problems, because Oliver appeared to be getting enough sleep. Most nights he's in his crib by 6:00 p.m. or 6:30 p.m. and awake at 6:30 a.m. and doesn't wake up in between. Many of my friends wish their kids would sleep that long! And his afternoon nap is usually around two and a half hours, well within the average range for a baby his age. My latest theory is that the quality of Oliver's sleep has been affected. He probably takes after his dad who likes to sleep long and is a deep-sleeper, as well as after me, who doesn't function well on poor or inadequate sleep.

I'm happy I brought Oliver back to the doctor. The good news is that despite what I thought, the last round of antibiotics had cured the infection in his right ear. Unfortunately, his left ear is now infected. The doctor examined Oliver's gums and said it appeared like he is getting his top right tooth. Teething is well-known to be painful for babies, but I didn't know that because the nerves in the mouth and the ear are connected, teething can actually cause "referred pain" in the ear. So yes, it is no wonder that Oliver has been tugging at both his ears.

The doctor prescribed the antibiotic Cefdiner again, because it had proven to cure at least one infection in Oliver and hopefully it will cure the one in his left ear now. I brought up the subject of tubes and while she cautioned that tubes aren't a miracle solution, hence the protocol is to try a few rounds of antibiotics first, she thought Oliver is nevertheless on the path towards needing tubes, because we still have months of cold season ahead of us and Oliver is already on his third round of antibiotics.

A Dying Mother's Letter

The writer Lisa Belkin, columnist of the New York Time's Motherlode wrote in today's column ("A Dying Mother's Letter" - http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/12/09/a-dying-mothers-letter/) about the letter Elizabeth Edwards had been writing to her kids. The letter, years in the making, supposedly contains all the advice, big and small, a parent would want to bestow upon her kids. Belkin wrote about being inspired to write a similar letter for her sons, but that the task was so enormous, it was overwhelming.

I immediately thought of my blog and all that I want to be able to tell Oliver. Writing to your kids is indeed an enormous task, because it's impossible to record a life's worth of lessons and advice. I think you've got to start somewhere though. In my case, one blog entry at a time. While the purpose of my writing hasn't been to give advice, my values, my personality, my lessons learned, are all woven into the stories I tell about Oliver's childhood and my experience as a mom. Many entries are hastily written and the ideas not well-conveyed, and some entries will never be posted. But I keep writing.

I hope to live a very long life and assume that I will be around along enough to help Oliver grow up well into adulthood. Oliver will hopefully have many positive memories of me and will have learned a lot about his mom and life in general from our daily conversations and interactions. But what will he know about his mom before he was born or from a time in his life where few memories remain? What remained unsaid or became forgotten in the daily pace of life?

Writing a blog lets me record experiences or thoughts on a subject as they happen so the memories aren't altered or forgotten with time. I can tell stories that might not come up in conversation or aren't of interest to or at the comprehension level of a young kid. My thoughts are more coherently and eloquently presented than the give-and-take of a casual conversation. And I hope that someday the stories written in my voice will complement Oliver's memories of me.

I was lucky to have my mom in my life as long as I had and I still have many clear memories of her. But how much I wish she had left similar writings behind. I obviously didn't know her as a young adult and I only knew her in the context of being my mom, so to read about what she thought and felt when she was a young mom would have been incredible.

Few of us have famous moms who have had articles and books written about them. But despite everything written about Elizabeth Edwards, little of it will probably help her children understand who their mom was, what she believed, how she wanted her kids to succeed or what they can learn from her. And some of what was written will be painful for her kids to read, whether the information was accurate or unfair. So as much of a public figure as Elizabeth Edwards was, the most important and informative piece of writing for her kids will undoubtedly be their mother's "dying letter."

St. Nicholas Day

When I was a high school exchange student in Basel, Switzerland, I celebrated my first St. Nicholas Day, or Nikolaustag. I had four younger host siblings, the youngest of whom was just shy of seven, and a host mother whose favorite holiday was Christmas. Every night during the Advent season, she gathered the family after dinner to sing Christmas carols and read a story from the piles of Christmas-themed children's books she pulled out every year.

One night, there was a knock at our back door. My youngest host siblings, Susanne and Stefan scrambled to the door. They knew who was there. I was surprised when I saw who appeared to be Santa Claus walking into our house. He sat himself down on a stool, laid a large sack on the ground and pulled out a leather book. Us kids lined up and one by one were instructed by St. Nick to tell him three good things we had done, which he compared with his notes in his book.

My youngest siblings were so excited they could hardly control themselves, the oldest was slightly bemused, but acting more mature than your average eleven-year-old, went along for the sake of his brother and sister, and then there was I who was still trying to sort out this St. Nick tradition and what the heck I was supposed to say. It's not that I was lacking examples of good behavior or deeds, it's just put on the spot with my entire host family watching, (and at the point some curious neighbors who'd stopped by - apparently St. Nick was jointly hired by a couple neighborhood parents and was making the rounds) I was at a loss for words, especially ones in a coherent German. My host mom, sweet as she was, fed me my lines. And I passed! Satisfied, St. Nick reached into his sack and handed us bundles of nuts, chocolates and Clementines.

The evening ended with a loss of innocence, though, when Stefan recognized the logo from a Swiss grocery store chain on his package of nuts and asked his mom why St. Nickolas was handing out nuts from Migros. Even before my host mother was able to offer up an explanation, the truth dawned on Stefan and he started crying. His older brother desperately tried to convince him that St. Nickolas was real, but that he'd just run out of nuts and needed to pick up some extra packages at the grocery store, but Stefan was nearly hysterical. And I could tell my host mother, who'd done such a good job to make the Christmas season a magical time for her kids, felt really bad and was kicking herself for not noticing that the packaging would be a giveaway.

At least my memories of that night are fond, even if that year was the only year I celebrated St. Nick's Day. When I lived in Germany, I lived in a dorm or on my own and it wasn't a tradition my family in the U.S. followed. But here in Minnesota I've encountered a number of people who not only know what St. Nick's Day is, but grew up anticipating treats or even a small gift awaiting them in their shoes on the morning of December 6.

Oliver must have been a good baby this year, because when he crawled out of his room this morning, he found a pile of Clementines and his size four shoes filled with chocolate coins. He thought the surprise was neat and enjoyed tossing the coins and the Clementines and tried taking bites out of each, foil wrappers or skin and all. Since he doesn't have any top teeth, he didn't make a dent in either.

I hope celebrating St. Nicholas Day is a tradition that sticks in our family. And though I don't think I'll ever go as far to hire a neighbor to come to our house dressed as St. Nicholas, I have learned from my host mother's mistakes and am sure to check the packaging of any treats St. Nicholas brings.

First Visit with Santa Claus (and the Mrs. too!)

Oliver didn't cry as hard as I thought he would while sitting on Santa's lap. Considering that he cries himself into all out hysteria whenever I leave the roam (he cries so hard sometimes that I fear the neighbors will hear and wonder what's going over here) that I thought a strange guy with a big beard and a funny outfit would be too much for him. But he let me walk him up towards Santa and Mrs. Claus and even set him on Santa's lap before letting the tears flow. We took the requisite pictures which captured Oliver either crying, stuffing his hand in his mouth or both.

"Kind of what I expected," conceded Chris.

"That actually went a lot better than I thought it would," I replied.

When discussing Christmas traditions, Chris said he really wanted to get a picture of Oliver with Santa Claus. While I didn't immediately veto the idea of taking Oliver to the mall, a look at the prices they charge for just one print was enough to convince Chris to skip that idea. But when I read on my moms group website about "Cocoa with the Clauses" put on by the Lions Club at the St. Anthony Community Center, I knew we had our compromise. Chris would get his picture of Oliver on Santa's lap and the event was free, which made me happy. We didn't have professional pictures taken, but they let parents snap as many as they wanted with their own cameras.

On our way out, I heard one mother lament to the grandfatherly Lions members staffing the table at the entrance that this would be her last year at Cocoa with the Clauses. Her daughter is in third grade now - the exact age I was when I probably had my picture taken with Santa just to humor my mom, not because I believed there was a magical man who flew around the globe on a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer. That point will come with Oliver in a blink of an eye, but until then, I've still got a couple more years of photo ops. And maybe Oliver will warm up to Santa by then.

Going Bananas Over Bananas

Our Early Childhood and Family Education (ECFE) classroom has everything a 14-month-old could want to play with - a cushioned pool full of plastic balls, a toddler-sized trampoline, play structures with ladders, slides and doors, books, puppets, and toys that spin, jingle and whistle and a play kitchen with miniature pots and pans and plastic food. When the parent discussion time starts, we sit cross-legged in a big circle on the floor and let the kids play with toys in the middle. I can't keep Oliver in the circle though, because he just wants to explore the room.

