Toxic Toys

I try to be thrifty with my toy purchases, but also safe. I am fully aware of the risks of lead paint and BPA in children's toys, especially with my little Imp who mouths everything still at 13 months. But if one is being thrifty, buying things at garage sales and consignment shops and such, how is one supposed to know what is and isn't safe?

I recently got excited about a sale on Melissa and Doug toys on Amazon. Select toys were 50% off, and I was considering stocking up on a few things that I figure Imp will be in to in the next year or so. Then I started reading some of the reviews, and one of them stated that the reviewer had taken advantage of a free lead testing for toys being run by her children's school and found that some of the M&D toys contained lead paint. M&D assure everyone that they meet all standards, but of course, people started emphasizing that M&D toys are made in China and what would you expect, etc. So the assumption is, if it's made in China, it's likely toxic?

Of course, I started Googling, as I am apt to do, and started finding other info about toxic substances in toys that are supposed to be safe. Many other mom bloggers have commented on the issue, some with personal experience. There were recalls for M&D toys in Canada for too much barium, Thomas the Train toys in 2007 for lead, and more. I bought a large lot of Thomas the Train toys at a yard sale a few years ago, and now am freaking out that some may contain toxic levels of lead. I have no idea where they came from or if they fall into that category because I bought them second hand. I suppose I could get a lead testing kit, but is that overkill?

I try so hard to keep toxins out of my son, but it seems that it is difficult to do so and still be on a budget. I tried to keep much of his food organic during the first year, but it gets expensive -- so I compromised and just bought organic things that are on the "Dirty Dozen" list (http://www.organic.org/articles/showarticle/article-214). I tried to by safe teethers and such, but I admit to letting him chew on things that may not be totally lead free. One of his favorite toys is a fake pumpkin we got at a Halloween party -- with "Made in China" clearly stamped on the bottom. Should I take it away? Or am I just being paranoid?

It's frustrating that one has to do so much research just to be safe, and then one wonders if one is just being ridiculously over cautious. One of Imp's favorite snacks is produced in China (Baby Mum-mums) and I feel a little weird every time I give them to him even though they are widely produced and sold here in the US with no worries. I'm sure they are safe, but the media and over-Googling has made my worry-meter stay on a rather high level with regards to such things. What's a mom to do?

A Clean House

Some days, I think I should rename this blog to "I Understand my Mother Now". How she managed to keep us un-buried from all our assorted toys, clothes, papers, and other assorted stuff with 8 entropy generating factories (7 children and one Father... love you Dad, but you know it's true) is honestly amazing to me. I mean, we were slobs. Every one of us. And there were SEVEN children. I have one. ONE. He barely walks, and we keep him mostly confined to two rooms in the apartment. And yet... the mess... it builds...

We managed to keep it from looking like this, but how Mom did is a wonder...

This weekend, Husband and I significantly rearranged the apartment, swapping our bed for the futon. Imp seems to sleep so much better in his own room, and we were getting serious old-person-aches from sleeping on the futon mattress, so we decided that as odd as a queen bed in the living room might look to outsiders, it was well worth the weirdness to have a comfortable night's sleep. Of course, moving such large pieces of furniture means you find all sorts of nasties that have been hiding -- as I commented to Husband about one of the dust bunnies "I didn't know we had another cat."

They were everywhere...

Imp was out with Aunt Nanny while we rearranged and cleaned, and we managed to get the place in some semblance of order, at least for the bedroom and the living room. But it was really only those two rooms. We have issues with the others. The kitchen, despite Husband's best efforts, always seems like it's struggling to empty all of it's cupboards onto the counters and table and cover them with food; the bathroom, despite my best efforts, is a long term refuge for soap scum; let's not even get into the dining room table or desk. Those two horizontal surfaces, strategically placed in the center of the apartment, are often chest high in mail, Amazon.com shipping boxes, pacifiers, socks, and whatever else finds it's way there (currently there is also a sewing machine, which I have manged to practice on, but not actually gotten to using for it's intended purpose). 

Kinda like that...

I used to not care. My bedroom as a child was typically one of the most disastrous. But somewhere in my mid-twenties, I developed a need to have clean space to work and live. Maybe it was because I started entertaining people. Maybe it was just that I finally got tired of wading through clothes on the floor to get out my bedroom door. Whatever it was, I really started liking having clean living space. When I moved in with my Husband, we managed to keep the place relatively clutter free, and frequently had people over. Now, I live in fear that a friend will stop by and want to use the bathroom. People have suggested splurging on a maid, but I don't really think most cleaning services deal with clutter, which is a good portion of my problem. My mother always said "a place for everything, and everything in it's place". I really do try to follow that mantra, but where did she ever find the time, especially once she started working again when I was in high school? Again, I only have ONE kid. How did she do it with SEVEN? 

I'm sure she longed for this kind of discipline.

So, Mom, I now understand one more thing about why you got so frustrated with us when we didn't clean our rooms. I am in awe of how the house managed to stay as clean as it did. I apologize for my part in the entropy. We have already started trying to train Imp that cleaning up his toys can be fun. Maybe, we can instill a love of a clean living space in him before he's in his 20s. I'm sure you tried, Mom. Entropy is not our friend. 

Dream of Stability

One of the most frustrating things about choosing a career in academia is the long wait to become settled. You start off with these ideas that getting to a stable, tenured position is perfectly reasonable and attainable. You push on through the seemingly endless trudge of graduate school, thinking you just have to get that PhD and then do a postdoc, and then you're there. Reality kicks in sometime near the end of graduate school, as you have seen people come into the lab on their second or third postdoc, or those who went into industry to a short time and then came back to academia, and you begin to realize that figuring out what you want to do, and getting a stable job doing it, is not so easy. Then, maybe your project doesn't work that well, or you get scooped, or you end up on a long detour to your eventual completion. Even those that work long hours at expense of any sort of life have their rough times. You find that even after your PhD, in your postdoc, that those rough times can add up.

Then you want to have a family. Everyone tells you that having kids in academia can be rough. There is really no good time. Some even suggest that you should wait until you have tenure to start family. You wonder if at that point you'll even be biologically able to have kids. So you make a choice, at some point, that you're "stable enough". You start that family after all. Then things get even more scary, because now you've added another life to your unstable situation. You just hope that at some point, things will settle out.

Husband and I are in our 30s. If you count postdocs as continuing education (they are not really "real" jobs), and you count from kindergarten on, we have been "students" for about 85% of our total life span. Over 25 years. We want a house. We want to be able to know where we're going to be in 5 or 10 years. We want to be able to set down roots and commit to a life in a place where we know Imp will grow and learn and call "home". We are tired of the fear of uncertainty.

Husband is on a fellowship that ends next summer. He is trying to figure out if his boss will pick him up on a different grant or if he should look for a job. My fellowship goes until the following February, and I'm pretty sure my boss will pick me up for a few months after, but we are looking at the possibility of having to live in two different places -- for maybe as long as a year. We're lucky that we have Aunt Nanny to help, but we have to make a decision about things by January. The fear that we once again may have to drop down to one salary, as we had to do when Husband was waiting for grant funds to be released when he first started his current job, is very present. 

