tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65669780197660337962024-02-27T04:03:16.821-08:00Chickenbone JonesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger228125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6566978019766033796.post-41268908736511331962012-05-14T21:17:00.001-07:002012-05-14T21:17:37.119-07:00A way with wordsThe message inside my Mother's Day card, as dictated by 2-year-old Mia:<br />
<br />
<i>Dear mommy,</i><br />
<i>Please come over to your party. Dear Mia. Mermaid. Dad. Grandma. Alex and Chickens. Pooh and Baby Mia. Dad. Barn. Happily ever after.</i><br />
<i>Love,</i><br />
<i>Mia</i><br />
<br />
Paints quite a picture, doesn't she?<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
- Make a mean fried-egg sandwich.</div>
- Wake my daughter to see something cool in the night sky.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
- Experiment in the kitchen.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
- Run from bees.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
- Bring food to neighbors. Especially new ones and sick ones.</div>
- Tell my kids every night to "dream about angels."<br />
- Dig up a good joke to lighten a bad situation.<br />
- Yearn to see new places.<br />
- Worship my crock pot during winter.<br />
- Teach my kids to wave at airplanes. (Which, if you look closely, <i>totally</i> wave back.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKhvZBL7qJLFg2rQvZNMVmC3j43JRAjPpjL77kL9MAPaVsRKECfQfxwosLcwncWeVYIy6A-JVHFH2WZc7GLxh0SgCYxyTLm34uw0fiLnPxa2tURZxf4nTEy2LpkKo_abD5uSiL29p2hJM/s1600/threegenerations.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKhvZBL7qJLFg2rQvZNMVmC3j43JRAjPpjL77kL9MAPaVsRKECfQfxwosLcwncWeVYIy6A-JVHFH2WZc7GLxh0SgCYxyTLm34uw0fiLnPxa2tURZxf4nTEy2LpkKo_abD5uSiL29p2hJM/s320/threegenerations.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three generations at the bathroom mirror</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
This particular event was Hawaiian-themed, which made it even cooler for Mia, starting with the lei they placed around her neck when we arrived. During dinner the crowd was entertained by beautiful hula dancers, and Mia was entranced. After sitting there watching a few songs, she got up, walked up to them and began dancing, too.<br />
<br />
My friend send me a picture with this sadly accurate comment: "Scary to think
that eventually she will be self-conscious and that uninhibited part of her life will end." So tonight as I tucked Mia into bed, I asked if she would please just stay my little girl forever. She said yes!<br />
<br />
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<br />
Turns out that's how it goes even for the pros, something I learned in an online photography class I'm taking from <a href="http://www.superherophoto.com/">Superhero Photo</a>. I haven't been able to participate in the class as much as I'd like, but what I have learned through the daily emails alone has been worth the (extremely reasonable) price. I had hoped this course would unlock the mysteries of my camera, all those intimidating little abbreviations and dials and buttons. But so far the two best lessons have been pretty simple: 1) Play with your camera. 2) Relax. This is fun.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I was joking, mostly. Alex has not been the easiest of babies, which is a whole other blog post all by itself. Or maybe 10 posts. But my mom just laughed and said, "Oh, but you already do. If something were to happen to him, you'd realize that."<br />
<br />
She was right. This morning I put Alex on my bed while I got dressed for work, and then I walked over to the closet to get some shoes. When I turned around, I saw Mia climbing up onto the bed and Alex reaching out to touch her face. And then, right before my eyes, he tumbled off. It happened in a flash, but I processed it in slo-mo, lunging toward him with a scream as I watched him land on the floor, on his head.<br />
<br />
On his HEAD. Like, if I held him by his ankles and let go, that is how he fell. I was hysterical. I scooped him up without thinking, and he wailed in my arms as I held him and watched his body for movement. He fell at just such a grotesquely bad angle – his head bounced on the floor like the end of a pogo stick – that I was quite convinced his neck was broken and I was going to have a little Christopher Reeve baby for the rest of my life and it was all my fault. <br />
<br />
Now, for the record, 10 minutes later he was giggling in his high chair and eating a waffle. So clearly the kid is fine. But how stupid I felt. It haunted me all day long – the vision of his little body crashing into the floor replayed in my head a thousand times. I should never have walked so far away. He is too fast and mobile right now, and I KNOW that. I was just distracted, rushed, exhausted ... three ever-present traits of a working mom. Terrible excuses, though. This was entirely my fault, and I felt horrible.<br />
<br />
And all day long other moms comforted me with stories that were as bad (or worse) than mine. So this is obviously one of those parenthood moments where right now, today, it seems like The Worst Thing That Ever Happened, but at some point I will be one of those seasoned moms who hears another's story, nods wisely and goes "Oh, yes! That. We've done that." I remember fretting over the possibility of a C-section when Alex was breech at 8 months, and a friend told me, "Well ... then that's just another square you'll get on the Bingo card of life." Today I got my Bingo square where I turn my kid into an ACTUAL EXAMPLE of the punchline "Yo momma dropped you on yo head."<br />
<br />
p.s. I really, really miss writing here. It's just that I am a terribly slow writer, and after I take forever to write something, I then edit the hell out of it for a few more hours. Not a process that's easy to fit in along with two kids, a husband, a job, a house, a crippled dog (yep, still crippled!) etc. But I have decided that crappy, unedited posts are better than no posts at all. So ... here's to (hopefully) freestyling it for now.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<br />
You might remember that I wanted a drug-free birth with Mia, and that is what I got. (You can read about that <a href="http://chickenbonejones.blogspot.com/2009/11/grand-entrance.html">here</a> and <a href="http://chickenbonejones.blogspot.com/2009/11/rest-of-story.html">here</a>.) It was an amazing experience. When asked how I tolerated the pain without medication, I was one of those moms who would smile serenely and explain that the beauty of the natural birthing experience far outweighed any discomfort I may have felt.<br />
<br />
That's not <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> the answer I would give now.<br />
<br />
But I don't want to get ahead of myself. So my due date came and went with no sign of baby. I grew a bit anxious since my OB was starting to talk about an induction, and I wanted no part of that. We spent week 40 doing the whole spicy-food, long-walks thing. And on Friday, July 1, when I was five days overdue, I had labor-inducing acupuncture.<br />
<br />
And then Friday night, Saturday morning, Saturday afternoon, they all passed without a single sign that a baby was on the way.<br />
<br />
This timing was unfortunate. If we had the baby anywhere near the due date of June 25, we would have been free and clear of one of the worst times of the year in the Pizarro household: the Fourth of July. Every year, for the better part of a week, we have to console a terrified <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Chickenbone</span> all night as neighborhood idiots send bottle rockets and firecrackers whizzing through the sky. We give Chickens sedatives, but they barely take the edge off. And of course, with Independence Day landing on a Monday this year, the fun began on Thursday and continued for five nights.<br />
<br />
I prayed that I'd go into labor at a nice, early daytime hour so that at least Sal could be home by nightfall to take care of Chickens. The only way to keep him from barking and waking up Mia was to snuggle him beneath a mountain of blankets to muffle the sound, hugging him tightly at every pop and whistle. But, of course, I felt the first contraction at precisely 10 p.m. on Saturday night, when the pyrotechnics were in full swing.<br />
<br />
I waited an hour before calling my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">doula, Kathy</span>. The contractions were still 7 minutes apart, so she suggested that I try to get some sleep (ha!) and call her when they were 5 minutes apart. I worried about Sal going into all this with no rest, so I sent him to the couch for a nap. Then I laid down with Chickens in our bed, hoping the white noise of the fan in our bedroom would soothe him.<br />
<br />
For the next hour I laid in the darkness with Chickens, clutching Sal's Timex in my hand and using the blue <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Indiglo</span> light to time my contractions. When the pain was really bad, I closed my eyes and clung to Chickens and stroked his fur. I focused on his soft little ears to keep my mind off the increasingly intense pain. I'm sure he was in heaven. At least somebody was!<br />
<br />
It was nearly midnight when we decided to leave for the hospital. My mother-in-law came to stay with Mia, and she brought grandpa to take over Chickens duty. We crept around the house very, very, very quietly, gathering our things and pausing for contractions. Which I got through very, very, very quietly. One of my biggest fears was Mia waking up to the commotion and getting scared. I didn't want to leave her crying. I have some experience with this: When we left for the hospital in a rather noisy fashion in October 2009, Chickens was whining and pacing with worry. I absolutely hated leaving him like that. But luckily the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">handoff</span> to my in-laws went smoothly, and we were off to have a baby.<br />
<br />
The rest happened so fast that it's hard to put together the play-by-play. We arrived at Kaiser Santa Clara just before 1:30 a.m. I remember a very long walk from the parking lot to the ER - this was Sal's fault, as for the second consecutive birth, he forgot there was expectant mother parking just steps away from the ER entrance. I kept having to stop for contractions. They were very intense and took my breath away, and I leaned on Sal to get through them. When we got to Labor and Delivery, despite the fact that I could barely stand and could not even speak through the contractions, they put me in observation to "make sure" I was ready for a room. Which I got promptly when they found out I was already dilated to 6 centimeters.<br />
<br />
At this point, after 2 a.m., I truly believed getting out of the stuffy, horrible observation room would help. I thought the spacious L&D room with the rocking chair and my birthing ball would help. I thought my breathing and my husband and my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">doula</span> would help. But none of it did.<br />
<br />
And what especially didn't help was my nurse. This woman enraged me. She kept asking me questions and touching me and bugging me to lay down so she could put monitors on my stomach. When my water broke as I stood over the bed heaving through a contraction, she raced over with towels to clean me up. I roared at her to leave me alone. I could not stand the feel of those towels on the back of my legs. I couldn't stand for ANYTHING to touch my body.<br />
<br />
What I really wanted was to get into the damn shower. That's where I spent a lot of my labor with Mia, and I figured that there I'd be able get on top of this excruciating pain. Before the nurse would let me go, though, she wanted to give me an IV. I declined, she was irritated, and we compromised on a hep-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">loc</span>. As I leaned over the hospital bed groaning and straining through one contraction after another, I stuck my arm out and she jabbed the needle into the back of my hand and taped it to my skin. She didn't want it to get wet in the shower, so she unwrapped some gauze and began to wrap it around my hand. Then she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">unspooled</span> some blue tape and wrapped my wrist. Then some more gauze. Then some more tape. Gauze. Tape. Gauze. Tape. Gauze. Tape. It felt like every time I raised my sweaty head from the sheets to look at her, she was calmly unwrapping more freaking gauze and tape. By the time she was through, she had fashioned this fat blue mitt that covered my entire hand and wrist. Right there in front of the nurse, I held up my clubbed hand, turned to my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">doula</span> and spat, "Is she f---<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ing</span> kidding with this?" I am not a very nice person when I am in labor.<br />
<br />
(Side note: By the time the baby was born, the mitt and the needle were gone. I have no idea what happened to them, but I felt triumphant nonetheless.)<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the shower didn't work. Things were moving too fast for me to relax beneath the water. And sitting on the ball was excruciating. Literally the only position I could bear was to stand up and lean on things - Sal, my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">doula</span>, the bed, the wall. And when the contractions piled up one right after another, when I knew I could not possibly bear another moment of this terrifying pain, I began to feel some hope. Because I knew I was in "transition" - the very worst part of labor - and that pushing, and the end, would come soon.<br />
<br />
I have a very vivid memory from Mia's birth of transition fading away, of returning to my normal self again. I was able to talk and even smile during pushing. Later I even described it as "fun" - all those people cheering me on, the knowledge that my baby was just minutes away. So I was absolutely stunned when this didn't happen with Alex. Things just got worse.<br />
<br />
I started to push before anybody was ready - again, my body just did the pushing all on its own. I was powerless to stop it. My <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">doula</span> talked me into laying down so they could check me, and sure enough I was 10 centimeters. Then the commotion began. The doctor rushed in. The lights came on and they dropped the end of the table down. And everyone started telling me it's time. It's here. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Pushpushpushpush</span>.<br />
<br />
Except the problem was that the pain of transition had NOT faded away. In fact, it became more terrible than anything I have ever felt in my life. I felt like I was being split in two, and I was panicked and petrified. I tried so hard to do what everyone was telling me to do. To curl my body up into a C. To stay silent so that the energy would all go toward pushing, not howling. To bear down and push with all my might to get the baby out. But it felt like I was failing. My brain was trying to do things, but to me it seemed like nothing with my body was changing. When I pushed, it was agony. When I didn't, it was agony. The pain washed over me.<br />
<br />
They told me the end was close, but I didn't believe them. That's how crazed I was from pain - I remember looking at all those faces telling me excitedly that the baby was coming out <span style="font-style: italic;">right now </span>and thinking "Liars! Oh my god, why are you f---<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">ers</span> LYING to me?!?" (There were a lot of F-words shooting through my brain that night.) It actually crossed my mind that I may spend the rest of my life with that baby stuck right there in the chute because I wasn't strong enough to push it out.<br />
<br />
And very suddenly, oh dear sweet Jesus, the relief! I felt a sort of <span style="font-style: italic;">pop</span>, and then the most indescribable sensation of things ... pain, warmth, fluids, A PERSON ... came tumbling out of my body. I collapsed back on the bed, closed my eyes and laughed. That's how good it feels when the most horrific pain you have ever felt vanishes into thin air. I saw them lift the baby up and thought "Oh my god, is that balls?!" And then Sal looked at me, grinned and told me we had a boy.<br />
<br />
A boy! A BOY?! I know it is dumb for any mom to be shocked at giving birth to either gender - there aren't exactly a ton of possibilities. But shocked I was. Alex was born at 3:39 a.m., and they let me hold him for over an hour before taking him to get weighed and cleaned. As I sat there telling my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">doula</span> what a nightmare this birth was compared to Mia, the scaled flashed 9 pounds, 2 ounces, which pretty much explains everything. It was all Alex's fault! I have since forgiven him and we have agreed to live happily ever after.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIU7E9o-iAMmn4C4mAygKiPJlra01Q8KqIXPqKxYUmiuEWvRYAJjNVT_i_jOTxMP2t0UUwNu2ApjNrRBhQ3gFrzR-vjGnmSbWiWgtHU4vQ_-jQBg72YWDKlkvoPxr_x_0xRywXNtPugTE/s1600/alexbirth.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653934334872970450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIU7E9o-iAMmn4C4mAygKiPJlra01Q8KqIXPqKxYUmiuEWvRYAJjNVT_i_jOTxMP2t0UUwNu2ApjNrRBhQ3gFrzR-vjGnmSbWiWgtHU4vQ_-jQBg72YWDKlkvoPxr_x_0xRywXNtPugTE/s400/alexbirth.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 270px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Despite the trauma of this experience - the memory of the pain haunted me for days - I'm happy I didn't have drugs. If it was that hard to push Alex out while I could feel everything and had full control of my muscles and my senses, I can't imagine how I could have done it if anything had been muffled by an epidural. I'm convinced I would have ended up with an emergency C-section. But as it was, in no time at all I was walking around, wolfing down a plate of food and taking a blissfully hot shower. One nurse even asked me if I was certain I'd had a baby that morning.<br />
<br />
Later Sal told me that mere minutes after the birth I turned to him and said "NEVER. AGAIN." All these many weeks later, I do still feel that way. Not because I'm afraid of going through all that again, but because Alex has made our family feel complete.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebLRSEtAuD5oQaWcWmHMGjCJshmvu6NXnTi1R0FdRwH9U98_1nR5eZ-Nku_F0qKqgZNV9CSGYsZCjx007gjHxri9UCi-Ha6bLsQBV637dWT_gQxXkQSARGyukubHmJpktKV-QEudlioo/s1600/alexdad1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653937733718604274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebLRSEtAuD5oQaWcWmHMGjCJshmvu6NXnTi1R0FdRwH9U98_1nR5eZ-Nku_F0qKqgZNV9CSGYsZCjx007gjHxri9UCi-Ha6bLsQBV637dWT_gQxXkQSARGyukubHmJpktKV-QEudlioo/s400/alexdad1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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<br />
<br />As Craig explains in <a href="http://networkedblogs.com/mnzXr">this blog post</a>, he and my father never met. But dad was a big fan of Lanky (as some of his San Jose friends know him) long before he became a published author. I suspect my neon green 2002 Volkswagen Beetle had a lot to do with that.
