Then and now.

Sometimes I look at Isabelle and she seems like such a tiny little person. Other times it seems like she has grown threefold overnight. I think there is truth in both observations.

When Isabelle was tiny one of her favorite places to take a snooze was on Paul's chest. I am sure when she gets older she will want to snuggle up and sleep there again. In the meantime she refuses to hold still long enough to snooze peacefully. Instead, she squiggles away looking for something to stuff in her mouth, inspect, throw, or beat on.

See the changes in the baby from last March to now:

Life and death. A somber entry.

I know this blog is about Isabelle, and this post will in some ways relate to her, although not directly. But I felt compelled to enter this post because somehow I have found that writing about things helps me to understand them better. Writing lets me sort and weigh and consider information in a way that I cannot seem to do inside of my head. So bear with me.

Yesterday my cousin Kim committed suicide. Kim was about 10 years older than me, so I didn't really grow up with her, but I loved her just the same. As a child I was best friends with her sister Shana and so by default was around Kim, at least for a few years, before she grew up and moved out. We have spent time together over the years and holidays and family get togethers. I admit not a lot of time, time nonetheless.

Kim was the first person to come and see and hold Isabelle in the hospital. She commented on how beautiful she was and softly stroked Isabelle's soft little cheeks. Kim didn't have a lot of money, but gave Isabelle a rattle that still gets played with sometimes today.

I can't remember the last time I saw Kim. I think it was after Isabelle was born. I think it was at a fundraiser in San Diego a few months before we moved. She looked good and seemed okay. Things aren't what they seem. Not that this is a surprise, Kim was sad for almost as long as I can remember. Her demons were depression and alcohol. She also felt misunderstood and unloved. She had no husband, rarely even a decent boyfriend, and no children - despite her big heart and deep tenderness.

Her demons were just too much to bear. Last night after hearing about Kim and before I went to bed, I did my nightly routine of looking in on Isabelle. She was sleeping on her belly with her face turned to the side. Her head was on her sheepy and her little mouth was puckered from the weight of her cheeks so that it lay slightly open in the shape of an o. She was breathing softly and sleeping soundly. I leaned down to smell her sweet hair and kiss her. I told her I loved her and my greatest wish in the world above money or success or anything was that she be happy. And then I cried.

Kim was once a tiny baby like Isabelle, who slumbered peacefully. Her parents kissed her tenderly atop the head and wished love for her. My heart breaks for them now. My heart breaks for Kim and for all of the years that she wallowed in pain, fighting the alcohol and the drugs and the depression that attacked like a siege of relentless warriors - not allowing her to sleep or to breath or to live without fear and sadness. Eventually the battle went on too long and was too rigorous and she lost hope.

How does that sweet innocent baby become such a sad adult. What happens? Is it something chemical, is it learned, is it a series of bad choices that compound over time? The scary thing is that I don't know - none of us do - so we have no way of stopping it. No way of fixing it. No way of preventing it.

Guilt and blame will be common for my family I fear. Both are useless and harmful emotions in situations like this. Kim was an adult. No one could change her mind or force her to take medication or seek counseling if she didn't want to. No one could make her feel happy. No one could give her the hope that she lost, or maybe never had.

I just wish I could understand how she got to where she did in the end. And I pray to an unknown and unnamed God that Isabelle doesn't suffer the same fate. I will try to do my best as her mother to help her and guide her to happiness. But I know there are somethings that I simply will not be able to control. Those things paralyze me with fear some days.

I am sad today. I will be sad tomorrow. I really want to believe there is a heaven and that Kim is there now at peace. But even if there is not, if there is nothing, I know she is no longer in pain and tortured by her worldly demons. And for that small fact I am grateful.

I will miss Kim, her laugh, her smart mind, her pretty face, her funny sense of humor. A little piece of my heart is broken now. A little piece that will not be fixed, but will always be sharp with pain.

Officially official.

I think I can finally say that Isabelle has said her first words and made her first step. She officially can say "da" "da da" and "daaaaaaa!" (the latter of which is said with a high pitched squeal). Of course, she doesn't yet identify me as "mama" or say it in any recognizing way. Darn Daddy's girl that she is. She also can say "baby" which sounds like "beh-beh" she will say it looking at herself in the mirror or when she sees a picture of herself or another baby. She can also say "Hi" which sounds like "hieeh" and for balloon says "ba." These are officially are her first real words.

She also is making real steps. Usually about 3, sometimes up to 5. Yesterday she took 5 steps from her baby rocking chair, even stopping and balancing herself before she went on. It's very cute. She claps for herself when she does a good job too. She is such a ray of happy sunshine.

It's a party!

Isabelle had her first birthday party on the 20th. It was a very fun event with our good friends and family in attendance. Of course, Isabelle had no clue about the meaning of the party, she just knew there were other kids around (which she loves being the social butterfly that she is) and new toys--enough to ensure that she had a fabulous time!