So we keep on moving on, doing our best, hoping that Irish luck will once again win out, and things will work out in the end. We dream of the day when we will look back at this time with a sigh of relief and say "well, thank God we never have to go through that again". We fantasize about the simple joy of knowing where Imp will attend school in 4 years. Just to be settled, to be done with "training" seems like such a far off thing. Someday, I suppose, we'll get there. 

THAT look

Mercury had nothing on Imp yesterday. The boy woke up in a funky mood, vacillating between giggles and fusses -- and remained that way for most of the day. One of those "do what I want when I want or I'm going to make your life very very difficult" kind of moods. One of those "Momma can't want for you to take a nap so she can have a beer" kind of moods. Moods like that aren't so bad when we can just let Imp roam free, but we had to go to Home Depot and Costco yesterday. And while he wasn't so bad in the first store, by the time we got to the second (Costco) he was done.

The winged feet are coming soon...

Biggest issue with Imp in a mercurial mood during shopping -- shopping carts only come equipped with a simple belt to strap your child down. Imp is pretty good at wriggling out of three-point restraints, so two-points do nothing. At one point in the aisle at Costco, we suddenly found him hanging off the back of the cart seat, reaching for the contents of the cart, struggling to dive head first into the cart basket, while still being supposedly held in the seat by the worthless two-point strap. Determining that it might be less safe for him to be in the strap, we undid it and continued through the store, always with one of us holding him in the seat. He seemed happier that way -- not having a restraint seemed to make him want less to get out of it. And we were still holding him down -- he wasn't going anywhere.

Even as an infant, he resisted restraint...

But of course, going through a store with a wriggling child seems to bring out the advice giver in everyone. At one point as we stopped for a sample, the sample-lady commented "Oh, he really should be strapped in". I briefly tried to explain to her that it was actually safer for him this way (we were keeping a constant hand on him, after all), and she gave me THAT look -- you know the one that makes you feel like both a blithering idiot and a horrible mother? Yes, I realize that strapping a child in is safer -- but as my husband was apparently tempted to tell her -- the ******* straps on the Costco cart were doing nothing to actually restrain my child. Later on, as Imp rolled around in the seat in spite of my efforts to hold him still, and tried to chew on the back of it, we got another comment "Oh, he really shouldn't be chewing on that." "I know," I replied, "I'm trying to stop him". And then came THAT look again. What I really wanted to say to the man involved much more cursing. I had wiped off the cart in anticipation of the wayward chomp, and I was obviously trying to deal with a very active little boy. Did he really think I was so stupid that I thought my son chewing on a Costco cart was a GOOD thing?

Eventually I gave up on the cart and then just had to figure out how best to carry my son so he didn't continuously attempt to dive out of my arms. I tried putting him on my shoulders while holding his ankles, which he sometimes likes, but he kept alternating between attempting to remove my ears or chew on my face, so I resorted to holding him in a cross-body front facing hold something akin to some strange wrestling move. He seemed content for the most part -- and while I got some strange looks still, at least I knew I had my son somewhat under control. We were able to complete our shopping, and as soon as we got home, he had a bottle, went down for a nap, and I promptly cracked a beer and tried not to feel so frazzled.

Not quite like this -- but close...

While I try to be understanding with other parents, I'm sure there have been times when I've given THAT look too, but I really do usually try to accept that I don't know what that child or parent has been through, and unless they are outright ignoring their child, they are probably trying their best. Sometimes even the best children can have bad days -- we certainly do as adults. But when you're already dealing with an active, frustrated child, it's amazing how much more frustrating the situation gets when you keep getting unwarranted advice and obvious derision from outsiders. I give my parents a whole lot more credit now than I ever could have before -- there were SEVEN OF US for goodness sake.

Imp is only 11 months old. I'm sure I will get plenty more of THAT look as my inquisitive, active little boy grows. I don't think I'll ever not want to punch the person giving it, though.

Incrementally Awesome

I often marvel at just how many little "baby" steps are required for Imp to master skills. From the moment he first lifted his head, I imagined him romping through fields, chasing after squirrels and picking dandelions, not really thinking about how many steps there are between a head lift and romping. But as he grew, I began to recognize that, and I found myself getting excited at the smallest improvement. Every degree he lifted his head higher became a major achievement, and when he actually got his chest clearly off the floor -- whoa was that a big day. While, like any mother, I want my son to excel, slowly, I am learning not to anticipate or expect things to happen too quickly, but instead revel in and marvel at the little improvements and things he learns each day. Imp started crawling fairly early, and cruising soon after, but going from cruising to walking without support has been a difficult step. I try to wait patiently for the day when he gains enough confidence and balance to freely walk to me of his own accord, and to do so I find myself watching for all the tiny little things that make that eventual goal achievable. First it was standing on his own -- and each second he added before he collapsed to the floor. Then it was moving his feet. Then being able to move his feet and plant solidly to stand again after one step. Then two. Every increment is an achievement. By looking at each tiny step like this, I find it makes the days when he clearly has learned something big even more exciting.

As usual, what applies to babies and toddlers easily applies to adults. We often wait and wish for the big achievements without appreciating the small ones we make each day. In waiting we can get depressed at the length of time it takes to achieve our goals. Sometimes it is hard to see the small steps we take, but each one can be important, and often times essential, to achieving that end goal.

For example, in the Weight Watchers program (which I've done multiple times and am planning on doing again) there is a big emphasis on small goals. Looking down the road at the final weight loss goal can seem so far away, but if you aim for 5% or 10% of your weight -- or aim for goals that don't even measure on the scale (just keeping track of your food, or walking up an extra flight of stairs each day) -- you find that you are constantly able to achieve, and that end goal seems not as important, and at the same time, much more achievable. When I lose track on Weight Watchers, I find it is often because I am no longer paying attention to those smaller goals, or having trouble seeing the smaller achievements.

Part of the problem is that seeing those small steps requires a level of optimism and good spirits that can be really difficult to achieve on a day to day basis -- at least when it comes to looking at yourself. With my son, I have no problem keeping up that optimism and good spirits -- he gets so excited himself about the small achievements himself that it's impossible not to be infected by his smiles.

Why is it so much easier to revel in the tiny achievements Imp makes, but not at my own? Part of it is frankly, he's 11 months old, and I'm 32 with a PhD and a career in mind. We're at slightly different stages developmentally. I suppose too, as we get older, bigger steps are often required to get to a goal. But part of it is self imposed -- you can see it even with how we track ages. With a baby, we count weeks, then months, then as a toddler, half years, then years, and at this age, we even start referring simply to decades (I'm a thirty-something). A decade is a damn long time. There is a clear problem with this long-time-span way of thinking: if we constantly aim for only the big goals, it is so easy to get lost along the way.

