Ruthie Grows

Ruthie is asleep in a baby sling, wrapped tightly next to my chest. It's how she sleeps best.

After a few weeks of what felt like blissful happy social engagement, Ruu seems to have reverted to her prior stage of avoiding eye contact (while eagerly looking at every interesting thing in sight), smiling less, sleeping more erratically, and being generally more cranky.

So I'm slowly but surely working on training Ruu (or Roux, as my french-loving friend Emily likes to spell it) to actually take naps. It makes her a much happier baby overall, although it can sometimes take as much as 20 minutes for her to give in to sleep. I don't let her scream and wail the whole time, of course... I set a timer for five minutes so that I *make* myself give her the chance to settle down on her own. If she's not settled after five minutes, I go in, check her diaper, see if her swaddling has come undone, pat her, comfort her as needed, and start the process again.

This year was our first year toting a kid to church for the whirlwind that is Orthodox Easter, or Pascha. Holy Week was daunting; services every night from 7pm on, and activities during the day in preparation for Pascha that kept us running around crazy!

The past few days have been a bit of a strain. Ruthie only wakes up once (around 2 AM) for her nightly feeding, and so logically (or so I tell myself), I should be on the gravy train. Yet in the back of my mind mumbles the suspicion that she's drinking more at each feeding, and therefore taking a lot more of my energy. The reason? I'm inexplicably hungry ALL THE TIME (I've already had three full meals today, as of 4 PM), and RIDICULOUSLY TIRED (though I'm getting fairly decent stretches of sleep at night).

It's gotten to the point where I'm not sure what constitutes Ruth News anymore, since everything she does FASCINATES me. All I know for absolute certainty is this: I love my daughter, deeply and completely.

There's really nothing like this romance and intimacy. Like marriage, it's a unique bond formed by hormones, time, will, and emotions. There is so much touch, so many hours, and so much effort put into the relationship that I can't help myself: I'll jump in front of a train for her.

It's been quite awhile since I've written about Ruth, so here I go!

Tomorrow, I start teaching photography at Park Camps. It's a day camp, and the session I teach will last for three weeks. While I'm teaching, I have to leave Ruth behind.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a TOOTH.

Last night I felt it--a tiny scratchy sharp thing on her bottom jaw.

Today we saw it--the tiny peek of white!

TEETH = TRIUMPH!

Ladies and gentlemen, the craziness has begun.

When she gets up in the morning, she can now peek over the edge of the playpen and make noise until we notice her. It's wicked cute.

Awhile back, Kristin Putchinsky (also known as ellen cherry), who I met while teaching at Park Camps, was telling me that she thinks the most important thing to teach kids is not to be smart, or to change the world, but to be kind.

I couldn't agree with her more. I don't care if my little girl gets a degree from Harvard and starts a foundation for some grand cause that's guaranteed to tug at people's heart strings and solve world hunger. If she's a nasty person, it's not going to mean much in the end. If, in everything she's done, she's steamrolled over others and ignored their needs for her own agenda, I will be a very sad mother.

Today's pediatrician stats: 16lbs. 10oz / 26.5"

She got a flu shot, the first of two (yes, I vaccinate). And soon--too soon--she'll be an entire year old!

I already miss her early babyhood. While waiting in the pediatrician's office, Steve played a few videos for me on his cell phone--videos from before she could roll over and crawl. She laughed and screeched and made long whining noises. Perpetual motion. The tornado of activity that she is now has been in place since her birth. It's like she never stops to take a breath.

In the last month, I haven't been so great about updating the family and all about Ruth's progress. Let me just say that it has been astounding.

More teeth are in the works. New techniques are developing for fighting naps and sleep. Words are beginning to form. Feedings are getting easy, if messy, since Ruth often insists on feeding herself. The appetite is growing, and she is always in need of an audience.

What a difference a good night's sleep makes.

The biggest drama of our lives in the past year has always been sleep. Getting Ruth to sleep through the night, at its various stages, has had its triumphs and setbacks. Now that she's 13 months old, it's reaching a tenuous place; right between genuine psychological need, and the beginning stages of--dare I say it--brattyness.

Nights in which I wake up once (due to pregnancy thirst), or twice (just listening to a whimper or two) are still common. Sometimes, however, we are plagued with nights of crying, crying, and crying. We're still out on the futon in the living room most nights; it seems as though Ruth has a sixth sense for when we're in the bedroom (which is when she can persist in getting us up).

It feels cruel to leave her there. Her frantic voice still breaks my heart. But what I think I've learned is my waffling & heartsickness have probably made things more confusing and complicated for her. It's hard to push my conflicted feelings away and be consistent.

