The day after I posted my offer of handspun to swap, I saw that someone named Cyndy had posted a comment saying she was interested and had sent me an email. Neat, I thought, and when I had a chance, looked at my email. She had sock yarn that needed a new home, and would like some of mine. Since I couldn't find the battery charger I needed to take a picture of what I had on offer, I suggested a good-faith blind-date type of swap--she'd decide how much to send by weight, and I'd send her an equal amount by weight of handspun. This idea was approved. Good good.
Then I got another email. Er, this is rather embarassing, but I have quite a lot of sock yarn, Cyndy said. How much is too much?
There is no such thing as too much sock yarn, I assured her.
Do you know how many pairs of socks' worth of sock yarn I am getting?
Guess.
No, guess.
Twenty-five.
Yup.
I was so overcome with excitement that I packed up 25 skeins of handspun in an empty diaper box that very (this very) morning. Now, I have no car, and the post office is over a mile away over some big scary intersections. What did I do? I took Barak to playgroup. Then, instead of doing any of the things I should have been doing, I put Iyyar in one half of the baby stroller, buckled in the enormous box which, fortuitously, just exactly fit in the other, and off I went. I also posted, finally, a bag of goodies for Penny (you know who you are) and Sara (you know who you are too) and my Israeli SIL, who just had a new little boy (mazal tov!)
And I still have about four pounds of handspun left. Anyone? Anyone?
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Grumble
When I was pregnant with Barak, I gained weight. Okay, everybody gains weight when they're pregnant, but I gained a LOT of weight. And, having just gotten married and started cooking dinner every night, I had already gained weight before I got pregnant. At my first prenatal, when I was maybe 8 weeks pregnant, I looked at the scale in shock. "I already gained that much from being pregnant?" I asked the LPN. "No, honey, that's all you," she said. Uh-oh. And I went on to gain 41 pounds from there. Yup yup.
Eventually, I lost all but 5 of that, gaining back another five the summer I kept getting pregnant for a few weeks at a time. By the time I had my first prenatal with Iyyar, I was up 15 pounds from what I weighed when I got pregnant with Barak (which, though it was so horrifying at the time, I would consider not a terrible weight for now.) From my first prenatal to giving birth, I gained 30. When I went back to work, I'd lost 20 of that. The last time I checked my weight on a reliable scale, I'd gotten back to my first-prenatal point.
Last weekend, I picked up some bug the kids had had earlier in the week and spent Shabbos in bed shivering with a fever. Sunday morning I thought, hmm, I think I lost some weight from that. And since we didn't have one, I thought, well, maybe it's time to buy a bathroom scale. Which I did.
The scale told me I'd lost seven--seven!!--more pounds. This number would me to "lost all weight related to Iyyar."
Really?!
I was suspicious.
So today at work, I went up to the ladies' room with a balance scale and checked.
Feh.
Not seven. Two. The new scale weighs light.
I mean, I'll take it, obviously. But seven would have been nicer.
I think we'll all go for a walk now.
Eventually, I lost all but 5 of that, gaining back another five the summer I kept getting pregnant for a few weeks at a time. By the time I had my first prenatal with Iyyar, I was up 15 pounds from what I weighed when I got pregnant with Barak (which, though it was so horrifying at the time, I would consider not a terrible weight for now.) From my first prenatal to giving birth, I gained 30. When I went back to work, I'd lost 20 of that. The last time I checked my weight on a reliable scale, I'd gotten back to my first-prenatal point.
Last weekend, I picked up some bug the kids had had earlier in the week and spent Shabbos in bed shivering with a fever. Sunday morning I thought, hmm, I think I lost some weight from that. And since we didn't have one, I thought, well, maybe it's time to buy a bathroom scale. Which I did.
The scale told me I'd lost seven--seven!!--more pounds. This number would me to "lost all weight related to Iyyar."
Really?!
I was suspicious.
So today at work, I went up to the ladies' room with a balance scale and checked.
Feh.
Not seven. Two. The new scale weighs light.
I mean, I'll take it, obviously. But seven would have been nicer.
I think we'll all go for a walk now.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Warning: Knitting content ahead
First, though, a baby update. Last Tuesday through Sunday--Sunday a week ago now--Iyyar slept, relatively, really well. (I won't get specific about what that means, because it's embarassing, but really well for him.) Monday night, it all went to gehennom, and nobody got any sleep all week. Friday night was better, and Saturday night he slept from 12 till almost 6 without nursing--by far his longest stretch ever. He did wake up, but his abba got him back to sleep without any of the good stuff. He's asleep now, and hopes around here are running high.
What does this have to do with knitting, you ask? Well, a sleeping baby can mean only one thing--knitting time! My friend and knitting buddy Cecilia came here last weekend, and the two of us wallowed in wool (and bagels, and Hungarian noodles) from Saturday night till she left Monday morning. She lives pretty far away, so we don't get to see each other very often and consider a visit an excuse for a lot of late-night knitting and carbohydrates. (I bought a five-pound bag of flour in anticipation of her visit. It ran out.)
If I had a functioning camera, I would show you glorious photographs of Barak's new spiral yoke sweater with Noro yoke, or the gloves I made my DSIL out of the loveliest yarn ever. I would show you pictures of the socks I made for the boys (two pairs out of a single ball of Regia!) and the Celtic Dreams top-down Aran that Sarah has nobly agreed to put sleeves on for me (it's been in a bag since January 1999). And I would definitely show you pictures of the sweater Cecilia made Barak, adorned with a picture of his favorite thing ever. And I would show you a picture of the basket of fish.
What's that, you say? Basket of fish? Well, it'll just have to wait till I find the charger for the camera battery.
In the meantime, with thoughts of aliya on our minds I have decided it is time to downsize my yarn cache. The trouble is, though, that almost everything I want to offload is handspun. Specifically, about ten pounds of naturally dyed, breed-specific wool, with only 100g of each breed/dyelot combination.
Maybe I should backtrack a little.
So, in the late 90s I was in grad school in England. I had just been through a spectacularly painful breakup with someone I had thought I'd marry (may I now say that I'm very pleased indeed that I didn't) and was living with a bunch of strangers in a terraced house in the West Midlands. What's a depressed post-breakup girl to do? Well, for the first semester I knitted. But then I discovered gan eden.