Last night I was happy to see him occupied with the play kitchen. For one, I hope he takes after me and likes to bake and cook. Second, at this age, they start to engage in "pretend" play, but I hadn't yet seen Oliver mimic real-life activities while playing. But then he saw the banana.

Oliver LOVES bananas. He salivates over bananas like anyone with a sweet tooth salivates over chocolate. Not only are bananas healthy, so I'm not worried about Oliver's obsession with them, but for a baby with only two teeth, they're incredibly easy to eat. They don't need to be washed, sliced or softened either - just peel and serve, so they're an easy snack and quick to eat. I haven't timed Oliver eating a banana, but I bet he can eat a large one in three minutes - and not leave a mess behind. But because there can be too much of a good thing, (bananas can cause constipation in babies, for one) we limit Oliver' banana consumption. We offer him one after he's eaten the rest of his breakfast or as a snack, but otherwise, keep them out of sight. If we offer him a banana before he finishes chewing, he'll fish out whatever is in his mouth so he's ready for that banana.

Oliver crawled over to me clutching the banana and deposited it at my feet. Uh oh. I've seen that look before. He's in the stage now where he sort of flings things at me - a book, his sippy cup, his Snack Trap stocked with Cheerios or Goldfish - and wants me to help him with it. In this case, he wanted me to peel the banana, because he wanted to eat it. Pronto! He actually thought the banana was real!

We were in the middle of a discussion, coincidentally, on guiding behavior, so I tried the first line of defense with babies - distraction. I jokingly pretended to peel the banana and take an exaggerated bite out of it, then offered it to Oliver to pretend eating it. I acted as if it were a big game. Well, that just made him more frustrated that I hadn't actually done what he wanted.

He threw it back at my lap, but one of Oliver's classmates grabbed the banana as he crawled by him, which sent Oliver into hysterics. A tantrum was about to ensue over a plastic banana.

While the other baby's parents tried engaging their son in another toy, the teaching assistant thought she was helping to calm Oliver by bringing him a different plastic banana to play with. He just became even more frustrated that he wasn't getting to eat his banana. When the other baby discarded his banana in favor of another toy, I grabbed both bananas and shoved them in the back of the drawer that held the plastic fruit. Oliver was a crying heap of a baby at this point, so I picked him up, fished his pacifier out of his diaper bag and desperately tried to comfort him after the massive disappointment he'd just endured.

While the parents in our class actually thought the incident was funny and Oliver's hysterical crying adorable, for all our sakes, I'm going to make sure those plastic bananas stay hidden from view. As for last night, Oliver recovered relatively quickly once that banana was out of sight, and, presumably, out of mind. When we got home and I went to prepare him his bedtime snack, I knew exactly what would satisfy him - a banana he could actually eat. Oliver was a happy boy.

Christmas Traditions

I'm the type of person who's annoyed by stores putting out Christmas decorations by Halloween. Let me enjoy Halloween and Thanksgiving and then we can move onto Christmas. So I'm adamant about not doing anything "Christmasy" until at least the day after Thanksgiving, (for those of us in colder climates, I consider taking advantage of warmer weather to put up outdoor Christmas decorations to be a reasonable, and wise, exception) but now it's December 1, and well, let the Christmas season begin!

Growing up, my family never went all out for Christmas. We decorated a small tree, hung stockings from the mantle, placed a few decorations around the house and left the exterior bare, except for the occasional wreath. Although my mom liked the ambiance of a sparkling Christmas tree in a dimly-lit living room, my parents weren't into decorating, so that was the extent of it. The Griswolds we weren't.

As for traditions, they came and went depending the ages of my brother and me. Christmas was marked as little kids by photographs with Santa Claus at the mall and the Christmas pageant at Friends Meeting, choir concerts in middle school, the Christmas Cotillion in high school and the crunch of exams and semester-end projects followed by weeks-long winter breaks in college.

Some simple traditions stayed the same throughout most of my childhood. We came together as a family on Christmas Eve when we ate an early dinner at the Springhouse Tavern and then spent time at my paternal grandparent's house, where the adults opened gifts. (My brother and I were allowed to open one from my grandparent's - the rest waited until "Santa" brought them on Christmas Day.) Everyone reconvened at our house on Christmas Day. And by "everyone," I mean both sets of grandparents, my Uncle Gary, my parents and my brother. (This is when I really longed for cousins.)

Nothing compares to the excitement of early childhood when you believe in Santa Claus and hope that this year you'll be able to stay awake and catch a glimpse of him, or at least his sleigh and reindeer on their way to the next house. Waking up to see all those presents under the tree was a dream come true. But by the time I had entered my college years, Christmas had lost a lot of its magic. Everyone was busy with work or school and sometimes it seemed my brother and I were the only ones adamant about continuing "tradition." As an adult, I have more understanding of my parents and grandparents who'd probably grown tired of following every little tradition fastidiously year after year.

Having a baby gives reason to reclaim the magic of Christmas, and a new generation is an excuse to start new traditions. But Oliver was only three months old last Christmas and in the weeks leading up to the biggest holiday of the year, I was still rather overwhelmed (and tired) by motherhood. Despite it being our baby's first Christmas, it was anti-climatic. Oliver obviously had no concept that it was a holiday and he spent all the present-opening time under a cover for a marathon nursing session, so he never even saw us open his presents. The only pictures I have of him from Christmas are the ones I insisted Chris take of the two of us shortly after we put the tree up.

Looking back, I'm proud of what I did accomplish. We got the tree up, I managed most of the holiday shopping by myself, (thank goodness for the Internet!) we hosted Chris's family on Christmas Day, (thankfully one of their Christmas traditions is a light meal - sandwiches - on Christmas Day since they're still recovering from the feast on Christmas Eve) and I got Oliver and myself on a plane to Philadelphia the day after Christmas.

Even though last year ended up being about simply pulling it together rather than creating new Christmas memories, I've been given an extra year to think about what traditions to start. Every year I've been acquiring more decorations and look forward to when Oliver is old enough and we can make an afternoon or evening out of decorating the house. An advent calender, something I'd loved so much as a kid, especially the ones with chocolates, is a must-have for any kid and I forgot to get him one! Oops! Put that on the list for next year...We are going to a community Christmas party on Saturday, because Chris wants a picture of Oliver with Santa Claus, even though I know that's not going to go over very well. But all in the name of tradition, right? We never celebrated Nikolaustag (St. Nickolas Day) as kids, but after my time in Switzerland and Germany, what a fun and easy tradition to work into the season.

Chris also finally convinced me to get a real tree. We have a fake tree, which Chris hates, but I got it at a second-hand store and consider it more environmentally friendly than buying either a real tree, or a fake one new. Plus, you have to water a real tree every day and I hate vacuuming up needles. But now that Oliver is mobile, we need a tree we can tuck in a corner and barricade with a table and our fake one is too big. With a promise that we'll buy a small, skinny tree, we're headed to the St. Paul Farmer's Market this weekend to pick out our family's first real Christmas tree.

Oliver is still too young to understand Christmas, so in actuality, I have another year or two to build on whatever we do this year. I want to try a bunch of different things and see what sticks. Maybe some activities we'll just end up doing every couple of years when we feel like it, while others will become tradition. I'm sure there'll also be the traditions that are clearly more important to me than they will be for Oliver. But in reality, many traditions you don't realize are important to your kids until years down the road when they it announce it as their favorite Christmas memory - or until you suddenly stop doing them.

Even though Oliver is still very young, this Christmas is already more fun. He's much more observant and interactive, so I talk to him about Christmas and try to build the excitement even if I know he doesn't understand a lot yet. But he's already noticed our stockings we hung above the couch. I point out his stocking and explain that on Christmas morning he's going to be able to reach in his stocking and pull out treats and gifts from Santa.

Oliver update: 14 months

At 14 months, Oliver is teetering between babyhood and toddlerhood. But calling him "Toddler Oliver" doesn't have the same ring as "Baby Oliver," so I'm going to hang on to Oliver's babyhood for a little while longer. He's still small enough to cradle in my arms, he still babbles his baby language and still looks adorable in onesies with sassy phrases printed on the front and hats with ears that make him look like a teddy bear.

