Here Is Pointer

How are you today, sir? Very well, I thank you. Run away, run away.

Oliver makes an initial impression of being a kind of cautious, precision-loving kid. You wouldn't expect this level of focus from a 14-month-old, but if there is something to be explored, the exploration is frequently intitiated with Mr. Pointer. His focus, often accompanied by a low groan or grunts, allows him to smash peas with a single press, skewer carrots into new orange fingertip, and start an art project with the exactness of a master painter.

Eventually, though, the focus, precision, and Mr. Pointer himself are replaced by flat-palmed rigor. Peas flying. Carrots smashing. Paint a la Jackson Pollock.

The photos above I took tonight as he disected his dinner. I should have taken a picture of the floor under his chair to show the aftermath of focus lost. Gross. (Grosser is that he tried to eat it off the floor later in the evening before I had a chance to clean it up. Ew.)

The photos below are from an art project in school. They called it "body painting." Just stripped the kids down, taped paper on the floor, and dumped out some tempera paint. He started out quite timidly, but had his fair share of paint on the bod by the time he was done. Can't quite figure out why the teachers would want to go through all the trouble, but I'm sure glad they did because it looks like good fun. Believe it or not he didn't come home with a drop of paint on him.

The unfortunate thing about this particular art project is that it was oversized and thus defies my plan to digitize all of Oliver's works of fine art with my scanner. I guess I'll have to really wimp out and take a photo of the work. It was pretty funny: Just days after I had posted my art-saving dilemma and plan, I read this amusing column on The Daily Babble. What's a mom to do?

Face Forward

I guess it's been a week or so since we've been officially face forward in the carseat in both of our cars, but this is a shot I took with my phone on the day we flipped him around in my car. He seems very pleased, doesn't he?

It is kind of a fresh perspective, I think, and makes it a little easier to see and interact with him from the front, which we better get used to because they say that even when kids are out of their carseats and boosters, they are supposed to ride in the backseat until age 13. (Whatever?!)

I wish the iPhone took better photos so I could zoom in to show you Mr. Toothy Grin. He's really getting some whoppers. And it's really no matter how far apart they may be coming in, the doc says we should start brushing. I did buy the brush, but he really isn't too interested yet. I suppose I should really work on it, though. OK, I'll start Monday (hopefully with more enthusiasm and staying power than my typical Monday-morning diet kick-off).

I'll try to get a better shot of his choppers this weekend when we're in Fort Wayne visiting Grandma. I sure hope he enjoys his 3.5 hours of face-forward fun on the road there and back. I know I won't will.

Word of the Day: Mama

When Oliver had his one-year appointment with the doctor, she asked how many words he was saying besides Mommy and Daddy. I was a bit stunned by the question, actually. It seemed a loaded to me -- I mean, was he even saying Mommy and Daddy?

Eric assured me that he had heard Mama and Dada, so that counts. What he didn't elaborate on is that Dadadada is simply the sound Oliver makes when he's enjoying himself while walking (he gets very proud of himself) and Mamamama seems to mean any number of the following:

• Mama: More (generically)
• Mama: More (of something I just had, often shortened to the familiar "Ma")
• Mama: More (of something I have yet to receive and you must guess)
• Mama: Milk (generally with an uprising questioning tone to the end)
• Mama: Gimme (of something he sees and wants and is pointing to)

You can see where this is going.

As far as I can tell, Mama never means ME!

I'm cool with that, though. Really, I am. My mommy friends say that once they know that's your name, they never tire of using it at all hours undesirable and in all tones unappreciative. So I can wait.

I can't wait, however, til he really starts talking. Not so much for the developmental status nor for the convenience of enhanced communication, but simply because I'm sure it'll be cute and entertaining. And cute and entertaining helps to balance out kicking and screaming (see Guantanamo Bay in Chicago). The kid has become an absolute monkey on the changing table -- an angry monkey (kind of like that one in Chris's closet on the Family Guy).

Actually, now that I've started listening closer, I do think he's got a couple words in his repertoire, but really barely two, and I'll save those for another post. Given the way he babbles, though, I know he's definitely got something to say. Just hope it comes out soon. I'll need the blog fodder for sure.

First Haircut

On Saturday, Oliver had his first haircut. And I have to wonder why we didn't do it a long time ago, as his bangs have been poking his eyeballs for months now.

We were in the car on the way to Garfield Conservatory and thought we'd give the haircut a shot since Oliver had been having a good morning with a great nap and was in a good mood.