I quickly realized the purpose of my stay in the British Isles, and it wasn't more degrees. Clearly, it was sampling wool from every single breed of sheep to be found in England (I then expanded that to Scotland and Wales, just because).
There are forty million sheep in Great Britain. Just so you know. I don't remember how many breeds of sheep there are, but I could tell you by counting the number of skeins on my shelf. When I got back from England, Grandma E hosted a spin-in for me, and I brought my haul in a huge backpack. At some point during the proceedings, I emptied it out into a mountain on the floor. Nobody actually stopped spinning, but the conversation did have a noticeable lull.
That summer, I lived in Washington, DC. It was their hottest summer on record, and I didn't have air conditioning. What was the natural response to this? Why, buying an enormous natural dye sampler kit and dyeing the whole shebang, of course. (Oh, my roommate loved me, you can be sure of that. Especially when I started with the cochineal. "You're cooking your wool? In BUGS?!" We haven't kept in touch...)
So, where does this bring me? Now I have this yarn, which is very near and dear to my heart. It took a lot of time and effort to produce, and the materials weren't cheap either. But I've had it for, um, going on eight years now. I'm not going to knit it anytime soon, and I've carted it around enough. Clearly, it needs to go. But how do I put a price on this stuff? I've put some yarn on destash, to spectacular lack of success--such that I'm almost embarassed to try that again.
I'm inclined to put it all up there saying "Will swap for equal weight of interesting sock yarn" being that socks are all I want to knit these days anyway. Of course, first I'd have to find my camera...
Anybody out there interested? Will swap for interesting sock yarn. Any takers have to promise to love and cherish my handspun, and remember the immortal words of my favorite ever bumper sticker, courtesy of the British Wool Board:
Buy British Wool. Forty million sheep can't be wrong.
What does this have to do with knitting, you ask? Well, a sleeping baby can mean only one thing--knitting time! My friend and knitting buddy Cecilia came here last weekend, and the two of us wallowed in wool (and bagels, and Hungarian noodles) from Saturday night till she left Monday morning. She lives pretty far away, so we don't get to see each other very often and consider a visit an excuse for a lot of late-night knitting and carbohydrates. (I bought a five-pound bag of flour in anticipation of her visit. It ran out.)
If I had a functioning camera, I would show you glorious photographs of Barak's new spiral yoke sweater with Noro yoke, or the gloves I made my DSIL out of the loveliest yarn ever. I would show you pictures of the socks I made for the boys (two pairs out of a single ball of Regia!) and the Celtic Dreams top-down Aran that Sarah has nobly agreed to put sleeves on for me (it's been in a bag since January 1999). And I would definitely show you pictures of the sweater Cecilia made Barak, adorned with a picture of his favorite thing ever. And I would show you a picture of the basket of fish.
What's that, you say? Basket of fish? Well, it'll just have to wait till I find the charger for the camera battery.
In the meantime, with thoughts of aliya on our minds I have decided it is time to downsize my yarn cache. The trouble is, though, that almost everything I want to offload is handspun. Specifically, about ten pounds of naturally dyed, breed-specific wool, with only 100g of each breed/dyelot combination.
Maybe I should backtrack a little.
So, in the late 90s I was in grad school in England. I had just been through a spectacularly painful breakup with someone I had thought I'd marry (may I now say that I'm very pleased indeed that I didn't) and was living with a bunch of strangers in a terraced house in the West Midlands. What's a depressed post-breakup girl to do? Well, for the first semester I knitted. But then I discovered gan eden.
I quickly realized the purpose of my stay in the British Isles, and it wasn't more degrees. Clearly, it was sampling wool from every single breed of sheep to be found in England (I then expanded that to Scotland and Wales, just because).
There are forty million sheep in Great Britain. Just so you know. I don't remember how many breeds of sheep there are, but I could tell you by counting the number of skeins on my shelf. When I got back from England, Grandma E hosted a spin-in for me, and I brought my haul in a huge backpack. At some point during the proceedings, I emptied it out into a mountain on the floor. Nobody actually stopped spinning, but the conversation did have a noticeable lull.
That summer, I lived in Washington, DC. It was their hottest summer on record, and I didn't have air conditioning. What was the natural response to this? Why, buying an enormous natural dye sampler kit and dyeing the whole shebang, of course. (Oh, my roommate loved me, you can be sure of that. Especially when I started with the cochineal. "You're cooking your wool? In BUGS?!" We haven't kept in touch...)
So, where does this bring me? Now I have this yarn, which is very near and dear to my heart. It took a lot of time and effort to produce, and the materials weren't cheap either. But I've had it for, um, going on eight years now. I'm not going to knit it anytime soon, and I've carted it around enough. Clearly, it needs to go. But how do I put a price on this stuff? I've put some yarn on destash, to spectacular lack of success--such that I'm almost embarassed to try that again.
I'm inclined to put it all up there saying "Will swap for equal weight of interesting sock yarn" being that socks are all I want to knit these days anyway. Of course, first I'd have to find my camera...
Anybody out there interested? Will swap for interesting sock yarn. Any takers have to promise to love and cherish my handspun, and remember the immortal words of my favorite ever bumper sticker, courtesy of the British Wool Board:
Buy British Wool. Forty million sheep can't be wrong.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Blogging is a funny thing
Not last summer but the summer before, my friend Sarah came to visit. She stayed for three days, during which time we knitted, chatted, played with the baby and ate lots and lots of latkes. This would not have been strange at all, but for the minor detail that we'd never met. I'd read her blog, she'd read mine, we'd emailed, and eventually we talked on the phone. Our husbands thought we were nuts. "What if she's a serial killer?" her husband asked. "What if you don't like each other in person?" mine asked. I'm not, we did, and I'm still trying to get her to come back.
I'm thinking a lot about blog-based friendships now, because I just checked one of the knitting blogs I read and found that Brynne's lump is benign. And I was immensely relieved, because it had been worrying me all week, such that I was checking her blog almost hourly to see if she'd posted. Last May, one of my other blogging friends died of cancer, and the experience of writing her last few posts for her is not something I want anyone else to have to go through. (And I still can't get TypePad to take the thing down. Support? What support?) I'd never met her either, despite fifty billion emails and however many phone calls and pieces of physical mail.