Even if part of me wants Oliver to stay a baby just a little longer, another part of me recognizes when he's grown up. He knows how to use a sippy cup, so a week and a half ago I decided it was time for him to give up the bottle. I was spurred mostly by Oliver's pediatrician who said he'd like to see him off the bottle by 18 months. Because I didn't see Oliver making the switch unless he was forced to, I decided we were going to do this cold turkey. And do it now so that I'm not handing Oliver a sippy cup of milk the night before his 18-month wellness check so I can answer yes when the doctor asks me if Oliver has transitioned from the bottle.

Day 1 of no bottle had some limited success, but then Oliver vomited in the middle of the night because of what I found out later must have been the Norwalk virus. Thankfully the vomiting was a one-time occurrence, but when he continued to have diarrhea throughout the next day and seemingly refused to drink anything, dehydration became a huge concern. I never got out the bottle, but I compromised by holding the sippy cup (with warmed milk no less) for him. I felt like a cop-out to my hard-line approach, but a friend who's a doctor said that because babies suck differently on a sippy cup than they do a bottle, and this sucking motion doesn't impede dental development, making the switch to the sippy cup, even if someone is holding it for the baby, is still a very healthy step. So I stopped worrying about whether he would hold his own sippy cup of milk and considered it a success that we were even using it at all and took comfort in knowing that he was well-hydrated.

Then two or three days ago Oliver started willingly drinking from a sippy cup by himself. We place one or two sippy cups on his tray at mealtimes, (always one with milk and sometimes another filled with water) and on the first day of no bottle he wailed at even the site of his cup on his tray. But we've just left the sippy cups there and maybe he finally warmed to the hands-off, no-pressure approach. And I think when he decided to give it a try and realized he knew how to use it, he was quite proud of himself and wanted to show off. Because what baby doesn't want to show off when his mom is ridiculously cheering every self-fed sip from the other side of the table? Oliver still sometimes hands the sippy cup to me and I know he wants me to hold it for him. But I feel like we're now of "will he or won't he?" and I oblige.

But it's not just the sippy cups he hands (well, throws) to me. He's long been in the phase of handing things to people, which he often tries to take right back (and when he hands me half-chewed food, that's fine if he wants it back). I've mentioned before that throwing books to me is his new way of saying he wants me to read to him. The other day, he lifted up a bag of Goldfish grahams and held it patiently in front of me. Translation: empty out this bag for me because I'm hungry for a snack. Those imploring big brown eyes are too difficult to resist!

Oliver's cold seems like it may actually be gone, but after a second round of antibiotics didn't appear to work, I'm convinced the ear infection might stick around for awhile. The doctor had said that unless his condition worsens, (develops a fever or appears to be in pain) I don't even need to bring him back in. Oliver doesn't appear to be in pain, but it's clear there's some discomfort and I can't tell if his otherwise non-rosy disposition is a result of the lingering ear infection, or just the usual trials of toddlerhood, like teething and being told "No!" one too many times. Oh how I wish I could ask him what's wrong (Is it your gums, your ears?)!

Just in the past week we've witnessed Oliver stand up on his own without pulling himself up on anything. He's even taken a few steps, but we think the steps were really caused by momentum as he lurched himself towards our arms. But these upright moments are still few and far between so I'm not going to make any predictions that he's going to be walking any day now.

Happy Birthday Mom

Today would have been my mom's 62nd birthday. Her birthday marks what is always a difficult stretch of weeks since it's followed by the anniversary of her death, Christmas and my parent's anniversary on December 27. But while the memories remain strong, I've discovered that happy times help replace the sadness. Nevertheless, she'll always be missed.

Minnesota Children's Museum

The past couple of days has produced our first dose of arctic chill for the season. Side streets are still ice rinks after last week's ice storm and non-windchill temperatures have only reached as high as the mid-20s. The sidewalks are still passable with a stroller, but after another snowfall, they won't be. We're still going outdoors, but our walks are more condensed. No more dilly-dallying and taking in the sights and sounds. We head out on our usual loop so I can get my exercise and Oliver his fresh air, but then I call it good for the day. Despite how much I persevere with the cold weather, Oliver and I may already be suffering from cabin fever. And it's not even December...

Oliver is at the age where he needs to be on the move, but he isn't old enough to run around outside to burn off some energy, let alone be outside on a blustery day. So walks end up being his only outdoor time, and he's contained in not only his stroller, but the straight-jacket effect of his stroller bunting. Even if he likes trips to the store because there are new things to see and he can play in the seat of the cart with some of the items we're going to buy, (boxes of pastas make great impromptu rattles) there are only so many places we can go to get out of the house and where he can move around and just be a baby. The children's section of the library is one, and there are even toys there, in addition to the books, and another is the Family Center with its playroom located in the school down the street from our house. But that's about it for public places close to our home.

Chris spent this afternoon with Oliver so I could get a much-needed haircut and meet up with a friend for equally-needed time to catch up, and he was faced with the "What do I do all afternoon indoors with a baby?" question. His answer was to finally get the Minnesota Children's Museum membership we'd been talking about for months now. At $9 admission per person over the age of 1, visits quickly become pricey for our family of three. But a membership, starting at $89, was a commitment too. When Oliver was still an infant, we had debated whether to buy a membership, but then decided to wait until he was crawling and could get more out of a visit. Even when he was crawling, he could really only enjoy the room geared towards younger babies and toddlers, so we wondered if we should wait until he was old enough to enjoy more of the museum.

Now that Chris made the decision to go ahead and buy a membership, (he even sprung for the one that allows us to bring a guest for free so Oliver's grandparents or Uncle Andy can join us) I know I'm going to wonder why we ever waited. Oliver woke up at 2:30 this afternoon from his nap and Chris changed his diaper, put his clothes on and fed him a snack and still had him to the downtown St. Paul museum by 3:00 p.m. They spent all their time in the room with the water tables where Oliver got to splash his hands in faucets and fountains and race boats and ping pong balls down chutes of water - all the stuff we're never doing at home due to lack of space, equipment and my impatience for mess. After an hour and 15 minutes, he'd had his fun and they were back home in time for Chris to feed him an early 4:45 p.m. dinner.

Now that we have the membership to the Children's Museum, I'm excited to go with Oliver more often. Even if we only stay an hour, I won't feel guilty because our visit is "free." The change of scenery will be exciting for Oliver and just might save my sanity this winter too.

Thanksgiving

Today is technically Oliver's second Thanksgiving, but in some ways it feels like his first. Only two months old last year, Oliver didn't do much more than sleep and eat. As the new parent of a newborn, the round-the-clock care of a baby overshadowed some of the excitement of any of "baby's first [insert holiday]," especially when the notions of holiday and family tradition were completely lost on him. Even though planning was more complicated this year since the big meal was scheduled to start directly in the middle of what is now one nap a day for Oliver, seeing him participate in this year's Thanksgiving outweighted the preparations. Oliver ate turkey and pumpkin pie for the first time, played with his grandparents and dad's cousins, giggled at receiving kisses from the two little dogs in attendance and challenged his Great-Grandma Bea to a race: he with his cart against she with her walker. (The winner was too close to call.) Frankly, Oliver was more fun as a 14-month-old than a two-month-old.

As we start another holiday season, Thanksgiving was a reminder that with each year that passes, we'll get many more holiday "firsts." And a lot more fun that goes with it.

Boston Qualifier

I will never run a marathon, but can appreciate the dedication, will power and physical stamina required to run 26.2 miles. I was always happy running 3-4 miles. It was short enough of a workout to squeeze in before work or to endure during cold and dark Minnesota winters. Even when I didn't feel like running, which was sometimes often, I knew my favored loop - either around Lake of the Isles when I lived in Minneapolis, or by the mansions of Summit Avenue when I lived in St. Paul - would be over sooner than I thought. Yet, a couple of miles was long enough to get in a zone, but not to become bored. I still got my runner's high and those few miles kept me addicted to pounding the pavement, literally, day after day four seasons a year. All running at my embarrassingly-slow nine-minute mile (on my best days) pace.

With my humble place in the pursuit of running, I admire those who have run the crowning race in the sport. My husband, my dad, my Uncle Gary and my brother, Scott, can all call themselves marathon runners.

Three years ago, Chris and I stood on the edge of Summit Avenue at the 23-mile mark on a miserably muggy October afternoon and cheered on runners as we scanned the crowd looking for Scott, who'd end up coming along 45 minutes behind his personal record. Despite a disappointing finish in that race, Scott kept training and a few marathons later, he ran the Philadelphia Marathon, held today. With a time of 3:09:44, he qualified for Boston!

