Bonk

This afternoon I bonked Lyla's head on the kitchen table. She's fine, but what a moronic moment it was. We had some toys on the table, so I sat her on it so she'd be distracted enough to allow me to put pants on her. (I had a hand on her--I'm not a total idiot.) She went for a toy, so I helped her transition to her stomach, at which point I decided it was pants time. One thing led to another, I thought she was supporting herself with her hands when clearly she wasn't, and bonk went her forehead on the table.

She was not pleased. I carried her around the house, consoling her while simultaneously looking for any kind of mark on her forehead that might lead to my arrest. Finding none, and with a relatively calm child now, I returned to the kitchen and let her watch me slam my head on the table with at least twice as much force. It made a satisfying thump but did not hurt, so I felt better.

When Julie got home, I again smacked my head on the table to demonstrate what had happened. She did not freak out, which was nice.

And now Lyla's forgotten that it ever happened. It sucked, though. This was just the second time I've been responsible for causing her physical pain, the first being when I clumsily removed her leg bandages the day after she got shots at her two-month doctor visit. This feels worse, but I guess accidents happen.

(Now my mom will call me and say, "Don't worry, Dan. You got dropped on your head all the time when you were little. Explains a lot!")

Sick

Moms who are breastfeeding can't take anything good for their symptoms, which for Julie include but are not limited to congestion, sore throat, upset stomach, and general exhaustion.

She seems to be through the worst of it, but she did cough all night long in spite of the humidifier I bought yesterday. So she got maybe four hours of sleep. I got half that because I so enjoy stealing her thunder. Or rather, it's because she sounded like thunder until I finally left to sleep downstairs, at which point my normally dormant brain decided to erupt with thoughts about everything and nothing.

When you have an infant, there's no such thing as the common cold, where you sniffle and cuddle with a blanket. If you're a working mom, you're already up to your eyes in one of the most difficult times of your life. Add sickness to it, and something's got to give.

My vote is give formula to the baby, chug NyQuil, and pump and dump.

Half

Lyla is six months old today. This is what she looked like on November 20th:


And this is her now:







Happy half-birthday, kid. Daddy loves you.

Toupee

We have a giant bald spot on our lawn from a plumbing snafu last fall. I don't understand why there's so much science involved in reseeding it. In first grade you take a styrofoam cup, fill it with dirt and grass seed, draw a stupid face on the side of it, and you're giving it haircuts by the end of the week.

I seeded nine days ago. Every day since, I've imagined my neighbors peering through their shutters and saying, "Ma, look! That son of a bucket is out watering the dirt pile again!" After spending $30 on the seed, I would've been better off planting three tens and hoping for a money tree to sprout.

"Use fertilizer," you'll say, you smug so-and-so. Yeah, well the genius at Bachman's said no need. Grass makes its own fertilizer or some such nonsense.

My dad did most of the lawn mowing when I was a kid. It's a fatherly activity: gets you away for awhile, pleases the wife. I feel like the ugly spot in our lawn is costing me dad points every day. Maybe I should just sod it.

Gown

This evening I boiled some high-flow nipples.

Actually, there's not much more to that story. They'll allow Lyla to drink bottles faster. You boil them to sterilize them. But I was disappointed that nobody called me at that moment to say, "So Dan, what are you up to?"

In other news, I mentioned months ago that my great-grandfather was baptized in a gown that is now in our possession. The plan was to baptize Lyla in it in December. Well, it didn't happen. My grandfather, a retired Episcopal minister who tramps across the country and lives in his camper, didn't make it to Minnesota as planned. But he's coming in June.

So we'll get Lyla baptized then. I'm thinking if we smear her with butter, we'll be able to just barely stuff her into the 110-year-old gown.

And if Gramps's travel plans change again? Well, maybe we'll drive to him.

Lucky

This is a follow-up to my daycare post from two days ago. Daycare openings for infants are tricky because the ratio is small (one teacher for four babies) and demand is relatively high. Spots open up when infants become toddlers or leave the center for some reason. Some of the centers I called had no infant availability until November.

Of 2010.

When we arrived at the place we ultimately chose, we were first told that they had no spots available in late August, their only available spot being for June. Our best bet was to wait and hope that the open spot remained open (yeah right) or that another spot would open up in August. Maybe a family would move to Brazil, for instance. So we went into the tour feeling pretty hopeless and then fell in love with the center and felt even more hopeless.

So I called the director when we got home, hellbent on talking her into a compromise. As it turns out, she was game for negotiating. I asked her if they could give Lyla the June spot if she started at the beginning of August instead of the end--just hold it for her for two months instead of three. The director paused a moment and then said that would be fine, and in fact she could start part time in August and move to full time when we needed to.

At this point, I began repeatedly leaping into the air. I can't believe it was that easy. We got lucky.

Needy

Sometimes I feel like Lyla thinks I'm weird. I'll do something hysterically funny and she'll just look at me as if to say, "OMG. If that's the way you're going to act, then walk ahead of me." It's like a little prequel to her teenage years.

I've figured out a trick, though. After the hysterically funny action, voice, dance, or all of the above, I look at her and smile and laugh. This way she knows the appropriate response. Usually it works and she giggles or smiles, but I know it won't work forever.

So as she gets older, I'll have to step up my game. Or slip her money to at least laugh at my jokes in public.