At first, we thought we'd head down to Snippet's on Clybourn ("a specialized children's hair salon") to get the full treatment and certificate, but then decided it was just too much trouble because there might be a wait and traffic down that way is no fun. Plus, who needs to go to a place that offers a "Missy Manicure" service. So I called my friend Emily -- of Emily and "Theo of the Good-Looking Hair" -- to see where they go on the northside.

Turns out they go to "Julie" of salon-name-unknown and web-site-non-existent, which is no problem in my book because it just means no wait and no over-inflated prices. And like I said, Theo's hair always looks good (except that one time when his daddy cut his bangs and the other time when he went to bed with his hair wet).

So we headed over to Julie's place, which we learned is also known as JRH Kids Cuts.

Immediately we were put at ease by the presence of the car haircut chairs, a must-have for any first haircut. Phew. And Julie was very nice asking us if we wanted him to sit on our laps or in the car chair and if he would tolerate the apron around his neck. Turns out he was fine in the car and with the apron and with the snip-snip-snipping, thank goodness. Although, Julie was quick to remind us that every time is different and he might have a full-fledged fit next time, but so far so good. Although there were no tears, at one point Mr. Pouty Lip did come out.

The whole ordeal took all of 3 minutes and 6 snips to be honest. Not really worth all the pomp and circumstance -- although I did manage to take a fair share of photos, including him enjoying some playtime afterward in Julie's play area.

My own hairdresser tried to give me a tutorial the other day on how to cut Oliver's hair while he's sleeping, but I wasn't ready for that. Maybe at some point in the future now that I've seen how basic and less-than-precise the "professional" cut is, but I kinda doubt it.

Julie didn't send us home with an official certificate, but she did throw his hair into a small manilla envelope and gave Eric a ballpoint pen to label and date it.

I subsequently brought it home and put it into the awesome silver personalized keepsake holder that our friends Jeff and Richelle got us -- one for his first curl and one for his first tooth. I tried to take some pictures of it with the lid on so you could see how cool it is, but it's so shiny and kept just getting a reflection of me and my camera. So here's a quick shot of it and its contents:

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Gitmo Chicago

And that is why I can stand here tonight and say without exception or equivocation that the United States of America does not torture. -- President Barack Obama

And yet, to look at this photo of Oliver you might call me a traitor, un-American, in direct defiance of the leader of the free world.

What was I doing to him, you ask? Well, the same thing I do to him every day. Changing his diaper and/or changing his clothes.

When he was a little thing, he freaking LOVED the changing table. It was the go-to spot for whenever he was fussy. Even when he wasn't in need of a change, it brought smiles and laughs as he engaged with his lion mobile above head. But, no, not now. No way!

I've truly come to dread the whole endeavor. I'd leave him in the same outfit day in and day out if I didn't think the daycare would report me. I don't know what his problem is.

I guess I should be thankful that he's not any squirmier than he is. It's only the rare occasion that he tries to turn over and gets up on all fours up there. But really, I can't wait til he outgrows this phase. And for some reason it doesn't make a difference if I try to change him on the floor instead. And it doesn't make a difference if it's the strip-down or the cover-up part of the exchange. He's simply inconsolable.

More...

Oh my gosh, I just witnessed Oliver eat a breakfast of all breakfasts. Man, that kid can eat:

First Course: Bananas
Second Course: Waffles
Third Course: Ham
Fourth Course: Blueberries
Fifth Course: Toast with Jam

Thank goodness it's the most important meal of the day! And thank goodness it should wait until he's safely at daycare to come out the other end. Pretty common feedback from the teachers at daycare: "Man, Oliver can eat. He loves to eat. It's his favorite part of the day."

Portrait of an Artist

It is so cool that at Oliver's daycare, they do real art activities. I got to witness it in action on his birthday this year. I posted some photos to The Oliver Chronicles, but they had also taken these shots at school, where they laminated them, added captions, and hung them on the wall for a period.


He just had his quarterly "parent/teacher-conference" and "progress report" last week, so they sent home everything that he's created in his mere 6 weeks there along with these action shots. It's already quite a collection of original works, not including the valentine he adorned with his cute little footprints.

Of course, being as unsentimental as I am, I feel the conflicting sentiments brewing already. "Clear the clutter." vs. "Aw... my babies first fingerpainting". "If you don't use it, lose it" vs. "I wonder if I should use an acid free mat when I frame this crayon drawing".

