Poop. Poop. Poop. There, get over it. Say it enough times and desensitize yourself. I have managed to go 5 months (she is five months old as of yesterday!) without regaling you with stories of explosive, nasty, nauseating diaper messes but I can hold out no longer. Your gift of poop story amnesty has been revoked.

I never wanted to be the kind of newbie parent who fascinated over the different colors and consistencies of newborn poop. I never wanted to be that ridiculous mom who found herself excluded from all single company because of her tendency to return to poop stories as her fall back chit-chat. You would never hear me saying, “You know the funniest thing happened to me the other day when I was taking Gianna to the supermarket. We were no sooner out the driveway then she had the most audible explosive poop ever! And, I just had to turn right back around, go home and give her a bath before we could leave again!” No! I swore I would never stoop so low to come up with cocktail party conversation fodder.

Well, I take it all back. Poop, whether I want to admit it or not, is interesting. As a parent, you leave the hospital with a logbook for recording your newborn’s poops, how it looks, how much there is, how often it happens, what time of day it was and any other details you care to record. The nurses impatiently assure you the more information you write down about your babies’ poops the better off you will be if there are ever any doctors asking you about your newborn’s “habits”. And god knows you don’t want to piss off the doctor or show her how inept you really are at this parenthood gig by not keeping track of such a remarkable body function.

That is how poop slowly but methodically creeps into your daily train of thought so that by the time your little one is say, 5 months old, you and your partner casually ask each other over dinner how many poopie diapers you’ve changed so you can keep at least a mental tally and compare that to the by now memorized average number of daily poops and thereby discern any unusual fluctuations. That is how Benoit and I came to the realization last week that poor Gianna hasn’t been pooping enough. It was over dinner, our usual rushed and gobbled exercise in speed eating revealed a deficiency of poop output coming from our daughter.

Could it have been the sweet potatoes? The pears? The rice or oatmeal cereal? Why didn’t we think of keeping track of those things the way we kept track of the poop? Now we have to eliminate all solid foods and start back at ground zero to see if it’s the new food causing this disruption in her digestion. Bad parents! Now, if we go to the doctor’s office with our damn meticulous logbook of poop she will surely demand an equally meticulous logbook of feedings! They do afterall go well together, one causing the effect of the other.

Instead, we have opted to throw out the poop logbook even if by now it only existed in our heads and wait for the inevitable grossly exaggerated poop story nightmare (everyone has heard at least one of these at a cocktail party at some point) to come to life in our house, because everyone agrees that when something that should happen daily doesn’t happen in days it’s not going to be pretty when it finally does happen. Never before have I actually prayed for the mess that is sure to come (and thank god it’s a holiday weekend when Benoit is home and I have only a 50% chance of being on diaper duty) but, when your daughter hasn’t pooped in three days any kind of dirty diaper is a welcome sight.

So, there it is. The self-imposed taboo has been broken and poop stories are now inescapable both for you and for me.

At last count the news was reporting over 800 fires raging in California, mostly up here where we live. The fact that they don’t precise the exact number, just that it’s something above 800 maybe less than 1,000, is desperate enough. The fact that Gianna and I haven’t been able to leave the walls of this house since Sunday is just pitiful.

The guys outside working on our deck and my uncle who does our landscaping don’t seem to mind the smoke, none of whom will wear a mask, not even when I pleasantly offer them one with a smile and thinly veiled threats of “serious consequences” meaning, I’m going to tell their wives what they’re NOT doing. Add “tattle-tale” to my list of character flaws.

It’s just nasty outside and scary that our air quality has reached the “unhealthy” mark for 7 days straight. There is only one other designation on that 5-point scale. Next up is “dangerously unhealthy” and instead of just cautioning the elderly and infants to remain indoors, the alert goes out to everyone. I guess the deck guys and my uncle are waiting for that to happen before they don a mask?

As it is, Gianna and I just stand in front of our big living room windows, waving safely from behind the glass, breathing our filtered (if not fresh), air trying gamely to come up with new funny faces to make at the men outside. She just laughs at her reflection and doesn’t notice how we can’t quite see to the end of our property anymore and I pretend I’m just as happy to sing “Alouette” for the 188th time as I was to sing it the first time. Putting my boredom aside and looking for a moment on the bright side, at least she’s just an infant and not a toddler whining, “But, WHY can’t we go outside and play, Mommy?” every five seconds. At least I can still entertain her well enough with snappy songs and crazy faces and I can always use the Jumperoo!

