Chookooloonks

Sandy Like the Beach

This is my good friend, Sandy, visiting from the midwest. Alex met her the first time at our local pub last night:

In honour of her Auntie Sandy's name, Alex was obviously compelled to wear her very best beachwear.

Rock Around The Clock

Alex will be seven months old at the end of this week. The Books say: “On the emotional front, your baby's feelings are becoming more apparent.”

Ya think?

On the eve of her 7-month birthday, Alex has decided to throw us a new challenge: getting her to sleep in her own bed. Before our holiday, she was perfectly happy to be placed in her crib around 8 p.m., sleep soundly until 3 or 4 a.m., and then wake up, wanting to come in our bed. This was fine with us. We had it worked out. We had a routine.

Then we had to go and take the kid on a trip. Without a crib. Where she slept in bed with us. All night long.

This, my friends, was a VERY. BAD. IDEA.

Now, Alex flat refuses to go in her crib at night. She’ll take naps in it during the day with no problem. But come nightfall? Girlfriend takes a look at us, sticks her index finger in the air, and waggles her head from side to side, like so much diva:

“OhIdonot THINK so, Mum and Dad. Don’t even TRY to go to bed without me. I am your DAUGHTER. You will DO my bidding. Pick me up, and take me to your bed NOW.”

And if we don’t?

Girlie screams. And I mean screams. Demonic, maniacal SCREAMS. In a blind rage. Without a break. Without a breath. And the most frightening thing?

She screams without shedding one tear.

Now, I’m not naïve. This ain’t my first rodeo, people: I know when I’m getting played. But dammit, I need some sleep. We’ve tried everything:

- We’ve rocked her until she slipped into a coma. As soon as we lay her in her crib, she wakes up screaming.

- We’ve tried to comfort her, by singing, speaking in a soothing tone, but refusing to pick her up. She just lies there, looking up at us, screaming.

- We’ve put her down on her tummy. She props herself up on both hands, screaming.

- We’ve brought an air mattress in her room. I’ve stuck my hand in her crib as I lay on the mattress next to her. She grabs my hand and stares at me through the crib railings … screaming.

- We’ve brought her into our room, and let her fall asleep. Then, we’ve carried her oh-so-carefully back to her bed. Usually, when we do this, she waits until we’re back in our room, and as our heads rest upon our blessed pillows…she starts SCREAMING.

- We’ve even left her alone. She’s laid there, for as long as FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, SCREAMING.

The most annoying part of this is that once we give in, once we weakly accept defeat and bring her in our room, she’ll lie next to me without a peep. She’ll just lie there, looking at her hands, occasionally touching my elbow, smiling at me whenever she catches my eye, and then … she…just quietly … oh so quietly … without fanfare … without a pacifier… drifts…off…to…sleep.

And she sleeps without moving until morning.

I’m at my wits’ end. There’s a part of me that says, “Karen, you’re being silly. If she wants to sleep with you, let her. There’s going to come a time when the mere sight of you annoys her. Enjoy this now.”

But then there’s this other part of me that says, “Karen, it’s time you face the fact that you are NEVER GOING TO BE ALONE WITH YOUR HUSBAND IN YOUR BEDROOM EVER AGAIN.”

And that’s when I start screaming.

When at First You Don't Succeed, Improvise

Alex, unfortunately, shares my not-to-be admired trait of unrelenting impatience, though it is primarily with herself. While she'll watch us fumble through putting a turtleneck on her for the first time without much more than rolling her eyes, her frustration at her own inabilities sometimes knows no bounds.

Luckily, though, her impatience is exceeded by her ability to be creative, otherwise, by this point, the child's head might have blown clean off her body in pure, unadulterated defeat. This makes me proud. Life, after all, can be really disappointing if you don't learn, as they say, to make lemonade from the proverbial lemons.

Case in point: as I've mentioned before, Alex has been trying to teach herself to crawl. It's not going well. She can manage to hoist herself up onto all fours, and after sticking out her tongue just so, rocks back and forth with gay abandon. This would go on for about 5 minutes, until she finally collapsed with yelps of desperation.

But now? Well, let's just say her creativity has kicked in.

Last night, Marcus called out excitedly: "Karen! Get in here! You have to see this!"

I followed his voice into our bathroom, where Marcus showed me Alex's new method of getting across the room in a hurry. His demonstration goes something like this:

First, you sit Alex down at one end of a large room.

Next, you place something interesting and irresistible at the other end of the room -- like plastic bags, or an expensive stereo system, or, say, explosives.

Then, you sit back and watch.

Alex takes one look at the item across the room, and instantly, the wheels in her little mind start to turn. "Oooh, look!" she thinks to herself, "A semi-automatic weapon!"