<br />
<br />Not long after I moved to San Jose, my pretty blue Saturn crapped out on me in a major way. And as a young, single female living paycheck to paycheck in a very expensive place, the idea of going out by myself to buy a new car was daunting. When I explained the situation to Craig, my new friend and colleague at the San Jose Mercury News, he kindly offered to climb into the ring with me and the scary, slick car salesmen. He relished the idea of beating those guys into submission, and beat them he did! As I watched in mostly silent awe, Craig spent an entire afternoon waving his fists, sputtering demands, poking holes in their sketchy math and stomping right out of the dealership until we got a gorgeous new car at the right price. He even got them to throw in a six-disk CD changer. It was a thing of beauty.
<br />
<br />That evening I called my dad to tell him how the whole thing went down. Dad was always concerned about me and my transportation. He liked to remind me about oil changes and brake checks, and "How's the car doing?" was a question he asked regularly. But dad was a thousand miles away when my Saturn died, and he could do little to help me. So when he learned how Craig swooped in and saved the day, I could hear the relief in his voice. Dads appreciate when people do that sort of thing for their daughters.
<br />
<br />Over the years, every now and then, dad would ask about Craig. Dad was an avid reader - books were something we bonded over my entire life - and he got so excited when I told him that Craig wrote a novel. Dad loved both "600 Hours of Edward" and Craig's second book, "The Summer Son." When Craig found out my dad was sick, he asked me for his email address. Late that evening, I got a text message from dad that said "Lanky sent me an email!!!" He felt so honored to hear directly from THE Craig Lancaster. Craig also mailed my dad signed copies of the books just days before he died, and as I opened up the package, dad warned me from his hospital bed to "be careful with those."
<br />
<br />How I wish they could have met, and yet in my heart it somehow feels as though they were great old friends. Lanky, what a wonderful gift you have given me and all who loved my father - a joyful memory of him even after his death. If I close my eyes I can just picture the grin on his face if he could see this. He'd find it cool as hell.
<br />
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspjAz-OYEmSwiCECxAnQmdWvY1W4JyUhmeQptQSKyXBAYwzZDPQxFYCMT8QDn0dBq49Om5w5D-yKyqiSsDGkR0Dy1egISuZn-6OErDkXVwCoK_SOnCuaBX9kpNjrUaphmquyNRqS3viQ/s1600/dedication-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspjAz-OYEmSwiCECxAnQmdWvY1W4JyUhmeQptQSKyXBAYwzZDPQxFYCMT8QDn0dBq49Om5w5D-yKyqiSsDGkR0Dy1egISuZn-6OErDkXVwCoK_SOnCuaBX9kpNjrUaphmquyNRqS3viQ/s400/dedication-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647072000542333346" border="0" /></a>p.s. I am bursting - just bursting! - with blog posts about my kids. But here's the big difference between having one and two: Now if I have a chance to sleep when the babies sleep, I freaking TAKE IT. But Alex, the little sleepless tyrant, appears to maybe be easing up a bit on the nighttime wakings, so maybe I'll be less exhausted soon. Maybe I'll even find more time for things like, you know, taking showers. Going to the bathroom. And blogging! In the meantime, here's a picture I took at breakfast a few weeks ago, Alex chilling on dad's shoulder while Mia devours her waffle.
<br />
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhf-Wi-EvLuFl0m4CNrONmzJtfPti2pN0uOgzS4nufpsyJaAda-8fcC1cR-3ZlDyRiIlHMUhwfxgiMfp6R5xVz3-s4UAl7znhwbMLVvZQ-gTiMdZuKDpwWjlLI5fIpjNzGYHNA6WEU-4/s1600/alexmiabreakfast.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhf-Wi-EvLuFl0m4CNrONmzJtfPti2pN0uOgzS4nufpsyJaAda-8fcC1cR-3ZlDyRiIlHMUhwfxgiMfp6R5xVz3-s4UAl7znhwbMLVvZQ-gTiMdZuKDpwWjlLI5fIpjNzGYHNA6WEU-4/s400/alexmiabreakfast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647071715547485010" border="0" /></a>
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He is spectacular.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwa2xEcLfZwlIwId6seOvF61P1bh7JXm2JP3n0ugLWQyXVNs_SHaOHsSDA3LvJy3Va7CjvL52KMD63AS8PyKSnz70TQXB9VbeyspfOQyXoaF9wi4AIpw9p6jnilQPWY4omQU8zlKbPTuk/s1600/alexmom2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwa2xEcLfZwlIwId6seOvF61P1bh7JXm2JP3n0ugLWQyXVNs_SHaOHsSDA3LvJy3Va7CjvL52KMD63AS8PyKSnz70TQXB9VbeyspfOQyXoaF9wi4AIpw9p6jnilQPWY4omQU8zlKbPTuk/s400/alexmom2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626153640389805522" border="0" /></a><br />It was a very fast, very intense birth, and I hope to write about it soon while it's still fresh in my memory. But for right now, I think I only have the energy for photos. Many babies are sleepy little blobs in their first hours of life, but Alex was super alert from the start. He loves to gaze up at your face and look around the room, and he even seems to try lifting his head up. He seems so thoughtful and wise! Handsome as hell, too. How did we get TWO kids who look this good right outta the chute?!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HFTLMCzH0CSu7gFL5YAufQhtMsK3KMyEdqvoh7cZDauSXzz_wAx4_QkNO_UCXzAoWPjfFUDKU6SVwIctgNu-LW8f7D27yb-99DZL0GWPT9bah85md9Ay3OIRFT7D8PfkUO8iHPZaARw/s1600/alexclose.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HFTLMCzH0CSu7gFL5YAufQhtMsK3KMyEdqvoh7cZDauSXzz_wAx4_QkNO_UCXzAoWPjfFUDKU6SVwIctgNu-LW8f7D27yb-99DZL0GWPT9bah85md9Ay3OIRFT7D8PfkUO8iHPZaARw/s400/alexclose.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626154429349716370" border="0" /></a><br />He's also gigantic. Clocked in at 9 lbs, 2 oz, which explains why getting him out of my body absolutely clobbered me. It's only a pound and a half more than Mia weighed, but I ASSURE you that makes a significant difference to the whole, ah, "birth experience."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisqluKS3iLXgexcpSZGGPgUyfHSw8kS9_Edj6ejDhWcyTbbhh4q4lhl87YsbtMVEfb4bu3nGzqN8Ro0PAgzvVrE1xHKrZZgnhnUIbpfyk2aVzQcbuwaBu1diBlfxiepZF_rxYOcLRCwvY/s1600/alexscale.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisqluKS3iLXgexcpSZGGPgUyfHSw8kS9_Edj6ejDhWcyTbbhh4q4lhl87YsbtMVEfb4bu3nGzqN8Ro0PAgzvVrE1xHKrZZgnhnUIbpfyk2aVzQcbuwaBu1diBlfxiepZF_rxYOcLRCwvY/s400/alexscale.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626154887271446770" border="0" /></a><br />Proud papa and his son!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLL08-88XpSJ5ijms_nmxlJm9ntKD-dE0P8m8HJGTGYGe8Ul0_66WMRzyn0fGoV7Lbx1gt7e1jTT10rbMGE-yDb0I6gDZtutx8R0wjmKk5M4aXLjiuEQH8n1Eqwri71fZvq_iQgqmuqU/s1600/alexdad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLL08-88XpSJ5ijms_nmxlJm9ntKD-dE0P8m8HJGTGYGe8Ul0_66WMRzyn0fGoV7Lbx1gt7e1jTT10rbMGE-yDb0I6gDZtutx8R0wjmKk5M4aXLjiuEQH8n1Eqwri71fZvq_iQgqmuqU/s400/alexdad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626157367882934274" border="0" /></a><br />And here's Alex meeting his sister. Mia has been very excited about this whole thing for months, patting my belly to feel "bee-bee moo?" (baby move) and running around the house clutching his ultrasound pictures. Introducing her to the real deal was unforgettable. When I took him out of the bassinet and sat down to show her, she got a huge grin on her face and put her hand over her mouth. Then she walked up and showered him with kisses.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KvBdpvXiTk2M6tnSzg3crRQtdckAC2KJSV5AYPvqlerIqyY327l86dGaySsWUHWG_bNKYDW69NKtfqlrqLE5ud9jv185qSPCzxMBl_TODnkALd2q8KmxSkvn-_MTBZqj9LHwopmpDsY/s1600/alexmia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KvBdpvXiTk2M6tnSzg3crRQtdckAC2KJSV5AYPvqlerIqyY327l86dGaySsWUHWG_bNKYDW69NKtfqlrqLE5ud9jv185qSPCzxMBl_TODnkALd2q8KmxSkvn-_MTBZqj9LHwopmpDsY/s400/alexmia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626155295509711154" border="0" /></a><br />Now, the unfortunate part: I'm currently writing this from a parent room at the NICU, where Alex has been since early Monday because he has severe jaundice. He will be OK, but this has been a fairly miserable chapter for all involved. It was terrifying to have the visibly alarmed pediatrician enter my room and whisk way the little glass bassinet holding my baby. His bilirubin level was over 22, which is quite high. From what I can tell reading things on the internet (because <span style="font-style: italic;">that's</span> always a good idea, right?) people begin to freak out about "high" bilirubin levels of 13 or 14. A level of 25 or 30 is when they start talking about blood transfusions and other scary things, so we were inching close to that, particularly since bilirubin levels rise in the first few days of a baby's life. In other words, we are grateful and lucky that they began treating it so aggressively so early.<br /><br />So Alex went to the NICU, where he lays all day and night in one of those little blue-light aquariums. He's naked except for bandages and IVs and monitors all over his body, and a little mask covering the top half of his face. For two days (I think? I have lost all sense of time) I couldn't even hold him. Every time I pulled myself together to go visit him, I would walk in and not even be able to see him through the tears. Then later I feel bad, because I know there are far more woeful stories to come out of a NICU than dumb ol' jaundice. But seeing my son like that and being unable to scoop him up and hold him close is one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.<br /><br />However! Things are looking up. Alex's bilirubin levels have dropped to a far less worrisome number - it was 13.1 this morning. He gets to come out of the tank for feedings, so every few hours I get a chance to kiss and cuddle that sweet boy. And yesterday (well, 2 o'clock this morning) I even nursed him for a bit before we switched to a bottle of pumped milk. I also take his temperature and change his diaper (no small feat amid the tangle of wires and tubes) (oh, and yikes, there's a penis! also new diaper-changing territory for this mom.) The most important thing for him right now is to eat and poop, eat and poop, eat and poop, since that's how his body expels the bilirubin. And may I please just say, my son is already a world-class pooper. He pooped on the delivery table, he pooped four times our first night together, and he poops nearly every time I feed him. So he is definitely doing his part to get the hell out of here.<br /><br />I find it amusing that my last blog post was basically a pep talk to myself over anxieties about introducing a new baby to our already hectic household. But at this moment I'd give anything to <span style="font-style: italic;">only</span> have to worry about sleep, food and entertainment for two-under-2-plus-Chickens! We just have to be very patient. And remind ourselves that in matter of days we will be able to heave a sigh of relief, put this precious boy in a car and bring him home.