Regardless, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. As Meg counseled me last night, she won't be 13 and still waking up at night.

The coming year will be a challenge; I imagine that in the first three months after #2 comes along, I'll feel even more a zombie than I did after Ruth arrived. But at least I'm experienced at it. All I've got to do is put a few folks on speed dial for those days when I'm barely human and losing it.

Maybe I'll publish a book after all my children are grown. I'll call it Adventures in Sleep: One Bleary-Eyed Mom's Epic Story.

When it comes to how tidy the house is, I'm definitely a lot more laid back now than I was about six months ago.

That's not saying much, though.

Living in a one-bedroom apartment means that if anything is out of place, it is an intrusion. Anything unnecessary, unused, or uncared for sticks out like a sore thumb. When things aren't put away, I feel as though a parallel messy universe exists in my brain; things must be tidy in order for me to think straight!

However, I'm slowly but surely creating a mental filter for toys. Ruth's toys, I tell myself, are not my mess, because they are generated by her business. Ruth's business is that of play and discovery, and my businesses is that of photography, and running the home. They both generate different sorts of messes: mine on my hard drive and in the kitchen, hers, well, nearly everywhere else.

So each morning, Ruth's business creates a minefield all around the apartment (except the kitchen and bathroom, which I quarantine with baby gates and feel should be treated as Different Adult Spaces in which Necessary Vital Things must occur and so Children's Messes Should Not Be In There. The bedroom? Trashed. The living room? Destroyed.

Every night, after Ruth goes to bed, I gather up all the toys, and put them all into a large laundry basket I have in the living room. I barely bother to sort them nowadays, reserving that as a once-in-awhile kind of activity. It usually happens when I realize that Ruth can't put her puzzles together because all the pieces have sunk back to the bottom of the basket where she can't reach.

Cute Ikea toy organizers where things are labeled? Please, I'm saving that for grade school when she can actually read or recognize a picture label.

It is nice to think that in less than a decade, I will be able to communicate to my child that it is important to clean up after one's self. We'll see how that goes.

That must be a weird subject line for y'all to see, but here's why...

This morning, while playing with crayons and paper in the living room, Ruth got a paper cut on her toe. It bled pretty badly (though she didn't care), so I ran to get some antibacterial ointment, a cotton swab, a band-aid and a pair of socks (so the band-aid would stay on her toe). As I wrestled with her to get the band-aid on and all, she picked up the cotton swab, and proceeded to try to stick it in her ear.

She must have figured out that we use those safety cotton swabs for her ears in the bath, and so that's what they're for! Of course, she has no idea that sticking them in her ear is a bad idea, so no cotton swabs for her anywhere anytime ever!

Is a 14-month old supposed to know all this, or am I legitimately astounded?

Also, we've taken the knobs off the stove, since she can reach and turn them now. I'm in the habit of getting one out of the drawer, turning on the burner, then taking it off again and setting it on the counter so Ruth can't fiddle with the stovetop. Yesterday I knocked one over on the floor, and Ruth proceeded to pick it up and try to put it back on the stove so she could turn it. Luckily she's not coordinated enough to actually get the knob back on.

This girl is dangerous!

Ruth freaked me out yesterday--a high fever, lethargy, rapid breathing... needless to say I made an emergency visit to the pediatrician, who told me to give her ibuprofen and keep an eye on her, calling should complications arise. She perked up in the evening, which put me at ease. Then, she woke in the middle of the night burning up and crying hysterically, which brought me back down into Worry Town.

Today, she's been consistently clingy, moody, whiny, tired, fussy, all that wonderful stuff. She eats, but in a limited amount, and drinks well. I think she'll be on the mend tomorrow, but I'm not sure my sanity can stand another day of velcro baby. I've gotten as near to zero things accomplished as ever, and I have clients waiting for me. Of course, I can't really hire a babysitter for a sick child; why would I want the babysitter to spread germs to all the other kids?

I'm hanging in there; it's nice that Steve comes home and immediately knows I've had a long day. I just wish that Ruth were okay with giving me a break. The sicker she is, the more mommy-centric she gets, which eats at Steve's morale and exhausts me, of course.

But those back rubs sure do help.

Ruth and Julia like to play together. Ruth is just 5 months older than Julia, which makes the age difference about the same as me and my favorite cousin, Heidi (sorry, every other cousin I have). You can't beat two babies playing together, especially if it involves a piano.

Ruth in particular likes to rock out, which excites Julia.

They're a bunch of monkeys!