It may seem silly to revel in the small things (today I wrote my blog -- good job, Maggie! What a big girl you are!) but how silly is it instead to only ever focus on humongous, hard to achieve goals? If the only time I ever rewarded my son with praise was at the big things -- crawling, sitting up, walking -- he might never discover that those incremental steps he makes are important. So I cheer each step, even if it comes immediately afterwards with a fall. Now just to do the same for myself.

Balance

The other day, Imp took a step. Okay, maybe it was more of a lift-a-foot-up-and-fall, but I think it counted. He stood, unassisted, for at least 20 seconds, and then he leaned, stepped once, and tried to step again until he fell, smiling, into my lap. Of course, we immediately got out the camera and tried to record it, but repeats are not yet in order. He is so close -- we are so soon to be screwed.

It's funny though, we've been waiting for him to take the first solo steps for a while. Imp was an early crawler, an early stander-with-support, and an early cruiser, but then he was content. He could get where he wanted to go, and didn't really seem motivated to walk. He never has really been that into the thing where you hold the kids hands and they walk with you. He prefers to lift his legs up and hang like a little monkey. Of course, friends of mine with one 2.5 year old and one 7 month old are ecstatic that they're second child isn't crawling yet, and find it amusing that we are so excited about Imp walking -- I have a feeling the handful we already have with Imp is just going to get more... handfully.

In the meanwhile, I have started TAing (Teaching Assistant) and taking voice lessons again. The TA thing is totally voluntary -- as a postdoc, I don't have to do any teaching, but my TA experience in grad school was so minimal that I felt I needed something more. So I talked to one of the teaching-only faculty here, and she suggested I could TA for her. I'm learning tons, but man is it taking up a lot of time. I have to be even more careful planning my week to make sure I don't slack in my research. And then I added voice lessons -- not even weekly -- but still, even more time. However, TAing and the voice lessons are something I look forward to so much right now. They are a good portion of what is keeping me going, as my research has been a good portion searching and not so much finding. After my first voice lesson, I came back to the lab and one of my colleagues looked at me and said "Maggie, you look so... happy!" The TAing is essential to my career development. The lessons are one of the few things I am doing totally for me. So, makes life more hectic, but somewhat necessary things.

So as Imp tries to figure out the necessary muscle movements for walking, and I try to figure out how much I can squeeze into my schedule and not go nuts, both Imp and I are figuring out a very important skill -- balance. Him on his feet, me with my time. It strikes me that life is often about balance, from the day we first try to lift our heads up on our shoulders, we are trying to learn new ways to balance. I have tried to balance busy schedules many times -- sometimes with disastrous results -- but each time is a new learning experience. A lot of what I'm balancing now is essential to either my career, my well-being, and my capacity as a mother. But while falling for Imp is a learning experience, for me it might not be such a good idea. We'll see how this semester goes...

Imp, the Destructor

I have determined that there is no such thing as "babyproof". "Baby-less-accessible" or "baby-supposedly-out-of-reach" or "baby-less-than-easily-destructible" maybe, but definitely not "babyproof". Just when you think something is safe, they will find out how to defeat your best efforts.

This morning, I came into the livingroom to find Imp stuck in a corner between our couch-side table and coffee table, trying, it seemed, to climb on top of the coffee table from that angle. Apparently, Aunt Nanny had just left the room for a minute to go to the bathroom, (I was getting ready for work) and in that time, Imp had figured out how to squeeze through what I thought would have been an impassible network of fan, futon and table legs. I could maybe understand how he could have gotten there in a decent amount of time, but how the heck had he gotten through so fast? The world may never know.

Imp's current favorite activity is taking all the books off of his shelf and stacking them to try to reach the plants on top. Husband and I are trying to think of a way we can engineer something so that we can keep the plants in that window (the best one in the house for them) and still keep them out of reach. I, however, am becoming convinced that Imp has super-gadget-arms, and that "out-of-reach" would involve some sort of warping of the space-time continuum. 

Thing is, Imp isn't even walking yet. Crawling quickly, yes, pulling to standing, yes, cruising adeptly, yes, but not even walking. As excited as I am about the prospect of first steps, soon after he'll be running all over, and then what shall we do?

I used to think bolting furniture to the wall was overkill. I used to think that parents who put foam cushions on everything were being overprotective. I used to think that I understood how to make a room safe for a baby.

Enter Imp, the Destructor.

Everybody Pukes

"Everything that happens to me is the best possible thing that can happen to me" -- Zen and the Art of Happiness

This morning, Imp woke at 6 a.m. ready to play. I had allowed Husband to sleep as much as possible through the night by feeding Imp every 3 hours even though we had been working on stretching it to 6 - Husband had gotten a call from his boss at 10 p.m. last night to have a rather heated discussion about some major miscommunications they'd been having, and he was anticipating another unpleasant meeting today with some other parties involved... so I let him sleep. He was stressed and anxious, I was exhausted, and Imp was his typical teething self. Good morning all!

Husband wanted to take the car to the dealer to be fixed this morning before his meeting because the driver's window was not closing properly, so he tried to move as quickly as possible to get out of the house. Of course, this was one of those mornings when Imp wanted to be held or played with at all times, so I was in some ways grateful for the 6 am wakeup because of the extra time it allowed. Husband left with the car by 7:30, and right before Imp's aunt/nanny came out to take care of him, he spat up rather spectacularly all over my shirt. I went to change, leaving him fussing in the livingroom. I heard Nanny Aunt come out of her room and go to the bathroom, and while I stepped over to the mirror to tie a headband in my hair, I stepped in a giant pile of cat puke. Nanny Aunt came out to deal with fussing Imp, I changed socks and cleaned up the puke, and then stepped out of the house to go to the car -- only to remember Husband had taken it to the dealer. My bike still had a flat tire from 2 weeks ago, so I figured since I had to walk the 1.5 miles to work, I'd drop it off at the bike repair shop just 3 blocks in the opposite direction. Of course, I walked it over there only to see they don't open until 10 am (it was 8:30), so I walked it back to the house, and then noticed Husband had called -- it turned out the dealer only took cars by appointment, so he'd driven to the subway station instead and would have to take it in next week. So I could have taken the car, which might have been nice in this heat...

On days like this, two thoughts quickly pop into my head -- 1st: why is it that all the small creatures in my house puke everywhere? 2nd: How the hell are these things the "best possible" things that can happen to me? I read "Zen and the Art of Happiness" a few years ago, and I found it the be rather soothing and helpful, though at times it is stretch to make the philosophy apply. Maybe I'm being puked on to remind me to be more humble? Maybe Husband is going through all of his work-based-hell to help him deal with these situations in the future? Or to help him learn to remain calm and cool-headed under stress? Maybe walking to the bike shop to find it closed, or driving to the dealer to find one needs an appointment is a reminder to plan ahead?

