Little Monkey and Friends

Day one established that challenges lay ahead (see above).

Day two of Operation Sippy Cup is over and amazingly enough, we are still alive and kicking. Monkey is eating more food, snacking at appropriate intervals, and actually (gasp!) drinking his formula from a sippy cup. I'm not ready to call this a success yet. But all things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Stay tuned.

This morning, as the monkey sat in his high chair throwing his breakfast on the floor, I read the paper. I was strangely amused to read about the recent developments in the Zacarius Moussaoui trial. Never mind about being the 20th 9/11 terrorist. He claims he was actually supposed to hijack a fifth plane and fly it into the White House. I don't know whether he can be believed or not, I just sat there chuckling to myself, thinking about what a crap job it must be to get stuck representing him in court. Imagine having this loon as your client? The lawyer in me pictured all the hard work that goes into prepping witnesses and clients for trial; and then there's this guy. Just when I think my job is tough...

So, anyway, pondering that made my day a little merrier, and I turned my attention back to the monkey who rewarded me with more food on the floor. Then we went to the pediatrician for a check up. Bad news in monkeyland.


It's time to give up the bottle.
Really. Totally. Give.it.up. I carefully explained to dear doctor that monkey is a bottle man. And worse..he's a bottle-in-bed man, a bottle-on-the-changing-table man, a bottle-in-front-of-the-tv man, etc. We don't do sippy cups here. We don't do straws. WE DRINK FROM BOTTLES. And in fact, the majority of our nutritional daily needs seem to be met from the five bottles that we continue to down each day starting at 4:00 in the morning.

Dear doctor looked at me, looked at the monkey, who of course was cuddling with his bottle ("baa-baa") and declared, "I think he has attachment issues. We need to nip this in the bud now."

Attachment issues.

If he thinks the monkey is attached to the bottle, he should see what goes on in the crib between monkey and his cuddly, Mr. Moo.

I was instructed to immediately deprive monkey of all but his evening bottle, each day, for the next week. If after three days, the monkey was not cured of his bottle habit, I should call him. My response:

"I'm dropping him off at your house tomorrow."

I recently celebrated my 34th birthday. It was pretty cool - flowers, gifts, cards, a night out at a restaurant that didn't have a kiddie menu...woo hoo.

All things considered, turning a year older wasn't traumatic. I feel the same as I did a month ago. The ever-widening preggo Buddha belly may be bigger, but I think I'm still basically the same person. As I reflected on the newfound maturity that older people possess, it dawned on me that not only am I one year older, I have also survived one year as a member of the tribe known as SAHM. For the uninitiated, that stands for "Stay-At-Home-Mom." Sometimes I prefer the definition provided by Dooce, which can be found here. It more aptly describes the mood I find myself in when confronted with the following asinine questions:

1. So, what do you do all day?

2. When do you plan to get back to work?

3. What is your occupation?

4. Aren't you bored yet?

etc.

I also have to admit, that I get equally huffy about people on the opposite end of the spectrum who seem to think I suffer from some kind of martyr complex - i.e I am sacrificing my life and career for the sake of raising my child (soon to be children). To set the record straight, I am a mean, self-centered, narcissistic and vain bee-yotch. I have no intention of sacrificing anything for anyone, and I'm here at home "raising my kid" because I'm conceited enough to think I'm the best person qualified for the job. When the time is right, I'll go back to my other career of pushing papers and interacting with so-called adults in the confines of too small office spaces.

This topic has been done to death, and the so-called "Mommy Wars", exists primarily in the minds of media writers and journalists who think it generates a fascinating topic of discussion, gets people riled up and makes for cutting-edge reporting. Right. For the real world mothers and fathers out there raising their kids, working inside the home or out, we have better things to do. I also don't find it terribly interesting whether or not the "opting -out" phenomenon exists in such great numbers as to qualify as a legitimate socio-demographic trend.

That being said, for anyone even remotely considering the idea of staying at home with their kid - permanently or temporarily or whatever...my advice is simply to develop a thick skin now. You are going to need it. Don't expect any awards, don't expect everyone you know will respect your decision, and plan ahead with a snappy come back to the genius who thinks all you do is "change dirty diapers all day."

Oh, and in case you were wondering, it's been the most amazing year of my life.

Grandma H has come across an interesting contest run by Kodakgallery (formally Ofoto). In it, you can submit a family photo, with accompanying story, for a chance to win $25,000. The monkey's story is a pretty good one, and who knows, maybe it has a chance to win. People can vote for their favorites, so here I am, shamelessly promoting my first-born son's story in a brazen attempt to win his grandma some money.

Once again, stand back people, that mother of the year award is within my grasp.

There is a word limit of 250, so the entry was super short and left out a LOT of the details...enough excuses. This is what we submitted:

"Welcoming a new baby to the family is a joyous occasion. For my family it was even more. It became a life-saving mission. My grandson Jordan was born with an undiagnosed tumor in his heart and required a transplant. His chances of finding a heart in time were poor. We had seven days to find one as he lay on life support. The news devastated our family.