Happy First Birthday Sweet Baby!

How can it have already been a year? Time seems to have just flown by. Look at how tiny she was...






Look at what a big girl, full of silliness, and curiosity, and wonder she has become...





I made a little movie of some video I took of the big-girl over the last few days (can I tell you how much I love IMovies on the new Mac we bought!?). Anyhow, click here to view some ITL cuteness!


PS: sorry about the quality of the video - something got lost in translation to Yahoo Video, I will try to get a better quality video posted tonight.

Last year.

Today I am in a mad rush to get a motion for summary judgment filed in one of the nameless employment cases that are my everyday working life. Oh, and I am bitter because I had to get up at the ass-crack o'dawn to attend a work meeting. Who in their right mind schedules a meeting for 8 am...that is a barbaric hour to be at work and to be expecting to appear somewhat functional. My thoughts today are with getting my motion filed, putting out remaining fires on my desk, and getting home in time to give the busy baby her dinner and a bath.

At exactly this time last year (about 2 pm on January 16), my thoughts were as follows: I know that I was having contractions, "real" ones. I had had a few the night before that I vaguely remembered waking up from during the night. I thought I ad a few more in the morning around 10 am. Paul had gone to his daily pilgrimage to the Alpine Fitness Club (oh, the life of a kept man before baby), and in the two hours he was gone, the contractions begin in earnest. I remember some weeks before I had asked my OB, Dr. Steele, how I would know when I was having contractions, the likes of which should cause me to go to the hospital. After all, I hadn't had any of those false, Braxton-Hicks contractions to know what it might feel like. He told me I would know, and when I couldn't talk through them, it was time to head down the hill to the hospital. To the hospital where I was delivered a little over 35 years earlier.

Things progressed over the next few hours. I dutifully got out my stopwatch and started timing the contractions. They were coming about two and a half minutes apart, but not hurting, they just felt like cramps. The clocked zipped past 4:00 pm and then to 5:00, and things started to speed up and intensify. I didn't want to be one of those people who goes to the hospital only to be told, no - not yet - go home. By 5:30 pm or so I was still talking through the contractions...albeit with clinched teeth, and they were under two minutes apart. I called my cousin Shana who said t wait awhile, about 15 minutes later, I called my sister in law Linda who said that we should go to the hospital. I agreed and we promised to call when we knew more.

On the drive down the contractions became more and more pronounced. Wen we checked in, they told me that they weren't sure that they were going to admit me yet, that they needed to check me out first. I remember thinking "are you kidding me? If you send me home - a half hour drive back - feeling like this - I will tear your face from your skull with my teeth!" So I sat in a hospital bed, with Paul and by now Kristine with me, for the next two hours waiting to see if I would be admitted to deliver this baby who clearly was ready to enter the world. Wisely for the hospital staff, they admitted me. At which point I promptly requested an epidural. See Dr. Steele, wised OB that he was, said there were "no points fr pain" and that I could get the epidural as soon as I wanted it.

It was now about 8 pm, and it seems that in the two hours that I was being observed, the only anesthesiologist on duty was now performing a C-section and I couldn't get my epidural until he was finished. I could wait. I was having big contractions, but I have a high tolerance for pain (or so I thought/told myself). Plus, I was only at about 2 centimeters - I had time.

Three hours, five centimeters, and some seriously painful contractions later I was about to hurt someone. I mean WTF?! I am at a modern hospital. Yes I am in the women's ward, but its not as if anesthesiologists aren't on duty next door in the rest of the giant hospital. Apparently, like striking teamsters, an anesthesiologist from unit A of the hospital is not allowed to cross into unit B to help alleviate someones mother-f____ing pain! Clearly a man drafted that rule....ahem, okay, where was I? Ah yes...I was at the point that the nurse was coming in saying "my those are some big contractions aren't they?" and I was, well, intermittently in tears when the lower half of my body felt like it was attempting to separate from the rest of my body to carry on itself.

Thankfully, about the time I was starting to howl in pain, in came the man with the epidural, and normalcy and calm was restored. And so as the clock ticked, we waited.

Twice the epidural started to wear off on my right leg and they had to give me more juice, which I was extremely grateful for. At some point they told us that I needed to have oxygen because they were concerned about the baby's heartbeat. I had such a moment of panic and cautiously asked what was wrong. It seems as though with every contraction a baby's heart rate usually goes up in some kind of agitation or other response to the circumstances. Isabelle, to the contrary, had a consistent heartbeat. It pretty much just stayed the same. So peaks and valleys, no apparent stress or worry. Maybe that's when we should have known what a mellow baby she would be.

At 1:30 am on the 17th it was time to push. Who knew pushing could be so tiring, but I suppose doing anything physical for 90 minutes can be tiring. At the end of that time they told us that her head was looking up and they couldnt get it poisitoned down. They would need to use the vacuum or do a C-section. Both options freaked me out and I really didnt want a Csection, but I also didnt want to do anything that might hurt her. I had read horror stories about th vacuum and they were all flooding into my head like black ink spilled across white paper. I asked some questions about the proceudre and the OB (not Dr. Steele, but a very nice femal OB Dr. Goff) assured me it would be fine.

