Knocked Up

Sean and I are amateur foodies. We like our prosciutto and cheeses from the $3 bin at Whole Foods. We watch Top Chef and bake bread and experiment with kale and bacon and capers. This food fetish has gotten a little stronger since we've had kids, though admittedly more home cooking than seven-course degustation focused. We almost never go anywhere, I fall asleep during movies, and so all we have left is adventures in home cooking to save us from the endless reptitions of Old Macdonald. 

Somehow, we've ended up with a toddler who likes to try new things, just like we do, and who isn't too picky. Sure, he's got a fickle appetite - he'll eat a gallon of guacamole one night, and then nothing but two peas the next - but he eats almost everything.

Examples:

• Sean pan-seared some fancy schmancy hen of the woods mushrooms.  I gave one to Axel, assuming he wouldn't really like it and that would leave more mushrooms for me, hurrah! Alas, he ate it, and demanded more.
• Axel had a tantrum at the thought of having to share his vat of guacamole.
• His favorite food is risotto with peas.
• I got myself some citrus salmon for lunch, and got Axel some macaroni and cheese. He ate my salmon. I ate the macaroni and cheese.
• He loves soup. Loves it. Especially navy bean with bacon. A coworker of mine sent home some chicken stew with lentils in it, and he got one look at it and started jumping up and down. For lentils, people. He jumped for lentils.

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Today, we got to sing Axel's favorite song, Happy Birthday. And not just because I didn't want him to land a kick in my stomach during a diaper change or because I was trying to keep him awake in the car - it was because it was his actual birthday.

He's old enough now to demand multiple cupcakes, to refuse to peddle a tricycle, to cook imaginary seven-course feasts, to finger paint all green masterpieces, to announce to the world when he's pooped, to command that I sit down next to him, to build wobbly twenty-brick towers of Legos, to adorably mispronounce his brother's name (Nonas), to take flying leaps off of the couch into my arms, to have conversations (even if they generally center on heavy machinery), to understand that Trick or Treating means the chance to grab fistfuls of candy, to bestow hugs on all his friends and family, and to say his age - "Two!" while holding up a single index finger.

He's two. Two!  He went from this...

To this...

...in two years.  Yesterday he was a zygote, and today he's two. Maybe that's why I'm so tired. Well, that and the blizzard and the sickness and the birthday party at the zoo. I would write witty things here, but I really need a nap.  Birthday parties are exhausting.  Last year, I went all out.  This year, I thought I could handle a very small party at the zoo, bringing nothing but ourselves and delicious cupcakes from a local shop, and keeping the guest list very small.  And, while Axel had fun seeing the elephants and riding the train in his train engineer costume, I still came close to having a tired and hungry meltdown on our way out of the zoo.  "Cranky" was not the adjective I wanted as a mother on my oldest son's birthday. 

This makes me wonder why I do this - throw birthday parties.

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First swine flu.  Then croup and baby's second hospital visit.  Now a blizzard.  It's been a busy week.

Axel has made a full recovery from the bug.

Jonas was then struck down by what I thought was the swine flu.  Turns out it was regular old seal-bark cough, gasping for breath croup.  Croup, like the sort that Axel had a minor interaction with last year, that I thought I could handle.  Croup that landed with such force that an all-fronts croup attack plan - steamy bathroom/cold night air/humidifer - was no match for it.  It quickly turned into stridor, into noisy struggling for breath, into nightime panic, and we had to make a 3 am visit to the hospital yet again. 

The only good thing about two hospital visits in less than four months is that you don't have to fill out all of the paperwork the second time around - you're already in a database you don't really want to be in.  Oh, and you know the best place to park.  Other than that, I can't really recommend it. 

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We've been Swined.  

After our close brush with H1N1, we relaxed.  We thought we'd escaped, we thought that our obsessive hand washing and use of sanitizer had worked.  We were wrong.  There's no escaping germs in the slobbery illness haven of the toddler room.  While we haven't had the test to confirm that it's the Swine and not the non-pig flu, all signs point to pig - confirmed exposure at daycare, a CDC survey that says one in five kids has had swine flu this month, bacon cravings..