Blogging is so weird. It's opening your life--only as much of it as you want to share, but still--to anybody who cares to read about it. I have about ten blogs I read regularly. Some are knitters, some are Jewish, some are both or neither. Some of them are just really, really weird; some of them are people I think I'd love to be friends with. And some of them are people I have become friends with, through a comment turned email exchange turned what I can only term a real friendship, even though the two of us are states away.
Strange thing, isn't it.
I'm thinking a lot about blog-based friendships now, because I just checked one of the knitting blogs I read and found that Brynne's lump is benign. And I was immensely relieved, because it had been worrying me all week, such that I was checking her blog almost hourly to see if she'd posted. Last May, one of my other blogging friends died of cancer, and the experience of writing her last few posts for her is not something I want anyone else to have to go through. (And I still can't get TypePad to take the thing down. Support? What support?) I'd never met her either, despite fifty billion emails and however many phone calls and pieces of physical mail.
Blogging is so weird. It's opening your life--only as much of it as you want to share, but still--to anybody who cares to read about it. I have about ten blogs I read regularly. Some are knitters, some are Jewish, some are both or neither. Some of them are just really, really weird; some of them are people I think I'd love to be friends with. And some of them are people I have become friends with, through a comment turned email exchange turned what I can only term a real friendship, even though the two of us are states away.
Strange thing, isn't it.
Monday, October 23, 2006
2.5
I just looked at the calendar and realized that Barak is two and a half years old today. Wow.
Recent things he's done that I want to remember: stopping and noticing piped-in elevator music, pointing at its source and exclaiming "Uncle Moishy!"; snuggling up to me right before bedtime and requesting "More cuddle please," (how could I say no?); pointing at an empty Diet Coke can lying under a bush in the park and asking, "That's Imma's?" (ouch!)
Too fast. This is all happening too fast...
Recent things he's done that I want to remember: stopping and noticing piped-in elevator music, pointing at its source and exclaiming "Uncle Moishy!"; snuggling up to me right before bedtime and requesting "More cuddle please," (how could I say no?); pointing at an empty Diet Coke can lying under a bush in the park and asking, "That's Imma's?" (ouch!)
Too fast. This is all happening too fast...
They are both asleep.
They slept last night, too. Amazingly well, bli ayin hara etc.
Did I sleep? Um, no, not really. I didn't even go to bed till, er, about 4 am.
And it's around quarter to one, and I'm still up.
Why?
Because I have a knitting buddy visiting whom I see, on average, one day every two or three years. All we've done all day has been knit, talk about knitting, and eat. (That sentence sounds so wrong. I'm so out of it I can't even tell why.) The kids have had father-son bonding day, and we're holed up in the back bedroom with yarn up to our ears.
I think this is the one thing I'd actually rather be doing than sleeping.
Did I sleep? Um, no, not really. I didn't even go to bed till, er, about 4 am.
And it's around quarter to one, and I'm still up.
Why?
Because I have a knitting buddy visiting whom I see, on average, one day every two or three years. All we've done all day has been knit, talk about knitting, and eat. (That sentence sounds so wrong. I'm so out of it I can't even tell why.) The kids have had father-son bonding day, and we're holed up in the back bedroom with yarn up to our ears.
I think this is the one thing I'd actually rather be doing than sleeping.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The latest
This morning: the usual. Lots of wailing, 30-minute nap.
This afternoon: who is this and where is my baby? Two and a half hours, not a peep.
This evening: took both boys to pick Abba up at school. Iyyar started to lose patience with the stroller so I carried him home. (Ow. That boy is getting big!) He fell asleep on the way, I put him down in his crib and he stayed asleep. For half an hour.
Tonight: I went to put him down at nine. He nursed himself to sleep with no howling. Ten p.m., he woke up. I gave him his doggie, wrapped his blanket back around him, and walked away. That was eleven minutes ago. He's still asleep.
I'm not even daring to hope. I'm just enjoying it.
The sounds of waves crashing and seagulls cawing are kind of nice too.
This afternoon: who is this and where is my baby? Two and a half hours, not a peep.
This evening: took both boys to pick Abba up at school. Iyyar started to lose patience with the stroller so I carried him home. (Ow. That boy is getting big!) He fell asleep on the way, I put him down in his crib and he stayed asleep. For half an hour.
Tonight: I went to put him down at nine. He nursed himself to sleep with no howling. Ten p.m., he woke up. I gave him his doggie, wrapped his blanket back around him, and walked away. That was eleven minutes ago. He's still asleep.
I'm not even daring to hope. I'm just enjoying it.
The sounds of waves crashing and seagulls cawing are kind of nice too.
I really really shouldn't be blogging now
because Iyyar is napping and I have work to do. But since this blog is also my only form of baby book, and I don't want to forget:
1. Iyyar got his first tooth last Friday morning. Bottom right. The other one is almost through. He was not happy for a few days, but it doesn't seem to be bothering him now. Tooth! Five and a half months! I'm not ready for this...
2. Essential back story: when Barak asks for something I can't or won't give him, I often offer an alternative. As in, "Juice please Imma!" "We're not having juice now. How about water?" Got that? Good.
Yesterday, he asked for a cup of milk to go with his green noodles. (Spinach noodles--not more nutritious, but more interesting.) I gave him a cup of milk. "No top. Straw!" I didn't give him a straw, but I did give him a cup with no top, along with admonishments to drink nicely, please. Which he did, initially. Then he started pouring his milk into his bowl, out of the bowl with noodles and into the bowl with cheese, etc. He made a fairly substantial mess, which I don't mind so much, and wasted a lot of expensive organic milk, which I do. Then he ran out of milk. "More milk please!"
"Barak, are you going to drink the milk or pour it in the bowl?"
"Pour it in the bowl." At least he's honest.
"Well, if you're going to pour it in the bowl I'm not going to give you milk."
"More milk please!"
"No, no more milk."
Pause while Barak considers this.
"How about water?"
3. Another word I apparently use a lot is "just." Do you want this and this, or just this? We try to give choices around here as much as reasonably possible. (Did I blog about this already? I can't remember. My mind is as mush. As very mushy mush.)