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h0_TWppfY6tIbE1uPF0F2g0kjbWsbIIQ2RL8iZ8E1MSfoIFrMJloLxOuMXwSjABxBRNysJzGAEpgVlmQWAg-gb0WfzIVpAtp-UVSXM16JPpnNclyK6DT2e0JM6j0UV9mtIqvxDvsQ7k/s1600/alexmom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h0_TWppfY6tIbE1uPF0F2g0kjbWsbIIQ2RL8iZ8E1MSfoIFrMJloLxOuMXwSjABxBRNysJzGAEpgVlmQWAg-gb0WfzIVpAtp-UVSXM16JPpnNclyK6DT2e0JM6j0UV9mtIqvxDvsQ7k/s400/alexmom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626155881707921090" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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But I think we had an unusually hard start to parenthood. The timeline looks something like this: Baby born. Breastfeeding awful. Baby blues like crazy. Breastfeeding improves, but dog goes paralyzed. Expensive and painful spinal surgery. Post-op complications that required dragging an infant to several middle-of-the-night animal ER visits. And oh, look! A colicky baby. Who screamed for weeks on end while mom and dad broke a sweat learning how to manually express the bladder of a handicapped dog. Months of recovery and rehabilitation. Working-mom exhaustion. Nighttime and nap battles that only grew worse until, at baby's 12-month checkup, a pediatrician issued sleep-training instructions to a weary, tearful mom.<br /><br />And there came the turning point. We fixed the sleeping, which made the whole family happier and more rested. We finished up breastfeeding, which freed up TONS of my time both at work and at home. We somehow got ourselves to a place where Mia can ask for a bowl of cereal, and we can give it to her with a spoon (a real adult one!) and a cup of milk (not even a sippy!) and a meal is as easy as that. It's beautiful!<br /><br />As for Chickenbone, well, he has his good days and his bad days. In fact, he recently spent a few weeks on crate rest because we noticed his back legs were wobbly and dragging a little. It's something we're going to have to be vigilant about for the rest of his life. He may have blown one disk, but he has many more and will always be at risk of further back injury. We are also still expressing his bladder four times a day. I know that is kind of shocking, but you know what? There's lots of stuff we have to do every day. We take showers and do dishes and keep a toddler alive and entertained every single day. This has become just another daily chore. It is what it is.<br /><br />Most of the time, though, Chickens is a happy dog who brings much joy to our family, and he loves Mia as much as she adores him. In fact, a few weeks ago she decided to keep him company while he was on bedrest.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ACczHXqBcWraML47OczPphg6hR6si-VPcupFSBAzU3dy5C17xLo84jK6h0DeluhVVlp_sqEnmc95McbFzfOt81LyYDcaX3fXaMy3DCxhLmWChQgp0mcDQyR91iyNO0aCE-mT9nQUMI0/s1600/miacage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ACczHXqBcWraML47OczPphg6hR6si-VPcupFSBAzU3dy5C17xLo84jK6h0DeluhVVlp_sqEnmc95McbFzfOt81LyYDcaX3fXaMy3DCxhLmWChQgp0mcDQyR91iyNO0aCE-mT9nQUMI0/s400/miacage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623698897496618930" border="0" /></a><br />Mia's other near-constant companion is this Pooh bear. She likes to feed him Cheerios for breakfast.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCVATETA-1nYNsjtaIN_3zXFzmZslFVa46K870XC99XhWtzwhhdWSgnwTB6dKVzHj0bOohC_hJA3a2KeGBgU07bpBUtdpHJKIOK6Ach6GzeNwyk_0r7omPLmqtV_OpGsdcyilajRnDXM/s1600/miapoohbreakfast.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCVATETA-1nYNsjtaIN_3zXFzmZslFVa46K870XC99XhWtzwhhdWSgnwTB6dKVzHj0bOohC_hJA3a2KeGBgU07bpBUtdpHJKIOK6Ach6GzeNwyk_0r7omPLmqtV_OpGsdcyilajRnDXM/s400/miapoohbreakfast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624077032819832530" border="0" /></a><br />She used to feed him in her high chair, but we recently acquired this nifty kid-sized table and chair set. Much more civilized.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqP7rZDfbgIunyAWyy-gMM7Haj8x8NTek0sklf3SWty6JrS6yqCcug-H4D1EMpdDR5d2YQZfJNrEyHc8X9yCMkYISRDiFEMk_zET0eBmx2GJOwrTSXWBr1e5h-QsNx3ON2lNfx66auBAg/s1600/miabreakfastpooh.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqP7rZDfbgIunyAWyy-gMM7Haj8x8NTek0sklf3SWty6JrS6yqCcug-H4D1EMpdDR5d2YQZfJNrEyHc8X9yCMkYISRDiFEMk_zET0eBmx2GJOwrTSXWBr1e5h-QsNx3ON2lNfx66auBAg/s400/miabreakfastpooh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624072017408448322" border="0" /></a><br />What a helpful child! She also likes to assist dad with his yardwork.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmPpD336hhm3OrCCbO6ZotGrKo8aC8gsb0EEczJylGxlgggzp56vfUZ2jeccYYPa_0vrLiFirFNuv8XWx5sYXJHMbUdgDKPVWeQVI5VkXBxXMt93mjBSWizEIujhN1-uJahnMXzuTdVQ/s1600/mialawns.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmPpD336hhm3OrCCbO6ZotGrKo8aC8gsb0EEczJylGxlgggzp56vfUZ2jeccYYPa_0vrLiFirFNuv8XWx5sYXJHMbUdgDKPVWeQVI5VkXBxXMt93mjBSWizEIujhN1-uJahnMXzuTdVQ/s400/mialawns.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623706400066625202" border="0" /></a><br />Here are a few more recent pictures. Trader Joe's is our favorite grocery store because airplanes hang from the ceiling. After Mia "helps" by handing them items from the cart, the cashiers often give her a strip of stickers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXoL2HQJsBgZKDvxzwA_2y2eYw1R52ivqgrOvUFXFUnl4yXBy3sxsXgP1osnLFKTbftC5kPbfT0HR9_XwKCZdj5mve8nWtbnU2w6ddtJDIxsrv8Uq5LmEmLWfW-LwN4QFkyU4_os8MFA/s1600/miatraderjoes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXoL2HQJsBgZKDvxzwA_2y2eYw1R52ivqgrOvUFXFUnl4yXBy3sxsXgP1osnLFKTbftC5kPbfT0HR9_XwKCZdj5mve8nWtbnU2w6ddtJDIxsrv8Uq5LmEmLWfW-LwN4QFkyU4_os8MFA/s400/miatraderjoes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624072320571478210" border="0" /></a><br />Waiting patiently for a somersault assist.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkBrAfEx8x_fffDS7FuYYrejaXWucEboSo6Meu6zTuvWmYQ6Mp8ef5z69CMEaoUw0ci97V2_ZWpl34jG7bSmiDwxfYkZ9BGS8ZyGJR5tT8JpKK1YseZDpOma7XWRShj4Fqru8EW2B229k/s1600/miasomersault.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkBrAfEx8x_fffDS7FuYYrejaXWucEboSo6Meu6zTuvWmYQ6Mp8ef5z69CMEaoUw0ci97V2_ZWpl34jG7bSmiDwxfYkZ9BGS8ZyGJR5tT8JpKK1YseZDpOma7XWRShj4Fqru8EW2B229k/s400/miasomersault.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624076505267929634" border="0" /></a><br />Father's Day back-yard barbecue. I can't help but crack up when she wears these sunglasses. She just stares back blankly, like, "What's wrong with you, lady?"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuN1JkjoN9jJ5f_S-AEpV8i4Y8TXoE4N3Dhz3L7WhFdVTUamZgIJXvwfYIiuKrhNl138TivaBWWF8g2kgHN1b86wZba-8aJ8Id9iixwIKkOi86b9Qmxs5aoNNikgm_ixPf_w5ALpLGRBo/s1600/miaglasses.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuN1JkjoN9jJ5f_S-AEpV8i4Y8TXoE4N3Dhz3L7WhFdVTUamZgIJXvwfYIiuKrhNl138TivaBWWF8g2kgHN1b86wZba-8aJ8Id9iixwIKkOi86b9Qmxs5aoNNikgm_ixPf_w5ALpLGRBo/s400/miaglasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623704828641938658" border="0" /></a><br />Chillaxin' in her lawn chair after a hearty meal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyD0hEjQKbjkWhq6aYTko80GzOjUu_CLjCc6bl77yjo3xHwoz0Uhmw3VlkfkGyZ9E5YkGWVZKK46wIMnGmvxJRU08xTI4r5vENeOa25oFUVySFd1AL6NEX52BXMQaSXHoNOId80galEz0/s1600/miachillax.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyD0hEjQKbjkWhq6aYTko80GzOjUu_CLjCc6bl77yjo3xHwoz0Uhmw3VlkfkGyZ9E5YkGWVZKK46wIMnGmvxJRU08xTI4r5vENeOa25oFUVySFd1AL6NEX52BXMQaSXHoNOId80galEz0/s400/miachillax.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623705754179215490" border="0" /></a><br />And here she is on her way out the door to run errands with mom (or "mom-mom," as she has recently started calling me.) It is plain to see that my belly size has graduated from cute-pregnant-lady to freaky-circus-sideshow. Meaning, new baby, that we are awfully ready when you are!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDsX2cpeD-9a2O3S-C5s9lE0I2dKFzPtJ8XhZcedm7ElqS0BYCEca47H5zBvLz3wCzxWQsGcn23dH4risQz7ZVg57rzDNTpkNgnqy6uFfQEo6zyE1srhUrk_GpkIepmWRMg7CTdkC0cY/s1600/miamommuseum.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDsX2cpeD-9a2O3S-C5s9lE0I2dKFzPtJ8XhZcedm7ElqS0BYCEca47H5zBvLz3wCzxWQsGcn23dH4risQz7ZVg57rzDNTpkNgnqy6uFfQEo6zyE1srhUrk_GpkIepmWRMg7CTdkC0cY/s400/miamommuseum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624073079885958338" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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He was waiting for me to come downstairs so he could walk me down the aisle. <div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow is his birthday, as well as the one-month anniversary since he died. I know I have been a terribly absent from this blog for months now, for this reason and many others. But no matter how hard it is to put into words, I really don't feel like I can blow right past this part of my life, so here I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad's illness came on quite suddenly. He was sick in January, diagnosed with cancer in February, passed away in March. He had pancreatic cancer, which had spread to his liver and stomach. When we realized how serious things were I took two weeks off work, and Mia and I went to New Mexico to spend time with him. I thought we were just going home for some good family times - you know, barbecues, laughs, family photos - before the chemotherapy or the cancer made him too sick for that sort of thing. But he took a terrible turn for the worse on the seventh day of our visit, and four days later he was gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can barely stand to think about how much I love and miss this man, much less put into words. His death just feels ... too big. But there is something I want to write about. </div><div><br /></div><div>One thing I learned about losing a parent is that folks who have already been through this are invaluable. Much like having a baby, it's one of those things you can't truly understand unless you have experienced it yourself. And as I was trying to calm myself and make travel arrangements, a dear friend who lost her mother eight years ago told me that even in an experience as heartbreaking as this one, there would be "moments of beauty" at the end. And she was right. So here are a few of the memories that, along with the grief, I will carry in my heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The talk my dad had with us three kids the week before he died. He had us all sit down with him in my brother's living room, and he told us how much he loved us. And one by one, he described to each of us exactly why he was so proud of us. He said that if he played even a very small part in making us the people we are today, he considers his life a huge success. My brothers and I are so very, very lucky that we had the chance to hear those words from him.<br /><br />- My brothers standing at dad's bedside for 12-plus hours at a time on the last two nights of his life. Dying is very hard work, both on the person doing it and the people around them. And my brothers spent two entire nights helping dad adjust his body, bringing his basin when he was ill and then cleaning him up, fixing his pillows and blankets, giving him his pain meds and, at the end, calming him when he woke up in a delirium, often frightened and confused. Those two boys were superhuman, loving and patient, bottling up their fear and sadness so they could put on a brave face for our dad. I will never, ever forget how incredible they were.<br /><br />- My dad raising his hand weakly to wave at Mia the day before he died. It was the last piece of "him" I ever saw. I didn't even know he was awake - he had seemed mostly unconscious all morning. But when I picked Mia up and stood by his bed, she began exclaiming "Pa! Pa!" I turned to look at him, and his crumpled hand was waving around in front of his face. His eyes weren't even open, but he found the strength to wave at his granddaughter. God, he loved that little girl.