First, the swine flu tackled Axel and gave him a fever and a bonus dose of boogers.  It was the weirdest sickness - a fever of 102, super cranky, then spastic couch jumping and handstand attempts.  Axel felt worse when he had an ear infection and when he had strep throat.  He's been disconcertingly cheerful.  The sickness cycle has gone like this: fever, child curled up on the couch and a little extra weepiness, does of baby ibuprofen, happy toddler jumping up and down and madly giggling.  It's more exhausting to try to coerce a sick energetic kid to rest than it is to give a sick, tired kid extra cuddling, juice, and Elmo.  

On Saturday, Axel was fully recovered, still spastic but without a fever, cough, or aches.

Then, it came for the baby. 

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Construction work is not an inconvenience.  It is free entertainment. 

The human hand is a miracle worthy of intense study.

Do not underestimate the importance of regular sleep and a regular bedtime routine.

Deep, meaningful interaction can consist of nothing but an exchange of smiles and coos. 

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When I ran the Big Sur Marathon, I was tired.  My legs hurt, my lungs hurt, my eyelashes hurt, my fingernails tingled.  It's 26.2 miles and a whole mess of hill climbing.  I almost cried because I really, really wanted a Snickers bar, and could think of nothing else.  In the middle, I wondered why I was running a marathon, and whose crazy idea this had all been and exactly what I needed to prove by running a second marathon and why I'd willingly gotten out of a perfectly fine bed at 4 in the morning - and it's quite possible I cursed my husband, who was running with me.  And then, I looked out at the blue gray of the Pacific Ocean, at the water crashing against the winding cliffs, at the way the earth fell off into the sea, and it was worth it.   My lungs filled with deliciously cool air, my legs no longer ached, and I felt blessed to be in such an awe-inspiring place, running into the wind.  I remembered how much I love Sean.  And I almost forgot about the Snickers bar.

That's what my life is like again, except without the aid of orange Sport Beans and cheering volunteers handing out cups of water.  I am tired.  My feet hurt.  My back has been thrown off by a combination of excessive Baby Bjorn use and hunching over a computer and pushing a double jogging stroller and picking tumbleweeds of dog hair off the kitchen floor.  I can't remember when I ate a meal.  I'm rough and cranky and have lost 90% of my perspective after a succession of broken plates and skipped naps and dog poop and tantrums.  I wonder what I'm doing and why I'm doing and what's the purpose of it all, and where's my Snickers bar, anyway.

And then, in the middle of my funk, moments like this:

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My boys both slept through the night last night, and the night before.  Not a creature was stirring, except for the constantly hungry cat, from a little after ten to 5:30.  I should be happy, right?  Perhaps I've got a slumber hangover - you know, when you feel like crap because you've rested too much after your body has become accustomed to a frequently interrupted night of sleep - because I'm not.  See, three month old Jonas slept both of these nights in his own room.  It was the end to cosleeping.

Until two nights ago, Jonas snoozed in a bassinet at the foot of our bed, or in bed with us.  Sometimes he snoozed.  Other times he rolled around and squawked.  Sean and I got used to whispering.  I got used to tiptoeing about, trying to stay quiet, and then stumbling over a laundry basket/toy tractor/stray boot/cat because of Sleeping Baby Law No. 23 that goes something like, "The harder you try to minimize noise, the more the jackhammer will slam and the rooster will crow."  It follows Sleeping Baby Law No. 22: Whenever you tell someone the baby slept through the night, he will fail to sleep through the night on the following evening, and right before Sleeping Baby Law No. 24: When you most want the baby to sleep, the baby will sleep the least.  When you want to keep the baby awake, the baby will want to sleep.  Then there's my current personal nemesis, Sleeping Baby Law No. 37: The minute you pour a glass of wine and relax, thinking the baby is finally, really, truly asleep, the baby will start crying again. 