A few weeks ago, in a moment of weakness, I offered Barak some chocolate milk. He studied it, identified it as weird, and declined. "Barak, you're nuts. This is chocolate milk. It's delicious. You don't want chocolate milk?"
"No milk. Just chocolate please."
1. Iyyar got his first tooth last Friday morning. Bottom right. The other one is almost through. He was not happy for a few days, but it doesn't seem to be bothering him now. Tooth! Five and a half months! I'm not ready for this...
2. Essential back story: when Barak asks for something I can't or won't give him, I often offer an alternative. As in, "Juice please Imma!" "We're not having juice now. How about water?" Got that? Good.
Yesterday, he asked for a cup of milk to go with his green noodles. (Spinach noodles--not more nutritious, but more interesting.) I gave him a cup of milk. "No top. Straw!" I didn't give him a straw, but I did give him a cup with no top, along with admonishments to drink nicely, please. Which he did, initially. Then he started pouring his milk into his bowl, out of the bowl with noodles and into the bowl with cheese, etc. He made a fairly substantial mess, which I don't mind so much, and wasted a lot of expensive organic milk, which I do. Then he ran out of milk. "More milk please!"
"Barak, are you going to drink the milk or pour it in the bowl?"
"Pour it in the bowl." At least he's honest.
"Well, if you're going to pour it in the bowl I'm not going to give you milk."
"More milk please!"
"No, no more milk."
Pause while Barak considers this.
"How about water?"
3. Another word I apparently use a lot is "just." Do you want this and this, or just this? We try to give choices around here as much as reasonably possible. (Did I blog about this already? I can't remember. My mind is as mush. As very mushy mush.)
A few weeks ago, in a moment of weakness, I offered Barak some chocolate milk. He studied it, identified it as weird, and declined. "Barak, you're nuts. This is chocolate milk. It's delicious. You don't want chocolate milk?"
"No milk. Just chocolate please."
Update
Well, it all fell apart at around 1:30, but it's still the best night he's had in months, not counting that one night in Columbus that he almost slept like a normal baby. I went to bed after I posted, and just as I fell asleep I heard a little fussing. 1:30, he woke up desperate to nurse, an hour an a half after the last time he'd eaten, and then wouldn't be put down, and so I just took him into bed with me. (Not that I mind this in principle--but I do need him to be able to sleep without me there.) He woke up a few more times that night (have I mentioned the Pancake Principle? Yeah, remind me about that too) but then stayed asleep till nine, when I had to wake him up so I could take Barak to playgroup.
So, did Imma actually get any sleep out of all this? No, I didn't. But. My kitchen no longer reeks, the counter and sink (newly fixed) are shiny and clean, there are four loads of clean laundry (washing machine also newly fixed--two weeks without washing machine, bad news with two little boys) waiting to be folded, and I feel much more refreshed by this than I would be with a little extra sleep. Really.
So, did Imma actually get any sleep out of all this? No, I didn't. But. My kitchen no longer reeks, the counter and sink (newly fixed) are shiny and clean, there are four loads of clean laundry (washing machine also newly fixed--two weeks without washing machine, bad news with two little boys) waiting to be folded, and I feel much more refreshed by this than I would be with a little extra sleep. Really.
shhhhhhhhhh
It is 12:03 am.
It is quiet.
(Well, except for the breast pump, which... we'll save the topic of hearing voices in your breast pump for another time, okay? I know I'm not the only one who does this, since everyone in the lactation room at work has admitted to it. But I have more important matters to blog about tonight. We might even say... momentous.)
Tonight I went to Target with a friend. (Fun, but not momentous. Just wait for it, please.) It was a quick run, so I left Iyyar at home with MHH, with instructions to do whatever made his life easy and not to try to get Iyyar to sleep. I came home 45 minutes later, a little before 9, armed with a new puchase: a small CD player with a white-noise function. I set that up in the bedroom, and also put the little plush doggie in Iyyar's crib--Ada, otherwise known as Our Amazing Babysitter, had suggested that maybe he needed something more substantial than his blanket to grab for comfort. I took the bouncy seat, which used to be good for getting him to sleep but is now not age-appropriate, and put it on my bed such that the vibrating mechanism sat on the side of his crib. I picked him up and nursed him. Fifteen minutes later, he was asleep. I put him down, and walked away.
Fifteen minutes later was the normal time to hear the first howl. Nothing. I went in and checked. He was snoring. 9:30 pm.
9:45--still breathing, not howling.
10:00--we have howls.
I tried to get him to hold the doggie, which worked for a few minutes. Howls. I tried the pacifier. Howls. He got more and more worked up, as per usual, and so I picked him up and cuddled him till he calmed down. Then I swaddled him (which I've tried a million times before with no success) and put him down. He woke up howling. Multiple tries to put baby down, such as usually occupy my entire evening--but then he went back to sleep.
Let's synchronize our watches, shall we? The time then was 10:30.
Ten minutes ago now, at midnight, he woke. And nursed, halfheartedly, for five minutes.
And went back to sleep. Without howling.
He's still asleep.
This. Is. Huge.
I didn't do anything that different from usual. The noise machine is the only thing that's new, and I don't think it's making much difference over the sound of the bouncy seat. And I'm not going to be foolish enough to set myself up for disappointment by thinking aha, he's learned how to sleep! But still. Just one evening of not fielding screams--one evening to clean the kitchen, fold laundry, tidy up the guest room for an impending guest--
I'll take it.
It is quiet.
(Well, except for the breast pump, which... we'll save the topic of hearing voices in your breast pump for another time, okay? I know I'm not the only one who does this, since everyone in the lactation room at work has admitted to it. But I have more important matters to blog about tonight. We might even say... momentous.)
Tonight I went to Target with a friend. (Fun, but not momentous. Just wait for it, please.) It was a quick run, so I left Iyyar at home with MHH, with instructions to do whatever made his life easy and not to try to get Iyyar to sleep. I came home 45 minutes later, a little before 9, armed with a new puchase: a small CD player with a white-noise function. I set that up in the bedroom, and also put the little plush doggie in Iyyar's crib--Ada, otherwise known as Our Amazing Babysitter, had suggested that maybe he needed something more substantial than his blanket to grab for comfort. I took the bouncy seat, which used to be good for getting him to sleep but is now not age-appropriate, and put it on my bed such that the vibrating mechanism sat on the side of his crib. I picked him up and nursed him. Fifteen minutes later, he was asleep. I put him down, and walked away.
