Big Shot

This may have been Finn's last Synagis shot for RSV protection. They are not sure if we have to come back in May or not.
He's 15 pounds, .7 ounces, which put him just over the one-syringe limit. Yup. He had to have two shots. The nurse confirmed what we thought: these syringes are longer than normal. And, I think, bigger in general.

Awesome.

For the sake of those of you who might be wondering or who might have forgotten, we took a video of the process.

Warning: there's boob in here.
But it's mine, not Pete's, so don't worry.

You go ahead. I can't watch.

Showered

From the little reading I have done on the subject, The American Baby Shower really came into its own during the Baby Boom. The "traditional" shower is women only (birth is women's work), playing assorted games and sitting around in a circle watching the pregnant woman open gifts. As far as "rites" go, this one is not a favorite of mine. Though this quote from the Encyclopedia Britannica is heartily amusing:

"Rites directed toward the newborn similarly symbolize or ensure health and well-being and, after some days, weeks, or months have passed, often include Baptism or other ritual acts that introduce the child to supernatural beings."

First of all, I picture a bunch of strangers, all pointing their Rites at a baby. Secondly, "introduc[ing] the child to supernatural beings?" Now THERE'S a party I want to attend. Thor, delicately drinking tea with his pinky up, saucer perched in his calloused hands. Anubis chewing away on the haunch of a young gazelle. Zeus, hitting on the underage cousin of the dad. Pan, humping the baptismal font. Yahweh, arguing with himself in a corner. It's all so Tom Robbins.

I recently attended a baby shower for a friend who is due this coming April. I went back and forth about whether or not I would go, and only decided when I was assured that there would be no "active games" and that there would be drinking (although when the words "Bloody Mary" were bandied about, I brought a six pack of Guinness because that's how I roll. Bloody Marys are the alcoholic cocktail of, well, I would say "The Devil," but he's at a baby shower at the moment. With a Bloody Mary.) I also decided that I should go because:

1. I should get over myself already, and
2. It wasn't about me.
(plus, I found that there was a suburban yarn store conveniently perched by the highway on the route home).

The socializing part was good: bacon and Guinness at 11:00 in the morning? Sign me up! And the only game consisted of little blue clothespins that were given to you upon entering and then taken away when you said the word "baby." I did not get a clothespin when I entered, and when someone asked me about it, the word "game" came up, and my heart started racing. Christine told me to say "baby" and it would all be over, and even THAT made me nervous, so I did not want to do it. A few seconds passed, I said "baby," and I was done.

(Yes, that is how weird I am about organized fun.)

Then came the gift giving. At this point, I would have been melting with mortification. No gift is worth suffering this kind of ignominy.

But it's probably just me.

While I did not have Finn three months early to get out of having a baby shower, one must always look for the bright side. The proverbial silver lining.

Those silver linings were: curtailing the baptism question, the circumcision discussion, and the baby shower debacle. Plus, I can always say "Well, he was a preemie," sighing and nodding my head knowingly, when people ask why I am doing something the way that I am doing it. Co-sleeping? He was a preemie. Staggered vaccination? He was a preemie. Exclusive breastfeeding, no solids until after 6 months adjusted? He was a preemie. Family day care? He was a preemie. No baby shower? I had no third trimester.

Really, I am just a wimp who hates confrontation and fears judgment, and if I can use the baby to shield myself from difficult situations, I'll do it as long as he has no idea.

Or until he lets me get more than five hours of uninterrupted sleep.

(No, he's not sleeping through the night; Yes, we had the same night last night that we had the night before; and Don't Worry, I will tell you when he sleeps for longer than five hours at a stretch.)

New Face

Little Man has discovered that he can chew on his own lips.

Expired Milk

This means something different to a nursing mom.
At least, it does to someone who had an entire chest freezer full of breast milk.

Had.