Yeah, Boston is kind of a big deal in the running world. It's the world's oldest annual marathon and you must run a qualifying time in a marathon in the previous 18 months to even be allowed to enter. For men in the 18-34 age group, that means running 3:10:59 or better, and for women, 3:40:59 or better. That means going out and running a mile in under seven minutes and 30 seconds, and then doing it again another 25 times.

Scott chased the crowd of people running with the 3:10 pacer the whole race, but as the pacers were at the front of the crowd of people making their way across the starting line, he knew that even if he was behind the official pacer, he had about a two-minute cushion between the pacer's time and his official chip time. He crossed the 25-mile mark in time to give allow him a "leisurely" last 1.2 miles. He slowed down to give his aching body a chance to catch a break, but when the finish line never appeared, he started to worry he'd allowed himself to slow down too much. He knew the story of the man from the documentary Spirit of the Marathon who missed qualifying for Boston by 11 seconds, and of a friend of mine who missed by a similar margin this fall in the Twin Cities Marathon. But he did make it, or I guess I wouldn't be writing this entry, right?

I'm incredibly proud of Scott and hope he's an inspiration for Oliver. Meanwhile, though, we're still trying to teach Oliver to walk or he's never going to learn to run.

Supporting Cognitive Development

In our early childhood education class I first learned the term "cognitive development" and how the synapses that connect neurons (core components of the nervous system, including the brain) grow at the fastest rate in a human's life from birth to about three years old. As we grow older, the synapses that have been active - the ones that have been stimulated by language, music, physical activities, food and so on - strengthen, while the unused synapses die off. So the theory goes that the more enriching an environment we raise our children in, the better their brain development and the smarter they'll be.

I was fascinated by information presented in the video our class watched, but a short ten-minute clip had also overwhelmed me. All I could think about is how Oliver is screwed because I don't sing to him enough. Some section of his brain is going to die off at age three because I can't carry a tune, can't play an instrument, can't remember the words to any songs other than The Wheels on the Bus or Take Me Out to the Ballgame and, frankly, don't even enjoy singing.

Aside from anything musical, I felt like I wasn't doing enough for Oliver period. What if I wasn't talking to him enough? Or reading to him enough? I suddenly felt guilty about the classes I thought would be both fun for me and beneficial for Oliver - baby sign language, Music Together, a bring-your-baby yoga class - but that I had opted out of mainly because of the cost (meaning not free for this frugal one). Sigh. Out of all the types of mommy guilt I could have predicted before I had kids, cognitive development wouldn't have made the list.

In our discussion afterward, the teacher assured us that we're all doing the right things just by doing what we've been doing all along with our kids throughout the course of their daily loves. We tell them we love them, we play with them, we fill their diets with healthy fats to grow their brains, we make sure they get enough sleep, we read to them, we sing to them (sigh, the guilt is still there). Eventually, out of necessity, I've had to lighten up (there's only one of me and so few waking hours in Oliver's life) but a chapter in the book American Parent: My Strange and Surprising Adventures in Babyland about research on cognitive development and our obsession as Americans to do anything possible to help our kids grow up to be geniuses, finally provided me the proof and rational I didn't know I had been seeking.

He explains, "If the synapses in the brain grow rapidly only in the first years of life, and if the synapses that aren't actively used die off, then it takes only a small leap to arrive at the idea that the more our brains are stimulated in the first years of life, the more synapses we will have, and the more powerful our brains will be." I guess that's where my logic was heading after seeing the video in class, but really, being kind of a pessimist, I was already making the leap to lack of stimulation creating a stunted brain.

The author writes about an experiment performed in the 1960s where one eye on a kitten was covered by a patch for the first three months of its life. Not only did that eye remain permanently blind, but when the researchers dissected the cat's brain, "they saw that without incoming date from the eyes, the visual cortex failed to develop properly." Even if scientists weren't trying to make a connection between "blind kittens and the intelligence of babies," that hasn't stopped parents from acting as if "children didn't receive the right stimulation in the first years of life, their brains would forever be as useless as the eyes of those blind-folded kittens."

But the author spells out what the media failed to explain in its pieces on infant development on ABC news or in articles in Newsweek or Parents magazine. "The research had found only that complete sensory deprivation could impede development. There has never been good evident that extra stimulation - beyond the sights and sounds that all babies hear in the course of daily life - enhances infant development."

Deep down I know we're doing alright. Oliver's day may not be filled with exciting activities, but I'm comforted realizing that spending two straight days in his pajamas, skipping the only playdate scheduled for the week because of a nap schedule gone array or banging away at the same set of toys while I try to do meal cleanup, general housekeeping and dinner preparation is not going to make him stupid, or worse.

And part of me is secretly placing a bet on the theory that Oliver's low-key babyhood is actually healthier. With few exceptions, his sleep and meal schedules have been directed by him, not by daycare or his parent's work schedules. We go to our early childhood education class on Thursday evenings - admittedly a taxing time of day for Oliver's early-to-bed routine - but that's the only scheduled activity we have all week. Everything else is kept simple. We have a calendar full of playdates through my moms groups we can take part in - when the timing works out. Until Oliver's nap schedule shifted, we hit up story time once a week, but even without that for the time-being, the library is only a 15-minute walk away and makes the perfect, "what do we do with our time now" kind of excursion. I keep my eye out for other activities outside the home that I think would enrich Oliver's development and be fun for him (and for me), but otherwise, I hope I'm setting the pace for a relaxed babyhood.

What Goes in the Mouth, Goes in the Brain

"What goes in the mouth, goes in the brain." That's what the facilitator of our new parent group at the hospital used to tell us about everything that babies put in their mouths, including books. With more nerve endings on their tongues than anywhere else on the body, "tasting" objects is how babies explore their world. It wasn't until very recently, though, that Oliver did more than try to eat his books.

Reading to Oliver has taken many forms. Not until I had a newborn did I realize that sitting them in your laps and reading them a book, like you would a small child, doesn't really work out that well since a newborn is a) most likely sleeping or crying to be fed b) can't hold its head up to look at a book c) can't even see more than a foot in front of its face anyway. I discovered the board books with the black and white images - the contrast of the two being what babies under three months old see the best - and as Oliver would lay on the ground, I'd hold the book in front of his face and describe the pictures. It was fun to see him connecting with the images on the page, but it wasn't very exciting describing the same wordless pages over and over again.

As soon as Oliver could hold his head up steadily and sit in my lap, I could finally read him a book in the more traditional sense, but that was short-lived, because then he started grabbing at the pages. Any books that were not board books were stored on a shelf out of his reach. He'll get those back when he can learn not to tear pages.

After months of narrating picture books, I bought Oliver new board books with an actual story line. I was so bored of trying to create a story line out of a picture of a black dog or a kite or a leaf against a white background. Well, Oliver had discovered how exciting it was to turn pages, so I either read books in fast forward as Oliver turned the pages faster than I could read them, or I just skipped whole sections of the book. Eventually he'd just want to turn the pages and lost interest when I actually tried to read the book. I'd get three pages in and he'd crawl out of my lap and move onto something else.

During the period when he had really zero interest in having a story read to him, his favorite activities involving books included either pulling them off shelves or pulling himself up on the coffee table and sliding his books one by one off the table and onto the floor.

Then a few days ago, we were having quiet playtime in Oliver's room before bed and, as usual, he pulled all his books off his shelf. But then he threw one at my feet and let out a grunt, as if to say "Read!" (He treats toys and balls indiscriminately - he likes to fling both at the floor.)

"Do you want me to read this book to you?" I asked.

He looked at me expectantly, so I read him the book and he sat and looked at the pages, and yes, wanted to turn the pages, but we read the whole book! He then threw another one at me and I read that one. And then a third time. I think he's starting to get it! He shows an interest in a book and knows that if he "asks" (we'll work on handing books instead of throwing them later) someone will read it to him.

Oliver is still into manhandling his books, and I let him interact with them in whatever way he wants. Sometimes he'll be sitting amidst a pile of books and he'll page through one of them by himself, either flipping one page back and forth, back or forth, fingering the different textures on a page, or opening and closing one of the flaps on a flip-the-flap book (his favorites right now). But if he "hands" a book to me, I always ask him if he wants to read it and then pull him into my lap so we can read together. It's exciting to see that what's gone in the mouth might finally be processing in the brain.

Ear Infection Continues

We were back to the pediatrician this morning to have Oliver's ears checked again. The dramatic (positive) change in mood that I was expecting after the first round of antibiotics had a chance to do its work had never occurred and although Oliver wasn't waking up coughing, I've seen him tug at his ears. Or in the case last night, trying to jam his fists into his ears.