And then my love for technology entered the picture and I thanked the heavens for the inventor of the affordable All-In-One printer/scanner/fax/copier that allows me to preserve his greatness in a format where it will actually get seen with relative ease. No, I'm not going to just pitch everything as soon as Windows tells me it's captured. We'll keep the hardcopy as backup, as I'm sure they will be worth something someday -- plus the scanner seems to be cutting off the edges a bit. But I do like the idea of scanning them in to create more of a catalog of work. Much more palatable for my organizing sensibilities. Plus, then I get to share them more easily with all of you. Please feel free to open the bidding at a level commensurate with Renoir.

With that, let me unveil The Winter Blues: A Frigid January by Oliver James Weinstein -- and for other great art, please see his Daddy's website (oh, wait, he doesn't have one -- Eric, get busy!):

Winning Numbers: 02-30-04-12-05-03

Maybe it's worth trying to win the lottery with those numbers. Maybe they're cursed. Certainly feels that way as I am beginning to crash this afternoon after a long night of multiple wake-ups with The Monk -- 2:30, 4:12, 5:03. I mean, WTH?!

I suppose we can't really trust the numbers anyway since they're all based on my foggy half-asleep memory. I don't know what's up with the kid. We had him into the pediatrician again on Saturday, who said we are the winners of the Mega Millions Virus Lottery. He's getting one on top of the other from daycare, it seems, and just can't seem to catch a break. Poor kid!

Actually, he was much better on Sunday, when we had brunch at Jim and Dawn's with Sharon and Milos -- nice time. No crying or barfing or anything of the sort. And we learned that he really likes chocolate donut holes (I mean, who doesn't?)

Anyway, I digress... just wanted to moan and groan a bit about my desire to get a full night's sleep sometime soon. I actually have some sort of plan assembled in my head that involves early-morning workouts at a nearby gym. Of course, when I ran that hypothetical against this morning's circumstance, it didn't look too promising. A 5:00 baby-soothing session does not bode well for a 6:00 treadmill session. Oh well... maybe next week.

Happy Valentine's Day!

I had thought of many titles for this post and many ways to frame it, but really wanted to showcase Oliver's awesome valentine he made at school, so I thought I'd tell you about Oliver's second-ever Valentine's Day last Saturday -- and let's just preface it by saying it wasn't all roses and chocolate.

Friday night involved pizza and beer (both in the "lots of" form) and a late night, so Eric and I woke up a little peaked as my Grandma Carnes would have said -- that's phonetically pee-kid (oh, the irony continues). But none-the-less we trekked up to Bubbie's house in Riverwoods for a Valentine's Day lunch with the whole family. It was great, actually -- a spread of comfort foods from cottage cheese and peaches to grilled cheese and tomato soup. Problem was, Oliver wasn't comforted by any of it. He just wasn't having any of it. Not interested and crabby as hell. So I take him out of the high chair and am sitting on the couch in the next room when it begins. The vomit. The hurl. The milky, parmesan-smelling, chunk of cracker barf.

Keep in mind that this is our first adventure in throw-up. Spit-up, as any parent will tell you, is a much milder and completely acceptable beast comparatively.

Let's just say thank goodness Bubbie and Poppa have hardwood floors because carpet would have been a disaster. He seemed to improve after that and by some grace of god, I had thrown in an extra set of clothes for the trip. But, no sooner did our original clothes come out of the dryer than he was up for a repeat performance -- this time on Daddy and in the kitchen. Poor kid. It really is horrible. Long story short, we get home, he does it twice more over the course of a few hours and finally goes to bed. We worry all night that he's going to choke on it and die in his sleep, but he makes it and we go about our business.

The weekend and into the week were pretty spotty with more incidents of lost lunches -- oh, and the all-night heaving session I had on Sunday and Eric on Monday. Details are unwanted. I understand. TMI, you say? I understand. I wish I could have skipped it, as well.

Overall it's been a rough week, but we got through it. He's feeling much better. Not eating as much and Er and I are about the same (don't you just hate it when NOTHING sounds good?). I handled it all much better than I thought I would, to be honest. I didn't completely freak out. And I didn't run away and leave Eric to clean it up. In fact, I found myself rushing to help because my baby wasn't feeling well, and well, I hate that.

This does not mean that when I see the following (a not-uncommon occurence in our house) that I rush quite as fast or at all for that matter. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

Photo released with permission from Cub and Junior (origination unknown):

It's Still Freaking Cold

According to the news last night we've only had four days above freezing so far this year. I am perpetually pissed off. It is unnatural to spend this much time indoors. I'm grateful, though, to have a great job that allows me to work from home and to have a baby who looks so cute all bundled up:

-- Post From My iPhone