Behold, my muse.
A camera that can capture droplets of water in the air and the pure joy of a baby bath.
Gerber-precious.
Huh?
Pondering the wonders of the world.
Monday, March 21, 2011
All the Difference
I recently got a fancy-schmancy camera. And now instead of taking a million blurred pictures with my old camera and a million fuzzy pictures with my phone, I take a bajillion pictures with my fancy-schmancy camera. The best part is that even though I know next to nothing about photography, I can still take awesome pictures.
Behold, my muse.
A camera that can capture droplets of water in the air and the pure joy of a baby bath.
Gerber-precious.
Huh?
Pondering the wonders of the world.
Behold, my muse.
A camera that can capture droplets of water in the air and the pure joy of a baby bath.
Gerber-precious.
Huh?
Pondering the wonders of the world.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Night and Day
I have an angel baby during the day. She's adorable and funny and sweet.
At night? I think it's her personal mission to torture me sometimes.
In the early days of Avery's life when I was getting up every two hours to feed her, I'd be optimistic each time she went to bed. "Tonight's the night she'll sleep through the night!" After a few months, my optimism started to dwindle, but my hope has managed to survive in the face of night after night after night—7 months of nights!—of waking up multiple times a night.
Starting at three months, we moved her from her bedside bassinet to her crib. And I started getting up, going to her room, and getting her back to bed when she'd cry. Usually at about 6 a.m., I'd give up and bring her to bed with us. That started moving to 4 a.m., and 2 a.m., then midnight, until she was basically sleeping with us after the first time she woke up in her crib.
Sleep was a little restless, but I didn't realize how much glorious, solid sleep I was getting until we decided to move her back to her crib because, while I understand that sleeping together can be safe, you know what's safer? Her crib.
The first night was fine, a couple of wakings, par for the course. The fourth night? Hell hath no fury like a baby scorned. She went to bed around 8 p.m. and woke up almost every hour until 7 a.m. She skipped the 1 o'clock and 5 o'clock hours, but made up for it by waking up twice during the 2 o'clock hour.
I thought I was going to die. Even her newborn days were never that bad.
She appears to be sleeping soundly, but look closely and you'll see that she's reaching out for me.
Why not just let her cry it out, you ask? Because apparently that's like asking me to shove a knife in my own eye. I just cannot do it. I can't handle the sad baby tears. I can't handle a hoarse baby (she gets hoarse if she's left to her own devices for a short time). I can't handle her needing me and me just not being there. Even if she's dry, fed and warm and just needs to cuddle? Well, I'll freaking cuddle. She won't be little forever. Besides, a couple of times I've let her roll for a few minutes, hoping she'd go back to sleep. And a couple of times she's been crying because she has a Texas-sized poopy diaper. I wouldn't be able to sleep in my poop either.
Also, I read a story about raccoons attacking a baby in her crib, and even though I now know that the idiot dad let them into the house, I will never be able to get the image of raccoons attacking my baby out of my head when she's crying. Yes, I realize I'm nuts.
All that to say: It's been a frustrating few days. BUT. Last night she slept four hours straight, an all-time Avery record. And then another three! And then another three! So things are improving, thank the heavens above.
Side note: Did you know that "sleeping through the night" is considered a baby sleeping five or more hours? Personally, I don't think Avery waking up at 2 a.m. after five hours is anything to brag about. But when she sleeps solidly for like 7 or 8? I'm throwing a freaking party!
Until that party? At least I have hilarious, adorable Avery to get me through my days.
Putting everything in her mouth, no matter what.
Finding the TV, always.
Taking glasses straight off my face. Into her mouth, of course.
You can even see her anger through the holes.
Came back from the bathroom to find this.
My love.
At night? I think it's her personal mission to torture me sometimes.
In the early days of Avery's life when I was getting up every two hours to feed her, I'd be optimistic each time she went to bed. "Tonight's the night she'll sleep through the night!" After a few months, my optimism started to dwindle, but my hope has managed to survive in the face of night after night after night—7 months of nights!—of waking up multiple times a night.
Starting at three months, we moved her from her bedside bassinet to her crib. And I started getting up, going to her room, and getting her back to bed when she'd cry. Usually at about 6 a.m., I'd give up and bring her to bed with us. That started moving to 4 a.m., and 2 a.m., then midnight, until she was basically sleeping with us after the first time she woke up in her crib.
Sleep was a little restless, but I didn't realize how much glorious, solid sleep I was getting until we decided to move her back to her crib because, while I understand that sleeping together can be safe, you know what's safer? Her crib.
The first night was fine, a couple of wakings, par for the course. The fourth night? Hell hath no fury like a baby scorned. She went to bed around 8 p.m. and woke up almost every hour until 7 a.m. She skipped the 1 o'clock and 5 o'clock hours, but made up for it by waking up twice during the 2 o'clock hour.
I thought I was going to die. Even her newborn days were never that bad.