Then she throws herself down on her back, and begins to roll herself across the room.

It was uncanny. And the kid never tired of it, either: we'd place a bottle of vodka to the other side of the room, and there she'd go. Chain a rabid dog to the pillar at another end of the room, and away she'd spin. Place crack in the doorway, and off she'd roll.

She's getting really good at it, too. Perhaps she'll never crawl.

Hell, at this rate, perhaps she'll never walk.

We Are Family Part II, and A Confession

Well, apparently we're legal: I called the court today, and the judge signed the adoption order. I have no idea what happened to the Missing Background Checks, or where they found them, but thankfully Scooby and Shaggy can rest easy, now. We're officially a family.

I can't tell you what a relief this is. Part of it, of course, is that certain things, things that only lawyers would think about, like inheritance and custodial rights, are now settled at law. But there's something else.

The truth is, and I know this will shock you, Marcus and I are not perfect parents. In fact, at times we're truly horrifying parents. Of course, before we were official, I could've never told you about this here, in such a public forum -- it might have affected what the agency and the judge thought of us. But, having been raised as a good Catholic girl, the guilt has been unbearable. I feel I've been dishonest. Duplicitous. Underhanded, even. I feel the time has come for us to come clean.

And so, dear readers, allow me to present to you the Top Five Things We Do Which Earn Us The Worst Parents Of The Year Award. New Parents, you may want to avert your eyes at this point; the rest of you, please don't try this at home:

5. We've never made people wash their hands before picking up or playing with Alex. And I mean, never. I know you're supposed to. The Books say you're supposed to. "WASH YOUR HANDS," they shriek, "LEST YOUR CHILD COME IN CONTACT WITH *gasp* GERMS!!"

Well, our kid is swarming with germs, 'cause she's been squeezed, pinched and prodded by The General Unwashed. You might want to keep your kids away from her. God knows what they might catch.

4. We bring Alex to bed with us in the middle of the night. I know we're really going to regret this one, too. Friends shake their heads when they learn this: "It's a mistake," they say. "My little Tommy still comes to bed with us instead of sleeping in his own room, and he's a junior at Stanford now." In our defense, however, we don't do it because we just can't bear to hear her unhappy.

It's because it's the only way WE GET ANY BLEEDING SLEEP.

3. Since she turned 6 months, we let her sleep on her stomach. I know, I know -- this one's bad. The fact is, she sleeps better on her stomach, and since I've deluded myself into believing the SIDS risk drops way down after 6 months, I've been putting her down on her tummy.

But seriously, people, don't do this. I feel much guilt with this one.

2. We've let her eat fruit. Again, The Books tell you this is really bad. "FEEDING FRUIT TOO EARLY WILL GIVE THEM A SWEET TOOTH!" they yell, "AND THEY'LL BATTLE OBESITY FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES!!!!"

Well, to be honest, I just flat out don't believe this. I grew up in the tropics, where you can't walk a block without fruit falling on your head from someone's overgrown tree. As a matter of fact, I think I came out of the womb sucking on a mango (which, incidentally, is the Fruit of the Gods). And I never developed a sweet tooth -- in fact, I hate desserts.

Besides, you haven't seen anything until you've seen Alex throw herself face first into a mango.

That's my girl.

And the Number One Thing We Do Which Earns Us The Worst Parents of the Year Award:

1. Sometimes ... and just sometimes, mind you ... when we're at the dinner table, and Alex drops her pacifier on the ground, and I'm too lazy to get up and wash it ...

... I dip it in my wine.

I figure it's alcohol, it'll kill the germs.

The ones that aren't already swarming all over her body, of course.

Decisions, decisions...

Thanks to all of you for your words of encouragement. As I re-read my post below, I realise that perhaps I'm taking a cup-is-half-empty view of the whole thing. Yes, but for a technicality, she's totally ours, and we're thrilled about that. It's just that nagging technicality. But, as you rightly point out, it'll all work out. So thank you.

In any event, to keep our minds off The Case of The Missing Background Checks (about which I'm beginning to have weirdly disturbing "Scooby Doo" fantasies: "Oh, look, Shaggy! It was the Court Clerk!" "And I would've gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you pesky kids!"), Marcus and I have decided to focus on one of the most difficult decisions new parents have to make. It's a decision that we've been placing on the back-burner, but one which, if not made soon, could cut to the very core of how Marcus and I are viewed as parents. And, it goes without saying, it is one which could affect Alex's psyche for many years to come.

I'm speaking, of course, of the decision of what Alex should be for Halloween.

You laugh. But let's face it, people: Halloween is only about 6 weeks away. And given the reactions I get for some of the outfits Alex wears from day-to-day, I feel a certain amount of pressure to come up with something extra special for the occasion. This is not an easy decision.