<br /><br />- The one moment of regret I ever saw on my dad's face, when he and I had a few minutes alone together in his hospital room a couple of days before he died. When I was trying to tell him how much I would miss him, I collapsed crying on his chest, a familiar place where I had been comforted and loved countless times before. Then I told him how much Mia loved him. And he got a wistful, faraway look and said, "Man, I wish I was gonna be here..." That was it. It was only wobbly moment I ever saw in the man who spent his final weeks on earth comforting <i>us</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The night of the memorial service, after the guests had left my brother's house, my brothers, Sal and I got out dad's bottle of terribly cheap scotch and had a toast to him. It was all smiles and love and laughter. Then the guys went out to the front porch to gather around the fire pit and smoke dad's cigars, Swisher Sweets. The smell of that cigar smoke creeping into the house filled and broke my heart all at once. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad, I will miss you forever.</div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG_WWJAp5edisRkPH4TwBj_smiCDuj2_2GlkwgjW1pcwARu6lK7w5l9lQV6UljMTK_gzLQaQgyZ7dTO8iZh9psncQnMKhIJ3h-SxIQxYYLs4Cx7zoCoBg7T72Z0or8g67Gp8hJvwFoxfw/s1600/davemia4.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG_WWJAp5edisRkPH4TwBj_smiCDuj2_2GlkwgjW1pcwARu6lK7w5l9lQV6UljMTK_gzLQaQgyZ7dTO8iZh9psncQnMKhIJ3h-SxIQxYYLs4Cx7zoCoBg7T72Z0or8g67Gp8hJvwFoxfw/s400/davemia4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598268839195226146" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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Obligatory cake shot:<br /><br /><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3tbq336cEr7GQHw8dY1q6eRJ_ULpAXQM3C2N5H6z7k_fDtpqXy2NO63kRf7aPQHxPb7FEMC6Z75isEMS66e3FdopdU3lW3P3XMo6nYT6fekSzgGVcjA809LLp-qGNH8Tfttc_mnvy2g/s1600/miacake.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542226741272666578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3tbq336cEr7GQHw8dY1q6eRJ_ULpAXQM3C2N5H6z7k_fDtpqXy2NO63kRf7aPQHxPb7FEMC6Z75isEMS66e3FdopdU3lW3P3XMo6nYT6fekSzgGVcjA809LLp-qGNH8Tfttc_mnvy2g/s400/miacake.jpg" /></a><br />Her actual birthday was the next day, a Monday. Dad and I took the day off. We started with brunch at The Flames, then went to Happy Hollow, where we watched a puppet show, rode a carousel, and enjoyed the meerkat exhibit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFZ4sus8N6J321FA6-dRmGRzdVR9BzfxnyWoTN6f9vkUA6QkuK7SKSu2eGvqNBg2iPGFrALPX84NwdwxbwMJ-ikwkDvCj-EVt_zZTFNURASa4Z4fz_YNekuB1qo6Z90HUHwT7yYF2HUU/s1600/miacarousel.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542227230292889010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFZ4sus8N6J321FA6-dRmGRzdVR9BzfxnyWoTN6f9vkUA6QkuK7SKSu2eGvqNBg2iPGFrALPX84NwdwxbwMJ-ikwkDvCj-EVt_zZTFNURASa4Z4fz_YNekuB1qo6Z90HUHwT7yYF2HUU/s400/miacarousel.jpg" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCpwFXkfXYeGx0KTXw4uMoe9hN1fZSoVSggFcdf1LlyG5m2kgqS6vucQvrdVsW15SIVzFcGzdpZYwb1jXNNlsgvWyakGP49IgvraMfTKXyisdM3dk1LGKZprRre03I5Ekl8kRta94Tx0/s1600/miazoo.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542229014813784290" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCpwFXkfXYeGx0KTXw4uMoe9hN1fZSoVSggFcdf1LlyG5m2kgqS6vucQvrdVsW15SIVzFcGzdpZYwb1jXNNlsgvWyakGP49IgvraMfTKXyisdM3dk1LGKZprRre03I5Ekl8kRta94Tx0/s400/miazoo.jpg" /></a><br />Probably her favorite birthday gift was a balloon bouquet sent by dear friends of ours who live in New York. She was absolutely entranced by them. (That animal whose head I chopped off with the camera is that one orange girl Muppet whose name I can never remember.) (At least, I think it's a Muppet? Do they still do those?)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnExiYHpyLdw0HewXqR7-r-7PWEkrhjzEPYuZpNphoi5HKkwJw9QwfG0O36s5z-YeokRTpzzrgxlCNodL-ih4sKgIo5R8fDkMa8rshviLv45nU7eA8qiM-KNltvJgygAWrTvrM3C80G8/s1600/miaballoons2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542226043835823842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnExiYHpyLdw0HewXqR7-r-7PWEkrhjzEPYuZpNphoi5HKkwJw9QwfG0O36s5z-YeokRTpzzrgxlCNodL-ih4sKgIo5R8fDkMa8rshviLv45nU7eA8qiM-KNltvJgygAWrTvrM3C80G8/s400/miaballoons2.jpg" /></a><br />Those balloons lasted for some time, and Mia insisted on clutching them wherever she went. Here's breakfast about a week later.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiE3hiZJp5APhhStE4t0PoaPA_Pjf6zvw_J6-nxFDzGoKAK_AAnUUfHwBU8zns70ycVAsjBjA-07nUtEiGbvq45Kj8HS3zO5w34kgdfw-C5Wg3HFWkeyekS97qcWMy3HZEJENKV3Navd8/s1600/miaballoons.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542226590734142130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiE3hiZJp5APhhStE4t0PoaPA_Pjf6zvw_J6-nxFDzGoKAK_AAnUUfHwBU8zns70ycVAsjBjA-07nUtEiGbvq45Kj8HS3zO5w34kgdfw-C5Wg3HFWkeyekS97qcWMy3HZEJENKV3Navd8/s400/miaballoons.jpg" /></a><br />Of course, this is not a new obsession. This summer we went to a furniture store to look for a new kitchen table, and five minutes after we arrived, Mia started to get squawky. The clever sales lady offered her a fat orange balloon, and I swear she didn't let go of that thing for the rest of the day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56V1o3f0ztN9imGBvUdyfJVVMIoSrC9qu6QT8hqKIvSA6vLdFHCJk-U6IrQIOL8nFLj3kttm36DkWXPahMVv0fv6qtgT_r7JtQSzifqBvvHYHDMbb1dQ04uKdne3kyZ6TDQD1RHfQmLg/s1600/miabathballoon.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549951867606266370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56V1o3f0ztN9imGBvUdyfJVVMIoSrC9qu6QT8hqKIvSA6vLdFHCJk-U6IrQIOL8nFLj3kttm36DkWXPahMVv0fv6qtgT_r7JtQSzifqBvvHYHDMbb1dQ04uKdne3kyZ6TDQD1RHfQmLg/s400/miabathballoon.jpg" /></a><br />Speaking of baths, we finally graduated to the real tub. I had to go buy a new hooded towel because Mia is too tall for baby towels. I let her choose which animal she wanted, and much to Chickenbone's disappointment, she settled on the pink kitty-cat. (Look close at this kissing picture and notice mom getting the full-on French-a-roo. I swear I'll cry the day she learns how to do a real kiss, because the slobbery tongue thing is, to my surprise, off-the-charts adorable.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgAbRemrR4iGue2QOYQrZK6hmvof_eO2A-xNwjL0_vwenke2612_oPJUrreFEowqf1A-Fwa-fxtcIJXdydVgk8NvdBd3jreRTbqxC4Nt89M3aQBsbcE3KxA2mzM7cqu0bXawhmfEpqhs/s1600/miakiss.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542228129540977010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgAbRemrR4iGue2QOYQrZK6hmvof_eO2A-xNwjL0_vwenke2612_oPJUrreFEowqf1A-Fwa-fxtcIJXdydVgk8NvdBd3jreRTbqxC4Nt89M3aQBsbcE3KxA2mzM7cqu0bXawhmfEpqhs/s400/miakiss.jpg" /></a><br />But guess who REALLY loves that Mia kisses with an open mouth. (In fact, we're pretty convinced it was Chickens who taught her to kiss that way to begin with. Hopefully he'll leave the potty training to us! HA! HAHAHA! Just a little dog-bladder-expressing humor. Don't mind me!)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNvMdpR3vb7-59oHD_xfidlY-jh9scyhcLGjiZMp07hPDtxS1d-0-JPtXTEPxGnmBOEVHdwXRpMc15YwKgcxZOnEBDwzf3dF5C2SJp-NYrknxTMmobZNX7j0hUEhPrEk3nzn73RYLLs4/s1600/miachxkiss.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549943163763589330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNvMdpR3vb7-59oHD_xfidlY-jh9scyhcLGjiZMp07hPDtxS1d-0-JPtXTEPxGnmBOEVHdwXRpMc15YwKgcxZOnEBDwzf3dF5C2SJp-NYrknxTMmobZNX7j0hUEhPrEk3nzn73RYLLs4/s400/miachxkiss.jpg" /></a><br />On Halloween, a little dog came to visit!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Q-G4fzd4SpDk4BfpOpziBUMkTYKGpCq-SxaRlTsTnD630_TDhw3vEtKFUlkYOEh3j_WdIJpigsRX3a2i_YdyxqxuA5ECwYyChFIckQTZKc9nXliy5oNeodXD9TTzyK17i5ksa7mSAgA/s1600/miahalloween.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542227617966858930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Q-G4fzd4SpDk4BfpOpziBUMkTYKGpCq-SxaRlTsTnD630_TDhw3vEtKFUlkYOEh3j_WdIJpigsRX3a2i_YdyxqxuA5ECwYyChFIckQTZKc9nXliy5oNeodXD9TTzyK17i5ksa7mSAgA/s400/miahalloween.jpg" /></a><br />One of Mia's favorite "toys" is this cardboard box of junk. Lids, bowls, cups and various other bits of kitchen things that she can bang together to her heart's content. Recently a blue and gold SJSU pom-pom made it into the mix as well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXxNs82LAUdpjHyClUZjbp2mIAjiZZYBliHeYisVSD1Ht1rHBnIQ1y3oOIwPFccNkisLE9FpsiSHgbKdCLw_nmAtpfh5T-lsgN10BjaoOl2F1T1EgY1Om0CI-A94UEsvePuhyetw8xZ0/s1600/miaskitchen.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549959084730487730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXxNs82LAUdpjHyClUZjbp2mIAjiZZYBliHeYisVSD1Ht1rHBnIQ1y3oOIwPFccNkisLE9FpsiSHgbKdCLw_nmAtpfh5T-lsgN10BjaoOl2F1T1EgY1Om0CI-A94UEsvePuhyetw8xZ0/s400/miaskitchen.jpg" /></a><br />The box also contains Mardi Gras beads - I can always tell when she has put them on because the thump-thump-thump of her crawling on the hardwood floor turns to thump-<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">rattle</span>-thump-<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">rattle</span>-thump-<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">rattle</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMSM2h0HUWb0yyjYS1h4j0_rNoOKVaVrEXwT6z00-tCetdPiBTE5JX8MNOtcxC8ZTRy9MVttlk6aHhyX_Oy2zuYJsp9a5VBMdFPW0paF8x8AObIQ_Zt2TMA3UNJO6h5jSyjEjWrEasI8/s1600/miamardigras.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549945410022096018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMSM2h0HUWb0yyjYS1h4j0_rNoOKVaVrEXwT6z00-tCetdPiBTE5JX8MNOtcxC8ZTRy9MVttlk6aHhyX_Oy2zuYJsp9a5VBMdFPW0paF8x8AObIQ_Zt2TMA3UNJO6h5jSyjEjWrEasI8/s400/miamardigras.jpg" /></a><br />Here's the day Mia crawled into the dog's cage to see what the big deal is. When Chickens is inside, she loves to smash her face up against the bars so he can kiss her. I did not see him leaping up to return this favor when the roles were reversed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZj69AQz-eCdmOXeWIbI_QggRKl6dw0hfzps5HA9Abs1WZQKhHWC2tOa42npIp_sHecxohahIfZhyphenhyphen6i8RvopoI4hVbQvJw04uimRg1ZqZjNyzkmzzDfKd6LkkBAeQcZ4mWr5KkUet1HM/s1600/miadogcage.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549944373548230674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZj69AQz-eCdmOXeWIbI_QggRKl6dw0hfzps5HA9Abs1WZQKhHWC2tOa42npIp_sHecxohahIfZhyphenhyphen6i8RvopoI4hVbQvJw04uimRg1ZqZjNyzkmzzDfKd6LkkBAeQcZ4mWr5KkUet1HM/s400/miadogcage.jpg" /></a><br />Mia's starting to get a pretty good sense of humor. I don't know how she knows it's hilarious to put things on your head, but almost every meal ends with her doing this and cracking herself up. And she's right - comedy gold, I say!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PbXdjcQZTeAiyu1burH9Wcq-0ZZipU5UiR1FakFiCVFW7D6CNY-FSr4HGySNsD-3Vlc0Q0aFIs52d56LYpMRit1GqDliP1rTKaSETRuC-pw8Qw-l1zx0LAZWYfBlqHtYkjUFh6RJDGU/s1600/miabowlhead.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549941874731760434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PbXdjcQZTeAiyu1burH9Wcq-0ZZipU5UiR1FakFiCVFW7D6CNY-FSr4HGySNsD-3Vlc0Q0aFIs52d56LYpMRit1GqDliP1rTKaSETRuC-pw8Qw-l1zx0LAZWYfBlqHtYkjUFh6RJDGU/s400/miabowlhead.jpg" /></a><br />In other news, she is almost a walker. First steps have been taken (on a day mom and dad were off, so we were her two-person cheering section) and every day she strings together a few more steps. She only crawls when she wants to be a hell of a lot faster than that - which is most of the time. She has six teeth. She knows how to sign "pig," "cat," "dog" and "horse," and in her picture books she can identify the banana, the airplane, the boy and the kitty-cat. Looking forward to a Christmas with her where she actually knows what's going on, and I'm sure we'll visit Santa real soon. That could easily go one of two ways. Mia loves new people, especially when they are jolly, so it could be fine. But plopping her on the lap of a crazy-looking man and then backing away to snap some pictures, I can also see it ending in back-arching get-me-outta-here hysterics. I suppose as long as she doesn't try to french him, it'll be OK.