Fifteen minutes later was the normal time to hear the first howl. Nothing. I went in and checked. He was snoring. 9:30 pm.
9:45--still breathing, not howling.
10:00--we have howls.
I tried to get him to hold the doggie, which worked for a few minutes. Howls. I tried the pacifier. Howls. He got more and more worked up, as per usual, and so I picked him up and cuddled him till he calmed down. Then I swaddled him (which I've tried a million times before with no success) and put him down. He woke up howling. Multiple tries to put baby down, such as usually occupy my entire evening--but then he went back to sleep.
Let's synchronize our watches, shall we? The time then was 10:30.
Ten minutes ago now, at midnight, he woke. And nursed, halfheartedly, for five minutes.
And went back to sleep. Without howling.
He's still asleep.
This. Is. Huge.
I didn't do anything that different from usual. The noise machine is the only thing that's new, and I don't think it's making much difference over the sound of the bouncy seat. And I'm not going to be foolish enough to set myself up for disappointment by thinking aha, he's learned how to sleep! But still. Just one evening of not fielding screams--one evening to clean the kitchen, fold laundry, tidy up the guest room for an impending guest--
I'll take it.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Too tired to blog
I had a whole amusing post written in my head about what happened this afternoon, when Barak discovered the half-pound Cadbury Fruit and Nut bar that a friend brought back from England and that was stashed in my bag for stealthy transport to my office. But Iyyar is asleep, and I am not in any position to waste any potential sleep time myself. So suffice it to say that Barak found my great big secret chocolate bar. He found it when I was not looking. He had a very glorious time with it, right there on the living room couch, my little boy who knows very well that a) we do not snarf food that we happen to find without asking Imma first, b) we do not eat anywhere but in the kitchen, and c) chocolate is a Treat, reserved for birthdays, Shabbos, and suchlike. So when he heard me coming, he put it down as though it had just come to his notice, put his hand on it, and looked up at me, face smeared with chocolate almost to the eyebrows, and asked sweetly, "Barak hold it chocolate please Imma!"
How could I be mad? I almost want to save the chocolate for posterity, baby-tooth marks and all.
How could I be mad? I almost want to save the chocolate for posterity, baby-tooth marks and all.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Running
When I was seven or eight, my father decided to lose some weight. He posted a chart on the side of the refrigerator that graphed his progress over the weeks. He probably did watch what he ate a bit, but mainly he lost weight by exercising: specifically, by jogging, four times a week, with a group of his friends. My father was 40 when I was born and most of his friends were older than he, some of them retired. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, they'd all get up at 5:15 and jog, slowly slowly, through the suburban darkness.
After a while, they all started running together in 5k races whenever there was one nearby. Once or twice a year, some of them would even do a half-marathon, coming home with nearly all the ribbons not because of speed--even in races they moved always at a snail's pace--but because there were so few entrants in their age class.
I was never particularly athletic, always the last girl picked in gym. My senior year in high school, I decided to start running, and never went out until it was well and truly dark. I didn't want anyone to see me. In college, I ran regularly, three or four miles a few times a week and nine on Sundays. One summer, a friend was going to run a 5-mile run and invited me along. I ran it to keep her company, at my usual sedate pace of nine minutes per mile. That pace was my pace for years, and never really changed. If I ran faster I got tired, if I ran slower I got bored. I always ran a nine-minute mile. At that point, I'd been running for about three years. I had good running shoes, read a running magazine or two, was thinking about training for a marathon. I wasn't fast, but, like my father, I enjoyed it.
I finished that 5-mile run in exactly 45 minutes. A week or so later, I spoke to my father on the phone. I don't think he had any idea I'd taken up running, and was impressed with my time. "But I guarantee you," he said--En garantalom Neked--"that your first mile was six and a half minutes. Your second mile was seven, and your last was twelve. You didn't pace yourself. You have to pace yourself. If you paced yourself, you could have run the five miles in forty minutes."
Logically, the remark wasn't really nasty. He might just have been trying to be helpful, not denigrating. He'd been running much longer than I had, and he didn't know how long I'd been running at all. But it enraged me as few things have. He knew nothing about my running times, my training habits, my experience as a runner, and very little about me. But he assumed, based on nothing, that I didn't know how to run. I had to bite my lip, hard.
It's a similar feeling, I think, when people who don't know me or my kids assume that if I only tried X my kids would sleep with no trouble at all. Because their kids slept through the night after they did this, or this, or this. Because if I only established a routine, let them cry, gave them a bath, tried a white noise CD, got them warmer pajamas, rubbed their backs, made them tea, went to them every time they cried, never went to them at all, or went to them every five minutes like clockwork--if I only did that, they'd sleep. Nekem garantalnak. They guarantee me.
After a while, they all started running together in 5k races whenever there was one nearby. Once or twice a year, some of them would even do a half-marathon, coming home with nearly all the ribbons not because of speed--even in races they moved always at a snail's pace--but because there were so few entrants in their age class.
I was never particularly athletic, always the last girl picked in gym. My senior year in high school, I decided to start running, and never went out until it was well and truly dark. I didn't want anyone to see me. In college, I ran regularly, three or four miles a few times a week and nine on Sundays. One summer, a friend was going to run a 5-mile run and invited me along. I ran it to keep her company, at my usual sedate pace of nine minutes per mile. That pace was my pace for years, and never really changed. If I ran faster I got tired, if I ran slower I got bored. I always ran a nine-minute mile. At that point, I'd been running for about three years. I had good running shoes, read a running magazine or two, was thinking about training for a marathon. I wasn't fast, but, like my father, I enjoyed it.
I finished that 5-mile run in exactly 45 minutes. A week or so later, I spoke to my father on the phone. I don't think he had any idea I'd taken up running, and was impressed with my time. "But I guarantee you," he said--En garantalom Neked--"that your first mile was six and a half minutes. Your second mile was seven, and your last was twelve. You didn't pace yourself. You have to pace yourself. If you paced yourself, you could have run the five miles in forty minutes."
