Feeding the Bib

Turns out the bug was more than ready for her first bites of rice cereal.  She acted like we had been holding out on her.  I guess, in a way, we were.

I imagine a lot of parents stare unblinkingly at their baby's first bites of "solid food" (what's so solid about some rice flour dissolved in breast milk?) wanting to see some expression of delight, wonderment, confusion, or even disgust.  It's a big first step.  Our camera was rolling.  We planned the event at grandma's.  Typical.

This is what we got:

• The bug watched the spoon come closer and casually took it in her mouth.
• She smacked her tongue a little bit (probably searching desperately for flavor).
• She immediately grabbed at the bowl with a look like "what's in this stuff?" and tipped the whole thing over, including the brand new, no-flip suction cup that, as promised, remained attached to the bowl.
• She took a couple more oh-hum spoonfuls from what was left in the bowl and humored us with chewing motions (a mere formality at this stage).
• Granted, those of us over the age of five months were preoccupied with taking care of the spill.  Still, we weren't feeding her that slowly.  Regardless, after only a few bites of her gruel, the bug found it necessary to take matters into her own hands.  By "matters" I mean spoon.  And by "hands" I mean a two-fisted death grip from which not even photons could escape.

In time, we got the spoon back.  After having had a total of three such feedings thus far, she still isn't feeding herself in spite of her prowess with infant cutlery.

She accepts that she needs to wait on our ability to extract an empty spoon from her mouth, refill it at the proper receptacle, and competently transfer the spoon level, so as not to spill its contents, to her waiting mouth where spilling the contents is an unavoidable (and, as it were, necessary) eventuality.  She accepts this so totally in fact that her latest feeding pose involves leaning with arms extended to the sides, as much as the nylon straps will allow, toward the person holding the spoon and having eyes and mouth held as wide as manageable.

I'd say we're having a first feeding win.

In a related side-note, teething has begun in earnest.  No white tips poking through yet, but they can't be far away.  Stay tuned...

How to Shrink a Baby

All babies share one commonality.  They get bigger.  Really.  Turns out they're supposed to.  That's where adults come from.

The bug is no exception.  Five months old and still hanging out in the ninety percentiles.  She's wearing 6-9 mo. clothings (Seriously.  They need to focus on weights and/or lengths for baby clothes.  Months are no standard.)

A couple days ago, we dug out the box of "bigger" clothes that we stored way back when everyone that heard we were having a baby girl gifted us with a wardrobe.  We had to start a pile of 3-6 mo. numbers that she'll never wear.  She did squeeze into one pair of pants for a couple hours before adding them to the "yeah, right" pile.  (A common female experience, I'm sure.)  We may have to start giving each cute little ensemble an hour to ensure each one gets a shot at being worn.

As this ever-expanding doll of adorableness stretches the limits of her bassinet, dwarfs her tummy comfort chair, and forces more and more adjustments to nylon straps, our little girl doesn't seem so little anymore.

Then we learned a really neat trick.  I call it, "Shrink a Baby!"  (Catchy, huh?)

Here's what you do:

• Get a toy that the baby is a good month away from being able to adequately use.  For example, one of those activity ring things where the baby sits in the middle surrounded by things that all do different things and make different noises.  For example, the Wonderbug.  (See... we had to get that one.)
• Then, insert the baby carefully into the aforementioned toy, making necessary comfort adjustments.
• Lastly, step back and notice how this little toy engulfs your baby.

Et voila!  The baby is small, again.  Repeat as necessary.

Milkin' It For All It's Worth

With the bug, even the most mundane of tasks becomes an adventure.

• The planning phase
• The gearing up phase
• The crossing of the threshold
• The initial execution of the plan
• The point of no return
• The total revision of the plan
• The break in the action
• The regrouping for accomplishing the main goal
• Victory
• The return home
• The nap

Last week the bug and I had to go get milk and eggs.  To help justify making an hour round trip for milk and eggs, we decided to tack on a trip to the credit union and, consequentially, at least another half-hour.

Allow me to explain the poor man's sound machine.  Now, I'm sure there are CD's out there of recorded white noise.  I could probably even find an app.  However, when you're already driving and the WubbaNub has been mysteriously flung to the far reaches of the backseat much to the dismay of said WubbaNub's proxy, then finding the nearest music store and illegally fumbling with one's phone doesn't help.  (By the way, I understand the safety reasons for requiring that the child be placed in a rear-facing car seat in the back.  But, do they understand the hazard?)  So, in the aforementioned situation, seems the best thing to do is to tune into a frequency that doesn't pick up any radio signals and crank that puppy.

Right.  So.   Milk and eggs.  Everything was going smoothly.  Banking was a breeze (actually a credit union, but no one says "credit unioning."  At least not yet.), but the poor bug is a little over everything made for an infant having an impressive set of buckles pulling on nylon straps.  She's a good sport about it, but every girl has her limits.  Well, she reached hers just a few aisles away from the eggs.  That's when I remembered the WubbaNub was still in the car.

You know?  For about three seconds, I actually thought the fussing might sort itself out.  It's that feeling you get when you're foolish enough to think that a pot couldn't possibly boil over, the fizz couldn't possibly spill over the edge of the glass, or the toilet water will magically go back down once it reaches the edge.  No... she couldn't possibly go into a three-stage meltdown (limbs out, face red, quivering voice cry).

Of all the fathers pushing their three (almost four) month old baby girls around a grocery store at two in the afternoon on a Friday, I have to be the one that everybody looks at like I just snagged the cart and kid and tried to break for the door before the distracted mother knew what hit her.  So, I smiled at the crowd, unbuckled, unbuckled, and unbuckled, loosened the nylon so it wouldn't scrape against her neck and make matters worse, and scooped her up into a hug to look over my shoulder.

As if I pushed a button on a toy doll, she completely changed moods.  I measured the integrity of the eggs with one arm while she flirted and smiled at anyone still looking her way.  She kept racking up the compliments as I made my way to the milk.  Wouldn't you know the first gallon was all squashed on top and I had one arm to move it and get the unsquashed one from behind it?  The bug didn't mind.  She was too busy pulling a Palin.

Not wanting to press my luck, I dismissed the idea of getting any other grocery items to justify the gas.  She "helped" me zip through the self-check, no-bag it, and we walked back to the car.  She didn't fuss too much about getting strapped down again.  We drove up the coastline home to the dulcet sounds of static.  Mission accomplished.

This week:  I'm using those damn eggs.