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Is it just me, or is it a little bit funny when your baby pukes on your spouse?

Perfect Comic Timing

See? Food!

As you can see from the photo, we've been trying out new foods on Milo, foods that don't come from jars.  He has had much of the mashed stuff you'd expect, but our pediatrician said he could try avocado, so that's what we did yesterday.  He didn't dig it too much, but he certainly wasn't going to cry about it.

But on to the comic timing that is the subject of this post.  Yesterday, before Milo's bedtime, we were hanging out on our bed with him, and Ben had him on his chest.  Before Milo started sleeping in his crib and when he wasn't really getting solid sleep in his bassinet in our bedroom, one of the only ways he would fall asleep comfortably was on Ben's chest.  He's a squirmy baby, though, and hasn't really done that for several months.  In fact, it's sort of rare to even be holding Milo and for him to be still.  Sometimes, when I'm putting him down for a nap, and he falls asleep on my shoulder, I hold him a little longer than necessary, because it is such a warm, cuddly feeling.  So, anyway, Milo was actually flopped on Ben yesterday, but staying still, in a way that looked really comfy and sweet, and I said, "Wow, he hasn't done that since he was just a little baby," and Ben responded, really nostalgically (I know nostalgia is silly when Milo is still only six months old, but that's the kind of people we are), "I never thought he'd do it again," at which point Milo lifted his head, propped himself up like he was doing a push-up on Ben's chest, and snorted.  Little dude wants to sell his wares at the Comedy Store.

Rollin' With the Homies

He's actually sponsored by Nike

The going-to-sleep routine for Milo used to consist of his taking a bottle, being sung to and, if he wasn't already asleep by the time he hit the crib but was still pretty mellow, babbling to himself in a funny kind of way.  Mostly "ahhh"s and the noise you make when you're trying to sound like a door creaking.  He'd do that for five or ten minutes, and then he was done.  Now, because he's finally unswaddled in his crib and doing his own thing, he rolls.  Relentlessly.  One time for as long as forty minutes before falling asleep.  [Side-note: We have a baby monitor that has both audio and video -- the video is this crazy infrared War Games kind of picture, which makes Milo's eyes gleam with cold, baby soullessness when it's dark -- and has been the source of both amusement and anxiety for me and Ben.  Well, it doesn't cause Ben much anxiety, actually, because he doesn't have any problem muting Milo while the screaming and crying runs its course. When things go badly, you can still hear him through the ceiling, but never you mind.]  Anyway, the amusement comes when you've put the baby down on one end of the crib, and you just see him circling like mad throughout the entire crib -- sideways, up in one corner, over to the next, on his belly, on his back, pulling on the bumper, doing a downward-facing-dog, etc.  It's like mattress Cirque de Soleil.

Why Are My Teeth Trying to Kill Me?

Good to gnaw you

I've often thought about the irony of human biology and how the necessary mechanisms of growing, and later, of disintegrating, have to happen to the super-vulnerable: the very young and the very old.  It seems mean, doesn't it, that the really rough stuff mostly happens to those who are least equipped to deal with it?

Teething seems to me a prime example.  Milo has cut his first tooth, and is probably on the way to the second, and the kid is miserable.  And why not?  A miniature enamel razor blade took its sweet time sawing through his tender little gums.  But for the fact that we need teeth to eat, it's pretty clear to me that we should all do our teething as teenagers, so at least there'd be a reason to be so moody and belligerent.

Better yet, how about we redesign the process so that human babies come out like colts do?  Horses totally have the right idea.  The mom just plops the baby out on the ground, and the colt stands up on its skinny, rickety legs, takes one look at the steaming pile of gestational gunk from which it emerged, and walks away.  Wouldn't you?

Instead, babies have to go through months (years??!) of misery as their teeth come in, wildly putting their hands, their parents' hands, perfect strangers' hands into their mouths to ease the pain.  While Milo has continued to chew -- perhaps with renewed vigor -- on his teething rings and toys, he has begun chewing on his bibs, on his sleeves, on the front part of his onesies that he can grab.  Anything!  Everything!  The better to eat you with!