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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He immediately felt sorry about doing it - he was just in pain, and that's how dogs in pain react. We know this from too much experience.<br /><br />I tossed a soft blanket over him and lowered him to the floor. (See? Experience.) Then Sal and I sat there staring at him in silence for a few minutes, until I said, OK, I'm going to put the baby to bed. And then we'll figure out what to do. I went back into the bedroom and was rocking Mia in the dark when Sal opened the door and said, "Stop what you're doing."<br /><br />He said <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Chickenbone's</span> back leg had gone out from under him when he tried to stand up. And his chin was quivering, just like it was <a href="http://chickenbonejones.blogspot.com/2009/11/pulling-for-chickens.html">that night</a> in November when he went paralyzed. So, we loaded up the whole family and made our way to the animal hospital ER.<br /><br />Did you know a baby can totally stay up till after midnight, an go nine straight hours without a nap, without totally melting down? Ours can, at least. That's how long we were out dealing with this, no thanks to a particularly busy night at the hospital. So busy, in fact, that after we had spent the better part of an hour waiting there, they urged us to go across town to their sister hospital where there was no wait. (A dying cat and two other patients were in front of us and it was going to be a good long while before they got to Chickens.) So! We loaded up the whole family and made our way to another animal hospital ER.<br /><br />There a vet finally examined Chickens. He said it was tough for him to know exactly how much deterioration there had been - after all, Chickens wasn't neurologically normal to begin with, so our observations were all he had to go on. And he said that if we sensed a problem, then there's a problem.<br /><br />I was stunned. And numb. We had done EVERYTHING to make sure this could never happen again. We kicked him off all furniture. We built the stupid ramp. We practically destroyed our back door to create an easy walkway for him to get in and out of the house without extra effort. How could we possible be here again? But the vet pointed out that people can throw out their back with a sneeze. It's not like Chickens needed to have some big accident for this to happen - it can just happen.<br /><br />Now, it's not nearly as bad as it was last time. He isn't paralyzed, and he has deep-pain sensation. He's just very, very weak, and as we know, it's a quick slide to the worst-case scenario. The vet gave Chickens steroids and pain medication, and then said the two words I dreaded most: crate rest. Ten days of being in his cage around the clock, except for potty breaks. I wanted to throw up. We barely survived that the first time, back when both mom and dad were on leave and our daughter was a tiny newborn who slept through most anything. But what is our option? There isn't one. This is the only way to give his back time to heal, and hopefully avoid another disk rupture that only surgery will fix.<br /><br />At the moment, I'm surprisingly calm about all this. I'm keeping the panic at bay by thinking about how it isn't EXACTLY like the nightmare we had last winter. After all, it's not like we're putting post-op Chickens in the crate, with the staples in his back and all the drugs making him crazy. We don't have the stress of learning how to express a bladder. It's only 10 days, not two months. And when I was reading the paper this morning, I saw the obituaries page and thought, those people are dead! That's WAY worse than what we're going through!<br /><br />So, it's day one of 10. Right now Chickens is in his cage resting quietly. He's actually a little too quiet - I think we'd all feel better if he were good and pissed off about being caged up. That would be like his old, feisty self. But right now he seems lethargic and depressed. Think a happy thought for him, would you? Maybe one for the rest of us, too.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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Mia drew some laughs during the ceremony when she stuck the priest's hand in her mouth, and she was a very good sport despite wearing a giant cream-puff gown in the sticky June heat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfjpivhKzkZMDbVKr4Rkr-KHIBPFSa6oMDzEY9SqXcgCp97cAO_w5Ik0ntO5LgyyqjDO85_fIizLpOF9l0CLz91Zs93bxrvrQ2UAYsN7GCsbUfqHV94bvSd4wSHZn280N2vSX_W9MGC8/s1600/miamombaptism.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfjpivhKzkZMDbVKr4Rkr-KHIBPFSa6oMDzEY9SqXcgCp97cAO_w5Ik0ntO5LgyyqjDO85_fIizLpOF9l0CLz91Zs93bxrvrQ2UAYsN7GCsbUfqHV94bvSd4wSHZn280N2vSX_W9MGC8/s400/miamombaptism.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497701085350668114" border="0" /></a><br />After the baptism we enjoyed a delicious lunch at <a href="http://www.ilfornaio.com/">Il Fornaio</a>, where Mia bonded with her new godmother by munching on her jewelry. (See a theme here?)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8OEwd0eerJBF5ka5Nk8Jak_s9wnfA31fvSA4aTwT_PPzNIVyXjioRji4onPGqweZCdIzj22hT7hnC0J641jIQpnmIWiBsFZq75MgAsVAai0xt8cxAGu4bstkHtBYeaXga9R5-7LRljY/s1600/miaheatherbaptism.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8OEwd0eerJBF5ka5Nk8Jak_s9wnfA31fvSA4aTwT_PPzNIVyXjioRji4onPGqweZCdIzj22hT7hnC0J641jIQpnmIWiBsFZq75MgAsVAai0xt8cxAGu4bstkHtBYeaXga9R5-7LRljY/s400/miaheatherbaptism.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497700572047274610" border="0" /></a><br />We had our bottles, Mia had hers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5OvDs-S1F4h_7VlilyqqTUEaiY5rMxsKbOjWljBtv6i34g8RtJgX3KGm1F3_flGQtmlCtcRqwzbfLoAH10SAznkpF7P5qN9ZD-yBzWEhFFRWDQcxfflDJgV0r-qkME6cQUtI19LSjg8/s1600/miabottlebaptism.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5OvDs-S1F4h_7VlilyqqTUEaiY5rMxsKbOjWljBtv6i34g8RtJgX3KGm1F3_flGQtmlCtcRqwzbfLoAH10SAznkpF7P5qN9ZD-yBzWEhFFRWDQcxfflDJgV0r-qkME6cQUtI19LSjg8/s400/miabottlebaptism.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497700067538797410" border="0" /></a><br />Also in June we took two weeks of swim lessons, with our good pals <a href="http://thesuckerspot.blogspot.com/">Amy G. and Sofia</a>. Mia and Sofia were the only babies at the pool, so they were a real hit with everyone. We even had one mom tell us she forgot to watch her own kids because ours were so cute! I think you will agree.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51CHUvYKpBQ5hQSyJCs99tIuaXFr4sGXWjedqEmSKps79AbtS8R1rm_D6bcXkMKyiBOsT9NV5gvea-liLbnUhFp8mZgoppQ4c_h59MfgRXg3RW_YR8FNDdWBu2dLmlSNwK60S2fUpLc0/s1600/miasofiaswimming.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51CHUvYKpBQ5hQSyJCs99tIuaXFr4sGXWjedqEmSKps79AbtS8R1rm_D6bcXkMKyiBOsT9NV5gvea-liLbnUhFp8mZgoppQ4c_h59MfgRXg3RW_YR8FNDdWBu2dLmlSNwK60S2fUpLc0/s400/miasofiaswimming.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497702522070356066" border="0" /></a><br />Mia took to the pool like a champ, enduring regular dunks, water in the face and lots of kicks and splashes. Most of our time was spent passing her back and forth between me and her teacher, fully submerged in the water, which gave me regular heart attacks. But I adjusted.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRq0nCXPFSHFaKxkdPu4Kr5PMFAm9seLQcskJMP0AOhPaUHXeQm6hja1O7vmrNKSh5YG1i8ZRRTIdxYrYOZrLR0xNuZ3HwupGD9WsXUEVFQgPKx862MRlcmagFJTFC0FRay28a6BksJtM/s1600/miaswimming.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRq0nCXPFSHFaKxkdPu4Kr5PMFAm9seLQcskJMP0AOhPaUHXeQm6hja1O7vmrNKSh5YG1i8ZRRTIdxYrYOZrLR0xNuZ3HwupGD9WsXUEVFQgPKx862MRlcmagFJTFC0FRay28a6BksJtM/s400/miaswimming.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497701913574810802" border="0" /></a><br />The best part, each dip in the water ended up in a real tight hug for mom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3Ncd3Ax7qDbhOy8JcTRFf4RNMZxyFYo3xZsQZQnC3z88Sv1PdoT2biJ2htSMECiK-yQXrPpw5N8_Vr2O1c8GbkZFavjmgW1V6MA3qLYvEyXIR5SupC6Ztxii3ApJFfgT0kQfFIAlBXQ/s1600/miaswimminghug.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3Ncd3Ax7qDbhOy8JcTRFf4RNMZxyFYo3xZsQZQnC3z88Sv1PdoT2biJ2htSMECiK-yQXrPpw5N8_Vr2O1c8GbkZFavjmgW1V6MA3qLYvEyXIR5SupC6Ztxii3ApJFfgT0kQfFIAlBXQ/s400/miaswimminghug.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497703169202043266" border="0" /></a><br />We went to work with dad! Sal's job takes him to lots of community events, and in the summer it's easy for us to tag along. We enjoyed a fine night out at the Valley of Heart's Delight fundraiser for <a href="http://www.historysanjose.org/index.php">History San Jose</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IQkXnpgw_AvJnKdxOVlnT-GBJJFbwfYjk-xwtFFX2LrS_Pw8YMhOFtCgD4d5yml3MA7Rd0B8kWsfyHeNoafU8-aFKJ41zKiC4udZm2vdXr9NU1KHRUW1BvE43GKVIYiXR9VK9dWEmuY/s1600/miadadvohd.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IQkXnpgw_AvJnKdxOVlnT-GBJJFbwfYjk-xwtFFX2LrS_Pw8YMhOFtCgD4d5yml3MA7Rd0B8kWsfyHeNoafU8-aFKJ41zKiC4udZm2vdXr9NU1KHRUW1BvE43GKVIYiXR9VK9dWEmuY/s400/miadadvohd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497704406165424370" border="0" /></a><br />We were joined at our table by KRTY morning show host Gary Scott Thomas, his wife Heather, and their son, Luke. Mia gets a real charge out of seeing other babies. She even tried to hold Luke's hand. Hussy!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0vR6wEo5yS3TMgiLrEh1lEv2dk6BkBdjXYa_-qg6WA6f2AL0_-P3O2r6ZD63Vl43KjRs48eGzVaProl8456IiuYup-iQoziSzNhuHbcjnmlw729-Ht1F7UJBRTGiLauqzr87Xj3AbvA/s1600/mialukevohd.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0vR6wEo5yS3TMgiLrEh1lEv2dk6BkBdjXYa_-qg6WA6f2AL0_-P3O2r6ZD63Vl43KjRs48eGzVaProl8456IiuYup-iQoziSzNhuHbcjnmlw729-Ht1F7UJBRTGiLauqzr87Xj3AbvA/s400/mialukevohd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497704143771791778" border="0" /></a><br />In July my dream of going out of town for a little break finally came true, and we made our first trip to Santa Barbara with our baby. Traveling with a baby is ... well, it's not the vacation we used to have, that's for sure. Navigating naps and feedings while being out and about all day, trying to find places to accommodate your giant stroller, sharing a hotel room with a baby ... all that adds an undercurrent of stress that we didn't anticipate. But we had a fine time, anyhow.<br /><br />We took Mia for her first zoo visit!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_8CUwyAii2Pa_Ffvju-zX_FBsPjCm5phyphenhyphentVtNrK7RghRkraMVwOr4-0gZR8hNbGhtzoQfIEFxleTFrzTe3AU1jIann05-SkmAagwOvaG3n8R-bmP5Aulmp4CsqKYKKNgSIyPNJuf7Cc/s1600/miaelephant.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_8CUwyAii2Pa_Ffvju-zX_FBsPjCm5phyphenhyphentVtNrK7RghRkraMVwOr4-0gZR8hNbGhtzoQfIEFxleTFrzTe3AU1jIann05-SkmAagwOvaG3n8R-bmP5Aulmp4CsqKYKKNgSIyPNJuf7Cc/s400/miaelephant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497704815765819538" border="0" /></a><br />We fed some lettuce to a giraffe!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKeAa7RIB0i5JrhJVRKrfLHHOzpS1rHeQPcBsaL8VFzrAhD2TDgJMQVtP1BdDQk4-4kZE7OTC6Fg0iVmdcsMF9U14s_ZKngF0IV-xYQX9eEZJTNlqjBDW6jw_5htWXkh6tsHECitGmhQ/s1600/miafeedgiraffe.