The apple doesn't fall far from the tree

When Roth was little, his parents used to let him roam free in the backyard of their small San Anselmo home for hours on end where he'd gorge himself on overripe stone fruit that had fallen from overhanging trees until his hands and face were sticky sweet from the juices. When he’d eaten all of the fruit he could scavenge from the ground, he’d take to banging the branches with a stick to shake loose more fruit for eating. Then he’d toddle over to the fence they shared with a nice older couple and squeeze his chubby hands in between the slats to steal whatever veggies he could reach from their garden so he could eat those, too. His parents didn't even bother with a diaper on those warm summer days, and when he was done eating and shitting his way around the yard, they'd simply hose him off before bringing him in for the night. I don't share this story to embarrass Roth. (Well, maybe a little.) Actually, I'm a firm believer in equal opportunity embarrassment. To wit, when I was of the potty-training age and would play outside, I would scurry to the nearest bush in the corner of the yard so I could privately poop in my pants, and then when my mom would find me squatting, I'd frenetically wave my hands and demand that she "goaway, goaway, goaway." I've never lived this story down. No, I tell this story to further illustrate that food - the gathering, eating and preparation of - has long been a passion for Roth. And just as I'm sure it pleased Roth's dad that his kid was early into food, it delights Roth to no end that his son is already showing signs of food enthusiasm, too. We planned to wait until Rowan was well into his sixth month to introduce "solids," as most of the baby books suggest, but around five months, he started to exhibit signs that he might be ready, ie. watching with intensity every forkful of food that went to our mouths. We started off by letting him gum on some honeydew, and as he tasted the sweet nectar of a ripe melon for the very first time, we saw a glimmer in his eye. Before that moment, he'd only ever known the taste of my breastmilk, which, while nutritionally perfect, is probably pretty bland, I imagine. Seeing that delighted look on Rowan's face as he nursed a piece of honeydew on the end of a fork was just so thrilling, and we decided then that he was ready for more. Rowan had the requisite rice cereal for a few days, but that coupled with his first mashed banana made him so incredibly constipated (10 days!) that we quickly moved on to yams, mango, avocado and, ahem, prunes. And he loved all of it with such zeal and fervor, often angrily grunting in between spoonfuls as if he couldn't get enough. Newbie mom that I am, I worried that maybe we were introducing him to too many different foods too quickly, but after listening to a children's nutritionist speak to our parents' group, my fears that we might be harming him in some way were quelled. In fact, I was reassured that we were right on track with our timing and chosen method - sometimes called baby-led weaning - where you feed your baby the same foods you would normally eat, just mashed up for easy consumption, rather than buying jar baby food or preparing enough homemade food at one time for an apocalypse. We've continued to introduce new foods to Rowan's ever-evolving palate, like sweet potatoes, apple sauce, peaches, oat cereal and whole milk yogurt, and so far, he exudes extreme enthusiasm for any and every thing that crosses his lips. Recently, it was particularly fun to watch him suck on the fragrantly sweet pulp of a red plum when we were in California. Most people comment that Rowan looks a lot like my side of the family, specifically my brother, and while this doesn't really bother Roth, I know he can't help but wonder what traits Rowan will inherit from him. Will he end up with asthma or skin that easily burns in the sun? Will he love watching soccer or playing video games? Will he turn out to be an easy-going, all-around nice guy? Only time will tell. But of all these potential traits, physical or otherwise, I think it's already so gratifying for Roth that his son is (so far) a lover of food. I know some of Roth's greatest memories from his own childhood include cooking and enjoying food with his dad, so to see the two of them already bonding in this way is just so very cool. Know what else is cool? The fact that Roth taught the baby in a matter of hours how to say the word "da-da." I didn't believe it myself, but of course Roth captured it on video, which is kind of funny, seeing as Rowan hasn't stopped saying da-da* ever since. Yes, it's safe to say that Roth kinda likes this kid. I mean, how could you not? *** *Not to discredit Roth's amazing ability to teach a six-month-old how to talk, I did look up the origin of the word "dad," and as I thought, it originates from infantile or childish speech, or from a baby's typical first sounds of "da," which are far easier to make than "ma." So while I could be upset that Rowan is already saying da-da and not ma-ma, I know it's probably because he has no teeth.** **Though, it's still really sweet.