My suspicions were confirmed when the doctor said the infection in his right ear is still there. It's not any worse at least, but also not better. He prescribed a different antibiotic, Cefdinir.

As I explained how baffled I was by the lack of clear symptoms indicating an ear infection, the doctor explained that ear infections "come in many flavors," with one kind being where the ear drum is enlarged, which would cause piercing pain, or in Oliver's case, where there is mild inflammation, which most likely causes a dull discomfort along with the sensation that your ear won't pop. So that would explain why Oliver wasn't showing any symptoms, at least not the type that I could differentiate from a baby dealing with a change in nap schedule, daylight savings time, a natural reduction in appetite that occurs around 12 months and a persistent cold.

I learned recently that babies and toddlers average 15-20 viruses a year, with each lasting three to seven days. Even on the low end, that's more than one virus a month! No wonder Oliver seems like he's had a cold for weeks, because he probably has. The doctor said it's not uncommon for some kids to literally have a cold all winter, yet it's par for the course and not something he'd be worried about.

That pesky cold is most likely what caused the ear infection, but that it's impossible to avoid them. Babies are such oral creatures - meaning they put EVERYTHING in their mouths. I'm a persistent hand-washer, but don't wash Oliver's hands unless he's had something sticky and/or gross in his hands. Do you know how cumbersome it is to try to hold a 20-pound baby over a sink to wash his hands for him? When I asked if now that the cold has caused a lingering ear infection if I should try harder to clean Oliver's hands, the doctor started to suggest I could try a hand sanitizer foam, but then added that really the only successful preventive measure would be to keep him in a bubble.

Let it Snow

We woke up this morning to the first snowfall of the season on Minnesota. At less than two inches, the snow is still enough to cover lawns and tree limbs and rooftops and brighten the drabness that is usually associated with November. While this snowfall won't amount to much and tomorrow's predicted high of 40 will return the sidewalks to a stroller-friendly state, at least I know I'm ready for when winter comes to stay.

Through last spring Oliver was still small enough for his infant car seat and the cover that cocooned him in warmth. I would dress him in a simple fleece outerwear suit, a hand-me-down from a cousin, put a hat on his head, socks on his hands (they work much better on babies than actual mittens!) and drape a thin blanket over his lower body. Once the cover was on, his little face was all that showed. He stayed warm and protected from the wind. We often walked when the temperature was in single digits, yet he peacefully slept in his cocoon. When Oliver was nine weeks old, we started joining a friend for a weekly Saturday morning walk around Lake Como and I only canceled once - when the wind chill dropped to the double digits. And that was because it was too cold for me. (Oliver would probably have been fine.)

Now that Oliver is sitting up in a stroller, dressing for cold weather has new challenges. I have two hearty friends, one a non-car-owner from Montreal and the other an all-season, all-weather outdoor enthusiast, and we've been sharing strategy on how to get our babies winter-ready. What gear works best with babies and most importantly, how do we protect those little faces from the harsh Minnesota winds?

The obvious preparation was to upgrade from a car seat cover to a stroller bunting, a sleeping-bag-like cover that hooks into the seat of the stroller. Oliver is small enough still that when completely zipped up, the bunting comes up to his chin. Assuming that he'll be walking at some point this winter and will presumably spend at least a bit of time running around outdoors, we bought him a proper winter jacket and snow pants and boots. But mostly, he won't need this much clothing underneath his stroller cover. Instead, it's protecting the head that will be the most difficult. I found him a fleece hat that snaps underneath the chin and wraps snugly around his head and ears. But finding any sort of neck warmer or face mask in even toddler size has been impossible. So the latest idea thrown out there was to to put a rain shield over the stroller with the thought that the flexible plastic covering would be enough to cut down on the wind. Applying Vaseline or Dermatone to the exposed skin would be added protection.

Not until the bitter cold weather sets in will we know how much we need to tweak our system for safely and comfortably enjoying fresh air with our emerging toddlers. But despite the hassle, time and strong will required to go take a walk (with or without a baby) in winter in the Upper-Midwest, I don't feel I have any other choice. Walking is my only form of exercise now and I try to stick with it for both my physical and mental health. If I don't prepare for the outdoors, I'm stuck walking indoors at places like the Mall of America. Plus I'm hoping that Oliver grows up embracing winter and believing that spending time outside and pursuing physical activity can only take place in seasons that don't require a parka.

Sleeping Soundly

I heard Oliver's wails over the sound of the TV and dashed upstairs to his rescue. I felt sorry for the poor little guy and sad not knowing how long he'd been left in his crib in distress. Since Oliver is such a good sleeper, I don't worry about watching TV at the other end of the house where it's more difficult to hear him. Besides, Chris had already gone to bed in the next room and even sound asleep, Oliver's cries through the thin, uninsulated walls should have woken Chris faster than it took me to notice in the silent lull in between commercials that Oliver was calling for us.

But when I ducked into our bedroom to grab a flashlight so I could search under Oliver's crib for his pacifier, I heard Chris snoring. How could he be still asleep with Oliver screaming in the adjacent room??? With the return of his pacifier and his giraffe and from soothing from mom, Oliver went back to sleep quickly, but was up once more before it remained silent the rest of the night. Chris slept through that distress call too.

I'm envious of how soundly Chris sleeps. So long as I'm sleeping in the same house as Oliver, I wake up when he wakes up. Even on the weekend mornings when Chris jumps out of bed and tries to pluck Oliver out of his crib before I wake up, the goodwill gesture is a lost cause. Not only do I wake up, but I can't go back to sleep. Chris, in contrast, can be up for an entire hour with Oliver, feeding him and playing with him, and when he puts him back down for a nap, can go back to sleep himself for hours. Not fair.

One of the reasons we don't own a baby monitor is that I would never be able to leave it on, as I would never sleep as I listened to every mumble, groan, sigh or crinkle of the mattress coming through the speaker of the monitor. I often wear earplugs to tune out the sounds a baby makes while settling into sleep or moving around during the night. That may sound extreme, but for someone who wakes up after having dreamed the baby was crying or took months to differentiate the cries of the baby next door from the cries of my own, earplugs are a reasonable solution.

Even when Oliver outgrows crying in the middle of the night, uninterrupted sleep still may not be completely achievable. We've also got extremely creeky floorboards. So good luck Oliver trying to sneak in past curfew. Your mom is a light sleeper.

Ear Infection

My parental gut instinct is feeling out of whack. You know, that feeling that's supposed to kick in when something is wrong, even if you don't know what or why? So I'm feeling kind of sheepish that instead of taking Oliver to the doctor's office at the first sign of a change in demeanor, I convinced myself that he was just teething, had allergies or needed more sleep. Thankfully, it was just an ear infection, but still, how long would I have let Oliver go untreated while being unaware that he was slowly worsening into a state of miserableness?

Oliver had been waking up early all week coughing and had been rather cranky, despite my attempts to be a stickler about naps. Yet I attributed any crankiness to the theories that he wasn't sleeping long enough at night and that he was still transitioning to one nap. And all the sleep books and other parents warned me that this phase will indeed make kids cranky, and their parents too in the process, so I endured. Yes, he had a runny nose, but between allergies and the fact that he probably catches who knows what by putting everything in his mouth, that's not a unique situation.

My friend's son has had two double ear infections after exhibiting nothing more than some coughing while sleeping and trying to put his finger in his ears. I thought babies with ear infections are supposed to tug on their ears and wail uncontrollably for hours on end. But then Chris swore Oliver tugged on his ear after a nap, and well, there were those minute-long coughing fits the past couple of mornings. At Chris's urging, I managed to squeak Oliver during regular office hours and avoid a visit to urgent care.

Oliver is now on a ten-day round of amoxicillin, standard anti-biotic treatment for ear infections, with a follow-up appointment needed in a few weeks to make sure the infection is gone. And just for good measure, I've been giving him regular doses of ibuprofen to ease the pain until the antibiotics clear up the inflammation. The doctor said we'd actually caught the infection early and since it was bound to get worse, possibly a lot worse, before it got better, he assured me that even if I'd be unsure of whether something was wrong at this point, I wouldn't have doubted myself a couple of days from now.

