Sock It To Me

When we found out that we were having a baby, a million things went through my mind. Is it healthy? Is it a boy or a girl? Will I be a good parent? Will I know what to do to make sure my child stays safe and happy? How do you bathe them? How many times a day do they eat? Are you really not supposed to take them out of the house for 30 days, or is that just an old wives tale?? Are they a drip dry or a towel dry item?

I think every new parent has a lot of questions, and we were no different. So I made sure that we had answers at our fingertips, by purchasing a variety of basic operating manuals. (One really should just pop out at the delivery, but alas that's not the way it works. I personally think it's a real failure by the packing department at the baby factory and someone should definitely talk to them immediately!) I made sure that we were set for diapering, breast feeding, fevers, shots, evaluating milestones and the full spectrum of poop, amongst other things. But little did I know, that all my wonderful guides and charts would fail me in one very particular way... they were all for babies, but not specifically for boy babies!

People should warn you. I mean it. Seriously warn you, that boy babies are different (DIFFERENT!) than girl babies. (And I'm not just talking about their nethers.)

I remember, before Dashell could even crawl, going to a playgroup and watching how the girl babies would just sit there so quiet and content with a single toy, and Dashy would want to look at this thing, and that thing, and the other thing. Always wanting to be handed something new and exciting, or he would begin to pitch a fit.

And once he could crawl, he was everywhere in the blink of an eye!! In the kitchen cupboards pulling out the tupperware. In the bedroom terrorizing the cat. In the bathroom working hard to flood the toilet. Meanwhile back at the Double X Ranch, the girls were politely sipping tea and delicately eating crumpets while musing about the virtues of stacking cups.

And now that he's walking, I expected a little of this...



















...and of course some of this...














(I mean, who doesn't expect to see their dirty-handed baby flashing gang signs?!)

But instead of being content with a casual stroll to examine this, that, and the other, he's, well actually, he's running. And tripping. And, well, running and running and running. Oh yeah, and did I mention tripping?! Which leads me to this...

Months alive..............................14.5
Trips to the Dentist.....................4
Trips to the Emergency Room...2

Yep. You read that right...2. TWO trips to the emergency room in the first 14.5 MONTHS of life!

Let me just recap the last few months for you:

- 1 dislodged tooth
- 1 chipped tooth
- 1 second degree burn
- 1 GIANT LUMP ON HIS FOREHEAD

On Friday Dashy ran, tripped and hit his head on the foot of one of our dining chairs and got this...
Which originally (I took this picture two days later) looked like he had decided to have half a plastic Easter egg surgically implanted under the skin of his forehead. Patricia, our nanny, called me in a panic when it happened, and drove over to the stage, where I was shooting, to let me have a look at the victim. She was on the verge of tears. He was smiling and giggling!


Since the giant goose egg on his forehead looked a little crazier than anything I'd seen in a long time, I thought it might be best to have him checked at the hospital for a concussion. So Dave, Patricia, and our unlucky sprinter headed over.

The doctor recommended that Dashy sleep with his head elevated on a pillow that night. (Are you kidding me?! The kid sleeps in a crib and spins around like a carousel all night long.) And, that we wake him every 3 hours to make sure that he is still alert. (After letting that recommendation sink in, let's all repeat rule number one: Never wake a sleeping baby!)

So all night long we slept (first Patricia for 3 hours, then Dave for 3 hours and then me for rest of the night) in the glider with Dashy in our arms. Not very comfortable for him, or for us. But all I could think was, what if something happened, and I was asked, "why did your child slip into a coma?" I would have no other response but, "Oh, I was uncomfortable sleeping in the chair all night, so I laid him down and, well, the rest is history."

So there we slept. And he slept. We woke him up every three hours, so he could smile brightly and go, "hi!" And then look around his darkened room and go, "wow!" And point to his books and ask to be read to. And then try out my pillow. And then squirm around on my lap. And then look around the room. And then notice something on the floor that looked, in the dim light, like it could be Ducky or Sheepy (his lovies), and ask me to pick it up for him. And then cuddle it and rub it on his face in delight. And then rub it on my face so I could enjoy it too. And then, finally, fall asleep in a position that kept the object pressed directly under my nose so I had no choice but to breathe deeply its distinctive scent and realize...

...that I would be stuck sleeping in a chair, all night long, inhaling the oh, so delightful fragrance of Dave's dirty sock!!

Aaaah, parenthood. Apparently, it really is the gift that just keeps on giving (me an ulcer!)

p.s. Both the dentist and the ER doctor said that they would bet money that we will be back again before he turns 2!

p.p.s. I'm thinking about calling him "Crash" from now on. What do you think?