As I write this, I am trying to ignore the ache in my cheek from going to the dentist yesterday (lost a filling which my insurance may not cover the repair of since it was so recent), and I keep having to backspace using a broken backspace key (it broke a week ago), and stretching out my arches, which are slightly achy from walking 1.5 miles in new sneakers which do not have anywhere near the arch support all the reviews said they had... the best possible thing...

At least for the moment I'm not covered in puke. Simple blessings. 

The Routine Essentials

"For pragmatic reasons, I love the routine. I love the structure of it. I love knowing that my days are free. I know where I'm going at night. I know my life is kind of orderly. I just like that better." - Andrea Martin

Last night, we had our first experience, since establishing a bedtime routine, of getting Imp to sleep in a location different than home. We planned it as well as we could, packing up everything we could need to keep his nighttime routine as much the same as possible -- his favorite bath toys, his blue puppy, his "Goodnight Moon" board book -- and hoped for the best. Imp has never been the best of sleepers, and we had worked very hard at setting down a routine that worked. Usually, during the week, I get home between 5 and 5:30, then he gets dinner around 5:30-6, immediately followed by a bath, then a little bit of play time before starting the bedtime routine at 7-7:30 (feeding, diaper change, book, song, bed). Nervously, we did our best to replicate these exact things with as minimal "stuff" as possible. Amazingly, it worked. Imp went to sleep at 7:15, and didn't wake until his feeding at 10 (typically 10-11, when we usually go to bed).

I was so glad, and frankly, so surprised how well having a few familiar things and a set routine worked, even in a strange location. Yes, all the books tell you how much babies love routines, but seeing it work was more of a relief than I can explain. We didn't really start this routine until Imp was 6 months old. When he was born, Imp did not like at all sleeping on his back -- he slept in a swing, a bouncy chair, or in the bed with us. The third of these, which became our standard after the first month or so, scared the crap out of me. I had read far too much about the dangers of having the child in the bed with you -- SIDS, possible suffocation, etc, that I was afraid to move at night. I would hold him so carefully making sure that his face was completely uncovered and protecting him from the minute possibility of myself or my husband rolling on to him. I inevitably woke up stiff and achy, but at least I knew he was okay. When he got a little older, we would place him on a waterproof pad between us, but both my husband and I were so worried that we would sleep on less than a third of the bed each, giving Imp the lion's share in the middle. In the evenings I would hold Imp to get him to sleep, and he went through one period where he would scream even while I held him. Every once in a while we tried to put him in the crib, but we would inevitably not be able to deal with the tears and would bring him back to bed with us. For all the good things I had heard about cosleeping, none of us ever really slept while doing it, and so we started trying to figure out what to do to fix the situation. Imp needed to learn to sleep in his crib, on his own.

We turned to books -- reading all about the various "training" methods, and finally settled on one we felt we could deal with. Until we get a bigger apartment, Imp will share a room with us, so the "cry it out" methods we felt would never work. And cosleeping wasn't working either -- so most of those "no cry" solutions were also out. We settled on one in between -- "The Sleep Lady" method specifically -- which involved putting Imp to sleep drowsy but awake, staying with him until he fell asleep, but slowly, night by night, moving farther away while he went to sleep until we could put him down and leave the room without him crying. One of the keys to this method (along with almost every other method) was the routine. I looked at the advice about how you shouldn't feed them right before putting them down, the importance of a "lovey" (his blue dog), and all the other suggestions, and found something that worked for us. It took a few weeks, but eventually, we could put him down, leave the room, and he would at least half the time go down without a fuss. Of course, we've had some bumps -- when he learned how to stand up and spit his pacifier across the room was an issue, for example, but for the most part, he goes down to sleep fairly well, and stays down until our pre-bed feeding.

Taking this set routine and moving it out of the familiarity of his bedroom was something I wasn't sure would work at all. But it did, and now I can shake off some of my fears about our upcoming family vacation, and other future adventures, knowing that at least for now, it worked.

But babies aren't the only ones that need routines. One of the main stress issues I've been having lately is how often I feel that I am rushing around, always working at something, but nothing is ever really getting done. There always seems to be laundry to do, bathrooms to clean, urgent experiments to plan, pressing papers to read, etc. As I've mentioned in previous posts, I am trying to figure out ways to make myself feel good every time I accomplish these little things, but it still feels sometimes like I am just running around like the proverbial chicken. Career wise, I often feel like I'm treading water -- I know where I want to go, and I think I know how to get there, but the destination seems so distant, and the goals so long term, that I often feel like I'm making no headway. But lately, I've started making checklists, setting mini goals, and making myself my own routine, and so far I feel a lot better. I downloaded a few apps for my phone to help (never knew how much I'd LOVE a smart phone) -- a checklist app, a daily chore app -- and somehow, just seeing things get checked off every day, even the routine things, makes me feel like I'm getting somewhere. While sometimes it may seem monotonous and pointless, there is comfort in the routine, and seeing it checked off in front of me serves as a reminder that even the simplest step does have a point. Even if it's just a matter of knowing that if I keep on top of the little things, the daily things, then the big things don't seem so big any more.

For babies, routine is having the same story every night, the same stuffed animal to hug. For adults, I suppose, it's having a set of goals every day, and a means to acknowledge when they have been achieved. If I can set my routine, then maybe it won't matter where I go (literally or figuratively), and I can feel like everything will be alright. It's like the PhD/Mom's equivalent to "Goodnight Moon".

The Measure of Success

Imp has many things in this world he wants to do, and he is finally figuring out how to do them. Chase the cat, climb the gate, figure out how to open the entertainment center, knock all his toys off the shelf -- you know, important things. I love watching him when he sees something he wants across the room. You can watch the decision to move form in his face, and then he goes (faster and faster each day), gets that thing, sits down, studies it, and occasionally lets out a gleeful "AAHHH". What delight it is to be able to move and achieve a goal. For months he had to subsist laying on his back or belly, fully at the mercy of his parents, but now, he can get into almost anything he wants, often to the dismay of his parents. But we can't help being proud when he figures something new out, even if it is something we don't particularly want him to do (last night, he figured out how to pull the stopper out of the drain during his bath, for example).

Success in life is measured in many ways. Accolades, awards, degrees, certificates of completion -- all signify that you have achieved in the eyes of others. But what about the simple successes, the day to day achievements. Nobody is going to give you a certificate for getting out of bed in the morning, or eating a healthy breakfast, or just doing the work you are expected to do. These successes may seem mediocre, but they are successes nonetheless.

When we are children, we get praise for the simplest things. Lifting our head up, crawling, clapping our hands, having a good diaper, etc. As adults we stop praising each other for the simple things, but that shouldn't stop us from praising ourselves. We can still measure success by awards and accolades, but why wait for someone else to give them to us?