After a few nights of regression (Sleeping Baby Law No. 1: As soon as you think you've got the schedule figured out, it will change), I decided it was time for Jonas to go out on his own, his own in this case meaning a room down the hall.  The night wakings were increasing, not decreasing, and I'd had enough.  He moved to what we're callling the boys' room, the bedroom across the way from Axel's.  Once Jonas is sleeping more regularly, we'll probably combine the boys in this room and return Axel's current bedroom to an office.  It will be nice not to have tomato sauce splattered on my laptop, now squashed in a makeshift kitchen counter pile of clutter/office/work type space.  But, I'm not going to risk having one boy wake up the other one during this precarious sleeping stage, if I can help it.  Thus, the separate rooms for now.

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Axel's becoming an independent, self-regulating, me do me do little person.  His most recent accomplishment?  Putting himself in time out.  Yes, that's right.  I am out of a job.  He wipes his own nose, he can use a spoon with a 72% success rate, he can unzip a hoodie and take it off, and he disciplines himself. 

One night, while my parents were over for dinner, Axel had finished his usually four minute meal and proceeded engage in post-meal hyperactive toddler feats of strength, like hoisting his brother's bouncy chair over his head and attempting to throw it down the stairs.  I, inspired by a recent tip from a random parenting magazine or book, said, "Axel, you can either play out here with us nicely, or you need to go to your room.  What would you like to do?  Do you need a time out?"

"Yeah!" said Axel, before calmly putting down the chair, walking through the kitchen, going to his room, and shutting the door behind himself.

It is possible that my jaw dropped and drool hit the table.  It got better - when I opened the door, he was not attempting to climb his dresser or tear all the pages out of The Lorax or eating his shoes.  No, he was sitting on the floor, holding his stuffed cow puppet, and reading Blueberries for Sal.  He likes to point to a picture of Sal standing on a chair and say, "Noooo.  Noooo," to demonstrate that he knows the rules; he knows not to stand on chairs and is grown up enough to share that information with others. 

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The preschool duck duck GOOSE has begun.  We're exploring all the ducks out there, and they seem to be multiplying. 

Axel's at a childcare center/preschool that we like.  We like his teachers.  We like the other kids, and so does Axel.  He has fun, he learns, he plays, he eats, he naps, he works on important things like sharing and waiting his turn.   We like (most) of the other parents.  When Jonas is old enough, I'd happily send him there, too. 

Except it's just a preschool for kids 18 months and up.  It doesn't have K - 5.  That doesn't seem like a problem at first glance because the boys aren't yet 5.  They don't need the three Rs, or dodgeball, or to learn to play the theme song from Top Gun on the recorder with 24 of their closest friend. 

It is a problem, though, when you start to think about elementary school.  Because to get into some elementary schools, you need to have enrolled in their preschool programs.  To get into those preschools, you need to be on the waitlist.  In two years, Axel will be ready for a three/four classroom (with a November birthday, he's one of the older kids).  For some of the schools, we are late coming to the game.  I should've been on waitlists while I was still pregnant.  Maybe I should've been on some of the wait lists when I was still in high school, or at least narrowing down the options.  Why weren't they telling me about that in Home Ec, instead of having me cart around a fake baby doll and make imitation Orange Julius?  

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"You can't have it all.  They told my generation that you could, but they lied."

So said a mother of a friend of mine, a woman with five grown children and a career. 

I wanted to say that it wasn't true.  I wanted to tell her how I am having it all, with a cherry on top, and that I can juggle six colicky babies while balancing my checkbook using my toes, inventing clever bedtime stories about chubby hamsters, and creating exciting PowerPoint presentations that defy the drool and snooze-inspiring nature of PowerPoint. 

But I couldn't, because I think she's right.

I used to think I could have it all, I just had to redefine what I meant by "it."  I could have a fulfilling career, a pampered baby, luxurious shampoo commercial hair, and a loving husband, but would have to sacrifice walking the dog daily, eyebrow waxing, and ever again catching Saturday Night Live live. 

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Finally, after thirteen weeks, we've landed in a sort of a bedtime routine.  There's a semi-predictable pattern.  I can think one or two steps ahead, rather than just sprinting from one task to the next, juggling whatever baby/toddler/dog/food-related mini-emergency arises. 