Logically, the remark wasn't really nasty. He might just have been trying to be helpful, not denigrating. He'd been running much longer than I had, and he didn't know how long I'd been running at all. But it enraged me as few things have. He knew nothing about my running times, my training habits, my experience as a runner, and very little about me. But he assumed, based on nothing, that I didn't know how to run. I had to bite my lip, hard.
It's a similar feeling, I think, when people who don't know me or my kids assume that if I only tried X my kids would sleep with no trouble at all. Because their kids slept through the night after they did this, or this, or this. Because if I only established a routine, let them cry, gave them a bath, tried a white noise CD, got them warmer pajamas, rubbed their backs, made them tea, went to them every time they cried, never went to them at all, or went to them every five minutes like clockwork--if I only did that, they'd sleep. Nekem garantalnak. They guarantee me.
Monday, October 09, 2006
You know your kid is a frummie when
We just got home from the home of my DSIL (domestic sister-in-law), where we spent the first days of Succos. Barak, as always, had a blast--all those kids, all those treats, all those toys! We have been talking about the trip for a while, telling Barak that we were going to go on an airplane ("Hairplane? Hairplane go zoom? Barak go innair hairplane?") We flew there via Chicago, which, if you have not been through O'Hare, is quite an experience for a two-year-old with two parents harboring Luddite tendencies. The escalators! The moving walkways! The HAIRPLANES! And the walkway from terminal whatever to whatever, with those flashing neon lights! Oooohhh.
Before we left I dug up an old, small orange shoulder bag--more of a purse really--from Steve's Packs in Jerusalem. I told him he could pack it himself, which he did, with a stack of paper cups, two combs, and an empty raisin box. I added a sippy cup of water and a full box of raisins, which didn't even make it out the door (the raisins, that is). The bag was a good move. When we got to the airport, it was just so obvious that he felt so... grownup. There he was, walking along just like everyone else, hand on his bag like everyone else. Iyyar was in the sling, other babies were in strollers, but he was walking. The look on his face was something else, and I really really wish I had thought to bring a camera.
He wasn't so pleased, at security, by the idea of giving up bag, shoes, and--horrors--his monkey, but calmed down as soon as he got them back. The flight was fine. And when we got there, he immediately inquired, "Hairplane again?" Not for a few days, sweetie. We walked through the arrivals area, and he was dragging his car blankie along the floor. MHH stopped him and put it around his shoulders. "Why don't you wear it like a tallis?" he suggested. "Yeah," said Barak, agreeably. "Go shul!"
On the way back, we were on a smaller plane, and when we took off the cabin lights were dimmed. Barak didn't like that. "Light on!" I told him I couldn't turn the light on. "Light on please!" "Barak, I'm sorry, I can't turn the light on now. " He thought about this one. And he thought he had it. "No light on Shabbos?" Umm. Not exactly, no. But he liked that idea. And ran with it. "Shabbos ice cream! Shabbos ice cream cone eat it!"
Later, when we finally got back, and Iyyar was asleep and Barak was having a late-night snack of yogurt before bed, and I was in the other room putting things away, I heard him singing. He had asked for ice cream when we got home, but I had said no, as usual, and not thought much of it. And then I realized what he was singing. Sort if like a hint, maybe?
He was singing l'cha dodi.
Before we left I dug up an old, small orange shoulder bag--more of a purse really--from Steve's Packs in Jerusalem. I told him he could pack it himself, which he did, with a stack of paper cups, two combs, and an empty raisin box. I added a sippy cup of water and a full box of raisins, which didn't even make it out the door (the raisins, that is). The bag was a good move. When we got to the airport, it was just so obvious that he felt so... grownup. There he was, walking along just like everyone else, hand on his bag like everyone else. Iyyar was in the sling, other babies were in strollers, but he was walking. The look on his face was something else, and I really really wish I had thought to bring a camera.
He wasn't so pleased, at security, by the idea of giving up bag, shoes, and--horrors--his monkey, but calmed down as soon as he got them back. The flight was fine. And when we got there, he immediately inquired, "Hairplane again?" Not for a few days, sweetie. We walked through the arrivals area, and he was dragging his car blankie along the floor. MHH stopped him and put it around his shoulders. "Why don't you wear it like a tallis?" he suggested. "Yeah," said Barak, agreeably. "Go shul!"
On the way back, we were on a smaller plane, and when we took off the cabin lights were dimmed. Barak didn't like that. "Light on!" I told him I couldn't turn the light on. "Light on please!" "Barak, I'm sorry, I can't turn the light on now. " He thought about this one. And he thought he had it. "No light on Shabbos?" Umm. Not exactly, no. But he liked that idea. And ran with it. "Shabbos ice cream! Shabbos ice cream cone eat it!"
Later, when we finally got back, and Iyyar was asleep and Barak was having a late-night snack of yogurt before bed, and I was in the other room putting things away, I heard him singing. He had asked for ice cream when we got home, but I had said no, as usual, and not thought much of it. And then I realized what he was singing. Sort if like a hint, maybe?
He was singing l'cha dodi.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Admitting the obvious
At first, I thought Iyyar was different from Barak. I thought he'd be an easier baby. And he was, in that he let me put him down occasionally, and slept more--although to be honest, he slept more because by the time Iyyar came around I could sleep while holding a baby, which I couldn't do when Barak was new. It wasn't really that he was an easier baby--it was just that I was better equipped to deal with him, because he was so like Barak.
But in the matter of sleep resistance I have finally acknowledged reality. If anything he is worse than Barak.
Just as sweet, cute, healthy, bright, and gorgeous, B"H. I have my blessings counted. But he hates to sleep even more.
But in the matter of sleep resistance I have finally acknowledged reality. If anything he is worse than Barak.
Just as sweet, cute, healthy, bright, and gorgeous, B"H. I have my blessings counted. But he hates to sleep even more.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
In an act of kindness and chesed, and because he realizes that his wife is teetering dangerously close to the edge (well, not right now, but sometimes) MHH has agreed to field the nightly screamfest. During which Barak hollers for crackers, water, his monkey, poop potty, raisins, and anything else he can think of, and/or monologues in his crib while kicking the side, from anywere from one to four hours; during which the baby wakes up every three to fifteen minutes and screams, because sleep, well, sleep is the enemy, isn't it?