I, on the other hand, have no hope of having someone entertain me for the duration of my confinement. I stare at our blackened skies and wistfully remember why we were building the deck in the first place, to have a cozy spot to enjoy the summer outside. Of course this only depresses me further. And I’m beginning to feel a bit like a fish in an aquarium with the workers only steps from my windowed world, whistling tunes as they pound their hammers oblivious to me swimming circles inside.

No, I’m not an alcoholic but I AM the kind of person who goes to the grocery store and comes home with more beer and wine than fresh produce. That’s why when I saw this new handy-dandy product called Milkscreen I knew it was for me.

It’s the perfect stocking stuffer for those hard-to-shop-for breastfeeding moms who just can’t lay off the booze. A portable but not exactly convenient way to make sure your milk isn’t going to get your infant pulled over at the next highway patrol checkpoint. But, since you actually have to “milk” on the test strip, the makers of Milkscreen must be assuming that us nursing moms like to whip out the milk bags as part of our stupid human tricks side show act at parties OR that we’re so hyper-anxious about ourselves as moms that we would carry these strips in our cocktail purses … oh, who am I kidding? What nursing mother goes to cocktail parties, or shin-digs of any flavor anymore? In all likelihood, the only reasonable way we would use this is out of boredom and feigned curiosity (feigned because no result would stop us from finishing that glass of hard-won adult freedom), drink in one hand, nursing babe in the other and test strip held up by our husbands as proof that we are not as godly as we proclaim to be at this parenting gig.

Actually, I hate to admit it, and it’s taking some huge show of bravery to put this out there and risking Child Protective Services knocking down my door and countless ridiculing comments from my readers, but I AM the kind of mom who would use Milkscreen. I am THAT mom. Gianna, you are going to love this photo for ammunition in your teenage years.

So, from one beer, wine and alcohol-loving breastfeeding mom to the makers of Milkscreen, thank you for bringing out a product that will further deflate my ego that I am the best mother in the world, cast self-doubt and needless worrying about my red wine with dinner every night and will further provide me with a source of mommy guilt to obsess over. As if motherhood and breastfeeding weren’t already complicated! sheeesh!

Before you read further, I want it recorded that I actually debated about writing this exposé of Benoit, for a whole two seconds, maybe.

Let me begin with exhibit A, a seemingly normal baby onesie, the indispensable staple of baby dressing.

These cute little shirts that come with 3, not 2, or 1, or 4 but, 3 snaps at the crotch form the foundation for most outfits and are well-loved by parents for their speed and ease.

Benoit managed to find a way to make the 3-snap onesie even easier and he would add, faster. I didn’t think it could be done. I was pretty sure the onesie was solidly in first place for must-have baby clothing but he took it upon himself to reinvent it.

Seen here is Benoit’s “Slacker-Dad Onesie”
(aka “the why-use-three-snaps-when-you-could-just-snap-the-middle-one onesie” ) soon to be marketed in a baby store near you!

It’s that time again! She’s been weighed and stretched from head to toe, jiggled and prodded, every ear and eye examined and pronounced a-okay at her 4 month well-baby visit. Yippee!

So, she’s been officially recorded in the 95th percentile for her height (a whopping 26 inches! three more and we’re out shopping for a new car seat) and 75th percentile for her weight at 15lbs. 11oz. Thankfully, she does not seem to have inherited Benoit’s massive melon since she is measuring a perfectly average 50th percentile for head circumference, which ought to make accessorizing with hats a considerably easier task for her than it is for him.

After jotting down all her growth numbers the doctor consulted with us about my nursing troubles (doesn’t seem to be affecting her weight yet) and our disrupted sleeping patterns because of the frequency she has been eating to make up for my less than abundant supply. I also expressed my anxiety over not being able to pump to increase my supply because she won’t take a bottle thereby setting me up for a famished little gremlin come the next feeding time and an even emptier breast. FYI, not a good combination.

We listed the various bottles and nipples we’ve tried, from Dr. Browns (the most expensive) to Playtex drop-ins (the least) and every odd-looking, orthodontic, latex and silicone shape in between. Apparently, it’s not the bottle or nipple that she detests it’s actually anything besides the soft, cushy real thing. We’ve also attempted feeding her with those minuscule soft-bite infant spoons which is quite comical in retrospect when you think of how much milk could balance in the millimeters of space provided on those spoons and how much of it was left after traveling the shaky distance from bowl to wide shut infant Gianna’s mouth. Ha! Only, then it was much more like “AAAAHHHHH!!!!”