Here are the parameters: one parent, two children, one dog, and one cat.  Yeah, basically, I'm on my own at bedtime.  Sean's on shift and, thus, sleeping, or not sleeping, at a fire station ten miles away, and, when he's not on shift, he's now in this little thing called paramedic school, which demands his presence at least three nights a week.   So, any bedtime strategies have to be doable by one parent, because we've only got two parents at home two, sometimes one, night a week. 

(Note: while I have had my selfish woe-is-me moments, like when I've just been puked or pooped on by Jonas and Axel is yelling, "Dog dog dog dog dog," while waving his arms over his head in a booga-booga fashion and chasing the dog who is barking and who just finished eating the dinner that I foolishly put too close to the edge of the kitchen table, I recognize that we are very lucky.  Sean has not been deployed overseas.  Neither of us is struggling with a serious illness.  I am not actually a single parent, even if I am alone with both kids most of the time that I'm not at work.  It's just a bit of a rocky transition, from a 65/35 parenting split to something more like 80/20 or, as it will be in some weeks, 90/10.)

Anyway, here's what a typical evening is starting to look like at our house:

4:20 pm:  Get home.  Relieve nanny, who stays with the boys a couple days a week.  Put bottles of expressed milk in the fridge.  Wave goodbye to nanny.

4:30 pm: Strap Jonas into the Baby Bjorn.  Play outside.  See tractor.  Wave to tractor.  Chase Axel down the street after his long lost love, big yellow tractor.  See bus.  Wave to bus.  Prevent Axel from running into the street to declare his love for the bus and all its passengers.  See mail truck.  Wave to mail truck.  Follow mail truck down the street.  Wath Axel cheer, "Mail mail mail mail mail!"    Think how nice it must be for the mailman to have a fan club. 

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Once again, I have returned to the land of copy machines, cc'ing, and mysterious year-old science project yogurts stinking up the community fridge.  Yes, I'm back at work,  after 12 weeks of maternity leave, during which I (again) planned to do lots of ambitious, vitally important things, like get the dog groomed and finally get rid of all those literary theory books I have from grad school and organize our cupboards with all the dry goods in cunning glass canisters and make homemade Halloween costumes, and (again) got nothing done except occasional vaccuming.  I didn't even get the oil changed in my car.  So, I've got nothing to show for all those weeks except for this:

(Jonas, just before he again put his hand in his mouth and just after he gave me this very important message:  ooooh aarrrrr yiiiii.) 

(Axel, doing his biggest "Say Cheese" smile, and me riding the train at the zoo.)

I guess that's not nothing. 

"How does it feel to be back?" people keep asking me. 

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It's happened: a confirmed swine flu sighting at Axel's daycare.  Now I'm just checking my stash of flu-symptom fighting supplies, and waiting for the big one to hit.  For the next 24 hours, we'll continue on high flu symptom alert, watching every little cough and sneeze. 

It's possible that we'll escape unscathed.  Possible, but not likely.  Axel shares a classroom with nine other slobbering, drooling, nose-picking, toy-chomping toddlers.  They spend all day putting blocks in their mouths, cramming their boogery faces into stuffed animals, and slowly learning to cover their mouths when they cough.  Sure, they wash their hands frequently, but then the kids stick their fingers up their noses two minutes later.  Unless each kid is outfitted with a hazmat suit, germs will be shared, generously and quickly. 

A room full of toddlers is H1N1 paradise. 

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When Axel was a baby, I was obsessed with sleep: who was sleeping (not my baby), who wasn't (me), how to get him to sleep (nursing, rocking, singing), and how to get him to stay that way (prayer and voodoo).  When you don't sleep, it's all you can think about.  Babies, I realized, are crazy.  I even viewed all mothers who claimed their babies slept with some suspicion, especially those who slept through the night by four months - were they lying to me?  Had they just forgotten, five or twenty-five years later?  Had sleepy little aliens snatched away their human babies, replacing them with identical pod babies who snoozed for twelve hours straight? 