Today I earned virtual gold stars for not eating a big cookie in the breakroom, for biking to work, for staying on task with my experiments (I am writing this blog while incubating my protein in various solutions) and for helping the students in my lab with their various tasks. Tonight I can earn more virtual gold stars by "working out" with my son (consisting of dancing around the living room and maybe doing some baby-resistance exercises), folding the laundry, or working on my son's scrapbook. No one else may sing my praises, but as I praise my son for pulling himself up on the couch or figuring out how to put one stacking cup in another, I can think to myself about the praise-worthy things I have done each day, and let my son's gleeful noises be all the praise I need.

Bumps and Bruises

Little Man is officially to be renamed Imp in this blog. He is getting more and more mobile every day -- crawling, pulling to standing, cruising, and is discovering more and more things to get into. Imp gets this look in his eyes -- smiling, bright, and blue -- that makes you know he is going to get into something. At seven months old, he still has much to figure out, but he is learning so much every day. One of the main things he is learning is how to deal with bumps and bruises.

One of my friends (I can't remember who) said that they trained themselves not to gasp and rush to their child when they fell, but rather to shout "SCORE!" and wait to see if the child was actually hurt before rushing to their aid. This way, the child is more likely to smile at your silliness after a fall rather than immediately look at you and start crying. I thought it was a great idea -- kids learn fast how to manipulate their parents. So my husband and I have been trying this with Imp -- and considering how many times he seems to fall in a day, he is picking it up fast. At least 95% of the time, he falls, we shout "SCORE!" and he smiles and gets back to whatever he was doing. It's amazing to me just how durable the child's skull is. We keep him mostly in our living room, which has carpet on most of the floor, and have blankets on top of that, so most of the time he's falling onto something with some cushion, but still -- it's impressive how quickly he can recover when you don't make a big deal out of it.

I like to think we're teaching him a useful life lesson by not making such a big deal out of his falls. It's important for kids to know their parents are there for them, but also important to know that fussing over every little thing is in fact an impediment to getting stuff done (in Imp's case, these are things like chasing the cat or pulling all of his toys off of the shelf). And he is learning how to fall better every day. When he first started pulling himself to standing he would fall straight backwards and inevitably break into tears. Now, he tends to sit down when he's feeling unstable, and I've even seen him work on figuring out how to pick up something he's dropped by going to one knee and then pulling up again. He still sometimes overestimates his skill at holding on with just one hand, but again, he's getting better every day. 

Every bump and bruise is therefore a lesson, not a tragedy. It actually serves as a good reminder to me as I struggle with day to day issues to watch how quickly Imp recovers from each fall. If I dealt with every injury - mental and physical - with as much alacrity as my son, and got so quickly back on task, I could be a lot more productive. It's easy sometimes to dwell on our injuries and forget the lessons we can learn from them. One more thing watching Imp is teaching me. Next time I fall, maybe I'll just shout "SCORE!", dust myself off, and keep on moving. Okay, maybe I'll do that quietly in my head rather than out loud. But it's the concept that counts. :)

Mom Hair

"Mom Hair (from Urban Dictionary)

When a woman who has long hair cuts it very short. Usually done after having a child when the woman has no time to deal with her hair.

You remember how long her hair used to be? Now she's got that weird Mom Hair going on."

I have resisted now for months the urge to cut my hair. I went from mid-back to shoulder length when Little Man was 2 months old after one particularly bad spit-up when I was wearing my hair down (let me just tell you how gross that was). Now, he is 7 months old, and getting quite good at pulling my hair out of it's pony-tail holder. I feel that it is time once again to go under the scissors. That's right, after years of protesting that I would never do it, I am going to get Mom Hair.

This will not be the first time I have cut my hair short -- when I was in the 4th or 5th grade, I had it cut above my ears, and my best friend proceeded to tease me by calling me by her brother's name for months. As cute as my mother might have thought it was, shaggy and boyish was not a good cut for a chubby kid with large, thick glasses. By the eighth grade, my hair was more than halfway down my back, and remained somewhere between there and my shoulders until college when I once again decided to go short. I cut it and let it grow to maybe chin length, and then cut it again, each time in a slightly more haphazard way. I even had my roommate cut it once. The worst cut I had was junior year, when I chopped it to pixie-length and dyed it fire engine red. Once again, super short hair is not a good look for an overweight, square-faced female unless she actually wants to look like a boy, which really, I didn't. So after that I once again let it grow out, keeping it between shoulder and lower-back length. While I sometimes had the urge to chop it again, my husband's pleas and looks back in my photo albums from Junior year have kept those urges at bay. Until now.

Now, my reasons are quite different for getting a short hair cut -- I'm not doing it because my mother thinks it will be cute, or because of some college-age exploration, but because my very active, very loving little boy finds great pleasure in trying his best to help me go bald. Pain is a rather good motivator. And while my husband is lamenting my decision (he would love it if I grew my hair long enough to sit on, I'm sure), the thought of not having to constantly pull my hair back is rather liberating. I am very much looking forward to having a "wash-and-go" cut, especially for the summer. I hate how hot and heavy my hair feels on 90 degree days, when pulling it back tight enough to get it off of my neck does nothing but give me a nasty headache, and doesn't serve all that much purpose as wisps keep finding their way out of the ponytail holder. 

And In many ways, I am proud of this mark of motherhood. Now, I don't plan on joining the haircut with a pair of high-waisted jeans or anything (http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/44801db035/mom-jeans) but I kind of enjoy looking like a Mom. It's taken me long enough to get here after all, what with that whole PhD thing taking up a good portion of my young adulthood. I like the way I look with a baby strapped (sometimes literally) to my hip. They really do make rather adorable fashion accessories, until they spit up everywhere. But at least now I won't have to worry about getting that spit up in my hair. And if anyone points out (as I'm sure they will) how I have succumbed to this particular stereotype, I will proudly shake my head and say "Yep, I have Mom hair. And I love every reason why." (Well, except the spit-up thing, but they don't need to know that, now do they?)

Time Management

I've decided that there is no bigger obstacle, and at the same time, impetus, to effective time management than a baby. I often thought I was busy before, but now it seems like there is always something that needs doing, and not enough time to do it in. My evenings, which used to consist of coming home from work, relaxing, making and having a leisurely dinner with my husband, and chilling out watching TV, now are packed with feeding, bathing, bedtime, and then way more washing of various and sundry items than I ever could have predicted was necessary. Now that Little Man actually does go down to sleep on his own, we have approximately from 8pm to 10:30 (when he wakes up for a feeding, and we go to bed) to do whatever needs doing, but anything we do must be done relatively quietly, and since the kitchen is right next to the bedroom in our apartment, not much can be done in there (where usually the most work needs to be done). Vacuuming has to be done when he is out of the house (he can't stand the noise of it), and any organization of our bedroom, where he also sleeps, is unheard of.

Then there are things like shopping for groceries or cleaning the bathroom that seem to always get rushed or overlooked, and we end up just ordering out for pizza since there's nothing in the house (not good for my attempted weight loss), and a somewhat scummy bathroom (which I'm trying desperately to be better about since Little Man likes to lick the sides of the tub when he takes his bath...)