Seeing our exasperation as we told our battle stories, the doctor recommended that we try giving her a bottle everyday at the same time of day, at a time when she is normally hungry and preferably when I’m not at home. Well, the not being at home part is practically impossible since there is no one to come and feed her in the middle of the day since most folks have those pesky yet indispensable day jobs. So, we’ll give it our best shot each night when Benoit comes home and I make dinner and he’ll take her on a little walk around the house outside which is as close as we can get to me doing a disappearing act. Cross your fingers that this works for us please! I’m certainly tired of feeding this child 10-12 times a day, which, by the way, is more often than she ever nursed as a newborn!

The doctor also gave us the green light for solids and you can bet just as soon as her little “shuck the spoon out of her mouth, gag and thrust reflexes” are gone I’ll be introducing solids faster than she can figure out a way to spit them out!

I had been told by many seasoned veterans of parenthood that when you find yourself some peace and quiet in the house you better go searching for the reason because it usually means there’s a little person on the precipice of mischief. Well, this whole quiet house thing doesn’t happen much with Gianna around but lately it had been more and more of a daily occurrence and though she is too young to be smearing peanut butter on kitchen cabinets or sneaking crayons into the clothes dryer, she is also too young to be having quiet time on her activity mat, trapped as she is on her back not having mastered the art of rolling over yet. So, Benoit and I scoured the aisles of our local Babies-R-Us for ideas to keep her better entertained.

We encountered the ubiquitous and baffling assortment of baby seats (of which we now own the Bumbo) seen here:

But, that only gave her the added perspective from 4inches off the ground and her toys at eye-level though now completely out of reach as they all hang on cross bars meant to entertain an infant who is happily lying prone.

So, we ventured farther into the toyland abyss and found the category of devices called “exersaucers”.

No, they aren’t meant to conjure images of leotard-clad jazzercise classes but that’s exactly what popped in my head and sent me recoiling. I was too appalled by the name to take those contraptions seriously but judging by the sheer volume of models and dizzying variations on the shelves (they take up an entire aisle right AND left at the store), they must be pretty popular.

I quickly took refuge from the far too complicated task of choosing one of those by scurrying down the next aisle and into much safer baby paraphernalia territory, which happened to be home to most models of baby papasan chairs, bouncers and TWO, count them TWO, models of what is known as a “jumperoo”. I liked the sound of this baby device much better. Doesn’t it just have a fun ring to it? Instead of overweight jazzercise babies I was picturing little Tigger babies with springs in their tails saying, “Hoooo Hooo Hooo HOoo!” as Tigger does on Pooh’s Corner. And, since there were only two models to choose from we just plopped little Gianna in both seats and tried to judge by the alternate looks of separation anxiety and doped up happiness which one was going to be her favorite.

We had it delivered yesterday and she hasn’t stopped grinning since. Once l teach her the Tigger giggle my jumperoo fantasy will be complete! Three cheers for Fisher-Price and their jolly wonderful Rainforest Jumperoo. Thanks to them my home is once again a riot of unending elephant snorts and bouncy electronic baby music. Ah, all is as it should be.

Watch her go!

>???????? ????? ????????title of my post reminds me of the band Air Supply. Random thought for the day. But, the band, like my milk these days, has mostly exited the stage.

If it’s not an overabundance it’s a drought. I thought I was taking it all in stride when Gianna started nursing less frequently and only one side at a time. Everyone told me not to worry about it, that she’s a plump little darling and doing just fine. So, if she wants to eat to a different drummer (okay I’m taking the musical metaphor a little too far now), so be it.

Well, let me tell you what happens to nursing moms who let their babies decide when and how much to eat. They lose their supply. That’s what happens.

At first, I admit, I was excited. My usually over-full, big as boulders breasts were finally starting to diminish in size and were almost what one might call supple to the touch in between feedings. I was all too happy to be able to look in my closet and wear practically anything I wanted again. But, 5 days of this and finally I woke up with hardly any milk. Poor Gianna was hungry by noon and I had nothing left to give her, so accustomed to being shunned were we. There’s a reason why block nursing is recommended as a strategy for mothers with too much milk. If you only feed your babe one side at a time every 3-4 hours, the other side, having accumulated milk but not having displaced it, gets the message repeatedly, that the milk is not necessary and to produce less and less. Hmmmm…I have both stumbled upon a perfect exit strategy for myself (as I had no problem with infections for the past 2 months) and a new problem at the same time.

