Safety Goggles Advised

He gouges out of love.

Kuh-nuffle Cow?

Sophie REALIZED something. She marched into my room and said, "THIS IS NOT MY COW!"

Albert Cowmoo is Sophie's first love. When we realized that Cowmoo was going to be Sophie's nighttime/naptime lovey when she was just a little over a year old, we rushed out to find a spare. The REAL Cowmoo was a gift from Aunt Laura, but it was a seasonal item -- sold along with the book Click Clack Moo, and nowhere to be found. Except Ebay. So that's how we got CowTwo. But until a few days ago, Sophie did not know about the stunt double. We dutifully rotated the cows so that they got a relatively equal amount of wear (great trick of hiding cleaner cow in the washing machine, then inserting dirty cow right in front of Sophie's eyes, closing the lid, then opening the lid and removing clean cow -- cooking show style). We never left two cows grazing at the same time. We never mentioned the name CowTwo in front of the girl. But we're tired, now. Corners got cut. And, somehow, Cowmoo became two. In true Knuffle Bunny style (great book if you haven't read it), Sophie was having NONE of it. She was not amused that there were two cows. She did not think that a cow visitor had decided to come play. She announced that one of them was NOT her cow, and that it probably belonged to Berkely (a kid at her school). I promised I would return it to him, and shoved it back in its corner behind Frank's hiking boots when she wasn't looking. Here's a shot of Sophie and Cow from September, 2006:

Let there be KITE

We went to the kite festival, oh...about twenty days ago. I'm just now getting around to posting some pics. They look better when larger, so click on these...

An idea sprung from Jameson's head:

Look out, boy! That kite's gonna land on yer nose...

Let there be (L)ight

Jameson said his first word! It's not dada (although he does say duh duh duh duh all the time). It's not mama (he grins/laughs/cackles when I say mama, but he doesn't say it). It's not Sophie or Sissy or So-so, despite her many efforts to get him to say her name first. It's not "Callie, No!" which I'm sure is imprinted on his brain. It's not uh-oh (that was Sophie's first word, and continues to be a testament to her balance).

It's LIGHT.

At dinner the other night, he reached up with both hands for the light above the table, jutting out his bottom jaw (and his bottom teeth) and started babbling. I said "light" and he said "ight." Just like that. Frank said "light?" and Jameson parroted "light?" And now he says it whenever he's referring to things he likes or wants. Light, light, light. I think it's a good first word. Light is knowledge and truth and God (and the glowing ball above J's head at dinnertime).

Sophie's Dictionary

to·la·ter /tə-lāˈ-tər/ adverb
1. an indication of when things might occur, esp. in reference to candy eating
2. an unspecified extension of the time continuum, as in "today," "tomorrow," and "tolater"
Ex. I'm not eating any more Spongebob gummis now, but can I have some tolater?

blur·ry /ˈblər-ē/ adjective
1. unknown, unfathomable, but probably yucky
2. lacking that je ne sais quoi
Example 1: As we're driving the principal from Cheongwon High School from the airport to his host family's house, Sophie asks, "Are you from Korea?" He answers, "Yes. Do you know where Korea is? She answers, "Yes, it's very blurry there." He wonders what she means. We change the subject.
Example 2: Sophie emerges from her cardboard house with my purse on her arm and brown stuff all over her cheeks. I ask, "What's that on your face?" She answers, "Make-up. My face was looking a little blurry." (Fashion tip: eyeshadow does not clear up blurry cheeks)

Footnote: Sophie likes to make up new words and new usages for existing words, but she does not always appreciate new vocabulary. When Frank told her to stop being so obsequious, she screamed, "That's not even a word to me!" and then crumpled in a little heap of Sophie onto the floor.

Snoozefest

Jameson thinks Pinkalicious is sooooo boring. Where's the dinosaurliscious book? Or truckaluscious?