I have the unsavory habit of getting mad at my husband when the kids won't sleep. Even when he's not even home. I can't rationally get mad at the baby, so who is there to get mad at? The person who provided him with the sleep-resistant genes, of course.
Right now, they are taking turns screaming, MHH is trying to ignore Barak but periodically has to go to him to get him to shut up so the baby has a chance, and I am hiding in the back bedroom wondering if I should have mercy on them all. I mean, most nights it's just me, while MHH is out learning. Most night Iyyar does not sleep until I finally give up and take him into bed with me, at which point he looks up at me adoringly through puffy, tearstained eyes, after four or five hours of fighting sleep like the devil itself, grins the most pathetic, heart-melting, frustrating, guilt-inducing grin imaginable, snuggles up to me, and passes out.
MHH said I could have a scream-free night, or at least a night free of dealing with the screaming. But still. He's clearly suffering out there. I guess I should go help out.
Maybe I'll knit another couple of rows first, though.
I have the unsavory habit of getting mad at my husband when the kids won't sleep. Even when he's not even home. I can't rationally get mad at the baby, so who is there to get mad at? The person who provided him with the sleep-resistant genes, of course.
Right now, they are taking turns screaming, MHH is trying to ignore Barak but periodically has to go to him to get him to shut up so the baby has a chance, and I am hiding in the back bedroom wondering if I should have mercy on them all. I mean, most nights it's just me, while MHH is out learning. Most night Iyyar does not sleep until I finally give up and take him into bed with me, at which point he looks up at me adoringly through puffy, tearstained eyes, after four or five hours of fighting sleep like the devil itself, grins the most pathetic, heart-melting, frustrating, guilt-inducing grin imaginable, snuggles up to me, and passes out.
MHH said I could have a scream-free night, or at least a night free of dealing with the screaming. But still. He's clearly suffering out there. I guess I should go help out.
Maybe I'll knit another couple of rows first, though.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Talking
If you've been reading this blog for a while, you may remember that Barak took a, how shall we say, relaxed approach to meeting his milestones. Have you seen the What to Expect book for the first year (I forget the title and am not going to bother to google it)? There's a list of what your baby may possibly be doing, what s/he might be doing, what s/he will probably be doing, and what, if they're not doing, they're doomed to a lifetime of remedial reading, math, and shoe-tying classes. Barak rarely, if ever, did anything in the last category on time. He didn't babble till almost nine months, he didn't sit up unassisted till eight and a half months, he didn't crawl until almost eleven months. He didn't pull up, he didn't stand--nothing. Oh, and he didn't talk.
That last one had me worried. I wasn't that bothered by the motor skills, because I figured he'd get those eventually. But that he wasn't even saying mama when he was one... well. That had me nervous.
His first word was "Abba," at around, I don't know, maybe thirteen months. After that was "yeah," and then "cracker" and "bubbles." "Amma" came a while later (that was me) followed shortly by "Amama" (that was the cat.)
At two and almost-a-half, he is now talking up such a storm that he is more and more clearly not a baby every day. Before I forget, here are some recent ones:
1. He's just learned about "just." As in, "No yogurt. Just granola" and "No poop potty. Just ice cream." Yesterday, in a moment of weakness, I offered him some chocolate milk. His reply: "No milk. Just chocolate please."
2. His standard formula for "Give me that" is "Barak hold it please." I never really thought about how this came about. But over Rosh Hashana it hit me. My FIL was here and mentioned that he thought I pushed the please and thank you a bit too much. (I respectfully disagreed.) He told me about a cousin who was forbidden to ever utter the phrase "I want." And then I remembered how I'd reacted when Barak first said "Gimme!" and "Mine!" I said, Barak, we don't talk like that! So now, instead of saying gimme or mine, he says "Hold it!" and "Barak's!" Which, for whatever reason, bother me less. Not really rational now that I think about it, but there you go.
3. The way Barak formulates his sentences bears the distinct signs of someone just figuring out pronouns. "Barak hold it duck, 'kay?" or "No Imma nurse it baby!" or "Imma help you Barak please!" or "Barak go innair room?" or "Polar bear go splash! Polar bear watch it!"
4. In the fabulous box she sent some months ago, Grandma E. included a copy of "Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins." Never has a book been loved so much by someone so small. Those goblins, they are so scary! Goblins so scary terrifying! Goblins huge! Hershel crush it egg, squeeze it! Door whoosh open Hershel goblins so scary! Goblins Hershel so scary Imma read it! Imma read it please!
Oh, the baby just woke up. I'll add to the list when I think of more things, bli neder.
That last one had me worried. I wasn't that bothered by the motor skills, because I figured he'd get those eventually. But that he wasn't even saying mama when he was one... well. That had me nervous.
His first word was "Abba," at around, I don't know, maybe thirteen months. After that was "yeah," and then "cracker" and "bubbles." "Amma" came a while later (that was me) followed shortly by "Amama" (that was the cat.)
At two and almost-a-half, he is now talking up such a storm that he is more and more clearly not a baby every day. Before I forget, here are some recent ones:
1. He's just learned about "just." As in, "No yogurt. Just granola" and "No poop potty. Just ice cream." Yesterday, in a moment of weakness, I offered him some chocolate milk. His reply: "No milk. Just chocolate please."
2. His standard formula for "Give me that" is "Barak hold it please." I never really thought about how this came about. But over Rosh Hashana it hit me. My FIL was here and mentioned that he thought I pushed the please and thank you a bit too much. (I respectfully disagreed.) He told me about a cousin who was forbidden to ever utter the phrase "I want." And then I remembered how I'd reacted when Barak first said "Gimme!" and "Mine!" I said, Barak, we don't talk like that! So now, instead of saying gimme or mine, he says "Hold it!" and "Barak's!" Which, for whatever reason, bother me less. Not really rational now that I think about it, but there you go.
3. The way Barak formulates his sentences bears the distinct signs of someone just figuring out pronouns. "Barak hold it duck, 'kay?" or "No Imma nurse it baby!" or "Imma help you Barak please!" or "Barak go innair room?" or "Polar bear go splash! Polar bear watch it!"