Suddenly I am feeling a desperate desire for a strict schedule and constant diligence. And I finally understand the seemingly constant frustration of my mother when we were growing up. I come from a family of 7 children, each one messier than the last. I didn't start actually liking things clean and organized until after college, and really not until after I met my now husband. I was always a little OCD about randomly organizing things (I remember one day as a kid when I was supposed to be cleaning the bathroom and I instead spent all morning reorganizing the drawer where we kept things like bandaids and spare toothbrushes -- my mother, while exasperated with me, couldn't really be too angry since I had, in essence, been "cleaning"...) but actually being diligent about cleaning was another matter.

But where do you begin? When is the best time to do all the things you want to do? For now I'm just trying to figure out how to keep the laundry from (literally) piling up everywhere, or how to make sure we have vegetables to eat at every meal, but what about all those other things I want to do? I am not too far behind in making Little Man's 1st year scrapbook, but I haven't even opened the sewing machine my husband got me last Christmas... and then there is work... okay, yes, maybe I try to do a few too many things at once...

I have one friend of a 3 year old who tells me that we are even ahead of the game from where she was with her child at the same time when it comes to adapting from the fairly carefree life of a childless couple to the relative insanity of being first-time-parents. I'm sure I'll figure it out in time -- of course by then we'll probably be having another child, and then there's a whole new set of worries... 

Perspective

I'm tired. Mentally, physically, literally, figuratively, every way possible, I'm tired. Little Man has figured out how to get to sleep pretty much on his own now, but still wakes multiple times a night. In the lab, my project is slowly, slowly moving forward, but I still keep thinking about so many things I'd rather be doing then the tedious benchwork I have ahead of me for the next few weeks. This week has been dark, gloomy, damp, and gray -- the kind of weather that can make your bones ache and your body sag. So, in so many ways I'm tired.

But I had a thought this morning as I plodded up the stairs from the parking lot to my building. This weather reminded me of the Blue Mountains in Australia, and the most perspective-altering vacation I've ever taken. Five years ago, my husband (then still my boyfriend) and I took a trip to Australia for a friend's wedding in which he was Best Man and I was singing. We spent two weeks there, the first week before the wedding in and about Sydney, staying with our friend's parents and in a Sydney hotel, and the second week we took three days to go backpacking in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney, and then 3 days in the coastal town of Umina where our friend's family had a vacation home. The whole trip was incredible, but the backpacking trip was in many ways life changing. I look back on that trip as being important for testing my limits, and for learning to see the wonder in many things.

It started out like so -- we took the train to a town called Katoomba, where there was a natural monument called The Three Sisters, a hiking trail called the National Pass, and (we were told) plenty of places to camp. We stopped at the information center and asked where we should go. The woman there told us we couldn't just camp anywhere off the trail, like we had thought, but that there was a spot called Ruined Castle on the trail that was a popular backpacker destination. We could camp there, she said, and all we had to do was walk down some stairs down to the bottom of a cliff, where the trail was, and we could easily walk to Ruined Castle in an afternoon. It was about 1pm when we started, so we hoped we could get there by sundown. We found the staircase, called the Giant Staircase, and started our descent.

Now, keep in mind that my husband and I were in only mildly good shape, and this was our first time backpacking. We had loaded our packs with enough food for three days, and water for at least one. They were heavy. and the Giant Staircase consisted of a metal scaffold staircase, straight down, for 1000 ft or over 800 steps. We very very carefully made our way down, but when we got to the bottom, we considered ourselves to be doing pretty good. The path was wide and inviting, and the scenery was lush and green. We walked along the path for a bit, and we passed the train that went up the side of the cliff back into town -- the normal route for tourists wanting to explore the area. We figured we had just a few hours, and we'd be able to set up camp and enjoy a magical night.

After we passed the train, however, the path abruptly changed character. What had been easily wide enough for three people and fairly smooth shrank down to a narrow, rocky, one person trail through plenty of brush. Undeterred, we kept onward, knowing that we had to find two landmarks before we hit Ruined Castle, one called "Landslide" and the other "The Golden Stairs". We kept walking and walking, thinking maybe we found one or the other, but it wasn't until we hit Landslide that we knew we were in trouble.

Landslide was exactly that -- a place where the cliff had slid down into the valley back in 1928. The path, once we got there, went from being a narrow but navigable trail to a boulder climb, marked with the occasional metal pole or painted white arrow. The ground was littered with pebbles, and getting a sure footing became very difficult. The cliff was on the right of us, and on the left a steep descent into a tree-filled valley of unknown depth. We also thought we were in the middle of nowhere, and far from any civilization by this point. Now, I am 5'3", and some of these boulders we had to climb over and then jump off of were easily a few feet high -- so for a short, somewhat clumsy woman carrying 25% more weight than usual, and with a deep fear of falling off of precipices -- this was absolutely wretched. So wretched, in fact, that at one point, I had a breakdown. I sat down, started to cry, and told my husband I just could not go on. I still remember the fear in his eyes as he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to get me out of there. Finally, after much coaxing, he got me to move again, and we made it past landslide, and back to the walking trail.

At that point, I got a second wind, and we marched on swiftly, looking for the Golden Stairs and then on to Runined Castle. But the day's hours were becoming fewer, the light was lessening, and we still had not found the Golden Stairs. Finally, after about 7 hours of hiking we came upon a sign. "Golden Stairs. Ruined Castle, 6 km". We were ready to die. 6 kilometers??? And night approaching. We looked at our map, and found that at the top of Golden Stairs there was a gated road. So we climbed up the cliff -- this time on uneven rock stairs with no real railings, just the occaisional rope at the steep parts -- using up the absolute last of our energy, and got to the top of the cliff. We put up our tent behind a sign on the side of the road, and spent an uneasy night. It was windy, and we thought we were in the middle of nowhere, but we kept seeing a mysterious white van drive by -- and since my mother-in-law had decided to regale us with stories of campers being murdered by the mob after seeing secret activities by accident right before we left... my husband slept with our camping shovel in his hand, ready to bludgeon any invader at a moment's notice.

The next day, we found that what we thought was the middle of nowhere was a commonly used dirt road. People jogged by, walking their dogs, and we found that the mysterious white van was one of potentially many camping vans. At one point as we packed up, a group of tourists came to hike down the Golden Stairs on the way to Ruined Castle. We started walking back to town, and discovered that at the top of cliff where I had my breakdown was a housing development -- if I had yelled loud enough, a whole mess of suburbanites would have heard me. We also discovered that what had taken us 7 hours at the base of the cliff took us two hours on top -- if we had walked to the GOLDEN stairs instead of the GIANT staircase, we would have easily made it to Ruined Castle in an afternoon. We still want to find the woman at that info center...

So the next night, we decided to take it easy, and took the train to a town where there was a designated campground, just a 5 km walk from the train station. Of course, though, that night, it started to rain. And it rained all night. My husband and I were crammed in our tiny two person tent all rainy night. But at least we felt safe, and the next morning, the mist still falling, we saw a beautiful sight.