Having that chest freezer full of breast milk made me lazy. The way we did things for a while was only possible because of our surplus. Once that started to wane, I started to pump again because I could tell that we were not going to get through all we had before it expired, and I began to worry about what would happen when I went back to work part time.

Finn has not been getting as many bottles because I have been keeping him all night, and I have no idea how much he eats in a day because you can't really measure when it's from the boob.

Then dad came to help, and one day, even though I was here, we did bottles. He drank 13.19 ounces in bottles and I pumped only 7.4 ounces. Clearly, I am going to need to step up the pumping operation if I go back to work part time.

Now, even though dad is here, I have been nursing and pumping to build up some stock. It makes dad feel like he's not doing enough, but I keep saying that it's still very good to have help. I don't get behind on the dishes, I do laundry, bake, cook, clean, write, read, and knit. I even made it to a meeting once.

Big Red Barn

This is another title from Margaret Wise Brown, the author of "Good Night Moon," and, much like that classic... or modern art... it makes one think: "I could do that." Especially when one considers that the author did not also draw the pictures. Then again, had I written that book, or been Jackson Pollock, you would probably have to pay for this blog, and I would not have to worry about work.

"Big Red Barn" is a list book, much like "Good Night Moon." I won't be giving anything away if I tell you that it takes place in a barnyard. There are no humans, nor are there any human dwellings, so one must assume that the animals are all self-feeders, self-cleaners, and that they exist in a sort of Orwellian society, except without the allegory and Stalinist overtones. Small humans are alluded to, in that they sometimes play in the hay, but, conveniently, "the children are away."

I suspect that the illustrator cannot draw people, especially the hands.

The cast of characters offers no surprises, nor do their activities, which would prepare one for a visit to an idyllic farm, but do not make for a riveting tale. However, as this was originally published in 1956, and modern American children are not even aware that carrots grow in the ground, it may be quite interesting to an older child who will most likely only see these animals in a petting zoo.

The only action occurs when is a field mouse is born in the first quarter of the tale (there are no graphic illustrations). It's nail-biting Drama. But it, too, is not realistic. How often is a single field mouse born?

Pigs, horses, sheep, donkey, geese, goats, roosters, chickens, pigeons, cows, cats, and dogs all live together in or near the big red barn, blithely unaware of the fact that some of them are ham, some are Christmas dinner in a Dickens novel, some are for roasting, some are steak, and some are never to be fertilized. At least on a real farm. There is a cat and her kittens as well as a tomcat. Of course, on a real farm, if the tomcat were not the father of the kittens, he would probably kill them. This is not mentioned.

There is much frolicking in the fields, mud, and hay. All the live long day.

Until it becomes dark, and they all put themselves to bed. At which time, we return to the dangling story of the mice, who appear to be fine, as they are playing in the hay.

All in all, "Big Red Barn" is a colorful book, with simple words and phrases, that is probably only suitable for children.

LOOK AT MY BABY!!!

Pete is a baby-picture-shower.

I am not.

insert gratuitous baby picture

It's ironic, seeing as how I have this blog, on which I post pictures of my baby, but that's your choice. You can look at them or not. It's when I am out and about, talking to people, that I do not show pictures. I usually have pictures with me on my iPod, but I only get them out if people ask. And people usually only ask as a courtesy, because they know that parents want to show them-- that is why I ask. It's not because I care about other people's babies. I have been known to show a hospital preemie picture because people find it hard to imagine what it looks like, but that is more like showing someone a picture of a two headed dog fetus: it's something they have not seen before, and it's hard to visualize.

I suppose some people ask because they want to show their own baby pictures in return, and then each parent returns to his corner thinking "My baby is so much cuter."
That's what Pete does.

Which is as it should be.

Especially after a few pints.

p.s. It just occurred to me that, of course I don't show pictures. I am always in the house, with the baby. I am the one who takes the pictures. The only time I am out is for errands, generally. Who cares at the co-op? (Pete showed pictures at the co-op) Even so, I still don't think I would do it.