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKeAa7RIB0i5JrhJVRKrfLHHOzpS1rHeQPcBsaL8VFzrAhD2TDgJMQVtP1BdDQk4-4kZE7OTC6Fg0iVmdcsMF9U14s_ZKngF0IV-xYQX9eEZJTNlqjBDW6jw_5htWXkh6tsHECitGmhQ/s400/miafeedgiraffe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497705610714929762" border="0" /></a><br />Though Mia seemed a lot more excited about the goats and sheep than the actual exotic animals. Maybe they reminded her of Chickens!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6iBhYe4DGInRE8S3vWXw8Skw3AD3jDW4_4VCrwU4I_7n_Ipln8HEv4YWjqyJceoHsc0lM-W9EZ7H5KjkYeVo5lv4lGYVSzwhdKTpCvIT_06e_sTo4ZNNPTa8-tcwAVj_1AlDVv_WZxE/s1600/miagoats.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6iBhYe4DGInRE8S3vWXw8Skw3AD3jDW4_4VCrwU4I_7n_Ipln8HEv4YWjqyJceoHsc0lM-W9EZ7H5KjkYeVo5lv4lGYVSzwhdKTpCvIT_06e_sTo4ZNNPTa8-tcwAVj_1AlDVv_WZxE/s400/miagoats.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497909536480010722" border="0" /></a><br />One of our new favorite Santa Barbara restaurants is <a href="http://www.thenaturalcafe.com/index.php">The Natural Cafe</a>, where Mia enjoyed her lunch of pita bread and hummus with a side of steamed vegetables. Sitting her outdoors by the railing was a stroke of brilliance on our part, since she used her adorable, messy grin to make friends with almost every single person who walked by. Free entertainment for baby gives mom and dad the rare leisurely meal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKIOgMaxsxwcYIuWTWJQ7dw978_b701F1Pq2rvpPkJA5KVw-c9otvyVbIVUhyphenhyphennwooiuCfPqyDzRcK4zSe1NmRIRygZXWXiFV2hB5c2z1j1hbFZ6HK7Zdy4lA1zy36qmkEiMdnI1LMZ9VU/s1600/mianaturalcafe.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKIOgMaxsxwcYIuWTWJQ7dw978_b701F1Pq2rvpPkJA5KVw-c9otvyVbIVUhyphenhyphennwooiuCfPqyDzRcK4zSe1NmRIRygZXWXiFV2hB5c2z1j1hbFZ6HK7Zdy4lA1zy36qmkEiMdnI1LMZ9VU/s400/mianaturalcafe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497706810670755954" border="0" /></a><br />We spent the World Cup final at <a href="http://www.barspace.tv/unionale//">Union Ale Brewing Company</a>. It was actually our second visit to the place, since it was close to our hotel, relatively baby-friendly, and filled with good beer and barbecue. Here's Mia and her dad. Notice the expert head-turn-gulp, a move every parent should know to maximize enjoyment of a drink while there's a baby in your lap.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfOLoL2TlLEArvxS-b8T_ti26cPxo4Q0MMiQdi5tBMp_0E8QI-n8oRnchYZj89QeuRRjGSUlQn74mhvcgZlq1HV99pPD-2fhvcAlH7ELjZLaULpb4Ix4fgvLccfa1Js9f-3RvGuMwlc0/s1600/miadadbar.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfOLoL2TlLEArvxS-b8T_ti26cPxo4Q0MMiQdi5tBMp_0E8QI-n8oRnchYZj89QeuRRjGSUlQn74mhvcgZlq1HV99pPD-2fhvcAlH7ELjZLaULpb4Ix4fgvLccfa1Js9f-3RvGuMwlc0/s400/miadadbar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497705986844804178" border="0" /></a><br />Though I brought a bag full of toys, my tube of Clinique sunblock was the only thing that kept Mia content. Kids!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxkBcscMT0vLpBt4WFrvPGZsIDzdYVMSBKGooHMW4BJUvwxZQ5cauFP0NJfCdOp4XO3MrVIReG2zPCQnDH1eBbtD6d_n4ETu-Ht0htEUvq2csdttFviGQJTI_EHIiQmMQBs5f7NIbHJs/s1600/miaworldcup.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxkBcscMT0vLpBt4WFrvPGZsIDzdYVMSBKGooHMW4BJUvwxZQ5cauFP0NJfCdOp4XO3MrVIReG2zPCQnDH1eBbtD6d_n4ETu-Ht0htEUvq2csdttFviGQJTI_EHIiQmMQBs5f7NIbHJs/s400/miaworldcup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497707672770198674" border="0" /></a><br />Our last outing was to Isla Vista, where we got <a href="http://www.freebirds.com/slow/home_slow.htm">our favorite burritos</a> and had a picnic in the park. See that weird little tongue curl thing Mia's doing? I don't know what that's about. She does it all the time. It's cute.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JjefQ0kQJpVP8WfCM8gD7qFMFdspcDCVXvMEXnFrd7kBhd1tTsFdT4sLU7VhcVbvEMmzjdc0Pv5WphVon79yPxAYPDTxpKKJT97UmZzmoFkyZFzXXSVAZF6lnjzSBcjimqoz0WyETrA/s1600/miapicnic.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JjefQ0kQJpVP8WfCM8gD7qFMFdspcDCVXvMEXnFrd7kBhd1tTsFdT4sLU7VhcVbvEMmzjdc0Pv5WphVon79yPxAYPDTxpKKJT97UmZzmoFkyZFzXXSVAZF6lnjzSBcjimqoz0WyETrA/s400/miapicnic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497707375586896690" border="0" /></a><br />Paparazzi shot.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQpjaDfu6c5NN6toyjDGmN0BtxDeE8Lt0Tt11VqYgu11iup1riQQPuRKhGJ514kx1ZxmOLaKdSohh3XMEnab0mwOTUuPVftaAfNWaKy3o1_FwahuInMOBBkTQatACR4mXVMbaEBNFH_s/s1600/miapaparazzi.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQpjaDfu6c5NN6toyjDGmN0BtxDeE8Lt0Tt11VqYgu11iup1riQQPuRKhGJ514kx1ZxmOLaKdSohh3XMEnab0mwOTUuPVftaAfNWaKy3o1_FwahuInMOBBkTQatACR4mXVMbaEBNFH_s/s400/miapaparazzi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497707029739618882" border="0" /></a><br />And now here we are, staring August square in the face. In a couple of weeks school starts back up, and I go back to the full-time grind. But I'm not going to worry about that now, since today we're going to a barbecue and an outdoor concert. There's a little bit of summering left to be done!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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For instance, Mia loves to clap!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vnCnE9UWgrRQBA7vz065MY-jDtIb_kfdvaxFWuouC62qs7DTcUE_y9tNCGIqNuiUcip9DN8gwZc1YpQP3SqSUBn6-vWgs6SiOSg5A97phvWelGFnr1M9xrscS47USAGRdSfuwa6QkH8/s1600/miaclaps.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vnCnE9UWgrRQBA7vz065MY-jDtIb_kfdvaxFWuouC62qs7DTcUE_y9tNCGIqNuiUcip9DN8gwZc1YpQP3SqSUBn6-vWgs6SiOSg5A97phvWelGFnr1M9xrscS47USAGRdSfuwa6QkH8/s400/miaclaps.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486947107314773842" border="0" /></a><br />She also loves to blow raspberries. She has in fact livened up many a car ride by making fart noises in the backseat for miles on end.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwAMLoRMi04TmgoA4zbSdNn0nAIARnBVjpZdBMvmgLrKjL-dklTz84n8ZJpGjzjcIwhxycXm11vX7tCD3UWSAyt9qldcDIKEZmUNaz9PcQO3On_TB3dRvVgeX5AYlmWEoMSMWGkgtAAm0/s1600/miaraspberry.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwAMLoRMi04TmgoA4zbSdNn0nAIARnBVjpZdBMvmgLrKjL-dklTz84n8ZJpGjzjcIwhxycXm11vX7tCD3UWSAyt9qldcDIKEZmUNaz9PcQO3On_TB3dRvVgeX5AYlmWEoMSMWGkgtAAm0/s400/miaraspberry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486948607206209426" border="0" /></a><br />Mia loves to gnaw, slurp and suck on anything you put in front of her. Or under her. Like this chair.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzOmWQOBpUhFomnGD11FaB0jf0dvwV8zKaNqSXIq1dMWmqrc2dfCyq9YzJdcgLgRTyVHsQfZW77GwaTQutAaWzR7dqnbJh5UGo5rXH0DWPFXkzYajA7youmc1rmUkRvzSq453shyphenhyphenTJh_k/s1600/miaeatschair.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzOmWQOBpUhFomnGD11FaB0jf0dvwV8zKaNqSXIq1dMWmqrc2dfCyq9YzJdcgLgRTyVHsQfZW77GwaTQutAaWzR7dqnbJh5UGo5rXH0DWPFXkzYajA7youmc1rmUkRvzSq453shyphenhyphenTJh_k/s400/miaeatschair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486948118699510994" border="0" /></a><br />She also loves to laugh at her mom, who is making silly sounds from behind the camera.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVn8_U0-H40tBTuZ0jpFUCc-EEBg_FbWrzxjSxkGu3nK0YhuxRoCrFhQ6FYarpWRLTRJvctUkDgMt3RUhCttqQrYWrIZ2VYArhTpZ6kW_irkg6ijEtbeHXuEOom5qbKwPdec3JBFKw6ao/s1600/mialaughs.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVn8_U0-H40tBTuZ0jpFUCc-EEBg_FbWrzxjSxkGu3nK0YhuxRoCrFhQ6FYarpWRLTRJvctUkDgMt3RUhCttqQrYWrIZ2VYArhTpZ6kW_irkg6ijEtbeHXuEOom5qbKwPdec3JBFKw6ao/s400/mialaughs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486947877598756402" border="0" /></a><br />Our Mia. God, but she's a charmer. Of all the milestones and new tricks and skills and habits, the most distinguishing thing about my daughter is that wherever she goes, she forces people to adore her.<br /><br />Here is a scenario I have seen dozens of times. We go to a restaurant. From her perch - be it car seat, high chair or our arms - she scans nearby tables to pick her first target. When she has settled on someone, she stares at them intently. Without blinking. Without flinching. She patiently bores her eyes into her prey, craning her neck to catch their gaze, to the point that I am almost embarrassed - like, hey, kid? That's kinda rude to stare at people that way, did nobody tell you?!<br /><br />When the person finally notices that strange baby staring at them, that's when Mia flips the switch. All of a sudden the catatonic stare melts into batting eyelashes, hands tucked coyly under her chin, and squeals and giggles and a thousand-watt grin. Predictably, the target begins to coo and smile and say over and over again how PRETTY that baby is, how FRIENDLY she is. And would you look at that SMILE? And those EYES!<br /><br />And at this point, once she has reeled them in, do you know what this child does? She moves on TO THE NEXT PERSON. I'm not kidding, I have literally seen her tackle four tables in one meal. And of course, as we're leaving, she flashes a friendly grin at each of her new pals. But I just know that in her head, she's thinking, "Hahaha! GOTCHA, suckas!"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMkDFDXM8EDt95XTmEhMu9wnsG5XD4qkU7gk5A6rQMX4YKTXbTtQkYYtTUBCoNm7vnLzs02JBV-Mj8jYrwQkuxPhQ9_9423OA8nnnKeD7AqiZdmrYSLrG-4xdG3ngv5X3marromQerrs/s1600/miasuckas.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMkDFDXM8EDt95XTmEhMu9wnsG5XD4qkU7gk5A6rQMX4YKTXbTtQkYYtTUBCoNm7vnLzs02JBV-Mj8jYrwQkuxPhQ9_9423OA8nnnKeD7AqiZdmrYSLrG-4xdG3ngv5X3marromQerrs/s400/miasuckas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486958454159467538" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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But after Mia and I fell asleep in the darkened room, he kept himself awake for hours by reading a book near the glow of the laptop screen. He wanted Mia and I to rest, but he also wanted to be alert in case we needed him.<br /><br />The next day, he dashed home to tidy up the house because he knew I would hate bringing Mia home to the mess we left when I went into labor. He even made me that awesome banner that made me burst into tears when we walked in the door! Remember?!<br /><br /><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Y7M3jb9F7UeF4CBkfDtHBjGI-QHqa4lQgsPtxTsJCOcrnb75UuVRWJkG2bUKzx3t6ueJt1rsiiH1r6ZUrG8WhqbBD99rwHahOU7GM8GPVVQ2secLjq5p00aP_qoDeXlf4wAtWBAdTnY/s1600/salsign.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485456927654246306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Y7M3jb9F7UeF4CBkfDtHBjGI-QHqa4lQgsPtxTsJCOcrnb75UuVRWJkG2bUKzx3t6ueJt1rsiiH1r6ZUrG8WhqbBD99rwHahOU7GM8GPVVQ2secLjq5p00aP_qoDeXlf4wAtWBAdTnY/s400/salsign.jpg" /></a><br />For the first month after Mia was born, Sal kept the household running smooth as clockwork, buying groceries and cooking delicious healthy meals, washing dishes, clothes and countertops. He made it so that the only thing I had to worry about was taking care of Mia.<br /><br />Then one night our new family got sucker-punched right in its happy little face. At around 2 a.m., I got up to feed the baby and discovered Chickens sitting alone in the dark nursery, not moving and looking very frightened. When we touched him, he yelped and cried. And his back legs were very weak. We rushed him to an emergency vet clinic, where they gave him fluids and immobilized him in a crate. But his paralysis grew worse by the hour until he had no sensation or movement in his back legs at all. At 11 a.m. the next day, we consented to a costly and invasive spinal surgery. And over the next several months, as you likely read here, we helped Chickens recover from that horrible injury.