The mountains where we stayed had hugged the mist to themselves, so it looked as if we were walking above the clouds. We walked back to the train and breathed in the damp air, determined to find a nice dry hostel to stay in for our final night in the Blue Mountains (which is a whole other story), but I remember the dampness seeming not that bad. It felt clean and cool, especially with the promise of a warm bed that night. In retrospect, it seems even more magical, that morning in the mountains. We had survived a crazy ordeal and had made it out better.

Later we looked up the trail in that stretch and found that it was rated "expert" -- pretty much as difficult as you can get without needing special equipment. We were nieve and full of bad information when we attempted it, but that trip gave me a lot of new perspective. I had found my limits and surpassed them. I had felt like I couldn't go on, but I pushed through. And after all that, we found that so many of those percieved dangers were really not -- we had been safe all along, but for lack of knowledge, we feared the worst. And we got through to a beautiful misty morning, and a few days later to a glorious sunrise over the ocean after we reached the vacation house in Umina. Those moments would not have been so beautiful, so glorious, if not for the rough experience the days before.

So now as I look, bleary eyed, out the window to the grey, damp day, and prepare myself for my workday, I think about that morning with very similar weather but in a very different time. What makes this day dreary and that day soothing and magical? Perspective. I was tired then too, but tired with triumph and the promise of good times ahead. If I just shift my perspective just a little, I can remember the feeling of that morning back in the mountains, and suddenly my fatigue doesn't feel so overwhelming.

Am I doing it wrong?

Opinions about parenting seem to bring as much fervor of belief out of their proponents as the most devout religion. Search for advice about things like breastfeeding or sleep, and you get so much different advice, all of which is supposed to be the "right" thing to do. I keep telling myself that as long as I love and care for my son, he's going to grow up just fine. Nurturing is important, but HOW you nurture doesn't seem to have too many measurable effects. But there is a major conflict between the rational, logical scientist, and the emotional, feeling mom in me. So I am frequently left with this feeling that I'm doing everything wrong, even as I try desperately to tell myself that there are so many "right" ways to parent.

Take the sleep thing, for example. My husband slept with his parents for the first two years of his life, and wanted to do the same with our son, but in my family, while (as far as I remember) we were in a crib in my parents room for the first few months of life, we were all taught to sleep on our own much earlier than 2. we both turned out just fine (I think), but if you ask certain people, they would say either his parents or my parents were horrible people for how we were taught to sleep.

I was uncomfortable with the idea of cosleeping because of all I'd heard about the potential for smothering the child in the family bed. We always planned on having him in a crib in our room (partially out of necessity due to the size of our apartment, but we would have done it for the first few months regardless). However, our son did not like to sleep flat on his back. He slept okay in a swing, but we didn't have room for the swing in our bedroom and we turned off the heat and used a space heater at night to save money, so we couldn't really keep him in the livingroom at night. We tried having him in a chair which we placed in the crib, but he woke so frequently that we eventually switched to having him share the bed with us. This presented multiple issues. First, Little Man, while technically a "happy spitter", spat up a LOT. Pretty much anywhere he laid down was destined to be wet within a matter of minutes. Second, my husband and I were so paranoid about smothering him that we ended up sleeping on less than equal thirds of the bed, and I ended up with many nasty back, neck and shoulder aches because of it. Thirdly, Little Man was a very very restless sleeper, and we wondered if part of it was that he was overheating (he tends to run warm) or uncomfortable with our movements.

Finally, after 6 months, we decided to "train" him to sleep in his crib. I read and read and read all the books I could find about how to get a child to sleep better. One common trait among all the books? THEY ALMOST ALL MAKE YOU FEEL GUILTY IF YOU CONSIDER ANY OTHER METHOD. Same with the websites. Whether I was looking at no-tears or cry-it-out or something inbetween, every "expert" had found all the supporting evidence they needed to convince you that they were right and everyone else was wrong. Truth is, there are very few actual scientific studies to tell you one thing or another. Most studies out there try to look at cause and effect by what parents tell them they did, which often is not what actually happened. Often unintenionally, parents misreport how they raise their children because most people just can't remember every little detail that could be important in a scientific study. So the results are anecdotal and inconclusive. When I finally found a book I liked, ("Good Night, Sleep Tight") it was because out of everything I had read, the author made me feel the least guilty, and her method just seemed to make sense to me. It is essentially an "inbetween" method -- you place the child in the crib and let them cry a little, but you don't leave them alone. When you're "training" them, you sit with them, talk to them, and wait until they fall asleep before you leave them. My husband and I figured this way he would go to sleep in the crib but still be able to trust that we would be there.

So far (we've gone three nights) Little Man fusses for a bit, usually for less than 10 minutes, but each night his fussing gets less. He is breastfed, and I feel weird about night weaning just yet, so I feed him every three hours and if he wakes up inbetween, my husband goes to soothe him. Some people would say we're horrible for still letting him wake up to eat, some would say we're horrible for not feeding him every time he wakes up. But this is what works for us right now -- and I am not ashamed to admit that feeding him at night alleviates some of my guilt about letting him cry at all. (Which other people would say is horrible). I already miss letting him sleep in my arms, but having the freedom to watch loud TV, work on crafts, or frankly, go to the bathroom without having to worry if he'll wake up, is nice. I have to fight every instict not to go to him and snuggle him when he cries (which still other people would say is terribly wrong) but each night, as he fusses less and less in his crib, I feel like this will work out better for everyone in the long run. My back already feels better, it is nice to be able to cuddle with my husband again, and in opposition to all the cosleeping advocates, I honestly feel my son sleeps better when he can move around and get himself comfortable. He is a long baby and has always liked to stretch, and being in the crib allows him to do so. So it seems to be working.

Why then do I feel like I'm doing something wrong? I don't think it's because I am. I felt like I was doing something wrong when we were cosleeping, and I'd feel even more like I was doing something wrong if we let him cry-it-out. I'd feel like I was doing something wrong if I nightweaned him now, or if I fed him every time he woke up to soothe him. And almost every mom you talk to would tell me that I was doing something wrong if I chose one option or another, and many probably think I'm doing something wrong for trying to live somewhere in the middle. Those few who say "you have to do what works for you and the baby" still have their opinions, and I'm sure secretly think that whatever way that worked for them must be the right way, or of course it wouldn't have worked. Devout Baptists, or Hindus, or Buddhists, or Wiccans, all would say that the other is somehow not right, and even agnostics or Unitarians wouldn't be on the spiritual path they are if they didn't have some reason for believing everyone else is wrong. Parenting has it's own religious sects, and many would defend their beliefs as fervently. So I guess I'll always be wrong, no matter what I do. But in some ways I'll always be right. The scientist in me will have to deal with the absolute lack of logic of it all, but maybe the Mom will someday accept that as long as I love Little Man as best I can, no matter what I do will be right. Someday.