Marcus is a purist: he would like her to be a "little witch," or a "black cat," or a "little devil." Me, I think those are bit cliche, along with "the ladybug" or "the fairy princess." I don't much care for the "peas-in-a-pod" bunting-type baby costumes, either, and I like the "Spider-Man" or "Batgirl" or other cartoon character costumes even less. I could get into an educational, family-themed sort of thing -- for instance, a girlfriend of mine is dressing her 18-month-old son as a little monkey, her husband will be in a gorilla costume, and she's going as Jane Goodall -- but, I'm sad to say, we could never be that clever. Marcus and I are simple folk.

The debate could have raged for weeks, but luckily, the costume gods smiled kindly on us, and I stumbled upon this.

I like it because it brings to mind the great literary classic "Alice in Wonderland," by the inimitable Lewis Carroll, and its wicked drug-culture subtext.

Marcus likes it because of the reference to "the most foul, cruel and bad-tempered rodent you ever laid eyes on," the Killer Bunny of the artistically important English film, "Monty Python and The Holy Grail."

Hmm.

Someday, our kid is so going to need therapy.

*?@$#?@#!!!!!

You'd think it'd be official.

Today was the day that Marcus, Alex and I went to court for the final hearing on Alex's adoption. This was the day when it'd be all over. I can't tell you how excited I was. We got up extra early, put on our courtroom finest, and headed down to the 328th District Court, Fort Bend County, Richmond, Texas.

Our hearing was the first on the docket. Things were going smoothly -- the attorney was making jokes, the judge was laughing at the jokes, Alex was cooing at the bailiff, things were great.

And then...

Attorney: "Judge, here's all the paperwork. Everything seems to be in order."

Judge (rifling through paperwork): "Well, it certainly appears that way! Except ..."

Long pause.

Attorney: "Yes, Judge?"

Judge (beginning to look concerned): "Welllll...."

Another long pause.

Judge: "Attorney, do you have their criminal background checks with you?"

Attorney (beginning to look concerned his-damn-self): "Uh, I don't think so Judge ... I gave you all the paperwork I have."

Judge (looking up at us, trying to erase the concerned look from his face, and failing miserably): "Uh, ma'am -- did you get background checks? I mean, did you ever do fingerprints ...."

Me (beginning to hyperventilate): "Yes, Judge, quite some time ago, actually."

Judge: "Oh yes, I see the submittal for the background checks here in the file. But I don't see the actual background checks."

Attorney (recovering composure): "Well, Judge, I'm sure they've just been misplaced. If you could just grant the adoption, we can submit the paperwork at a later date."

Judge (trying to act warm and reassuring): "Okay, here's what I'll do. I'll grant the adoption pending submittal of the criminal background checks. That way, whenever the paperwork gets in here, it'll just automatically happen. I'm sure it'll all work out."

Are you freakin' kidding me??

So the judge handwrites some notes in the file, gives Alex a stuffed animal, we pose for the above picture, and walk out. I'm numb. I immediately call the paralegal at the attorney's office (who's stayed behind to finalize another adoption). She's on vacation.

Attorney's receptionist: "Can I take a message?"

Me: "Uh, YEAH, you can take a message. Could you please tell her that we've just come out of our adoption hearing, and the judge says that there are no criminal background checks in the file, so our adoption is still PENDING, and therefore WE'RE NO FARTHER ALONG THAN WE WERE WHEN WE WALKED IN HERE THIS MORNING?!?!"

Attorney's receptionist (audibly shaken): "Um, yes, of course. I'm so sorry. I'll let her know."

When I finally spoke to the paralegal (who immediately called me back from her holiday, bless her heart), she tells me that she actually had spoken with the court earlier this week to confirm that they had received the background checks, and at that time, they had assured her they were in the file.

So apparently, someone lost the background checks.

But hey, "this isn't the first time this has happened," (!!), and come Monday she'll "follow up and take care of it."

Is it bad that I don't find this reassuring at all?

So, we're still in limbo, although, ostensibly, ever closer to finalization. We've already given testimony to the court, so there's no need for us to return. All we need to do now is to wait for the mystery criminal background checks to turn up.

That's all.

No problem.

Alex-Proofing

God help me, the day has come.

We've been trying to avoid it. Marcus and I have made a conscious effort not to talk about it, I think, because we believe if we just ignore it, it won't be real. It just can't be happening. Not yet. Not already.

But, if we're honest, there's no denying it anymore:

Alex is on the cusp of mobility. We have no choice but to baby-proof the house.

She's not quite crawling yet. But this past week, she's taught herself to roll from her back to her front, get up on all-fours, and rock like Elvis. And let me tell you, this is a kid who's been known to throw herself into suicidal plunges just to reach something shiny slightly out of her reach. It's only a matter of time before she's all over the house.