However, the family in this picture is made up of strong individuals who made it their mission to publicize his story. They hoped to bring awareness to his need for a donation. Or maybe if Jordan could not be saved, someone else might. Everyone did what they could - calling local television stations, emailing media contacts, sending out messages for others to do the same, stopping by the hospital with a warm meal for the weary parents, and getting them a room in the hospital so they could be near their son.

Jordan's story attracted local media and eventually, national broadcasts. On his fifth day of life support, a heart became available. Jordan’s operation was a success. He recently celebrated his one-year birthday, and is a happy, healthy toddler. We will be forever grateful to the family that made their baby's heart available; but we will also never forget the courage our family members displayed in our time of need. They are heroes whose actions exemplify the true meaning of family."


You can access the photo gallery contest here And for a quick link to the picture, you can use the email prompt BikerH at aol dot com. So, help a grandma out and vote. Monkey may even get some cool toys out of this.

The monkey helps out with meal planning by opening all the cupboards and searching for food. Good luck, Monkey. How about picking up some of those snot rags you've been leaving all over the floor while you're at it?



And elsewhere, the furball anxiously awaits the inevitable bounty of crumbs that is sure to fall from above.

While Oscar spends his days eating the monkey's food and trying to sneak in a lick of his face, other dogs are actually earning their keep.

So with the crap cold weather, there's not a lot to do these days that involves outdoor activity. Bored out of our minds, we decided to take the monkey to the children's museum of NJ - also known as germ central. I have no idea what, if anything, he may have learned from this outing, but it was better than staring at the bare, undecorated walls of our home a minute longer.



Monkey gets a lesson in human anatomy.



Rides a "horse."



Digs for buried fossils, with his miner's helmet securely in place.



And makes some beautiful music with Monkey, Sr.

As I ponder why I have to endure yet another repeat of the Gilmore Girls this week, I began thinking about what a seemingly perfect relationship Lorelai and her daughter, Rory share. For those of you unfamiliar with the show, you can get a recap here. As the old monkey has pointed out, this show represents the ultimate in chick-fantasy viewing - shopping references, food eaten without weight gained, and adoring males devoted to their women's every wish and command. (See, for example, the episode where Jackson obligingly undergoes a vasectomy at the behest of his wife, Sookie. Sookie, by the way, is the dream friend - cute, but not too beautifully threatening, funny, a great cook - willing to feed you on demand, and an all-round fun partner in crime.)

I enjoy the show because of its snappy dialogue, numerous pop-cultural references, and fabulous wardrobes. How Lorelai affords the clothes she wears on an inn-keeper's budget is a mystery, but I am willing to suspend doubt in the name of fashion. But one reason the show has won such praise, is its focus on the earnest struggle of the central character - Lorelai, to raise an intelligent and thoughtful daughter as a single parent.

Back to our world. Our monkey-on-the-way is a girl. I have wondered, from time to time, what it will be like raising a daughter, how it will be different than having a son, and what our relationship will be like over time. Unlike her relationship with Rory, Lorelai's relationship with her own mother is tenous and icy, which suggests why she has raised her daughter by departing so sharply from the chilly, upper-class, WASP Connecticut background of her girlhood. The irony of course, is in witnessing how alike Lorelai and her mother really are, depite her efforts to the contrary.

In the end, it seems Lorelai hasn't done half bad raising her daughter, notwithstanding the whole "taking a break from Yale" thing. I don't aspire to raise my daughter to be my best friend. Nor do I plan on attempting to be the cool mom role model that Lorelai is. I've never quite understood that style of parenting. But Lorelai does have some lessons to teach us. I've composed the following list of lessons I have learned from Lorelai:

1. To ensure that your child is accepted by Harvard, Princeton and Yale (Rory chose Yale), you must force them to put up a corkboard in their bedroom that shall forever be known as the IVY LEAGUE SHRINE. Prominently display paraphenalia from your 1st choice school there, such as banners, postcards, decals, sweatshirts, etc.

2. Encourage your child's reading habits by keeping them company. For example, when Rory is sitting on the living room couch reading Faust, Lorelai is always seen with a thought-provoking periodical in her hand, like InStyle or Lucky. Rory wound up at Yale, you know.

3. A healthy brain must be nurtured (Rory uses hers at Yale) through good nutrition and eating habits. Lorelai and Rory always start their day off with coffee and Pop Tarts, or coffee and pastries, or coffee and big greasy breakfast specials- courtesy of Luke's Diner. Never one to worry about such mundane things as cooking, Lorelai relies on the magnitude of take-out options that exist in their lovely little town, Star's Hollow. I'm truly amazed that they have such a bevy of selections to choose from. Having lived in Connecticut once upon a time, I recall very few, options back when I was flipping through the menus.

4. Coffee is the beverage that keeps the neurons firing. Drink a lot of it, and encourage your child to take up the habit early. From the early episodes I've seen, Rory was drinking it while still in high school. No wonder she's in Yale!

5. The key to being a well-rounded person is to balance brains and beauty. Lorelai makes sure that Rory is always dressed in the latest JCrew and Abercrombie fashions, and encourages her love of consumerism with constant references to shoes, Sephora, and handbags. It's amazing how Lorelai rejects the world of wealth and priviledge her parents offered her, but still maintains her champagne tastes on her beer budget. Regardless, Rory is one of the best-dressed residents of New Haven (she's an Eli, you know) I have ever seen.