Sun pokes through my lashes

In between bursts of outdoor chores galore, Rowan and I sought shelter from the bright sun in the living room where it was streaming through the windows much more mellifluously. Up until now, I'd been longing for the day he could sit on his own and play with his toys, and now that he can, I have to say, it's pretty awesome. Life is just so much better from this perspective.

The California sun cascading down my face

Naturally, I was a little worried about taking Rowan on a plane for the first time. Would he be one of those babies? You know, the ones who scream the entire time from takeoff to touchdown while the parents do everything (or seemingly nothing) in their power to quell the shrillness, all the while avoiding eye contact with the huffy eye-rolling of fellow passengers. Thankfully, my fears were unfounded, as this was the scene from Row 13 on the outbound to San Francisco. He was a perfect 'lil angel. Fell asleep post takeoff nursing and didn't wake until we started to descend into the city. Baby's first flight couldn't have gone smoother, despite all of my pre-departure hand wringing. Of course, I was also concerned about the return flight since it was scheduled for early evening, Rowan's notoriously fussy “witching hour,” but it went fine, too. He didn't sleep like I hoped, but he was pretty mellow, content to nurse his pacifier and play with his cavalcade of crinkly toys for the majority of the flight. The only hiccup happened around cruising altitude when Rowan decided to activate his membership in the Mile High Diaper Club. Poops on a plane, y'all. I was tempted to yell, "I've had it with these m-effing poops on this m-effing plane," as we ushered the baby down the aisle to the (equipped with a changing table, who knew?) bathroom, but thought better of it, seeing as we'd mostly made it through the flight otherwise unscathed. Why draw attention to ourselves? It was a bit of a whirlwind trip, but we managed to eek out as much time as possible with family and friends while in California. My mom picked us up from the airport, and our first order of business before driving south to the Central Coast was a stopoff at In-N-Out. His kingdom for a Double-Double. While home, I got to see aforementioned friends Tawny, Trina, and Shauna, who had us all over for brunch at her lovely home. Rowan got to spend some time with Shauna's adorable son Henry, who ever-so-kindly shared his big boy toys. Saturday night was dinner with Pete and Rosi, friends of my parents I've known all of my life. It was great to see them, especially in light of our recent anniversary, as Pete was the officiant at our wedding. On Sunday morning, I surprised Roth with his (first!) Father's Day gift - tickets to a Seattle Sounders game! I'm pretty pleased that I was able to score tickets to the game against Barcelona, thanks to a friend with season ticket presale privileges. And I think Roth was quite shocked, especially after all my heavy sighing on game days. I mean, I love that Roth loves soccer, and I'll gladly go with him to a game, but it's really his thing, which is why I think my gift rocks. It's not something that's also for me or the baby, like the new backpack carrier I considered. Instead it's a gift just for him, because truly, he deserves it. I was also able to spend some time with my dad on Father's Day. He and my stepmom drove down for the weekend, too, and on Sunday we gathered at my grandma's house for brunch. Rowan pooped out on his great-grandma's uber comfy overstuffed chair. This being fawned over and adored-by-all business is exhausting stuff. Rowan also got to spend a lot of time with my stepdad BP, who paraded him around the neighborhood, proud Pake (the Friesian word for grandpa) that he is. He also gave him his very own Harley onesie and let the little guy feel the heat between his thighs. On Monday, before heading back to the airport, we stopped off at my cousin's house in the Bay Area to visit his wife Shannon and their two adorable boys. We hadn't planned on the side trip, but it ended up being a good break for Rowan, in between hours in the car and hours at the airport and on the plane. There he got to stretch his legs and play with brothers Henry and Kaelan, who is 9.5 months old and already almost walking! If Kaelan is my cousin's son, that makes him Rowan's cousin once removed, right? And my second cousin? How does that work exactly? Regardless, these two are somehow related, as evidenced by their gilded locks. Rowan had a good time playing with all of their big boy toys, too. We managed to bookend the trip with one last stop at In-N-Out (clearly, we're Double-Double deprived up here in Washington), and that was pretty much it. Short and sweet, just the dose of California I’d been craving.