<br /><br />Except it wasn't so much "we" as "he." After Chickens came home from the hospital, most of the family pretty much fell apart. Mia was spiraling into her 6-weeks-long colicky phase, and Chickens barked and cried around the clock over being confined to his crate. And me, I was a hormonal, sleep-deprived disaster.<br /><br />But my husband, he doesn't fall apart. Not ever. He stayed calm and reassuring, handling the post-op Chickens with endless patience and love. When Chickens stopped eating because his pain meds were making him feel sick, Sal gently coaxed him to eat grains of rice from his hand. To keep Chickens from crying all night, he slept on the couch for weeks and weeks - and even spent a couple naps on the floor beside the cage. Sal also kept me from going to pieces, taking plenty of shifts with screaming Mia, figuring out how we'd pay for the surgery, and reminding me over and over again of tiny signs of hope we saw that Chickens would someday walk again. </p><p>He is our family's very own superhero, and we could not have done this without him.</p><p>So! Even though he is now the father of an actual human child, I wanted to get him something special from Chickens. I commissioned a portrait of him from watercolor artist <a href="http://www.rachaelrossman.com/">Rachael Rossman</a>, whom I learned about from <a href="http://www.dooce.com/daily-style/2008/09/04/watercolor-painting-chuck">this post</a> on Dooce. Rachael used pictures from this blog as her inspiration, and I think you'll agree that the piece turned out beautifully. </p><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVS8MUn27fUGpAvHhGUYf83em0lzxIS3Bq4j3gNZ1WL4ctz4H-Px2at53ZtoH5K9F0Shxf4rAZ1eLLpz1Bwy2T67ZYQKQvmUoDqD4kI8d8-zHwWof9SjRt-azWkRenkL7ib6TjUnTYKu4/s1600/chickenbone+copy.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 283px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485589250902344210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVS8MUn27fUGpAvHhGUYf83em0lzxIS3Bq4j3gNZ1WL4ctz4H-Px2at53ZtoH5K9F0Shxf4rAZ1eLLpz1Bwy2T67ZYQKQvmUoDqD4kI8d8-zHwWof9SjRt-azWkRenkL7ib6TjUnTYKu4/s400/chickenbone+copy.jpg" /></a><br />My dad likes to say that Chickens often looks like he's feeling concerned about you, and I think Rachael totally captured that. And also, of course, his natural movie-star handsomeness.<br /><br />But the story doesn't end there, as many of you already know. The artist told me she was thinking about entering Chickenbone's portrait into the 2010 Dog Art Wine Label Contest sponsored by <a href="http://www.muttlynchwinery.com/muttlynch/index.jsp">Mutt Lynch Winery</a> and <a href="http://dreamdogsart.typepad.com/">Dog Art Today</a>, and would I be OK with that? (Answer: "Uh, OF-FREAKING-COURSE I WOULD!") So she asked readers of her blog to decide which of <a href="http://www.rachaelrossman.com/2010/05/01/help-a-girl-decide-already/">three portraits</a> she should enter. I secretly reached out to friends, family, colleagues and even my online moms group, and everybody flooded the site with votes for Chickens, making him one of <a href="http://dreamdogsart.typepad.com/art/2010/05/vote-now-for-the-2010-mutt-lynch-winery-dog-art-today-wine-label-contest.html">77 contestants</a> in the contest. Again, the vote was thrown out to the masses, and again, my peeps came through, launching Chickens into the <a href="http://dreamdogsart.typepad.com/art/2010/05/top-ten-mutt-lynch-winery-dog-art-today-2010-finalists.html">top 10</a> finalist group. Thrilling! </p><p>Then the winemaker and founder of Dog Art Today picked the winner, and it was <a href="http://dreamdogsart.typepad.com/art/2010/05/kimberly-kelly-santini-wins-2010-mutt-lynch-winery-dog-art-today-contest.html">not Chickenbone</a>. Still, it was loads of fun to finally be able to tell Sal this whole story on Sunday. And I think - I hope - that all this made him feel as loved and appreciated as he is. For being a rookie dad, he is damned good at it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzXAKaVBc5EQn5dQUfvzb832lLkmSC-nhRp6nUVmhLBQM29MaUeOFQb7V2bDCUhyYNwuxsjypX4AcnmjEri-HWL3-Ujqi2ZfkMMJwrkTAkvEYhbmFsNmu5UejFODza9neA3I587qP1sA/s1600/dadandmia.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485583233942230130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzXAKaVBc5EQn5dQUfvzb832lLkmSC-nhRp6nUVmhLBQM29MaUeOFQb7V2bDCUhyYNwuxsjypX4AcnmjEri-HWL3-Ujqi2ZfkMMJwrkTAkvEYhbmFsNmu5UejFODza9neA3I587qP1sA/s400/dadandmia.jpg" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPhmflsBRSBWvNObKh3f8l50m_Q-yD-B17tQi9DpZELh9UCG5ChbU39WmWw6ITUIKtmie5phddRcOSD-7f8VuqiLKlowquObwe2XJVoA9rLSiUKF5PbQz6lCGv-8YHTZfeTnbCaQRB2A/s1600/dadandson.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485583845654383250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPhmflsBRSBWvNObKh3f8l50m_Q-yD-B17tQi9DpZELh9UCG5ChbU39WmWw6ITUIKtmie5phddRcOSD-7f8VuqiLKlowquObwe2XJVoA9rLSiUKF5PbQz6lCGv-8YHTZfeTnbCaQRB2A/s400/dadandson.jpg" /></a></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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To someone who adores cooking and eating good food, that just doesn't sound like a hearty, delicious meal.<br /><br />Well, one day I was perusing the message board of my online moms group and I saw someone wondering why we have to do all those bland cereals and purees. Couldn't we just feed our babies real, healthy food? Another mom replied: "What you're talking about is called baby-led weaning, and yes, you can totally do that."<br /><br />I perked up.<br /><br />I started doing some research and learned that baby-led weaning bypasses the entire purees stage and goes directly to finger foods - large chunks of soft, healthy stuff that the baby handles all on their own. With this method, you never put food into your baby's mouth. Instead, she learns to feed herself and controls when, what and how much she eats. I grew very excited about this idea and ordered <a href="http://www.rapleyweaning.com/blwbook.php">this book</a>. It is an excellent and quick read, and when I finished it I knew this was the right thing for us.<br /><br />Here are just a few of the benefits of baby-led weaning:<br /><ul><li>The baby can eat what everyone else is eating, provided you are a healthy eater. You save money, and you know exactly what's in their food.</li><li>The whole family can eat at the same time, instead of mom or dad feeding the baby, and then parents eat later.</li><li>Because BLW babies control their own intake, you avoid mealtime struggles to get them to eat. The book also says BLW babies often have better relationships with food when they get older.</li><li>Baby-led weaning is fun! Your baby learns about the different textures, colors and flavors of food, and - the book says - is more likely to eat a wide variety of foods as an adult. </li></ul>Finally, I was terribly excited about my baby having something other than breastmilk. And the week she turned six months old, Mia ate her first real food:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhD101-NPhIGF1myAgb5WHtM_CxHUffWlxNXokZXRw4WBaXKmqZC-0n0C-6IqqIc5O6kDmsfgMK8Voz_9pENo64x4g9mtCrNdqtXwoXLL0lJT-IqBCZqvIY9ARXm5BnmkrWJynC-KSPIU/s1600/miafirstmeal.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhD101-NPhIGF1myAgb5WHtM_CxHUffWlxNXokZXRw4WBaXKmqZC-0n0C-6IqqIc5O6kDmsfgMK8Voz_9pENo64x4g9mtCrNdqtXwoXLL0lJT-IqBCZqvIY9ARXm5BnmkrWJynC-KSPIU/s400/miafirstmeal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482107679348240482" border="0" /></a><br />Avocado is a popular first finger food because it's rich in healthy fats and nutrients. (We'll introduce chips and tequila at a later date.) It was served alongside a spear of baked sweet potato sprinkled with a bit of cinnamon.<br /><br />Since breastmilk or formula should be the main source of nutrition until a baby is one year old, the first months of baby-led weaning are about exploring and having fun. We have one meal a day (right before the bath, and you'll soon see why). "Dinner" falls between her normal milk feedings, so she's still getting all the daily nutrition she needs, and I don't have to worry about how much food actually makes it down the trap. Which is good, since most of it gets played with, but not necessarily eaten.<br /><br />Here's Mia squishing and smashing her first meal. (Rookie parents forgot to put a bib on her - boy, you only make that mistake once!)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg34Fvkz1jadpqlRaCIEOtyXKslMX6K2KP3foipWH5zpC1ZsLxLm8wcpWe9kSrV6E6P7D6lQ6r9rlnnKvWXL9jZbrOKpzMo6oIr9lFIdFKgOY0IHkkQEnTIuzJoXi36z-afZe-XU5CQAig/s1600/miaplayfood.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg34Fvkz1jadpqlRaCIEOtyXKslMX6K2KP3foipWH5zpC1ZsLxLm8wcpWe9kSrV6E6P7D6lQ6r9rlnnKvWXL9jZbrOKpzMo6oIr9lFIdFKgOY0IHkkQEnTIuzJoXi36z-afZe-XU5CQAig/s400/miaplayfood.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482108282547196786" border="0" /></a><br />At first she mostly just sucked on the food, and seemed surprised when it started to come apart in her mouth. But within a week or two she learned to make deliberate chomping motions with her jaw to chew things up. She doesn't have any teeth yet, but that doesn't matter. Babies don't use their front teeth to chew food anyway, and she can do plenty of mashing with just her gums.<br /><br />We soon moved on to steamed carrots and broccoli. Man, this kid is nuts about her broccoli.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnd-JFCCp6Le3UP4Ot1Qeeztsm4-4gSBGci1RhBwRN4rr-z8785mpuDd7jmtpCD8QERfT8J7aA3kMjo1wy8vnvBQE5iLaSqSNausHxbU3RFNj74IrzsN3-iMwD35kipZx78YziA-0eFe0/s1600/miabroccoli.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnd-JFCCp6Le3UP4Ot1Qeeztsm4-4gSBGci1RhBwRN4rr-z8785mpuDd7jmtpCD8QERfT8J7aA3kMjo1wy8vnvBQE5iLaSqSNausHxbU3RFNj74IrzsN3-iMwD35kipZx78YziA-0eFe0/s400/miabroccoli.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482109742526299954" border="0" /></a><br />One day I got a carton of gigantic organic strawberries in my weekly <a href="http://www.bluemoonorganicsfarm.com/index.html">CSA delivery</a>, so I washed one off and handed it to her. Do you know how cool it is to witness the first time a person tastes a plump, delicious strawberry? She sank her gums into the fruit and froze, her eyes wide as saucers as the juice streamed down her chin. Then she worked on that thing for a good 20 minutes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwFwELnMCkH5CPhJ-vkv9EngIGlG87zhLxzsWQj269jfYkmwFkaeJBZ3wCZtEoignzXOevgx2C7J1C992Cx1r_MKtnT6YH7UnJqZpfUKbJbnyJD25GaMTTVlTgQL973Fz0fFckXvxqyk/s1600/miastrawberry.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwFwELnMCkH5CPhJ-vkv9EngIGlG87zhLxzsWQj269jfYkmwFkaeJBZ3wCZtEoignzXOevgx2C7J1C992Cx1r_MKtnT6YH7UnJqZpfUKbJbnyJD25GaMTTVlTgQL973Fz0fFckXvxqyk/s400/miastrawberry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482111136934115090" border="0" /></a><br />With banana, I cut it in half, and then trim a ring of peel off the top. Then she can use the peel as a handle and easily get to the fruit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5DfV85Nnp7S7bK5pAPk6vnyqhORvQLleqcwuTXi0hx1zhxHSGYpUq_U31PV4o5j_zfgFS655KKvqKIm8JWR4QyEtLXHX7lYnSv7NpzqoFjCQ08-R1FL5tp2RG7w6CyScjXsWufHxC3Ek/s1600/miabanana.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5DfV85Nnp7S7bK5pAPk6vnyqhORvQLleqcwuTXi0hx1zhxHSGYpUq_U31PV4o5j_zfgFS655KKvqKIm8JWR4QyEtLXHX7lYnSv7NpzqoFjCQ08-R1FL5tp2RG7w6CyScjXsWufHxC3Ek/s400/miabanana.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482109280144979522" border="0" /></a><br />She liked a few whole-wheat rotini noodles with a bit of marinara sauce.