He Was a Hairy Bear

When Jameson was born, we called him our hobbit. He was such a fuzzy little guy, with dark spiky hair. Now his hair can be twisted into a tower of power, and the color becomes lighter with every shampoo, as if we're washing the dirt out:
Usually he sports a fancy comb-over, but with a little "product," (egg whites...quite organic), he morphs into full-on mohawk: (Note the two bottom teeth, too!)

Profile of a mad man:

His Chris Gaines impression, including pout:

Just jokin'! I'm still the smiliest boy around:

Think I'm joking when I say comb-over? Check it out:

Jameson's first haircut in the dining room (times is tough):

All done! And the hobbit became a real boy.

Pop Goes the Elbow

Well, we broke her. Or rather, we dislocated her. But it wasn't "we," it was the sweet gymnastics coach who pulled her up off the mat after a crooked tumble, and it wasn't really "her," it was her elbow. Here's what happened:

When I picked her up from gymastics Saturday morning, she was being held by her coach and she was crying. The coach said she had a "boo boo" and that she was missing Mommy. Sounded about right. When I tried to put on her sweatshirt, though, she started crying even harder. I went back into the gym and got a better description of the injury. When I got her calmed down, she could lift her arm up, she could bend it at the elbow, she could squeeze my finger. All good signs. We headed home for ice and Tylenol. When I noticed that she wasn't using her left arm, I suggested that we might need to stay home and rest instead of going to the princess birthday party she was supposed to attend. MAJOR TEARS. A full-on princess hissy fit. Had Frank been home, he would have called it a "jihad." But Frank wasn't home and Mom wasn't sure what to do, so I helped her slip into her trashiest princess dress, some hot pink high-top Converse, and her Halloween costume crown. She still had her crooked pigtails from gymnastics and a tearstained face and her arm hanging limply beneath crushed purple taffeta and pink netting. In a word: pitiful.

We arrived at the party about an hour late, but just in time to eat cake and watch the hired Cinderella tying flower and wand balloons (I kept thinking of you, Aunt La-la, and your life on the birthday party circuit!). Fast-forward to dance party time, and Cinderella surrounded by twelve adorable little princesses, some with flowers in their hair, some with sparkly blue eyeshadow, some with glitter lotion on the skins, some with perfectly hair-sprayed ringlets, none looking quite so thrown together as my little Princess Ragamuffin. Cindy turned on the Hokey-pokey and I watched my little gimpy daughter shuffle and gyrate, but she just could not put her left arm in. Should I take her to the emergency room? Urgent care center? Call up my brother, the former nurse? Before I could decide, a horse-drawn carriage arrived at the party and Sophie's jaw dropped. She took two rides on the carriage before I convinced her it was time to leave.

I finally called Uncle Jeff, who listened to all the details, including the fact that she has had a hurt arm twice before (once when she was a toddler and sat down while I was holding her hand, another time after a friend was swinging her around by the arms). Both times it dangled by her side and healed after a few hours. Jeff decided it was probably muscular, and told me that the ER would charge me $50 and give her acetaminophen. Give it three days, and she'll be back to normal. He also advised that I give her a makeshift sling, which I did, and that seemed to help.

Then I went to the oracle. Google-style. Turns out that kids between the ages of 1 and 3 often get "nursemaid's elbow." (Called that after caregivers who inadvertently yank the arm of an uncooperative child.) If it's happened before, it's likely to happen again. And it occurs more frequently in girls than boys. And more often on the left arm than the right. Guess what?!? She's three, she's a girl, and it was the left arm. The internet tried to teach me how to reduce the injury, but it didn't seem to work. The internet also said that ice, Tylenol, and a few days would do the trick, if the reduction didn't work.