You are the best thing (you're the best thing, baby)

This is what I was doing four years ago today. Nervously chugging down a beer with my two best girls in the hotel before heading over to the vineyard to get married. Roth likes to joke that there are many pre-ceremony pictures of me drinking, while he was stuck at the front of the altar, sweating and greeting guests as they arrived, but really, there are just two. Happy Anniversary, babe! May someday we again be that thin and tan! *** In quasi-related news, I get to see my best girls (and ALL of my immediate family, including my little brother who has yet to meet the baby) this weekend! We're headed to California tomorrow morning, Rowan's first-ever flight and my first time flying Virgin, which I hear is tres awesome! Fingers crossed our early and short flight to San Francisco will be smooth and void of any baby-related drama.

Six of one

I'm a big believer in celebrating half birthdays, and none seems more significant than the very first one. Rowan turns six months today, which means he is one half year old, and something about that just feels really special. Maybe it’s because at this halfway point in the year he’ll grow the most and the fastest of his entire life, Rowan’s more like a little person than he is a baby. He’s suddenly become very mobile, rolling over in the blink of an eye, and scooting his knees up and under his belly, as if he’s trying to figure out how to get from point A to point B. He’s THISclose to sitting on his own, but what’s really cool is how naturally predisposed he seems to be to walking. One foot in front of the other, just like that. At his six-month checkup last week, Rowan was just shy of 19 pounds and 26 1/2 inches long, or 75th and 50th percentiles, respectively, for weight and height, which means he’s kind of short and stout, like a teapot, and most of his clothes are size 9 months. Knock on wood, he’s sleeping pretty well, going down around 8:30, and sometimes snoozing all the way through to 5. On the nights he does wake up, usually he just needs a little rocking and his pacifier to fall back asleep. And suddenly he prefers to sleep on his side, like some kind of human or something. About a month ago, we introduced Rowan to “solid” foods, and no surprise, he’s loved everything he’s tasted so far, including rice cereal, banana, avocado, sweet potato, apple sauce, mango, yogurt, oat cereal and carrot. At this point, I think it’s safe to say we’ve got ourselves a champion eater, which pleases Roth to absolutely no end. He smiles more often than he cries, and his laugh, which is this silly-ass inhale-squeak giggle hybrid, is pretty much the best sound ever. He really seems to enjoy going to daycare, and the other kids there really seem to love him as well. Apparently one little girl has even re-named all of her dolls Rowan, how freaking cute is that? Speaking of, he just gets cuter every day, and I can honestly say that six months is pretty darn cool. I can’t wait to see what Rowan's got in store for the rest of his first year.

Friends in low places

Twice while I was on maternity leave, dear friends – both relatively new moms themselves – offered to stop by for a visit and bring me lunch. At first I was hesitant to accept their kind offers, not wanting anyone to see me and my disheveled hair and house during those first few weeks at home with the baby, but eventually I said yes, especially when one of the friends said to think of it as one less meal I'd have to worry about on that particular day. One less anything to worry about during that tenuous time in my life would’ve felt like a vacation. And so said friends came over bearing chicken caesar salad and turkey sandwiches, respectively, along with their sympathetic ears, and I felt oh-so-grateful to call these gals my friends those days. It was the simplest of gestures, but truly, it was so nice to know that I wasn't alone, that someone cared enough about me to make sure I ate at least one well-balanced meal that day. I recently had the opportunity to do the same for a new mom friend of mine, too. After sensing a familiar brand of frantic on her end while chatting one day last week, I knew it was the perfect time for me to “pay it forward,” and so I suggested I could pick up lunch and stop by on my break from work for a quick visit. I don’t know if my coming over with a spinach salad and chocolate chip cookies made her day any brighter, but it felt good to do it. Felt like I was officially welcoming her to an exclusive club. Seeing my friend with her wee two-week-old baby was a vivid reminder of my own life not that long ago – the sleep deprivation, the frequent feedings, the inexplicable fussiness, the intermittent moments of sheer joy – and yet, at the same time, it was difficult for me to really remember with any clarity what it felt like to go through all of that. I mean, I can go back and read my archives, but it’s like there’s a part of my memory – located right next to the part devoted to pregnancy and labor and delivery – that’s a bit muddled. Surely, Rowan was never that small, was he? Oh, but he was. And I experienced the exact same frustration, exhaustion and elation all at once that my friend is going through right now. One of the things everyone tells you when you’re in the throes of newborn sleep deprivation is that it’ll get better. That sentiment is almost always punctuated with an annoyingly cheery exclamation mark, and while it’s true, things do eventually get easier, I think it’s more accurate to say that you learn to stand it. You get used to less sleep. You figure out how to juggle your work life and life with baby. You find small pockets of time just for yourself. As I was imparting this only recently discovered wisdom to my mother on the phone the other day, she got quiet on the other end of the line. I could tell she was smirking, because not that long ago, I was the frantic new mom on the phone, desperate for just a couple more hours of sleep, wondering what we had got ourselves into, thinking I might not make it. “What?” I demanded of her silence. “Can I say it now?” “What, that everything changes when you have a baby? “You didn’t want to hear it before.” “I KNOW. I know.” *** Speaking of dear friends and time just for myself, I’m headed to Portland this afternoon to help Kerri Anne celebrate her 27th birthday! It’s my first night away from the baby – and not to mention, Roth’s first night with the baby all on his own – and I’m hopeful this tiny break I’m granting myself will be good for all involved. I’m a little nervous to be so far away from my boys, but I know they’ll both be just fine. As will I.