Well, now I know the truth.  They weren't lying.  It's not aliens.  There are real, live human babies who sleep more than two hours in a row.  One of them lives with me.

I've been afraid to tell you this, for fear it might jinx it.  I'm rubbing my luck rabbit's foot and knocking on wood and providing offerings of pink marabou-trimed slippers and expensive organic cotton mattresses to the sleep gods as I type this.  But here it is: my youngest son actually sleeps. 

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Even before Axel was a year old, he was smooching on the other babies at daycare.  He's become even more of a kisser and a cuddler since Jonas has arrived.  There's lots of positive reinforcement for the adorable sight of a toddler kissing his wee baby brother - oohs and ahhs and giggles of delight from the adults at the sight of the kisses. 

Now, the kissing has become a bit more aggressive.  Axel's love will not be denied.  He wants to kiss Jonas, and, in response to "He's sleeping," or "Not right now, Jonas is unhappy.  Let's save the kiss for later," Axel starts wildly gesturing at his mouth and saying, "mmm mmm mmm bis bis bis BIS BIS," ("bis" means "kiss").  He will throw a tantrum if his love for Jonas is thwarted. 

Since his love is not always appreciated at home, he's taking it on the road.  He hugs and kisses his neighbors goodbye.  He valiantly attempts to capture the cat with a overzealous cuddle.  He winks, smiles, ducks his head in false modesty at the grocery store, then launches into conversations about his favorite topics - trucks and cheese - in an attempt to win over check-out ladies and all other people in a ten yard radius.   Now he throws in references to baby, pointing to Jonas, who does a toothless grin or lets loose with a little drool.  Yes, his baby brother is his wingman. 

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think it's time for an update on the most recent adorable sayings and doings of the boys.  Well, mostly the older boy.  Jonas is cute, but there's only so many ways to write smile, coo, tiny baby, awwww.  Here, check out this picture:

As for Axel, he currently enjoys putting things on his head, like paper bags and backwards helmets, and then going about his business.  Perhaps I shouldn't encourage bags on the head, I know.  It's hard to stop laughing long enough to say, "Bag off the head, kid," when a munchkin is hopping around doing his best siren imitation while wearing a paper helmet.  I'm thinking of investing in a variety of headwear, like a viking helmet and an electric blue hairpiece, so he'll have more options when he wants to put something on his noggin.

Axel's new words:

Ah-oh-nuts (Astronauts) and Ah-oh-puss (Octopuss)

It's as though he's worried about any creature that's not living on the land, from the ah-oh-puss of the ocean to the ah-oh-nuts orbiting the Earth. 

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Not the fat on the baby.  The stuff that's left on me.  I know the saying - nine months on, nine months off.  Yeah, I should be patient.  Yeah, I should be in awe of the fact that my body nurtured and sustained an entire little person who is still living off of milk that I'm creating.  Yeah, I should be thankful that I have two healthy boys and that I'm healthy and strong.  Yeah, I should remember that the last time around, I didn't lose all of the weight until I stopped nursing.  I know.  You're right.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

But right now, I am selfishly focused on my desire to zip up my pants without having that little (and sometimes, depending on the pants, and assuming I'm able to actually zip them up, pretty big) bulge over the top.  I want to wear a shirt that doesn't have an empire waist without feeling self conscious.  I don't want to look like I'm carrying baby number three.  I want to fit into my work clothes and be able to button a blazer without the buttons threatening to pop.  I want my boobs to return to the size of a more decorous fruit, like an apple, rather than rivaling mutant cantaloupes. 

Most of all, I want to stop having the disconcerting experience of catching sight of myself in a shop window or in the mirror and thinking, "Oh my lord, that's my body?  Seriously?" 

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Vocal chords.  Good, generally, but not always used that way when in the hands, or throat, of a toddler. 