Discovery

Poor Little Man is so impatient lately. So many things he wants to do, so hard to do them! He is almost at the point of crawling, rocking on his hands and knees, straightening out his legs underneath him and pushing forward as hard as he can only to belly flop. Wriggling and wiggling so that he goes round in a circle. Always moving, but never forward. So, so frustrating! Add to that the tooth that is through but won't really come in, or the strong desire to feed himself but not the manual dexterity to do it -- there are so many accomplishments a 6 month old desires but just does not have the skills yet to achieve. No wonder he gets angry!

Then there's me -- part of me would love him to get those teeth, move those legs, feed with that spoon -- and part of me is scared s***less about it. I suppose it's the dilemna of every mother. You want your child to achieve great things, but at the same time, you don't want them to grow up. I love my son at this age. Just a few months ago, he was nothing but a little warm doll in my arms, and now he squirms and squeals and laughs and loves with such eagerness. The way he discovers the world is just fascinating to watch. The slow study of everything from the cat's twitching tail to the trees in the wind to the menu at a restaraunt -- everything is wonderful and marvelous in the eyes of a 6 month old. I don't want him to lose that facination with the world, ever. I fear with the passing of time that he might.

I suppose as a scientist, the thrill of discovery is one of the things I prize most about life. In my spiritual life, I also find the journey to spiritual discovery in some ways even better than the discovery itself. I almost fear the passing of time because I don't want the discovery to end. I want to keep learning and not find that I have learned all there is to learn. Having that thrill in learning is one of the most important things I want for my son as well.

I know that discovering the world is something that is continuous and fascinating for years at a young age, and one of the best things about having a child is that you can rediscover the world through their eyes. Watching Little Man struggle to figure out how to get those knees working underneath him is incredible. Watching each step -- first figuring out how to lift his head, then his chest, then his belly, then get up on his knees, now his feet... the slow passing of each skill as it progresses to the next -- is awesome. Everything takes time, but soon he'll have figured it out, and then watch out, world! And watch out everything within arms reach...

Wants and Needs

Last night, Little Man screamed for over an hour when he should have been sleeping. He has never liked sleeping in a crib, and when he was first born, we attributed it to his mild reflux. He slept in a chair, in a swing, and in our arms, but did not want to go in the crib. So we could sleep, he ended up in the bed with us, and there he's been. Now, at 6 months, we are looking at sleep training, but it's just as much for him as us. Little Man cannot figure out how to get himself to sleep. He fusses and wriggles and cries, even when we are right next to him, talking, soothing, singing, touching -- if he's not being held (with me sitting up) he won't go down. And even when he does sleep, it's restless. I'm tired of the bags under his eyes. I'm tired of listening to him cry. Something needs to be done.

Part of the issue I think is that Little Man is at the age when wants and needs begin to differentiate. At birth, babies wants and needs are the same -- feeding, changing, cuddling, sleeping -- all are basic needs. While some people think that cuddling is a want, really it's as much a need as eating -- babies who don't get cuddled and loved don't thrive. It's a scientific fact. But now, at 6 months old, my LM knows the difference, and his wants are not necessairly his needs. He wants to be cuddled all the time, he needs to sleep. He wants to eat every other hour at night, he definitely doesn't need to (being that he has gone as long as 5 hours during the day). Wants and needs are not the same -- or are they?

I think that even as adults, we sometimes have issues differentiating wants and needs. Eastern philosophy is full of ideas about how to differentiate them. Buddhism is about letting go of all "wants" to achieve happiness. Confucianism states that we must want to follow strict rules and order to achieve serenity. In Taoism, if a want is one with the "way" we should not fight it, but if it leads us off of our natural path, then it is to be avoided.  So in some ways, Buddhism states we should differentiate wants and needs clearly and only go for the needs, Confucianism states we should learn to want what is right and orderly, and Taoism states that wants are really not bad as long as they keep us in harmony with nature.

So, back to my sleepless, cuddly son. His wants and needs are becoming separate things, but how to deal with it? Of the above philosophies, I favor Taoism the most, and currently my dear little man is most definitely not in harmony with nature. Since he is incapable of meditating on the Tao te Ching (I figure we have to wait until he can at least hold a book without eating it to work on that one), I must figure out how to apply it for him. Which of his wants are in tune with the Way? Well, since his fussing and crying unless he is being held is in conflict with MY way (I cannot sleep while holding him all night), and for now, my way and his way need to be the same way...

Really, we just need to get the boy to sleep on his own. And when he's older I'll totally weird him out when I explain how I thought about ancient Chinese philosophy when considering how.

Joy

Giggle, giggle, BOING, squeak, smile, BOING. Baby dances in the jumper. Drool, drool, giggle BOING. Baby sees the cat. STOP. Look, reach, smile, giggle, BOING. Baby twirls around. Swing, coo, sqeak, giggle, BOING. Baby sees Momma cleaning bottles. Dadda cooking dinner. Squeal, giggle, BOING. Life is good.

I try to remember when I felt such joy as my little man in his jumper. When I was able to let go and let things be. The trees have burst with gold and green, the flowers are blooming, the air is warm. I bike to work and try to capture it, but I seem preoccupied with what I have to do when I get there and the fear of getting rear-ended by a distracted driver. I look outside and try to imagine it, but my mind wanders to the data I must analyze, the things I have to prepare for church on Sunday, the songs I want to be writing, crafts I want to be doing, life I wish I was living.

Wouldn't it be lovely to just hang in a jumper, take in the world with the eyes of a child, and let yourself dance, unencumbered. BOING.

Sleep and Data

Large data set before her, the bleary-eyed "Momma Scientifica" attempts to process the black and white images into numbers, and then convert those numbers into pretty little histograms packed with meaning. Her head appears to sway and weave, but armed with a large cup of black tea with mate, she plods slowly forward, selecting points of interest and telling the analysis software what to do. Eyes slowly shut and snap back open, head droops ever closer to the keyboard of her laptop, threatening to fill the spreasheet with random characters typed by a weary forehead. Every muscle in her mouth is keeping it from dropping open, to prevent her from sitting slack-jawed and drooling in front of the screen, like a neanderthal or an undergrad in the face of such obstacles. "Science is hard" she thinks to herself.

And the only other thought in her head is what her husband likes repeating,"whoever coined the phrase 'sleeping like a baby' needs to be kicked in the clown".

What do I want

Sitting here this morning, finishing up a lab presentation, waiting for the nanny to wake up, and watching my son play in his new "Jumperoo", the thought entered my mind -- what do I want? It's something I keep asking myself as I try to figure out how to balance this mom/work thing, define my career, and find time for all the many many many creative outlets I wish to pursue. In some ways I am procrastination incarnate, and in other ways I am like a top, spinning and spinning, with only some semblance of direction. I have a PhD, yes, I am working in a field I love, yes, but I'm not really happy with my exact job. I have ideas of what I want to be "when I grow up" but I'm 32 -- isn't it about time? When do career, life, and happiness all merge? What do I want?