This pirate trend

On a scale of 1 to 10, just how much of a puffy shirt is this top? Does it look like I'm going to swing in on a chandelier? Related: I desperately need a wardrobe makeover. Also related: The baggy quality of the sleeves of this shirt nicely complement the bags under my eyes. I totally planned that when I got up with the baby at 2, 4 and then 5:30 to get ready for work today.

How to stick it to a loved one in 140 characters

A few nights ago, I wrote this on Twitter: To which Roth responded via e-mail: "Oh and by the way, you could have told the Twitter world that I’ve been suffering from a mean flu, cold, congestion thing which has been causing the snoring -- maybe you ran out of letters." Oh, SNAP. As I've told him many times, he's free to open his own Twitteretaliation account at any time.

Commisery* loves company

OF COURSE. Of course y'all get it. Sometimes I just get so inside my head when I'm frustrated or stressed out that I forget that I don't exist within a vacuum, and it's hard to see the bigger picture. As always, though, your comments of commiseration and constructive suggestions for how to make my life easier (duh, buy another set of bottles already) and find AND enjoy guilt-free time for myself made me feel infinitely better and relieved that I decided to open myself up like that. Honestly, I was thisclose to taking an official hiatus from blogging, just to take some (totally self-imposed) pressure off my plate, but I realized how much I'd miss this exact kind of feedback. So, thank you. THANK YOU. Lest anyone think I need some kind of intervention (seriously, I am feeling MUCH better, less like a crazy person, despite having been up from 1 to 3 a.m. with a baby clearly uninterested in sleeping), why don't you take a gander at some ridiculously adorable photos of my Giant Baby. You think I'm joking, that this is just the product of trick photography, but truly, Rowan is heeyooge. We don't go for his 6-month checkup until next week, but we're pretty sure he's pushing 19 pounds. My mom said I was 19 pounds ... when I was 1. At a recent party for a baby five weeks older than Rowan, many people assumed he was the older of the two, even going so far as to suggest he was already 10 or 11 months old. Ha! Here he is with said baby buddy Madeleine, aka one of the photos we'll use in the slideshow at their wedding. I just love the expression on Rowan's face, though I'm pretty sure the photographer just caught him in mid-smile. He tends to open his mouth real big when going in for a smile. This next one was snapped about two minutes before poop shot out the back of his diaper and all over the activity bouncer, which might explain the serious look on his face. See, when you don't poop for six days, and then you finally do (doo, ha!), it's serious business. And also, when you go that long in between pooping, and then you finally do, it requires being hosed off. And lastly, here is my new favorite picture of Rowan and me. I think it speaks for itself. *** *Yes, I realize commisery is not a word, but it should be, I think.