Axel has decided that screeching at the top of your lungs, like a pterodactyl's battle cry, is super cool.  Here's what happens: he gets excited.  He yells.  Sometimes he adds in arm waving and running and head shaking.  The dog also runs, wagging his tail, and barks.  More yelling.  More barking.  More barking and yelling.  More yelling and barking.  Yell.  Bark.  The cat - smart creature that he is - sprints out of the room, which of course inspires more running and yelling and barking.  Sometimes there's crying, usually from Jonas.  Then I want to cry.  It's loud.  It's hard to think.  My head hurts.

The yelling has also occured in a busy restaurant; Axel heard a kid at another table yell, and decided that it was a good idea to see if his screams could also be heard above the clinking of silverware and chatter of other Labor Day diners.  Yeah, they could. The screams were very audible.  The other diners were not all that impressed, except for the fellow toddler yeller at the other table who challenged Axel to an early morning yell-off over eggs and pancakes.  I couldn't tell you who won.  My ears were ringing from all the yelling.

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Well, here's one way Jonas is different than his older brother: he sports a naturally occuring fauxhawk.  The morning after his bath, the hair in the middle of his head curls up in the middle of his head into a fauxhawk.   Yeah, he's tough like that. 

Can't you tell from that grin?  He's a hooligan in the making.  He may be two months old, but he's tough.  That little pug nose is nothing to sneer at.

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People keep asking me how Jonas is different than Axel.  Well, obviously, he's smaller.  His hair's a little more red.  His hand-eye coordination is not so good.  It's pretty easy to tell them apart.  What they really mean is how's Jonas different than Axel at the same age.  And my answer, which I am embarrassed to say as a younger sibling who understands how important it is to take lots of baby pictures of both children, is that I'm not quite sure. 

Truthfully, Axel's very recent babyhood is already a fuzzy memory.  It's an impressionist painting.  When I look to close and try to pull up details, like when exactly he started sitting up or eating solid food or sleeping through the night, I find nothing but a slippery, vague answer that would earn me a big fat F on a Major Baby Milestones Pop Quiz.  That's why people have baby books, and why I should really try to fill in the blanks for either of the boys' books before they graduate from high school and I find myself making it all up, swapping between a blue and a black pen so it doesn't look like I've done a last-minute baby book cram session.  

I recently offered my sister-in-law finger foods for her not quite seven-month-old daughter, and she looked at me like, "Wait, don't you have two small children?," though she was too polite to say as much.  Yeah, I should remember things like when kids start with Cheerios and when they start going to a two-nap-a-day schedule, and I don't, though I was certain I'd remember every single moment and milestone.  That's why I now turn to Google and my pediatrician's helpful well check hand-outs for a little developmental info. 

As I'm having such a hard time remembering Axel's babyhood, all baby stuff, including the babies themselves, are merging together into one mostly adorable, cuddly lightweight mass of urges and bodily fluids, Baby with a capital B.  This is why my father can't always tell baby pictures of my brother and I apart.  This is why parents mix up their children's names.  If this is happening to me with just two children, how does Michelle Duggar keep her 18, soon to be 19, kids straight?  George Foreman's family of Georges doesn't seem so crazy to me anymore. 

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Toddlers are not known for their social graces.  Axel has mastered please, but that's because he's figured out that he gets something - juice! spatulas! thrown in the air! - when he says it.  He stares blankely at me when I encourage him to say thank you, and he has been known to shove his finger up his nose, even though we tell him that you only do that in private.  (Really.  I can't figure out what else to say.  How do you get a kid to stop mining for nose gold?)

But recently, he reminded me, and hopefully one of the other mothers at our daycare, just how we should treat one another.  See, I have a daycare drop off evil nemesis.  At least, that's how I've come to think of her.  After just three drop off encounters, I have elevated what's really a slight annoyance between two harried mothers into an epic battle between good and evil.  Let me just give you the visuals: her car is a big, black, German-made luxury SUV.  Mine is a shiny gold station wagon full of stale Cheerios and rainbows.  She tends to wear black, like all classic villians.  I tend to wear blue, like Superman, if Superman was covered in spit up and traded in the lycra for baggy cropped workout pants and jersey dresses. 