Meow Mix

Knock, knock

We have an even newer member of the family than Milo.  Well, she wants to be a member of the family.  Kind of desperately.  There's a stray cat in the neighborhood that has adopted us.  Like, she doesn't seem to go anywhere outside of the vicinity of our yard.  She started hanging out by the dryer vent when it was really cold out, so she smells amazing, but then she began creeping up to the front door, lollygagging on our stoop and greeting us when we got out of the car.  This is all my fault, because I fed her because I am a bleeding heart, sentimental, cat-lovin' fool.  And at first, I was worried because, you know, stray cat, cat diseases, biting, all that.  But she's just the sweetest, gentlest little soul.  Our dog and cats don't like it too much, however, when she does the following: meows by the door for food and stands right there, even when I'm about to take the dog out for a walk, like she just doesn't understand why she's not allowed to come inside; lounges around by the front door, even going so far as to rub her little cheeks and whiskers against the glass, marking us as hers; watches us watching t.v. through the sliding glass door, as if to say, I'd have a better view of this show if I were sitting on the couch with y'all.  (That might actually have been a different cat, though.)  She's a total lover, though.  We're trying to find her a home.  Oh, and her name is The Archbishop Desmond Kit-tutu.  Anyone interested in a cat? 

Maxwell House

I'm reading a book by an author I confess I've never heard of, although I suspect he's pretty famous: William Maxwell.  It's a slim little novel called So Long, See You Tomorrow, and I found a passage from it that I like a lot.  Here it is, and most of it is but one sentence delivered in a litany to make your chest tighten:

'Without the heavyset aristocratic man snoring away on his side of the bed, without the fresh-eyed child whose hair ribbon needs retying; without the conversation at meals and the hearty appetites and getting dressed for church on time; without the tears of laughter and the worry about making both ends meet, the unpaid bills, the layoffs, both seasonal and unexpected; without the toys that have to be picked up lest somebody trip over them, and the seven shirts that have to be washed and ironed, one for every day in the week; without the scraped knee and the hurt feelings, the misunderstandings that need to be cleared up, the voices calling for her so that she is perpetually having to stop what she is doing and go see what they want -- without all this, what have you?  A mystery: How is it that she didn't realize it was going to last such a short time?'

Going Downton

One Degree of Kevin Bacon

Apologies, my nine loyal readers, for the blogger's block.  We've all been working through colds here, luckily staggered by a couple of days so that Ben and I could bail each other out.  The adults were stricken first, and we sort of thought that Milo was some kind of baby Superman with no apparent microbial kryptonite.  Nope.  He's got it, too, although it doesn't seem to be changing his disposition too much.  In fact, I think he's found it to be a rather pleasant distraction from the pain of teething except when we have to stick the bulb syringe up his nose to suction out his snot.  Mmmm. 

None of that is really important.  What's important is that Ben and I have developed an unhealthy addiction to Downton Abbey.  Don't worry -- no spoilers, here; we're only through the first show in Season Two, but we worked our way swiftly through Season One, and I kind of can't stop thinking about it, even though it's soap-opera schlock dressed up in Masterpiece garb.

I'm enjoying the Upstairs, Downstairs quality of the show, obvi, and the personalities of the characters were established sufficiently quickly to let the viewer enjoy their little quirks.  I've got a few ideas for DA merch.  Here they are: 1. the Thomas action figure who, when you pull the string, smokes, smirks and makes ill-advised passes at attractive Turkish diplomats and square-jawed gas-blind WWI convalescents 2. the bumper sticker that reads, 'Lady Mary: so good, it killed him' 3. the card game which tests the player's ability to tell the difference between side-by-side pictures of Edith and Hello, Dolly! era Barbara Streisand 4. glue-on Carson eyebrows that express disdain for common behavior and 5. a miniature tub filled with Yorkshire pudding in which the Dowager and Mrs. Crawley wrestle for control over Dr. Clarkson.

Anyhoo, looking forward to continuing the marathon after Milo goes to bed tonight.  And ready for the Great War to be over.  The foxholes and hand-held camera work don't seem to be the BBC's strength.