And so it is, just like you said it would be

A gilded opportunity presented itself to me yesterday. After arriving at work in the morning, sicker than I’ve been in a long time, I thought to myself, hey, I could just leave the baby at daycare and take an actual sick day. I could head home, get back into my pajamas and nap for several glorious uninterrupted hours. My groggy, stuffed-up mind raced at this prospect – a whole day, albeit marred by an unfortunate bout of sickness, JUST FOR ME. I ran the idea by a couple of co-workers, afraid it seemed too selfish, stealing away for some much-needed rest and recovery, and they all agreed: LEAVE. NOW. So I did. And for the first time in many years, I suddenly found myself truly home alone. No baby, (sadly, still) no dog, no husband. Just me and the ticking of the kitchen clock. And it just felt … weird. Never mind the eeriness of an unfamiliarly empty house, though, I was determined to take advantage of this serendipitous block of Me Time. I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, but the deep sleep I’d been coveting for many months never came. Instead I was distracted by the nagging thoughts of all I could be doing. Sorting through the bills, finishing up some laundry, baking a bunch of overripe bananas into muffins, boxing up the pile of already too-small baby clothes, updating this here blog already. And therein lies my biggest problem as of late. I feel like I’m drowning in the details of life. There’s just so much I want to do, trumped by so much I have to do, that I can barely keep up with it all. To boot, lack of restorative sleep is making me punchy, I’m not eating well as evidenced by the two chocolate cupcakes and five slices of deli turkey I had for lunch yesterday, and clearly, I’ve forgotten how to enjoy time for just myself. Even when presented on a silver platter the most opportune occasion to recharge, I couldn’t just let things go. I couldn’t set aside all that I want, need, and have to do, and just let myself breathe. Let myself just … be. I’ve not wanted to write about this struggle for fear of not being able to articulate exactly what I've been feeling these last few weeks. Complaining or lamenting about how hard it is to be a mom is a moot point, is it not? But of course life after baby is more difficult. I knew that going in, I knew that when I signed up for this gig. Heck, it was practically drilled into my skull by all the moms who came before me, and yet. YET. I'm just not dealing well. If I'm being completely honest, all signs point to postpartum depression. I don't even have to Google that shit to know that I've got it, to know that the reason I can't pull myself together most days is because I'm a freaking statistic, a cautionary tale against having kids. The other day, a childless male co-worker was complaining about how he had been up that morning at the "ungodly hour of 6 a.m." "Don't even talk to me about 6 a.m.," I chortled from my cube. "I'd love to sleep until 6." And then he said, "Oh, but you're a mom, you don't count." WHAT? Are you effing kidding me? I DON'T COUNT? He immediately apologized for his assholish comment, and I know he didn't really mean what he said, but still. It stung. I DON'T COUNT. I've been thinking about those three little words ever since. Just because I chose to get pregnant, have a baby, and in turn, became a mom, does this mean I'm subject to fade into the background of life? I'm a mom, so I can't do that, go there, have an opinion, ever get a good night's rest again? Obviously, this is a ridiculous train of thought, but after endless days and weeks of primarily putting the baby ahead of any one of my needs, I wonder if this is true. I DON'T COUNT. This is the same sentiment that almost prevented me from taking a sick day from work. See, I was previously on maternity leave for four months, and now I stop working twice a day for 15 to 20 minutes at a time to pump, surely I don't deserve to take a sick day, right? Well, I know that it's sick, sick, sick to think this way, but this is the messed up rationalization that constantly swirls around in my head. At the same time, though, every night as I stand at the kitchen sink, waiting for the water to heat up so I can wash the baby's bottles in order to fill them up again with the milk I've expressed from my own body, the resentment bubbling up is palpable. Frequently, Roth will ask me why it is I'm doing the dishes at 9:30 at night? To which I'll hiss back at him that someone has to wash the bottles, someone has to prepare them for the next morning. I'm often paralyzed by these intense, yet conflicting feelings. I know that my life doesn't have to be babybabybaby, that at any time if I want a break from feeding, burping, changing or playing with him, Roth is right there to lend a hand. I am so incredibly lucky to have someone like him by my side. But still, it doesn't take away the guilt I instantly feel for wanting time just to myself, or the subsequent frustration I'm mired in when I can't turn my brain off to all the other more responsible things I think I should be doing instead. Don't get wrong, though. I love my son with every fiber of my being. I would cut someone deep to protect him from an ounce of harm. I would give my right arm if it meant he'd never have to know what it felt like to be sad or angry or disappointed. I absolutely do not regret our decision to have a kid. This is not about that, but instead just my way of saying that if you don't hear from me again for another two weeks, it's because I'm continuing to grapple with this internal struggle to figure things out, to find some balance in my life. Please tell me someone out there gets this.