6. And finally, maintain a sense of humor at all costs. That way, your child will never know whether you are laughing with them or at them. Even as you intrude on every aspect of your daughter's personal life, keep things light, and throw in lots of references to music, celebrity gossip, and current movies so she knows you are still young and hip enough to understand her. Television viewing is a prime opportunity to bond, and force your daughter to reveal every intimate detail of her day. Make sure you have her so thoroughly brainwashed and dependent on you, that her emotional health and psychological development are permanently stunted by the time she has reached adolescence. That way, she won't do anything without seeking your approval. Hell, she'll even be inviting you along on her dates - Rory does. And did I mention she goes to Yale?




While his mother fritters away her hours watching Gilmore Girls and blogging, the monkey develops his math skills the old-fashioned way.

The warm weather earlier this month gave monkey a chance to get out to the Central Park zoo and see some other primates.



It also gave him a chance to work on those walking skills.



Forced posing at photo ops was out of the question, however.

By hitting the slot machines at today's play date. But alas, the luck o' the Irish was not on his side. The one-armed bandit strikes again.

Apparently balloons hold the secret to happiness, as I discovered yesterday. Monkey was horrified when he found himself sitting, yet again, in the hair salon for a trim. Barely 15 minutes was all it took to achieve the look of coiffed perfection you see here. But from the hysterical screaming involved, one might have concluded something else was going on - brazillian waxing perhaps. In the end, the stylist saved the day by presenting Monkey with his own floaty balloon, tied to a yellow lollipop. Mental note to self - time to invest in a helium tank and supply of balloons. Costco perhaps?

The monkeys enjoy a day of sunshine along the water in Battery Park. It's good to be healthy again.

Here we go again. Since the monkey has lost a lot of weight, it's back to obsessing over his diet. With his pediatrician's blessing, we are slowly moving past the restricted B.R.A.T diet (Bananas, rice, applesauce and toast, for those of you sans children). Here the monkey discovers the wonder known as pediasure. Much like a thinned out version of a vanilla milkshake, and just as sweet - the monkey finally finds something to tempt him in that sippy cup.




The good news is that the monkey has suddenly discovered his appetite. He hasn't been this ravenous since he was on steroids. It's all finger-licking good these days.



On today's lunch menu, we have grilled cheese sandwich on 110 calorie per slice "hearty" bread (fatty bread to you and me), pediasure and a bowl of homemade poached pear puree, also known as "mush." Dress is casual, Dora the Explorer bibs are optional.



A satisfied customer.

Before







After

I hope I'm not jinxing this, but 14 days later, I think we may finally be over this thing. The first pic was at the height of the virus, and the second was taken today. The light's a bit bright, but you get the idea. Now it's time to fatten him up again.

There's nothing like battling a nasty gastrointestinal virus to make you re-evaluate your already obsessive-compulsive habits.

Day 14 and counting, and the monkey continues to display lingering effects of what we are assuming is a rotavirus infection. Yuck, and more yuck. For any of you out there looking for a quick fix, weight loss solution, this virus really does seem to do the trick. Monkey has lost significant weight (for him, anyway) The good news is that he seems to be recovering, eating well again, and not barfing everything back up. The bad news is that it may take his insides some time to recover, which means a few more weeks of .... yuck.


Now, we're not entirely sure where Monkey picked this bug up. I'm inclined to think it was at one of our outings, but regardless, we have been sternly advised to clean everything thoroughly to avoid contracting the bug ourselves. Being a handwashing fanatic to begin with, this whole episode has left me more paranoid, as though that were possible. Short of encapsulating monkey in a bubble (there's a good song title), I'm not sure what to do. I've been running around after him with mini bottles of purell ($0.99 at Target, yay!), Chlorox wipe containers are in every corner of the house, his playroom reeeks of disinfectant, and both his hands and mine are raw from the abuse. We haven't reached the stage where we are torching the monkey's clothes, but who knows, maybe Howard had it right.

Kids catching bugs is to be expected. It's a natural rite of passage. But when you have an immune-suppressed monkey, it's a fine line between being a casual, go-play-in-the-mud kind of mom, verses the bacillophobe I am rapidly becoming. We'll get this right eventually. In the meantime, bring on the Lysol.

Going back awhile, does anyone remember when Rachel, from "Friends" was pregnant and in the ob's office getting her ultrasound? As the doctor scanned her, and showed her the screen, she mumbled affirmatively and pretended to actually recognize the human/baby body parts on display? Well, that was me today. And I really have no excuse, considering I've been through this already.

Here's a shot of baby-on-the-way, at 20 weeks.

Can I just add, that the most puzzling moment of the day, apart from playing "I Spy" with the ultrasound screen, was trying to fill in the paperwork before the exam. On the medical history page, I was confronted with the following question:

"Is there anything that concerns you about this pregnancy?"

Followed by a line and a half in which to fill in my answer.

As tempting as it was to just write in monkey's blog address, I just left it blank.

Where do I even begin.