Problem is, our house is hardly a place for a child. We have electrical outlets everywhere. We have a steep staircase. We have knick-knacks. Tchotchkes. Doohickies. Long draperies.

We have cupboards filled with big, hairy, child-killing poisons.

So, this weekend (assuming, God willing, that Alex can last that long) we have no choice but to rectify the situation. Clean from top to bottom. Install cupboard latches. Electrical outlet covers. Toilet locks. We have to get flashlights. Extra water. Canned goods.

In short, it's time to batten down the hatches. Hurricane Alex is about to hit.

Hear her warning battle cry:

What We Did On Our Summer Vacation

We're back!

We had a great holiday in New Mexico. The abridged version:

1. I now officially know how to spell "Albuquerque." See? All my life I've been struggling how to spell that word. And now I know.

2. Since travelling with an infant requires quite a number of naptimes, there were several instances where we found ourselves back at our hotel, waiting for Alex to finish sleeping, trying to find something to amuse ourselves.

Luckily, the CSI Marathon was showing all week on Spike TV: The First Network for Men (?!). If anyone out there needs someone to interpret blood spatter or an errant hair strand, I'm your man.

3. Alex did GREAT on the plane. So great, in fact, she was awarded a certificate by the flight attendants:

(It reads: "Southwest Airlines Welcomes Alexis. For your first flight on Southwest Airlines, we proudly salute you on this 11th day of September, 2004." )

How fabulous is that -- especially given the date of the certificate.

For the longer version of our holiday story, click on the "Santa Fe 2004" photo album to the right. I'll leave it up until our next vacation. But for now, enjoy.

Everything But The Girl

Well, we're packed:

Thank you all for all your advice. Because of you, I have damp washcloths packed in Ziploc bags. I have new toys ready to whip out at a moment's whimper. I have Baby Einstein DVDs. I have pacifiers. I even have dozens of earplugs to hand out to neighbouring passengers if things really get out of hand.

In other words, if this trip goes down the toilet, it's not going to be because of your generous advice, or my not listening to it. So again, thank you, thank you, thank you.

I have to tell you, as we sit here on the eve of our vacation to Santa Fe, New Mexico, I am more excited than I can convey. Marcus and I haven't had a real vacation together since our honeymoon two years ago. Don't get me wrong -- we've travelled home to both Trinidad and England a few times, but with all due respect to our wonderful relatives, traveling home is NEVER a vacation. There are too many family obligations: we have to visit Aunt so-and-so, or we couldn't possibly leave town without visiting Uncle such-and-such. And, if you're Trinidadian, like I am, the definition of "family" becomes greatly expanded: "Doh forget we haf to go rong by Mummy's daddy's friend's cousin, eh?" Or "but how you go leave wit-out stoppin' by Tanti Merle? How yuh mean yuh doh remember who she is? Chile, she use to plait dat nappy head uh yours wit' coconut oil -- but yuh mad or what? Yuh HAF to stop rong. An' take dis nice roas' bake and saltfish fuh she, too, eh? What yuh mean 'it smellin''? Chile, yuh cyah walk in de woman house wit' yuh two han's swingin' free -- take de damn food, nah man ..."

But I digress.

As I was saying, visiting family does require a certain element of work that a true vacation doesn't. And my goal is to make this a true vacation. Between jobs and social obligations, it can sometimes become easy to become consumed with the daily responsibilities of life, but, by God, this coming week it's gonna be all about our little team, baby. We're going to visit art galleries, and hike, and Marcus is going to mountain bike, and I'm probably going to visit a spa, and Alex is going to screech in the mountains ... it's going to be great, just focusing on just the three of us.

I'm even going to put my Blackberry away.

Just so you understand the seriousness of this last statement: I don't go anywhere without my Blackberry. Anywhere. My Blackberry not only carries all my e-mail, but is also my mobile phone, which basically means my office follows me wherever I go. Since I work directly for the CEO of my company, I need to be on top of everything that goes on at the office, and (I further rationalize), if I'm NOT completely in-the-know, my head might blow clean off my body, and that would be bad, right? Marcus patiently indulges my little surreptitious peeks at it while we're at dinner or out with friends, but I mean it -- for the next week, there will be no phones or Blackberries or even laptops (unless the laptop is playing a Baby Einstein DVD in a desperate attempt to calm a hysterical Alex, then it's okay). But no internet access, even if the coolest, funkiest internet bar calls to us from across the plaza. We are going to be completely free of every trapping of our regular lives for seven straight days.

Seven.

Straight.

Days.

For this reason, pardon me while I'm pretty much out-of-touch for a while. I promise to be full of stories when we return. In the meantime, wish us safe travels. See you when we get back.