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipstQVYY-8wWLoLtL9rtSGWiqQoNmMrlu9mAQA72rLjpwvQF9A9m0GPhbUP0ptNoEXVDIlLFqvl4lGUy02-xjVXxVKuMYkr0i49zuu-ooJC4K9I0iOM82BH163TuLoovu7TyatyppgTSQ/s1600/miapasta.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipstQVYY-8wWLoLtL9rtSGWiqQoNmMrlu9mAQA72rLjpwvQF9A9m0GPhbUP0ptNoEXVDIlLFqvl4lGUy02-xjVXxVKuMYkr0i49zuu-ooJC4K9I0iOM82BH163TuLoovu7TyatyppgTSQ/s400/miapasta.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482110485951574082" border="0" /></a><br />She's loves cantaloupe, too, to the point that she bangs her hands on the tray and squeals when she sees me cutting it up for her. I leave the rind on so she has something to grip. It's amazing how fast she learned which side was edible. See? She'll even show you!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinA8Ixx0bxpxVV5iWAhlR1JDZErDSb2NVoKAMKuO2b0GaN1PNBZlUNergMNDM9fgbwqHDK66bCopYmT37R6DRJ2FsHfJSyFsEacHD_mucXX7IYkE0-O_AD-g0vo3-Pj3ZAbOaO5tOAivY/s1600/miaclosecantaloupe.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinA8Ixx0bxpxVV5iWAhlR1JDZErDSb2NVoKAMKuO2b0GaN1PNBZlUNergMNDM9fgbwqHDK66bCopYmT37R6DRJ2FsHfJSyFsEacHD_mucXX7IYkE0-O_AD-g0vo3-Pj3ZAbOaO5tOAivY/s400/miaclosecantaloupe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482322121842032834" border="0" /></a><br />And after a skeptical first taste, steamed asparagus was a hit, too.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bjLk81sEE7KAcdrqqAHoVachFSOic1HT7_qiGs2aGN74u2tI-X32DNKSpdTP0Hz4aP0kAleqCm8NwEF2A2uBkuKzERpp3d2vipy7O7jl7KiReuZZqCsmzZfi6tXJS5iNwg_fnlqhXU0/s1600/miaasparagus.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bjLk81sEE7KAcdrqqAHoVachFSOic1HT7_qiGs2aGN74u2tI-X32DNKSpdTP0Hz4aP0kAleqCm8NwEF2A2uBkuKzERpp3d2vipy7O7jl7KiReuZZqCsmzZfi6tXJS5iNwg_fnlqhXU0/s400/miaasparagus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482108666865681138" border="0" /></a><br />In fact, I haven't put a single thing in front of her that she didn't like. (That's my girl!) She has also had cucumber, yogurt, grilled chicken, toasted waffle, tortilla, tofu and rice cakes spread with hummus. Meanwhile on that online group I mentioned, moms who went with traditional jars and purees fret all the time about why their baby won't eat this or that - or why their baby won't eat, period. And while other babies Mia's age are only now starting to figure out how to go from purees to something more solid, she has been handling that stuff like a pro for nearly two months.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRMnaWx9VFMx3uctNbq7yurlpb7QCHefvAp1CZ3GvDQk8HxLDq2qGCsxfVNNKvEdGdVDJVMe4X7Q2jRrfmEeWhrB44ujKUnD_wGY6T8dWMpYnTffbSo7ukcULKqHHkr-fJeSqCcIAaQg/s1600/miafoodface.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 365px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRMnaWx9VFMx3uctNbq7yurlpb7QCHefvAp1CZ3GvDQk8HxLDq2qGCsxfVNNKvEdGdVDJVMe4X7Q2jRrfmEeWhrB44ujKUnD_wGY6T8dWMpYnTffbSo7ukcULKqHHkr-fJeSqCcIAaQg/s400/miafoodface.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482329687825306594" border="0" /></a><br />Oh, and she's not alone. At every meal, a faithful sidekick waits patiently by her high chair in the hopes that someday he, too, can do baby-led weaning.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhYqV820wWa4ExP1TA9pwuC8e9Xkh7hdLyTazIp2716XGU8aM8_8-PNeKVjT85djPvBMjs6zAyFXGTLWB51k5T0iEjAqiBoP_71WKwfZF6YSOGdvnlsDmTWCUdOZz8XxACv7uN1-8q-k/s1600/chxbl.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhYqV820wWa4ExP1TA9pwuC8e9Xkh7hdLyTazIp2716XGU8aM8_8-PNeKVjT85djPvBMjs6zAyFXGTLWB51k5T0iEjAqiBoP_71WKwfZF6YSOGdvnlsDmTWCUdOZz8XxACv7uN1-8q-k/s400/chxbl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482111518122233698" border="0" /></a><br />He gets lucky now and then.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImpbdCuC7HY90pajFx7gPRs9TB9ERRgn7ykmDIm7oMSTUVgSOvA5LMlahVg-d10hhnjl_JXXaH2S7gU_LPaQSmVTIRycmEulKL_t0gXf6VF1UmJBKP-BKhdp21ik_tiSKpZlP8f_tGp0/s1600/chixcantaloupe.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImpbdCuC7HY90pajFx7gPRs9TB9ERRgn7ykmDIm7oMSTUVgSOvA5LMlahVg-d10hhnjl_JXXaH2S7gU_LPaQSmVTIRycmEulKL_t0gXf6VF1UmJBKP-BKhdp21ik_tiSKpZlP8f_tGp0/s400/chixcantaloupe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482112046231533026" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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</script></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6566978019766033796.post-6338861498506685762010-05-25T22:15:00.000-07:002010-05-25T22:15:11.077-07:00Con manDo you know how much it costs to fix a dog's broken back? No? Well, let me tell you. It's just a shade over twenty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">jillion</span> dollars. So when we were trying to pick up the pieces after <a href="http://chickenbonejones.blogspot.com/2009/11/pulling-for-chickens.html"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Chickenbone's</span> accident</a> in November, we decided to be prudent and offset that cost by skipping a big vacation this year.<br /><br />This plan seemed all well and good until about March, when after two months of two full-time jobs, a full-time baby and a dog bladder that needed full-time expressing, I realized it wasn't going to work. So one evening I sat Sal down. "Hi!" I told him. "I'm losing my shit over here. We NEED a break."<br /><br />I didn't have in mind anything huge or expensive. Maybe just a nice weekend in our favorite place on earth, Santa Barbara. Just the three of us - me, my husband and my daughter. Well, let's just say this wasn't a hard sell. Sal's wiped out, too. So it was settled! And the next day I gleefully started calling around to make a boarding reservation for Chickens.<br /><br />Five calls later, I hung up the phone and burst into tears.<br /><br />Because, you see, it's difficult to find accommodations for a dog who can't pee on his own. Three boarding facilities flat-out refused to take him, and two vet offices said they could do it, but their employees go home at 6 and don't return till the next morning. Chickens just can't go that long without a pee.<br /><br />Panic welled up inside me as I began to realize the situation we were in. That any "break" we could take would be limited to five hours, for as long as this FOUR-YEAR-OLD DOG shall live.<br /><br />I've since been banging my head against a wall trying to figure a way out of this. Lots of friendly professional pet-sitters are willing to come stay at our house, and a few even offered to learn how to express his bladder. I wish it could be that easy. But it took me two solid weeks of expressing him five times per day to get good at it. Same for Sal. It's quite a special talent! One that takes lots of patience and lots of practice.<br /><br />Then it hit me. There is, in fact, another solution. And that would be a little something I like to call THE GOD-DANGED DOG PEEING ON HIS OWN. Wacky, I know! So I did a little research, starting with a wonderful web site called <a href="http://www.dodgerslist.com/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Dodgerslist</span></a>, which is devoted to dogs who suffer from <a href="http://www.dodgerslist.com/literature/EasyIVDD.htm"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">IVDD</span></a>. And I read that when a dog is able to use a leg to scratch his head, that's a good sign that neurological function has returned to his back end. Well, guess what. Chickens can do that.<br /><br />So I sent an e-mail to one of the site moderators, an angel of a woman who has offered her advice and encouragement to us many times in the past six months. And I said, look. Chickens can scratch himself. He can walk fairly well. He spritzes pee on bushes and trees when we go around the block. What gives? How can we get this dog to empty his bladder on his own?<br /><br />She replied with a question: "Is there a reason you're still expressing his bladder?"<br /><br />To which I replied, "Um ... "<br /><br />Is there? I don't know! We just are! It's not like we've seen him trot into the back yard and take a whiz on a tree - but then again, when would he have had the chance? We've been expressing his bladder morning, noon and night for SIX FREAKING MONTHS!<br /><br />She wrote back and asked me a bunch of questions. Like, was his spinal rupture in his back or his neck? (His back.) Does he ever leak urine? (Thankfully, no.) Does his tail raise up when you express him? (Every time.) Do you ever have him him diapers? (Dear god. NO.) I answered all her questions and waited anxiously. And then I got this reply:<br /><br />"Amy, congratulations - <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Chickenbone</span> has bladder control!"<br /><br />She said she's never seen a dog regain the neurological function that Chickens has without also regaining the ability to go pee. "When he marks like that, it is sure-fire proof that nerve messages are traveling to and from the bladder and brain through the spinal cord," she wrote. "The brain tells the bladder to release pee to mark, and the bladder releases." This is also in line with what Chickens' surgeon said at his last checkup, which is that it's rare for a dog to be able to walk again but not pee.<br /><br />In other words, he's been scamming us!<br /><br />Then she offered advice on how to retrain Chickens to pee on his own. She suggested that we get another dog to come pee in our back yard to trigger his marking instinct. Then we need to bring him outside regularly, encourage him to pee, and give him lots of treats and praise if/when he does. This will not be easy - he is just so accustomed to being expressed now. And ironically, just expressing him is actually easier for us than taking a bunch of time for training.<br /><br />But whether he can pee on his own or not, one thing's for sure - we are getting awfully tired of carrying him up and down those steps in the back yard, especially when there's a dog in one arm and a wiggly baby in the other. Also, I suspect that if Chickens could get to the grass by himself, we might have more success with all this. So! This weekend my father-in-law came over and built us a spiffy new handicapped-dog ramp! It is excellent. And the moment it was complete, Chickens raced up and down it several times.<br /><br />Next comes a trip to the neighbors to borrow some dog pee, and then we're going to solve this nonsense once and for all.<br /><br />The jig is up, little buddy!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8bHL4lPyzlM_pSAk1Rg5PBnF_mwsmV0VNhzCU_30bZaWE308XERulyJSTFlpSM0MzA1NPPVmsRE_-4FKPuUdXMvpkvJSgFl-wGCKLzMs5WK2XBkWuLslGzVB3HLTQMkki403cWt5xUc/s1600/chxramptwo.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8bHL4lPyzlM_pSAk1Rg5PBnF_mwsmV0VNhzCU_30bZaWE308XERulyJSTFlpSM0MzA1NPPVmsRE_-4FKPuUdXMvpkvJSgFl-wGCKLzMs5WK2XBkWuLslGzVB3HLTQMkki403cWt5xUc/s400/chxramptwo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475435063651419346" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-gnGVgQiXLqzWq5bI8T32x6UDiY4FgcfB7HnT6Bvz7y321vDV9vmr-xJw6R-Z2bPwBl788ZHRQZ3VEe-NkUPwTsinOGJ4I9hmlxPhNrDzdEtQ6W2rPgjuqOgTk3S1BDXMOgO4NqkgR2o/s1600/chxrampone.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-gnGVgQiXLqzWq5bI8T32x6UDiY4FgcfB7HnT6Bvz7y321vDV9vmr-xJw6R-Z2bPwBl788ZHRQZ3VEe-NkUPwTsinOGJ4I9hmlxPhNrDzdEtQ6W2rPgjuqOgTk3S1BDXMOgO4NqkgR2o/s400/chxrampone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475434534584055170" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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