4. In the fabulous box she sent some months ago, Grandma E. included a copy of "Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins." Never has a book been loved so much by someone so small. Those goblins, they are so scary! Goblins so scary terrifying! Goblins huge! Hershel crush it egg, squeeze it! Door whoosh open Hershel goblins so scary! Goblins Hershel so scary Imma read it! Imma read it please!
Oh, the baby just woke up. I'll add to the list when I think of more things, bli neder.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
This post is not about poop
Well, not until the end, anyway. Most of it is about vomit.
When Barak woke up Shabbos morning in a foul mood, I didn't think much of it. We'd let him stay up far too late the night before for the seuda, and he was, of course, tired. When he opened his mouth and a huge amount of yellowy mucous came out (oh yeah, this post is about mucous too, I forgot), I didn't think so much of that either. He is permanently congested and his nose always runs. No biggie. The fact that he had never vomited once in his life, and as a baby spat up twice (yup, twice, because I remember both times) probably had something to do with my state of denial.
The state of denial ended abruptly about ten minutes after breakfast, when what seemed like gallons of orange juice and Cheerios abruptly appeared all over the rug. And when Barak, my resister of sleep par excellence, told me he wanted to cuddle, climbed into my bed and went to sleep, it was pretty clear that something was wrong.
When he woke up, I tried to get him to drink some watered-down juice. No dice. Pedialyte? Forget it. When he just played with the two (TWO!) popsicles I gave him, I started to worry, because it was close to 24 hours since he'd kept any liquids down, he wasn't drinking anything, and visions of ER visits too recently past were starting to dance in my head.
By late afternoon, he was playing and seeming happy, although still refusing to drink. I called the doctor as soon as Shabbos was out. "If he throws up again, or if he doesn't drink anything by midnight, take him to the ER." Ohh boy. And he'd have to go with MHH, too, because with me nursing Iyyar it would either be all of us or none of us. And the very idea of MHH being asked to hold Barak down for a possible IV... oh, bad bad bad. Very bad.
So I tried. I offered juice. Popsicles. Pedialyte. I sent MHH to the store for Sprite. I even briefly considered offering it to him in a Diet Coke can (he is always angling for a taste, never with any success, strange to report) but thought better of it in fairly short order.
Finally, the offer of kiddush juice--that once-a-week-treat--was met with acceptance. He drank about three ounces of half grape juice, half water. He went to sleep.
And threw up.
He was, of course, hysterical, as I changed his sheets and cleaned him up and steeled myself for the ER trip that seemed inevitable. But he was crying real tears. Big wet ones. I saw hope. I called the doctor back. "He's crying real tears, and his diaper wasn't totally dry. Do we still need to take him in."
And he said no.
Ahhh.
Barak went back to sleep. MHH bedded down in there for the night. I went back to sleep in our room with Iyyar (more on this tomorrow). All good.
This morning, Barak seemed fine. MHH took him to the doctor for walk-in hours (hour, really) and he was pronounced cured from what was probably a virus. He ate popsicles with abandon. He cheerfully accompanied me in the stroller for a walk to get out of the house so MHH could have some time to do pre-Yom Kippur stuff. I put him down for a nap. And about half an hour later, heard a little voice calling "Imma... change diaper please... Imma... change diaper..."
Because his diaper, pants, and crib were full of diarrhea.
G'mar chasima tova, everyone. Have a sweet, healthy, and diarrhea-free new year.
When Barak woke up Shabbos morning in a foul mood, I didn't think much of it. We'd let him stay up far too late the night before for the seuda, and he was, of course, tired. When he opened his mouth and a huge amount of yellowy mucous came out (oh yeah, this post is about mucous too, I forgot), I didn't think so much of that either. He is permanently congested and his nose always runs. No biggie. The fact that he had never vomited once in his life, and as a baby spat up twice (yup, twice, because I remember both times) probably had something to do with my state of denial.
The state of denial ended abruptly about ten minutes after breakfast, when what seemed like gallons of orange juice and Cheerios abruptly appeared all over the rug. And when Barak, my resister of sleep par excellence, told me he wanted to cuddle, climbed into my bed and went to sleep, it was pretty clear that something was wrong.
When he woke up, I tried to get him to drink some watered-down juice. No dice. Pedialyte? Forget it. When he just played with the two (TWO!) popsicles I gave him, I started to worry, because it was close to 24 hours since he'd kept any liquids down, he wasn't drinking anything, and visions of ER visits too recently past were starting to dance in my head.
By late afternoon, he was playing and seeming happy, although still refusing to drink. I called the doctor as soon as Shabbos was out. "If he throws up again, or if he doesn't drink anything by midnight, take him to the ER." Ohh boy. And he'd have to go with MHH, too, because with me nursing Iyyar it would either be all of us or none of us. And the very idea of MHH being asked to hold Barak down for a possible IV... oh, bad bad bad. Very bad.
So I tried. I offered juice. Popsicles. Pedialyte. I sent MHH to the store for Sprite. I even briefly considered offering it to him in a Diet Coke can (he is always angling for a taste, never with any success, strange to report) but thought better of it in fairly short order.
Finally, the offer of kiddush juice--that once-a-week-treat--was met with acceptance. He drank about three ounces of half grape juice, half water. He went to sleep.
And threw up.
He was, of course, hysterical, as I changed his sheets and cleaned him up and steeled myself for the ER trip that seemed inevitable. But he was crying real tears. Big wet ones. I saw hope. I called the doctor back. "He's crying real tears, and his diaper wasn't totally dry. Do we still need to take him in."
And he said no.
Ahhh.
Barak went back to sleep. MHH bedded down in there for the night. I went back to sleep in our room with Iyyar (more on this tomorrow). All good.
This morning, Barak seemed fine. MHH took him to the doctor for walk-in hours (hour, really) and he was pronounced cured from what was probably a virus. He ate popsicles with abandon. He cheerfully accompanied me in the stroller for a walk to get out of the house so MHH could have some time to do pre-Yom Kippur stuff. I put him down for a nap. And about half an hour later, heard a little voice calling "Imma... change diaper please... Imma... change diaper..."
Because his diaper, pants, and crib were full of diarrhea.
G'mar chasima tova, everyone. Have a sweet, healthy, and diarrhea-free new year.
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