When they brought the vacuum out I just opted to keep my eyes closed. Paul said that it was a very small hand-pumped contracption. One push with the vacuum got her head out and one more caused the rest of her to follow (of course there was the in between part when her head was out and they said to NOT PUSH because Miss Princess had pooped in utero and they had to clean out her airways while she was still attached to the umbilical cord).

Out she was. Rosey and pink and crying. For 27 minutes straightshe cried. They said this was a good sign of solid lung development. I disticlty remember after she was cleaned up and they put her on me. I just couldnt beleive that she was mine. A baby. My baby. I have to admit, I didn't have that instant uber bond that you often hear about. I was exhausted and scared. I had no idea what I was doing or what to expect.

The bond, the deep love, the "mother lion instinct" - it all deeloped over time. But at this time last year it was all so new. Such uncharted territory. I didn't know what it would fel like to stay awake so long that all I could do was cry, to fret over every sinle thing she ate or wouldnt eat, to feel soreness in body parts I never thought would get that sore. But I also didn't know what it would feel like to hold her tiny, warm small body close to mine, to see her smile at me when I walk in the room, or to see her change in ways that seem like small miracles.

Good eats

Babies, as I often say, are strange. And eating seems to bring out this strangeness. Isabelle will one night hoover down berries and cheese as if all 27 lbs of her hasn't eaten more than a grain of rice in the last 7 days. The next day, when you offer her the same, she will act as if you are supplying her with sharp, snapping, stinging insects on a spoon -- shaking her head "no" and batting the spoon viciously from your hand.

A couple of days ago it stopped raining. Yes, this is indeed something to be recorded in the annals of Oregon history. Anyhow, Isabelle loves going outside. So I decided to let her crawl around in the back yard (not the soupy, green mush pit that was once grass, but on the pavers). She ambled around a bit, poking pine needles and seedpods in her mouth - only to promptly spit them out again. She then crawled over the the wall and started grabbing at the very wet dirt. She shoved some in her mouth a few times and started to spit it out. I thought that she was finished sampling the fine delicacy that is our backyard-dirt and walked into the house to get a washclothe to wipe down her pinchers and face. It turns out I was wrong:









She scooped at least 6 mouthfuls of dirt into her little maw. Happily sticking out her blackened tongue and rubbing her messy hands on her belly. For the first time -- but I am sure not the last -- I had to strip ITL down to her diaper outside and rinse her off in the kitchen sink. Which, given her love for water and constant attempts to turn on all things faucet, was a great joy to Isabelle as well. It was a good day to be a baby.

New Years Baby

What counts?

I know this is not the first time I have raised the spectre of this oh so important and thorny social issue (and I am sure it will not be the last as I tend to be, uh, obsessive), but when you are talking baby "milestones" - what counts? I mean, when is something a first word or a first step? When do you get to write that magic date down in the baby book (or blog in 2007) and say "she did IT!"? I just don't know. What I can tell you is what Isabelle can do right now. Not always on command, or in the proper context, no - but nonetheless she can do the following things as of this first day in 2007:

• Say "hi baby" (sounds like "heh beh-beh")
• Say (although never in references to me or Paul) "mamamamama" and "dadadadada"
• When you sing to her the Lotion Song ("Lotion, lotion, lotion - lotion for the baby") you can sing up to "for the" and occasionally she will say "beh-beh"
• Sign "more"
• Sign "milk"
• Talk to the cats when they meow - she makes a scraggly high-pitched "meow" sound back to them
• Walk a few steps using her push-cart
• Walk unassisted about 2-3 steps from one article of furniture to another
• Track and watch any bird or jet that flies overhead
• Crawl up and slide down (on her huge belly) the entire flight of stairs completely on her own
• Play her drums, well she just kind of beats on the drum, but she can handle the sticks
• Drink an entire 8 ounce bottle after eating a giant dinner
• Scream (exuberantly) in the mirror at herself or taking turns with you screaming
• Sleep 11-12 hours regularly
• Poop three times a day
• Eat spicy food (she loves spicy, must be all the hot sauce I ate while pregnant)
• Recognize the following objects and/or persons: Mini, Meeko, Mama, Daddy, Molly, Zach, hat, sheepy, light, and a picture of Charlene ("Grandma"). I am sure there are more that I just haven't discovered.
• She understands the sign for "eat" and "help" although she doesn't use them herself
• Pass something (usually a hat) between me and Paul when we say "give the hat to Daddy" or "to Mommy"
• "Brush" my hair and her hair with a comb or hairbrush

So has she said her first word or walked her first step? I don't know. But she is amazing in what she can do and I never get tired of experiencing her "firsts" because they are unexpected and small bits of magic. I think that's what counts.