Here's how it all started: I arrived to bring Axel to daycare, which he attends two days a week.  I'd already taken him out of the car and walked around to the other side to get Jonas out.  Axel began to have a mini meltdown and wanted to be picked up, because he has recently decided that he should always be carried in parking lots (generally a good thing, except when I'm trying to get Jonas out of the car).  So, I'm sweating and telling Axel to wait just a minute and he's wailing and I'm yanking on the 100 lb beast of a car seat and this woman, clearly very very very annoyed, pushes past me and the boys to get into her big black SUV (which I parked next to), pushing my car door up against us.  She does not wait 30 seconds for us to get out of the way.  She does not, once in the driver's seat, wait for us to be a few feet away from the wheels of her big black SUV.  She sort of harrumphs past, revs the engine, and speeds off.  I mumble unpleasantries under my breath, and lug the boys into daycare. 

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This weekend we went to an extended family reunion.  Generally, it was good, if chaotic in the way that a big mass of adults and five kids under eight is inclined to be.  All in all, it was a success: the grandparent generation spent time with their grandkids and golfed; the current parents enjoyed an elk and sherry-filled evening out; and the little people had new toys, ice cream, and an audience. 

It inspired Axel to chase his older second cousins and be chased by them; to take a second turn on the bungee/trampoline contraption; to run around madly in the middle of formal family pictures; and to attempt many, many new words, like iced tea and breeze and his new favorite, peach. 

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While nursing Jonas

Oh, look at Jonas.  Look at his sweet chubby cheeks and his fragile little toes.  I can't leave him.  How could I ever leave him?  He's so tiny and fragile and needs hugs and kisses and me.

And Axel.  He's such a good big brother.  Look at how he's loading his tools into the back of his truck, one by one.  I love the way his pants sag off his skinny butt and he talks to himself as he pushes the truck into the bedroom.  He's growing up so fast.  I can't leave him.  I can't miss those times when he walks around with tupperware on his head and waves bye-bye to me a dozen times.

Oh, now he's banging the truck against the wall.  That, I do not love.  Axel, please push the truck through the doorway.  No, not against the doorway - through the doorway.  Through it.  The truck.  Axel.

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There are many firsts in a baby's life - first bath, first smile, first time sleeping through the night.  This Friday, Jonas had a few firsts that no one wants: first fever, first trip to the ER, first spinal tap. 

It all started late Thursday night, when Jonas wouldn't calm down.  After three hours of rocking and shushing and swaddling and pacing, Sean took Jonas' temperature.  He had a fever.   So, we called our pediatrician's office and the elevated temp in a 6 week old bought ourselves one of the first appointments of the day. 

Fevers are potentially big trouble in little ones under eight weeks.  It's either a sign of their body fighting off something mild, or it's a sign of their body struggling with something very very bad.  Unfortunately, or fortunately, Jonas didn't really have other symptoms beyond the fever, the extra fussiness, and a slightly diminished appetite.  So, the PA decided we should watch Jonas for a little while, and check in periodically during the day to decide if he should go to the hospital for more tests  Just the thought of testing and a tiny not quite ten pound person in an ER made me weepy. 

During the day, Jonas slept.  I watched him.  He ate.  I took his temperature.  He slept.  I watched him.  More thermometer action, more yelling, more watching, and a temperature that, no matter how many dirty looks I gave the thermometer, kept creeping up.  Dirty looks are equally ineffective when directed toward illness or bullies or toddlers. 

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Axel has been a pretty tough kid.  Too tough, sometimes.  He does not agree that jumping off of the concrete porch steps might be dangerous.  He does not think that , as a general rule of safety and cleanliness, one should not stand on top of the kitchen table. 

There are signs that this may be changing.  He's developing new fears.  If these fears related to things that were actually dangerous, like running into the street full speed ahead, I wouldn't mind.  Unfortunately, Axel still thinks climbing onto our high bed and laughing hysterically while he jumps just inches from the edge is a good idea.  It's lawnmowers he doesn't like.

Yes, lawnmowers.  The child who never met a tractor he didn't want to try to give a high five is now scared of a piece of heavy machinery that looks like the nephew of a tractor to me. 

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