She appears to be sleeping soundly, but look closely and you'll see that she's reaching out for me.Why not just let her cry it out, you ask? Because apparently that's like asking me to shove a knife in my own eye. I just cannot do it. I can't handle the sad baby tears. I can't handle a hoarse baby (she gets hoarse if she's left to her own devices for a short time). I can't handle her needing me and me just not being there. Even if she's dry, fed and warm and just needs to cuddle? Well, I'll freaking cuddle. She won't be little forever. Besides, a couple of times I've let her roll for a few minutes, hoping she'd go back to sleep. And a couple of times she's been crying because she has a Texas-sized poopy diaper. I wouldn't be able to sleep in my poop either.
Also, I read a story about raccoons attacking a baby in her crib, and even though I now know that the idiot dad let them into the house, I will never be able to get the image of raccoons attacking my baby out of my head when she's crying. Yes, I realize I'm nuts.
All that to say: It's been a frustrating few days. BUT. Last night she slept four hours straight, an all-time Avery record. And then another three! And then another three! So things are improving, thank the heavens above.
Side note: Did you know that "sleeping through the night" is considered a baby sleeping five or more hours? Personally, I don't think Avery waking up at 2 a.m. after five hours is anything to brag about. But when she sleeps solidly for like 7 or 8? I'm throwing a freaking party!
Until that party? At least I have hilarious, adorable Avery to get me through my days.
Putting everything in her mouth, no matter what.
Finding the TV, always.
Taking glasses straight off my face. Into her mouth, of course.
You can even see her anger through the holes.
Came back from the bathroom to find this.
My love.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Angry Pianist
I've wanted to learn how to play the piano for years now. So when a beginner's piano class was offered in a listing of community programs that came in the mail, I signed up. No keyboard required, and the class is within walking distance of our house OR a two-minute drive (because it's cold).
The program listing said the class was open to ages 10 to adult, so I figured I'd be among youngsters. In the first class, it was me, two tweenagers, Carla, a woman who is probably my age but seems older because in my head I'm still 25, and Sasha, a boy who showed up halfway through the first class because his mom got the location wrong. The teacher brought keyboards for everyone. But the two goody-two-youngsters had their own keyboards. We learned to play scales. With both hands. We learned a few chords. It was hard. And enough for week one.
Week two. Unfortunate Sasha must have been frustrated because he was already behind the curve, so he became a piano school dropout. The remaining youngsters brought their keyboards, and I jumped on the keyboard the teacher brought. Carla shows up, also sans keyboard, and learns that Teacher hasn't brought enough keyboards.
Ok: If the class literature says "no keyboards required" AND two people show up to the first class without keyboards, you would think that the teacher would have spare keyboards in his car. And you would think wrong.
Cue really uncomfortable Carla-Teacher confrontation.
Cue me trying to diffuse the tension. Cue Carla and I sharing a keyboard.
Naturally, after the scales and chords of week one, we jump into learning Let It Be by a little-known band called The Beatles. Our teacher explains how to play it, poorly, and when I ask for more detailed instructions, am told that "you just need to feel it."
That's like telling a student driver he just needs to "feel" how to drive a car. Or a 3-year-old to just "feel" how to read a book. Point is, I need a little more fundamental musical skill before I can start "feeling" how to play Beatles songs.
I left class determined to figure it out. So I went home and felt the hell out of Let It Be. And Googled it. And I put together a decent rendition of the intro. So proud.
Class three. Now it's just me and the two young'uns. Pissed-off Carla must have quit after the keyboard-sharing fiasco of 2011. And I play my version of Let It Be. And Teacher tells me I'm forgetting a part. This part: Cue quick playing of Let It Be so student can't figure it out. And then he says, "Honestly, you just have to feel it."
Honestly, I just want you to feel me punching you in your face.
So for the rest of class three, I channeled my anger into playing D scales or some such nonsense. And then about 15 minutes before class is supposed to be over, he says that he thinks that's enough for tonight, like we're so good he can teach us no more this session, and we can leave, unless of course we want to stay.
Honestly, I just feel that someone wanted to get home to see this week's Modern Family.
Good teachers are supposed to inspire you to push yourself and do great things. Apparently, terrible-awful teachers can do the same.
The program listing said the class was open to ages 10 to adult, so I figured I'd be among youngsters. In the first class, it was me, two tweenagers, Carla, a woman who is probably my age but seems older because in my head I'm still 25, and Sasha, a boy who showed up halfway through the first class because his mom got the location wrong. The teacher brought keyboards for everyone. But the two goody-two-youngsters had their own keyboards. We learned to play scales. With both hands. We learned a few chords. It was hard. And enough for week one.
Week two. Unfortunate Sasha must have been frustrated because he was already behind the curve, so he became a piano school dropout. The remaining youngsters brought their keyboards, and I jumped on the keyboard the teacher brought. Carla shows up, also sans keyboard, and learns that Teacher hasn't brought enough keyboards.
Ok: If the class literature says "no keyboards required" AND two people show up to the first class without keyboards, you would think that the teacher would have spare keyboards in his car. And you would think wrong.