Happy Halloween

Some of us parents from last semester's early childhood education class met up on Friday evening. And on a rare night away from our kids and the mundane tasks associated with taking care of babies, we well, talked about babies. And Halloween. With our kids ranging in age between 12 and 15 months, they just don't get Halloween yet. Heck, most can't even walk, mine included, and candy is pretty-much off limits for them, so the best part about Halloween, trick or treating, isn't a baby-friendly activity. Yet we all clearly felt a parental responsibility to do something for Halloween, but weren't sure if we were doing enough. Who had taken them to Boo Bash on Grand Avenue? What were our trick or treating plans? Did we buy a new costume just for the occasion or borrow one? But when we passed around photos of our kids in costumes and awwed at our adorable they all were, I realized that simply by dressing them up, we had fulfilled our Halloween duties as parents. As long as we had pictures documenting how darn cute they were in that duck outfit, we'll look back at previous Halloweens with fond memories.

Most early-childhood milestones are about the photo ops. The one-year-old smashing a piece of birthday cake. The child sitting on Santa's lap. And cute little babies dressed up as ladybugs, pumpkins and various cuddly-looking animals. Oliver didn't go to any Halloween parties this year (they occurred during nap time) or take part in Halloween-related festivities, (how did I know the kids were supposed to dress up for the baby story time the week of Halloween?) but Chris and I did dress him up in a lion costume we borrowed from a friend and took him to his Grandma Nan and Grandpa Dan's house for his very first round of trick or treating, followed up by visits to some neighbors.

When Halloween rolls around next year, Oliver probably still won't get it. But just as Chris's mom did when he brought home a new girlfriend and she hauled out albums containing pictures from early Halloweens, (Chris and his brother made cute dandelions!) we took tons of pictures for future generations.

Oliver update: 13 months

During last weekend's trip to Philadelphia, I would not have been as relaxed bringing Oliver to dinner in the dining room of my grandmother's retirement home, with its carpeted floors and white linen tablecloths, if he were still in his food-throwing/dropping stage. I realized a few weeks ago that I couldn't remember the last time food ended up on the floor on purpose and that I wasn't changing the newspaper I had laid out underneath his booster seat very often. I had been so frustrated by this stage and yet it seemingly vanished without my noticing. Oliver actually puts food he's not into back on his tray (although he still has the habit of squirreling away food underneath his leg - a habit my friend's kid does as well!) And for everyone who's laughed when they've seen Oliver be stripped down to his diaper prior to a meal, I actually let Oliver eat his lunch the other day with all his clothes on.

Around Oliver's first birthday, his appetite dropped significantly, (totally normal for a twelve-month-old when the body is trying to grow in length and not in girth) and I've finally adjusted to the idea that he doesn't eat as much as he used to. If we ate lunch away from home, I'd pack an entire cooler of food, fearful Oliver could eat through the entire stash. Now lunch isn't much more than a piece of toast, a piece of fruit and some veggies, and he rarely eats all of the three. If we're on the go, I can even get away with Cheerios, a few sticks of cheese and a banana - a combo that's relatively mess-free and can be eaten while riding in his stroller.

After consulting with the wise moms from my moms groups about Oliver's picky-eating tendencies, I've taken a new tactic when serving food. It's now take it, or leave it. No more offering up fruit or toast if Oliver doesn't want to eat what he's served. He won't starve, they assured me, and I'm not going to be stunting his cognitive development if he doesn't eat a well-balanced diet every meal, or doesn't eat at all. Just follow up with a bottle of milk and offer him a snack when that time rolls around.

I just wish I'd done this earlier. I now understand where picky eating starts and how easy it is for parents to become enablers. Although I've heard this numerous times during discussions on nutrition that parents are supposed to determine the what (healthy foods), when (at meal times, and not any time they please) and where (at that table, and not running around noshing on snacks) when it comes to food and it's your children who should always be in control of how much (and you need to trust them on that), it's easy to succumb to the fear that your kid isn't getting enough to eat. I worried that if he didn't eat enough at that meal, he'd be hungry later or he'd end up with "failure to thrive" diagnosis at his next wellness check-up. I mixed up denying him a particular food when he had other healthy alternatives on his tray with denying him food period. Sure I could explain to a three- or four-year-old that the only food he was getting was what was being served for dinner, but to a one-year-old? It didn't seem right. So if Oliver threw a fit at the table, I tried offering him something else instead.

Oliver may always be slow to try new foods - that's just part of his unique temperament and and there's nothing wrong with that. But I still have a choice in how react. I make exceptions to my hard-line stance when we're away from home and don't want to create a scene or if I'm desperate for a few more minutes of mealtime piece (because once Oliver is finished his food, he doesn't sit quietly - something we'll have to work on at an older and more appropriate age). But it's worked out well. I don't give in to his demands for a particular food, but I also don't push food on him. And I've learned that sometimes he's really just tired and would rather have his bottle and take a nap, than eat. And sometimes he eventually eats whatever he was previously protesting!

As you may know from a previous post, I gave up breastfeeding and Oliver is now exclusively on cow's milk. We're working, well supposedly, on weaning him from the bottle, which his doctor would like done by 18 months. I have a special cup I give him to drink out of, but given that half the time he'd prefer to bang the cup against his tray, I haven't dared put more than a small amount of water in it. The alternative is a sippy cup, but I can't find one he's into and I just don't have the energy yet to deal with his protests when he doesn't get his milk in bottle. Oliver at least seems to be getting over his demand that his milk be served warm. One of the same friends who advised me about it being okay to not offer Oliver different foods if he didn't like what he was being served, said that it was even okay to go for a week allowing him to refuse cold milk if he was getting dairy and the healthy fats associated with it in other forms like cheese or whole yogurt.

The upside of that whirlwind weekend visiting family a two+-hour plane ride away is that the shake-up in Oliver's schedule actually had a positive affect on him. The past few weeks had been a struggle with the slow transition towards one nap. Whether he took a morning nap or not, he seemed to always be cranky, yet wouldn't sleep long in the afternoon and some days I thought I could have put him to bed at 4:30 p.m. and he would have welcomed it. Then we went away for a weekend, when he never went to bed on time, and attempts at having him nap in the car failed, (despite this being a successful tactic on our trip to Seattle in August) yet we landed back in Minneapolis on Sunday morning, made it home just in time for lunch and Oliver went down for a long nap and woke up the happiest baby alive. He repeated the one long nap and happy demeanor the next day, which I thought was going to be his sleep-all-day-on-no-schedule-catch-up-day. I don't dare declare Oliver "transitioned," because he then went a three-day stretch at two naps a day, but knowing he's capable of long afternoon naps and can manage napless mornings, even if that doesn't make him the happiest of fellows, makes me more relaxed that we're on the right track.

Oliver still isn't walking or standing on his own yet, but he's crawling, cruising along furniture and pulling himself up on everything. The only walking he does is behind his push cart, which he can lean on for support. He looks so happy and proud of himself when he's cruising the lower level all by himself. His happiness easily turns to frustration, though, because he can't figure out how to maneuver the cart around obstacles, like a wall or furniture. So he erupts into tantrum-like tears until someone diverts his cart towards a clear course. I'll admit to hiding his cart when I don't have time to turn him around every two seconds and hopes he finds another toy just as entertaining.

I also need to make sure the gate at the bottom of the stairs is closed, because if Oliver sees the gate open, he makes a beeline for the stairs and wants to engage in his other new favorite activity - climbing. If you pry him from the stairs, he protests, but if the gate is closed, shaking the gate is clearly just as much fun as climbing, but that doesn't need supervision.

I'd predicted last month that Oliver could have two teeth by thirteen months, but that one tooth on his bottom gum line is still making its way in. You can see it now, though, we he smiles. Every now and then I check to see if I can feel anything else coming in, but so far nothing.

Maybe no one else agrees, but I'm convinced Oliver's hair is starting to grow. We went outside on a really windy evening and believe it or not, his hair was blowing in the wind.

Oliver is still not saying any discernible words, although he's consistently saying, "Mum, mum, mum." My friend, whose son is two months older and now says "Mom," and it's clearly directed at her, said his "Mum, mum, mum" babble is a pre-cursor to saying mom.

You can help develop your baby's pre-literacy skills by reading to him or her. We're working on that....Oliver doesn't often sit still for longer than a three-page book. He likes to turn the pages, but if he realizes you're actually trying to read the words on the pages instead of just letting him turning the pages as fast as he can, he tries to crawl out of your lap. He does show interest in "reading" interactive books, like those with different textures on the pages he can feel, or those with flaps he can open and close. He likes ripping books off shelves or pushing them off the coffee table. But the experts say that's all part of creating a positive association with books. And when he puts them in his mouth? The tongue has more nerve endings than the fingers, so that's just how babies explore their new world. I always leave a book with him in his crib at night and during nap times and every now and then I find him paging through the book. My little bookworm - so adorable.