So, I’m chugging my water and now I’m the one telling Gianna when it’s time to nurse, not the other way around. I had no idea you had to micromanage an infant! But, there it is. I’ve seen the two extremes of supply and I have to say, I’d rather have too much than too little. There is simply nothing more heartbreaking than having to listen to your baby cry out of hunger. (On a positive note, this episode of famine drove her to suck herself silly from a bottle. At least, out of this agonizing past week we have found out that she will not starve if we put a bottle to her lips.)

And, if anyone can tell me one good song that Air Supply performed I’d be greatly impressed. All I can think of is that I seem to recall them doing parts of the Jesus Christ Superstar musical.

In her words (okay, it’s time to use your imagination now):

“At four months old, I can roll from my belly to my back. I can sit up as long as I am leaning over my toes. I can watch you enter a room, leave the room and expect you to come back. I laugh really really loud when I see dogs wagging their tails and running all over the place. I’m not sure I like it when they lick my face though. I like to watch Miko jump on the bed and I’ve pet her a few times while she purrs. I LOVE to kick my legs, especially my left one which makes everyone think I’m going to be a lefty. I grab everything within arm’s reach including my feet (which I love to pull up over my head), my mom’s hair, my mom’s necklace, my dad’s nose and even my dad’s dinner plate. I’m not really ready for solid food even though I’m growing my first front tooth but, mom and dad let me taste a banana a few times already. It wasn’t very good. I like my mommy’s milk much better! My favorite toy is a ladybug and butterfly with crinkly wings that I can make lots of noise with and chew on. And my biggest accomplishment, at least in the eyes of my parents, is that I sleep in my own room in my own bed and usually only wake up once a night for 30 minutes or less!”

Next up on Gianna’s list of things “to do” in her 5th month: playing peek-a-boo, imitating sounds (Papa is most likely to come out first), amusing herself for a few minutes at a time (whew! thank god for that one!), learning cause and effect by playing with her toys and sitting up by herself.

It’s long overdue but we finally got the photos uploaded from our first trip out-of-town with Gianna! I had amply prepared myself for the trip by bringing 2 outfits for Gianna and myself for each day we planned to be away from home. I took bottles and nipples and pacifiers, the pump, teddy bears she hasn’t seen and favorite toys from her activity mat, the pack-n-play for a place to settle her to sleep, a full package of size 2 diapers, two containers of wipes, two kinds of baby carriers and lots and lots of baby mylicon. It wasn’t enough. NONE of it was enough! I should have brought 80 onesies, three packages of diapers, THE STROLLER (hello? how did we possibly think we could get away without that?), and a full-time nanny so I could have my mental breakdowns with at least the peace of mind that someone was doing my job.

Thankfully, Gianna managed to smile in all the photos so only we know the true story and she wins the hearts of millions with her stunning gummy smile. Go ahead, let her melt your heart while I commence the laundry…

Daddy’s little girl!

Everyone loves a baby! Anand and Nandini bravely let us stay with them!

Gianna and Maya (5 1/2 months old).

Gianna and her doting Uncle.

Melissa, all the way from L.A., and Gianna!

I’m amazed that my mommy denial led to the following events:

Benoit’s parents were here a couple of weeks ago visiting from France. Along with the usual grandparent advice and remedies they offered to us parents of a non-napping child, my father-in-law made the case that perhaps Gianna was teething. Since we had just been to the pediatrician a week before they arrived and the doctor had assured us Gianna’s drooling and sucking on her fingers was completely normal, we thought nothing of them. In fact, it may have been nothing more than coincidence that her grandfather called it teething and then a tooth popped up two weeks later. After all, she didn’t have a fever, didn’t cry uncontrollably, didn’t have diarrhea or any of the other symptoms of teething. No, it seemed the sucking on her hands was just the organic version of a pacifier and the drool, the commencement of the salivary glands like the doctor predicted. But, the other day, she finally allowed me a glimpse into that lower jaw space and I clearly saw the grain of rice everyone tells me is surely a tooth. And, then I shook my head that I allowed myself to believe more in the baby books that predict first teeth only at 6 months rather than listening to my baby and her knowledgeable family members.

So, at 3 months and 2 weeks Gianna has sprouted her first tooth and she did it with such aplomb, such confident nonchalance I have hope this whole teething business will be a piece of cake! (Yes, I’m knocking on wood as I type this.)

**Update: I didn’t knock on wood hard enough and the past two days now, in the time it took for me to report these events, Gianna has been waking three times a night looking for comfort and has been fussy with loose poopies and diaper rash. Yay! I’m off to find some good ole Hyland’s Teething Tablets (much to the chagrin of my aunt Karen who thinks Dr. Jack Daniels ought to be paged from the liquor cabinet before bedtime).