Cue really uncomfortable Carla-Teacher confrontation.
Cue me trying to diffuse the tension. Cue Carla and I sharing a keyboard.
Naturally, after the scales and chords of week one, we jump into learning Let It Be by a little-known band called The Beatles. Our teacher explains how to play it, poorly, and when I ask for more detailed instructions, am told that "you just need to feel it."
That's like telling a student driver he just needs to "feel" how to drive a car. Or a 3-year-old to just "feel" how to read a book. Point is, I need a little more fundamental musical skill before I can start "feeling" how to play Beatles songs.
I left class determined to figure it out. So I went home and felt the hell out of Let It Be. And Googled it. And I put together a decent rendition of the intro. So proud.
Class three. Now it's just me and the two young'uns. Pissed-off Carla must have quit after the keyboard-sharing fiasco of 2011. And I play my version of Let It Be. And Teacher tells me I'm forgetting a part. This part: Cue quick playing of Let It Be so student can't figure it out. And then he says, "Honestly, you just have to feel it."
Honestly, I just want you to feel me punching you in your face.
So for the rest of class three, I channeled my anger into playing D scales or some such nonsense. And then about 15 minutes before class is supposed to be over, he says that he thinks that's enough for tonight, like we're so good he can teach us no more this session, and we can leave, unless of course we want to stay.
Honestly, I just feel that someone wanted to get home to see this week's Modern Family.
Good teachers are supposed to inspire you to push yourself and do great things. Apparently, terrible-awful teachers can do the same.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Buried
Something about being buried under several feet of snow has left me blog-ally uninspired. I've only seen this much snow while skiing, and trust me, it's way more fun when you're flying* down the mountain and enjoying hot toddies afterward, as opposed to digging out a place for your dog to poop and watching her do her business on the porch anyway. With no hot toddies to follow.
The trusty Saturn has been buried since the massive snowstorm in December, and only over the weekend did I finally clear a path so that I'd have any hope of getting it out before spring. Luckily, today practically feels like summer, and the wind reminds me of Kansas in March, so maybe that damn groundhog knew what he was talking about this year.
It's a good thing Avery and I are good at entertaining ourselves, otherwise I'd be going more stir-crazy than I already am. She is really taking in the world around her these days, and with the whole sitting-on-her-own accomplishment, she's pretty hot to trot. And has serious opinions.
"Boppy? I don't need no stinking Boppy."
"Mom. You got a little something on your pants. I know you just changed into them. But for reals, they're a mess."
"Do you think this look will work when I want to borrow $20 from Dad?"
"Get in my buh-lly."
"You want me to stop making out with this ball to SMILE??"
Tune in next time for more drool and possibly higher quality images not taken on my phone.
*I feel like I'm flying. Alan might say otherwise.
The trusty Saturn has been buried since the massive snowstorm in December, and only over the weekend did I finally clear a path so that I'd have any hope of getting it out before spring. Luckily, today practically feels like summer, and the wind reminds me of Kansas in March, so maybe that damn groundhog knew what he was talking about this year.
It's a good thing Avery and I are good at entertaining ourselves, otherwise I'd be going more stir-crazy than I already am. She is really taking in the world around her these days, and with the whole sitting-on-her-own accomplishment, she's pretty hot to trot. And has serious opinions.
"Boppy? I don't need no stinking Boppy."
"Mom. You got a little something on your pants. I know you just changed into them. But for reals, they're a mess."
"Do you think this look will work when I want to borrow $20 from Dad?"
"Get in my buh-lly."
"You want me to stop making out with this ball to SMILE??"
Tune in next time for more drool and possibly higher quality images not taken on my phone.
*I feel like I'm flying. Alan might say otherwise.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Beware of Sudden Movement
Being home with Avery all day, every day, I get to see every step on the way to the big milestones. I can tell you in detail the many steps it takes to get to something as monumental as "Grabs for Objects." (Step One: Fists accidentally unclench about once a week. It's a 5-month-long process.) Something as simple as a laugh starts with those first accidental sleeping smiles. Rolling over starts with those first screaming sessions during tummy time when baby can barely lift the head, and it finally culminates with mom holding her breath waiting for that final push that sends the baby from stomach to back. (Complete with mom shifting and jerking her body to one side to help with the momentum, much as you do in bowling.)
But then there are skills that show up with no warning whatsoever. And then all of a sudden, your "safe place to put the baby" is "baby prison that must be escaped." Here I've compiled a series of pictures from my phone showing Avery making the decision to jailbreak.
Had I not intervened, I'm convinced she would have made it to the kitchen. I'm going to be in so much trouble very soon.
But then there are skills that show up with no warning whatsoever. And then all of a sudden, your "safe place to put the baby" is "baby prison that must be escaped." Here I've compiled a series of pictures from my phone showing Avery making the decision to jailbreak.
Had I not intervened, I'm convinced she would have made it to the kitchen. I'm going to be in so much trouble very soon.
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