Chookooloonks

I shoulda had the veal...

My husband Marcus is an incredible cook -- far better than I could ever hope to be. Apparently, back in England, when he was just out of school, he worked as a chef on a dive boat (yeah, wrap your mind around THAT: diving off the coast of England. I turn blue just thinking about it). Anyway, since he was responsible for the nutritional well-being of hungry divers as they came in from the deep, he managed to hone his culinary skills to perfection. It's true when I say the top two reasons my parents visit us are (a) Alex, and (2), Marcus' cooking. I take solace in the fact that I do come in at a not-too-distant third.

So anyway, tonight, when we decided to try Alex on solid foods for the first time, it was only natural that Marcus be the one to mix up her cereal. With his usual finesse, he skillfully mixed rice cereal with a bit of her formula to the perfect consistency. And eagerly, we began to feed Alex solids for the first time:

I'm still trying to convince Marcus not to take it personally.

The Kid Who Ate Houston

Alex has a voracious appetite. Ever since she came home, she's attacked her bottles with great gusto, almost swallowing the nipple whole. Why, even though the books suggest that a baby her age shouldn't be drinking more than 7 ounces at a time, my girl is downing 8-1/2, and I'm pretty sure at one point I saw her trying to wrestle the top off, just so she could lick the inside of the bottle. The kid's an animal.

As a result, thank goodness, she's growing. And boy howdy, is she growing. She's doubled her weight, and has grown a good 6 to 7 inches. She looks like a healthy, happy three month old.

So, why, oh why, are clothing manufacturers intent on making me feel like my child is a freak? Those "three-to-six month" outfits? She SPITS on such puny little items. My girl is squarely in nine month clothing. I don't get it. She doesn't LOOK that abnormally large. People don't gasp when they see her. Small children aren't moved to throw stones at her. So how, in the name of all that is sane, can clothing manufacturers seriously label the clothes so WRONG?

Regardless, I'm doing my damnedest not to read anything into the sizing indicated on Alex's clothing tags. However, I'm beginning to understand why so many women have such poor body image...

... the brainwashing by the clothing industry apparently begins at birth.

Too funny!

Hair club for babies?

When Alex was born, she had a headful of lovely, thick, luxurious hair (Exhibit A: see picture to the right). "Oh, look at all the hair your daughter has!" people would marvel. "She has such beautiful hair!"

Well, she USED to have such beautiful hair. Call me paranoid, but I think the child has worries. First, she took to rubbing the hair right off of her head. With a vengeance. She'd lie on her back in her crib, and then rapidly and vigourously rub her head back and forth against the sheet like a madwoman. Eventually, she rubbed a little bald spot in the back of her head -- to the point that if you saw her from behind, you would swear I was carrying, not a darling little 3-month-old, but instead, a VERY TINY 45-year-old man.

But she didn't stop there. Oh no.

When her hands finally wandered up and actually FOUND her hair, she decided it would be fun to pull some of it out. Okay, a lot of it out. As she tried to soothe herself to sleep, her hand would inch toward the top of her head, and start tugging out her hair. By the handful. She didn't seem to hurt herself, but the result is that now ...

...my little girl has a comb-over.

I'm trying to remain calm about this whole thing, and take it in stride. Surely it'll grow back. Surely it's just a phase.

But what if it's not? What if this is just an indication of some deep-seated neuroses brought on by her hyper-paranoid mother? What if I'm damaging her psyche even as I type?

All the same, she does appear to be a happy kid:

And, bless her heart, she always has her calm, even-keeled father. Maybe HE can talk her into leaving her hair alone.

'Cause a 3-month-old with a weave is NOT cute.

Alternatives in Motion

Today, Alex and I went to a picnic hosted by Alternatives in Motion, or "AIM." AIM is the agency Marcus and I have been using for Alex's adoption, and every year, they host a picnic for the adoptive families with whom they've placed children.

It was a really great time. We got to reunite with some of the families who were in our first orientation class -- each of us proudly showing off our new little bundles of joy. And let me tell you -- these are some great-looking kids:

Beautiful, aren't they?

So, here's the thing: I'm obviously a big fan of adoption, so naturally, I would strongly encourage anyone thinking about growing their family to consider adopting a child. Marcus and I are over the moon about Alex, and we couldn't imagine our lives without her. If you'd like to find out more about our agency, feel free to click on the link in the section to the right to get more information.

But seriously ... are these kids not beautiful?

Slow your roll...

From "Your Baby's First Year Week by Week," by Glade B. Curtis, M.D.:

"A big accomplishment around this time is baby's ability to roll herself over ... she may roll from back to front, or front to back."

Upon reading this, Marcus and I looked at each other. Excitedly, we grabbed Alex, and lay her face down on her Clifford-the-Big-Red-Dog blanket. Then, we stood back, and wearing our most encouraging parental expressions, waited for her to do her thing.

And as you might have guessed, she did this:

Hmm.

Well, I bet she was rolling over on the inside. Where it counts.

Make a joyful noise

Alex has learned a new trick: she's learned how to scream. No, I'm not talking about crying at the top of her lungs when she's upset -- she actually rarely does that. What she has discovered is that she can open her mouth as wide as it can go, and let out the most blood-curdling, ultra-sonic shriek known to mankind. Glass shatters. Everyone on our block falls to their knees, their hands covering their ears in pain. Dogs from miles away start barking.

And then, supremely pleased with herself, she smiles.

At first, Marcus and I thought it was the cutest thing. "Oh look," we clapped with glee, "she's discovering the power of her own voice. She's communicating. She's entranced by her own sounds!" And we grinned like dim idiots.

But now, after about 3 days straight of this screeching, it dawns on me that perhaps other people in the world won't be nearly as charmed by her new little skill as we are. People, say, at the same fine dining establishment that we are. Or, say, people on airplanes. Or funerals.

Unfortunately, now we can't get her to stop. "Shhh," we say, cajolingly. "Be quiet, sweet little one."

And she looks at us, smiles, and takes it up another pitch.

So, apologies in advance if we happen to be on your flight, or sitting next to you in church, or just happen to be driving through your quiet little neighbourhood. And if anyone has any tips on how to keep a three-month old somewhere below the decibel level of say, a supersonic jet, please feel free to pass them along. We're open to anything.

Crashed

This fathering-thing is apparently pretty wearying stuff:

Also apparently, this daughtering-thing isn't a walk in the park either.

(Incidentally, I do love my red handbag under Marcus' arm. I think it completes the look.)

(Also incidentally, Marcus wants me to make it perfectly clear that I was the one who tucked the handbag under his arm. Hopefully, my addition of this extra line renders his reputation for manliness perfectly intact.)