Finally, my rock, my love, my Frank came home. And I showed him my research. He called up our doc, Dr. Geoff, who concurred with the google diagnosis. He gave Frank a few more tips over the phone, and told him that it's a really easy procedure that's hard for parents to do (screaming is involved), but easy for doctors. Then he gave Frank directions to his house. (Did I mention that we're friends with our doctor?) We tried. Twice. Then Frank loaded Sophie up in the car and drove her to the doc. A house call, in reverse. He tried the maneuver once. No dice. He frowned, tried it again, and POP. She was cured. (We'll be billed through the mail, thank you very much.) I would have paid a $500 co-pay to have her fixed yesterday morning.

Tonight we are thankful for sweet gymnastics coaches who cuddle you when you fall, for Cinderellas who distract you from your pain, for cherry-flavored Tylenol, for horse-drawn carriages, for Nurse Jeff, for Dad who tried really hard but didn't want to hurt his little girl, and most especially, Dr. Geoff. He even gave her a sticker when she was done! And thanks to you, too, Google. And you? If you read this whole dang post, you should get a sticker, too.

Things Heard 'Round the Webster House Lately

If you were a fly on the wall in our house this week, this is what you might have heard:

"I'm all done pooping and I'm touching my toes!" I blame Frank for this one...he thinks it's a good post-pottying stance. For some reason, I much prefer changing a diaper to the process of helping a three-year-old wipe her bum.

When Sophie came home with a pile of art from school, I spotted a beautiful rainbow-colored picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. I asked, "Who's this guy?" Her response? "OOOOOoooo-BAMA!"

In response to "Why do we have to listen to the mommies and daddies?" Because if you don't, there will be chaos and anarchy and little kids running around on an island with a pig's head on a stick and everyone will be looking for a little boy named Simon. And she said, "Oh. Simon."

"A little bitty CUPcake, a little bitty CUPcake!" This is Sophie's favorite song right now. It's "Hotel Room" by Regina Spektor and the line is actually "a little bag of cocaine," but we changed it by screaming out our new lyrics everytime Regina talks about drugs. It's working for us, but it makes me hungry.

And, finally, in response to something I may or may not have said to her when she was requesting a certain breakfast menu: "I am NOT DELUSIONAL!"

One snooze forward, half a snooze back

Friday night, Frank put Jameson to sleep around 8:30 (I was at the hospital meeting Nini and Adam's new baby, Carter!) -- Jameson fell asleep after drinking about 3 ounces. That's a light snack for him. He slept past the midnight mark and woke up at 2:30. Since that was about six hours, and since he had missed the midnight feeding, I went ahead and nursed him back to sleep. When he woke up again at 3:40, I let him cry and fuss himself back to sleep (about 20 minutes).

Last night was similar. He went to bed a little later than usual -- around 9 p.m. -- and slept past the midnight mark. He woke up around 2:20 and I fed him. At 4:00 a.m. he cried and I gave him a pacifier and left the room -- not sure how long he fussed because I went back to bed and fell asleep. Hooray! He woke up around 7:30 a.m.

We're getting there. I know he can probably sleep through the night, but one feeding a night is okay with me for a week or so. Then we'll try to get past that hurdle, too.

Morning Report

The little booger slept until 7 a.m. That means he went seven hours without needing to nurse. The good mother thinks: Woohoo, little Jameson! You did it! Good boy!

The seven months sleep-deprived mother thinks: I feel so manipulated. So used. How could I have fallen for big, blue eyes and a bad comb-over?

Sleep Log

It's 2:06 a.m. Night #1 of the something's-gotta-change-palooza at the Webster household.