While I've long been familiar with the term pre-literacy and have always known it's good to read to kids, I just recently learned about "pre-math" skills. Oh, Chris will be all over this one. I've noticed in the past couple of months that Oliver likes to stack and sort toys, which is typical at this age. Who knew that activities like stacking blocks or matching shapes to the appropriate cut-outs in the lid of a bucket is a child's start to understanding math concepts?

Our Loss

Chris and I had been looking forward to finally announcing the news that I'm pregnant, but sadly, I suffered a miscarriage. Although it occurred rather early in my pregnancy, it still has been heart-breaking. In the relatively short amount of time we had since learning I was pregnant, we had begun to imagine a future with a second child, full of limitless hopes and dreams. I know with time we will move on, but in the mean time, I (particularly) struggle with disappointment over what could have been and the fear of this happening again. I'm emotionally exhausted and tired, but am otherwise physically fine.

We're not looking for explanations about why I miscarried or theories on a greater meaning, but simply support as we move on. Although it's sad to lose a pregnancy, I don't want this to be something that should stay a secret or be talked about in a hush-hush manner. The experience is extremely personal, yet I don't feel secrecy helps my healing process or others who've had a miscarriage.

Book Club

My neighbor invited me to join a book club and I debated, given my reading track record since I'd had kids, whether I'd be a contributor or a drag on the group. I last completed a book in early July, and only managed that feat because it was an easy enough read that I could read the entire book while nursing over the course of a five-day stay at the cabin. Usually what happens though is that I check out a book from the library, renew it and then eventually pay a fine on it before even cracking open the cover and then returning it long overdue. Would I be able to handle the pressure of reading an entire book every month?

But I was drawn in by the desire to meet new people and SOCIALIZE. Chris agreed that I need to get out more and not talk about babies. (But showed up and learned two members are pregnant, so I don't think this group will escape baby talk.) If everyone weren't so darn funny and nice, they'd be intimidating, these people who had stories to tell that didn't revolve around nap schedules and babies' bowel movements. One woman is a college English professor who's about to publish her memoir. Impressive. (I kept mum on what I used to think was the super cool blog I've been writing.) But I realized during our inaugural meeting that some light-hearted intellectual conversation soothed the dulled brain cells worn down after talking to one-year-olds all day. Even when next month's discussion will be about the book titled I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated. At least I wasn't the only one who pushed for something easy and funny for our first book. Really though, the professor said it's well-written.

Breastfeeding from the Trenches

WARNING: The following blog entry contains the word "breast" in every other sentence. If that makes you uncomfortable, cease reading.

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My goal was to breastfeed for six months and I made it! (And then some.) Right after Oliver was born, though, I wasn't sure if I'd make it even six days. Six weeks felt like an eternity. Six months suddenly seemed impossible. Before Oliver was born, I had decided on six months, because I'd heard it was a recommendation by some well-respected organization whose name I can't remember. In those first two or three weeks, all I could think was, "This sucks," and about how sad I was that I wanted to give up on something I was so confident beforehand that I could do.

Breastfeeding, in theory, is not difficult - no bottles, no mixing and warming formula, it's readily available and ready to go. It's the details, the ones that are glossed over or not talked about unless you hang out with a breastfeeding woman and hear about what the commitment really entails. Although there's a lot of education among my generation to promote breastfeeding, and doctors, hospitals and workplaces are lining up in support, much of the details about breastfeeding remain a mystery to those, like me, who just didn't have a lot of exposure to the practice until I was doing it myself. You rarely see women breastfeeding in public, and unless you're close friends with someone breastfeeding, you're not going to be privy to the ups and downs. Thus, I was surprised by how lonely, overwhelming, frustrating and boring the experience initially was.

I was lucky in that I didn't have any "mechanical" challenges to overcome - Oliver figured out how to latch quickly, I never experienced painful clogged ducts or mastitis, and my milk supply, while a little late to come in, was always adequate. Other than some clumsiness as I figured out how best to position Oliver and encourage a good latch and a lot of really uncomfortable engorgement - all really unavoidable when you're a newbie - my foray into breastfeeding was "by the book." Yet, why was it still rough going?

I recently listened to a podcast about breastfeeding and the guest on the show, a nurse and lactation consultant, was the most straight-forward of any breast-feeding proponent I'd encountered about the reality of breastfeeding. Most focus only on the benefits of breastfeeding and why you should do it. Sure, this woman did that, but not while also gushing about what an "intimate experience" it is, or how it's a "selfless act" or how it's the ultimate form of "bonding." Please. If I hear any more of these descriptions, I'm going to gag, because I find these cliches about what the experience is supposed to be like and the phrases hardly described my own.

The lactation consultant's job was to promote breastfeeding and help women correct challenges, but I also appreciated how forthright she was. It's monotonous, she said. You're going to feel like you're never going to do anything else but feed your baby and that you're never going to move from your position on the couch. Oh, and it's boring and lonely, she continued. Back in the day, child-rearing was more a collective effort and you most likely had a mom, cousin, sister around - someone, thus, to talk to to pass the time away. You weren't sequestered in your office or a lactation room pumping or alone at home all day. I listened to that podcast 10 months too late.

I feel so naive now, but that podcaster wasn't kidding about breastfeeding being time-consuming. I'd never done the math. Well, first of all, I never even thought about how long it could take a baby to eat, not that I could have planned for that since you just can't know ahead of time what kind of eater you'll have. Multiply that by 8-10 times in a 24-hour period. And when some book I read during pregnancy said that most newborns need to eat every one to two hours, it didn't mention that that's every two hours from the last time he started eating. So if he ate at 9:00 a.m., and it took him 45 minutes to eat, it's already 9:45 a.m. and he's going to want to eat again in another hour and 15 minutes, not at 11:45 a.m. So I was unprepared for how long I'd be stuck in one position with a baby literally attached to me. Hours a day.

I'd had this image in my head of the happy, adoring mom nestled in her glider in the softly lit nursery as her baby quietly suckled. Forget that it could be the wee hours of the morning. Forget that those feedings could last 45 minutes and you could be bored out of your mind staring at the wall. Forget that you can't be doing anything else at that moment. Suddenly I wanted to be doing dishes, the laundry or mopping the floors. Menial housework would have felt liberating. So the reality was me sitting cross-legged on the couch, for sometimes hours at a time (it took Oliver so long to eat that by the time he was finished, he was hungry again) and often crying because "HOW COULD THE BABY STILL BE HUNGRY!" and all I wanted was the freedom to go do something else, anything else at that very moment, because it was 6:00 p.m. in the evening and I was ready to call it a day. I'd probably already had a baby latched onto my breast for eight hours that day. Staring adoringly at my baby boy, as awe-inspiring as he was, was not enough entertainment for me, so either the TV or computer was on, because this is how I kept myself from falling asleep with my baby in my arms in the middle of the night, or to keep me from dying of boredom. That was the reality of what our nursing sessions looked like.

I so desperately needed a break, but breastfeeding isn't a commitment you can back out on whenever you don't feel like it. To keep your milk supply up, you ideally should be either feeding the baby every time he or she needs to eat, or at least pumping. Uncomfortable engorgement is probably nature's not-so-gentle reminder to feed, or else. So even getting away for a few hours entailed either being back for a feeding, or finding somewhere to pump, as well as a way to store the milk and transport it home, unless you just dumped it.

It was this realization that I couldn't take a break or that I couldn't roll over in the middle of the night when awoken by the baby's cries and tell my husband, "It's your turn to feed the baby," that left me really overwhelmed much of the first few week by this responsibility as my baby's soul source of nourishment. I had felt proud, for instance, when the visiting nurse weighed Oliver in our kitchen after his first week of life and announced he'd gained a pound and was healthy, (sustaining another human being with my own body was awe-inspiring) but still overwhelmed. I had carried the baby, I had given birth to the baby, I was physically recovering from the birth (after a long labor followed by an unplanned c-section) and now I was the only one who could feed the baby when all I wanted was a goddamn nap? I was frankly resentful of my husband, resentful of all the pro-breastfeeding sources that had convinced me the only responsible, healthy way to feed my baby was by breast and resentful of even my own stubborness to not give up because I would have had to admitted to everyone that I had failed.

Breastfeeding was also often very lonely at the beginning. I've never been a night owl and despite having gone to college, never pulled an all-nighter. But once Oliver arrived, I was up multiple times each night, sometimes for hours at a time. Those nights were so lonely and unpredictable, (how many times would I be awakened, how many minutes, or even hours, would I be up at a time?) I started to dread nightfall.

