On the Menu

This surprises me: I am really into making Archer's baby food. I feel like a mad chemist, mixing new ingredients and experimenting with his budding tastes. It is oddly satisfying to beat all kinds of food into a quivering pulp and offer it to him like it is chocolate-covered awesome. Babies are so gullible. Actually, my hope is that organic fruits, vegetables, and porridge will become his personal version of chocolate. Sure, it's a total pipe dream to image Archer at his fifth birthday party rejecting ice cream in favor of kale and swiss chard salad, but I do feel good about loading him up with it early and maybe helping him to develop a more sophisticated palette. And I don't feed him anything I don't eat myself -- in mush form, even. Yum.

Who am I kidding -- this kid is probably going to refuse everything but chicken nuggets as soon as he hits three. Nevertheless, armed with a miniature food processor and Super Baby Food by Ruth Yaron (thanks Bridget and Alicia), I've been creating a veritable feast of mushy fare each week, and so far nothing has been rejected outright -- except for egg yolks. Actually, Archer didn't even reject those, but his stomach did. Barf. In the photo, from left to right, are what's on this week's menu: blackberry applesauce, broccoli, stewed prunes, potatoes, super porridge (oatmeal, amaranth, wheat bran, flax meal). I also made those teething biscuits, which are the consistency of plywood and utterly delightful for that slobbering, double-toothed munchkin.

Presence

In the midst of an unrelenting series of diapers and decisions, feedings and fussiness, it is easy to overthink motherhood. My mind is a steady hum and zing of new plans, fears, regrets, problems and strategies. Returning to the present with Archer is my most difficult challenge, but when I am fully aware and present with him, we experience such joy. Writing some of these moments down is a reminder to me that to love my son is to just be with him here and now...

Reading

Wobbly and drooling
He’s perched on my lap
Reaching toward the ebb of pages
I rock and sway and read
Turning slowly
With sturdy breath
As the story tumbles toward truth.
My husband rolls onto his side
Looks up at us from the floor
And in the twilight-musked nursery
Weeping swells in our chests
Like yeast in soft rising dough


Sleep Deprivation

Feeling tomorrow’s tears
Upon me now
Lying prostrate and rigid, I listen.
The baby inhales in a pulsing rhythm
Content enough
To sleep for another ten minutes.
I blink and shift in ropey sheets
When, like toast popping, a tiny fist
Jolts him awake
Grunting, stretching, reddening –
Crying for milk and pleasant dreams.


Feeding

Milk-white fingertips graze my chin
Sprouted from a cupped hand
Atop a dancing, floating arm
Hinged on a dimpled shoulder
Curving to a tickle-pink neck
Holding the head tucked into my arm’s pillow
Glossing the lips pursed and sucking
The bulged nipple fading into freckles and veins
Crawling softly over breasts that hide
My easy heart
As I do nothing
But watch you feed


Someday

You’ll strain the steaming fettuccine noodles
Giving the handles a firm shake
And wait for the last few drops of boiled water
To fall.
Or you’ll rinse the grapes you clipped
From your fruiting concord vine
Set them on a towel
In the middle of your old, scarred table
For some important guests.
But right now
The colander is a drum
A wooden spoon your drumstick
Your wet whistle tongue, babbling
As you beat your belly's best tune
And grin at the boom-bam-boom.

Baby's First Family Vacation

Is it depressing that our first family vacation was in Hanford, Washington?
Perhaps.
Could our motel room be described as "sex worker friendly" or "crack house chic?"
Sure.
Did we have an outstanding time playing ultimate frisbee and yukking it up with great friends anyway?
Yes indeed.

Whatcha Doin' There, Arch?

Hop On Pop

Their very own version of Suessian antics...

The Naming

The first grandchild certainly begets a frenzy of excitement in many facets of family life, not the least of which involves names. And not just the obvious naming of the new child, but the question of what each family member will be called in relation to that child. I was very specific about the pronunciation of my name as a brand new aunt -- "it is AWNtie Jill," I'd explain, "like with a Boston accent." This was my pretentious attempt to claim some of my mom's background for my own. I remember my mom taking weeks, nay months, to decide upon her name as a grandmother, probably loosing many hours of sleep muttering, "Grams...no...GiGi...nope...Granny...oh no..." My dad was the only one who had it easy -- Trenton named him Big Papa as a differentiation from his other grandfather, Papa.

Now the Burns clan has embarked on the same self-naming exercise, and so far we've got some real winners in my opinion: Auntie Bomb (notice double meaning), Auntie Ridgey (rolls off the tongue), and Auntie Molly (as a differentiation from her own Aunt Molly). For a while it looked like Becky and Jim were going for the classic "Grandma and Grandpa," but are now considering spicier options. When the dust settles, Archer might just go ahead and name them himself -- you never know.

Call us crazy, but I think Phil and I are going with Mom and Dad.

Autumn Beauty

Fall initially depressed me, as I stared out the window at the relentless sheeting rain and ever-expanding brown puddles. Our apartment suddenly shrank before my very eyes. Archer bleated with discontent at the monotonous sight of the same blue-gray strip of carpet that he had occupied every day for the past week. What could I do with a pre-walking baby through the wet months of autumn in Bellingham? I immediately went online and ordered a rain shield for our backpack carrier. Then I coerced Archer's squirming limbs into his fleece bunting and homemade yellow rainsuit, setting out on a walk through campus. The wind swirled a sunset of leaves across the green lawns and swooshed a raucous song in our ears. We blew raspberries into the whipped air. When our cheeks turned rosy and the boy's fingers were tiny slivers of ice, we returned home for some warm oatmeal and a bath. Setting him down on that same strip of carpet, I placed some freshly harvested squash from our CSA veggie box in front of him. He immediately flapped his arms and stretched his mouth into a sunny grin. Not so bad after all. Bring on the winter.