For 7 and a half months I've survived on less than a full night's sleep. Most nights, I nurse Jameson to sleep around 8 p.m., fall asleep on the couch watching "The Daily Show" or "Colbert," wake up when the baby cries around midnight and feed him again, "fall asleep" with him in the daybed in his room -- but not a deep sleep because he's nursing off and on, making little piggy noises, and alternating between snuggling and kicking me, wake up at some point next to a sleeping baby and move him to his crib, go to bed in my own room -- but Frank's already asleep and snoring so it takes a while for me to fall asleep, wake up to Jameson crying around 4 a.m., return to his room to rock or nurse him, fall asleep in the rocking chair or daybed again, wake up around 6:30 and return him to his crib, go back to my room for my final thirty minutes of sleep before Sophie wakes up and needs breakfast. It's crazy, I know. I sleep in three different places most nights. I don't think I've hit REM cycle in ages. A glance in the mirror tells me I am NOT getting my beauty rest. But in a weird way, it's been working for us. I don't want him to wake up Sophie or Frank and it's just easy to nurse him down to sleep than to let him cry. It also assuages my guilt of not being with him all day -- I tell myself that he's a little night crawler that needs to feed all night. But the truth is...it's time. He's old enough, fat enough, happy enough.

So here's the report for tonight: he went to bed at 8 p.m. I nursed him again around midnight. He woke up at 1:33 crying and I let him fuss until about 1:55 before going in to pat him and give him a pacifier. That really ticked him off, so I left and came in to the computer room. At 2:06, when I started writing, he was still fussing. Now it's 2:20 and he's quiet. Back to bed for me.

Postscript: When Jameson was born, Melanie (our good friend and Sophie's "nini" nanny for two years) visited us in the hospital. While she held Jameson for the first time, she told us that she was pregnant. And now, these many months later, Baby Carter has finally arrived! So I pass the up-all-night torch to you, my friend. Welcome to the world, Carter. And welcome to the night life, Mel.

Pillow talk

I talk in my sleep. A lot, apparently. Frank likes to prompt me and have long ridiculous conversations that he then records in a journal and endlessly teases me about. According to the journal, I have recurring nightmares about scrubbing bubbles. You know, the Dow chemical cartoon kind.

The other night I was rocking Jameson in his room about an hour after Sophie had gone to sleep, and I heard her kicking the wall between us. Light at first, then like an elephant dancing on the wall, then it stopped. After I settled Jameson in his crib, I snuck into her room. She was deep asleep, but her head was at the foot of the bed, one of her feet was on her pillow, and the other one was kicked up against the wall. I did a quick ninja move to flip her around and her eyes popped open. In a very distressed voice, she asked, "Are we out of eggs?!" "No, honey, we have a fridge full of eggs." "Oh...(smile breaks across her face), I'm a silly woo." And then she was out again.

Little Man Update

You know what Santa brought Jameson? His two front teeth. Front and bottom, anyway. The first one was peeking through the gums right before Christmas. He grew a whole new tooth sitting in the Charlotte airport. There was nothing else to do.

Other things to note: His hair is turning blonder. It gets lighter in color every time we wash it -- it's like we're washing the dirt out. (Which, I know, we are...and the smashed nanner and the sweet potato and the rice cereal, but the kid was born with dark brown hair and it's getting closer and closer to Sophie's color every day.)

He makes noises. His first intelligible sound was "AGUA." He said it four times in a row. Frank was very excited because now we can list his first language as Spanish when we're filling out college scholarship applications. He also says "ba" and "da" and "nanananananananananana." He skipped the "ma" but whenever I say it he grins really big. My theory is that he knows how to say Momma and he's messing with me.

And he MOVES. It's not a get-up-on-your-knees-and-go kind of crawl -- more of a military crawl. And every move involves a might YAWP. See for yourself:

Fake it 'til you make it, Part 2

See that crazed look on her face? I know, you're fixated on his crazy hair, but check out the girl. This is Sophie's "and if you believe that, I've got a bridge to sell you" look.

Last night it occurred to me that we have a school holiday coming up. When we visited her school last year around this time, the kids were singing about brotherhood. Very touching. So I asked her, "Sophie, do you know who Martin Luther King, Jr. is?" (Her head nods.) "What did Martin Luther King do?"

Her response: He danced around a lot. With the princesses. And he sat on the Easter Bunny's lap.

Sigh. I want my January tuition money back.