So those nights were lonely - and cold. How did I miss the part about night sweats? I took a class on breastfeeding, I read books, I listened to podcasts. In all of this, how could night sweats never have been mentioned? The first time I woke up soaked through all my clothes with slightly damp sheets underneath my once soundly-sleeping body, I was convinced we had the thermostat set too high. Not only was I sleep-deprived and alone to take care of a screaming and hungry baby, I was also wet and cold. When I dragged myself out of bed, I had to wrap myself in one of Chris's ridiculously large hooded snowboarder sweatshirts that came down to my knees to keep from shivering uncontrollably. I eventually laid down a towel on my side of the bed to keep from soaking through a fresh set of sheets every night and kept a spare pair of pajamas nearby to change into before going to feed Oliver.

Those were the emotionally-laden, steep-learning curve first months. But as the woman who ran my parent support group at the hospital said, bottle feeding is easier in the beginning and breastfeeding is more difficult, but breastfeeding eventually becomes easy and bottle feeding becomes difficult. She told our group this weeks after Oliver was born and just when breastfeeding was starting to feel like second nature for me. I was happy I'd stuck with it. The night sweats stopped, Oliver's night-time feedings started to drop, he slowly became a more proficient eater and the out-of-control engorgement and springing a leak (literally) without warning ceased seemingly overnight. Oliver and I had found our nursing groove and when his six-month birthday arrived, I saw no reason anymore to stop. Those first few weeks with the steep learning curve suddenly seemed like a distant memory and breastfeeding felt like something I was comfortable with and like I always knew how to do.

The logistics of it all never ceased though. Even as the number of times a day he nursed dropped, I still planned my day around when he needed to eat and I had to consider where I'd be when this time rolled around. Would there be a quiet and comfortable place to sit and nurse? After a few months, he was too easily distracted if I was even talking to someone else, and as he grew, I literally needed space around me. Nursing in a plane seat, at a popular storytime where crowds packed into the small bookstore, or even in a chair with arms that came too high, was impossible. I was limited in what I could wear based on how easily I could breastfeed in it. Dresses, form-fitting anything, button-down shirts were all out. The only bras I could wear were unsupportive nursing bras that left me feeling frumpy in anything I wore. The warmer weather did make breastfeeding easier when away from home - suddenly feeding on a park bench was an option - but not when dressed in a sports bra and sweating profusely during a muggy Minnesota summer day.

As much of a positive experience breastfeeding turned out to be for me, I'm honest with people that Oliver was never exclusively breastfed, and that was by choice. When it was first recommended while still in the hospital that we supplement with formula because Oliver was supposedly jaundiced and my milk hadn't yet come in, I was upset, even though I eventually relented. Knowing what I know now, maybe I wouldn't have supplemented with formula, but knowing what I knew then, I made the best decision I could have. Although I felt a lot of pressure at the time, I had to make a choice and move on and formula supplementation is what we did.

Formula quickly went from something that wasn't even an option to a welcomed supplement. Chris often gave Oliver a bottle in the evening in the early weeks to give me a break and I truly believe that daily respite kept me from losing my mind. I also refused to be a slave to a pump, (an option I could forgo as a stay-at-home mom) so formula allowed me extended or overnight breaks. When away from home, I pumped for comfort, not to save up for future feedings, and then relied on patience and persistence to bring my supply back up when I was back to exclusive nursing. Because of Chris's work and school schedule, I was responsible for Oliver, the house, and of course myself (hey, I've got to eat and shower sometime) for extended time periods, and pumping required time I didn't have. Even if I knew I was going out for awhile, I literally didn't have time in the days leading up to my few hours of freedom to stockpile bottles of breastmilk. I did pump some in the first three or four months, but then decided that for the limited times Oliver was away from me, he'd get formula. And that I wouldn't feel guilty about it.

I travel in a very breastfeeding supportive circle, which is awesome, but I have friends who brag about how little formula or no formula their babies have had, and I refuse to let breastfeeding be an all or nothing deal. I gave what I could physically, mentally and logistically and consider what I accomplished a success. I just hope other women feel comfortable continuing with breastfeeding even if they have to, or choose to, supplement with formula. Sure, "breast is best," but formula isn't considered poison in my book.

When Oliver turned one, I had reached my revised goal of breastfeeding until age one, which is the recommendation by the American Academy of Pediatrics, which supports "exclusive breastfeeding for approximately the first six months and support for breastfeeding for the first year and beyond as long as mutually desired by mother and child." Earlier in Oliver's life I didn't know if I'd be sad when I would eventually decide to wean him, but his lessening dependence on breast milk ultimately made my decision to wean at a year less guilt-ridden. It was amazing to notice that even in just the last month of his first year of life, nursing him took two or three minutes and sometimes he'd literally take a few sips and be done. I had begun transitioning him to cow's milk at eleven months, so by the time his first birthday rolled around, I was only nursing him in the morning. One morning a week after his birthday, he threw a fit when I tried putting him to the breast. I'd been holding onto one nursing session a day just to keep my milk supply there in case I regreted my decision to wean. But when he "announced" he was finished, the mix of emotions I thought would be there weren't. We're both ready for the next stages in our lives and it'll be then, that despite frustrations and challenges, what I'll remember above all about my breastfeeding experience is the sight of my once small cuddly baby who had nursed to sleep in my arms drunk on mommy's milk.

Oliver update: 12 months

Oliver survived his birthday party. He would have been just as happy to chase a ball around the house with a few of his baby friends and not have 20 people watch his every move. He nibbled on his cake, but seemed happy we finally gave him some cantaloupe and eventually ditched the cake in favor of the fruit. (That's my boy!) But the first birthday party is kind of a like a right of passage in my parenting book, and besides, I had fun entertaining and baking and decorating a cake. So thanks for humoring me Oliver.

I almost scheduled Oliver's 12-month wellness check for his birthday, but decided I couldn't do that to the little guy since he was due for some shots. The damage was four booster shots, a blood draw, and if he's going to get pricked so many times, why don't we just throw in the flu shot and get it all over with? His test results from the blood draw (to check hemoglobin levels and lead) came back great. Oliver's percentiles for weight (20 lb. 2 oz.) and head match those from his nine-month appointment, (10th and 50th respectively) but his height at 29 3/8 inches is back in the 40-50th percentile range instead of the 10th. After watching the nurse try to mark the height of a squirming baby, I was reminded that the percentiles are only as accurate as the measurements taken.

While a few of Oliver's early-teething baby friends are getting their last teeth, about three weeks ago, I felt what appeared to be on Oliver's lower gum an emerging tooth. With the aid of the pediatrician's flashlight and tongue depressor, I was finally able to catch a glimpse of the slightest bit of tooth poking through the gum line. Chris practically cheered during a dinner of ravioli when he saw a tooth mark in the dough. By next month, he should have at least one, maybe even two, bottom teeth.

Thus, I don't know if it's the teething, another readjustment of his nap schedule, or separation anxiety reappearing, but Oliver is suddenly crying a lot more. If I go outside to set up his stroller, he'll sit in the foyer and weep. If I strap him into his car seat and don't get immediately into the car, I come back to the car to find him bawling. The reappearance of Mom is still the fail-proof remedy, but although he stops crying immediately when he sees me, he does so begrudgingly.

But I'm also afraid he's sleep-deprived. His morning nap is no longer a given, but he's not yet ready to drop it. He's often tired around his normal 8:00 a.m. nap time, but either will talk to himself and play in his crib for an hour, or will finally fall asleep close to when he normally would be getting up from his first nap. He still happily takes his afternoon nap, but I'm trying to figure out how to handle the transition of the afternoon nap turning into his only nap. Do I give him lunch earlier and then a nap earlier, or can I somehow encourage him to sleep longer in the afternoon?

While Oliver is not walking yet, he's proficient at crawling his signature crawl - two hands, his left knee and his right shin, which he propels himself forward with. He can now climb stairs - slowly, but confidently. When we headed out to the car this afternoon, I placed him on the front walk and I dashed back up onto the porch to lock the front door. When I turned around, he was clearing the last step on the stoop. With three more weeks until he's 13 months old, I'm not sure if he'll be walking by then, but he could surprise me. He will walk someday, of course, it's just difficult to imagine it'll really happen. When he was a little, little baby, I couldn't ever imagine him sitting up unassisted, let alone pulling himself up, then crawling. So until I have a better frame of reference for child development, I live in the present with Oliver and celebrate every milestone as if Oliver were the first baby to master a particular skill.