Autofeed - I Can Relate

On Training a Parent

She is so adorable....starting at her perfect little toes, upward to her pudgy sunny-side-up belly to her slightly crossed blue eyes and topped with her fuzzy little head, she draws you in.  And although her basic repertoire consists predictably of eating 10-12 meals a day before batting at a few overpriced toys, then drifting into a series of luxurious, worry-free power naps, she is endlessly fascinating.  Yes, my siamese cat is really something. 

Who did you think I was talking about?

The parallel between the life of my baby and the life of my cat is eerie.  Besides the apparent coordination in the scheduling of their days, they are both very comfortable in their perceived roles as the idle rich.  Their Tuesdays are no different than their Saturdays.  The state of the economy, the weather on the other side of the window pane, and the fate of late night talk show hosts have no place in their daily paradigm.

Despite the outward appearance that they could be twins separated at birth, one major difference is that there are no expectations placed upon Messy Kitty (who lives up to her name on a regular basis).  Izzy, on the other hand, is under a level of scrutiny usually reserved for an airline passenger with an "I *heart* al qaeda" tattoo.  Every little gurgle, squeak, and grunt is interpreted as having great meaning, perhaps riveling the infant babblings of Shakespeare.   And the camera records each thoughtful (Einstein-esque?) expression that crosses her face. I'm almost certain that her notably long fingers will eventually bridge two octaves on the piano (wasn't that also true of Van Cliburn?)  And though I know that this behavior is lunacy, I  just. can't. stop.

But back to this baby-cat connection.  I think there is a lesson in this observation.  A few years ago, I brought home a precocious 12-week-old kitten, housed and fed her, loved her, and made her feel welcome in our happy but somewhat dysfunctional family.  I simply allowed her catness to slowly unfold instead of being molded into my idea of the kind of cat I wanted her to be (you know, the no-shed, always hits the catbox, willing to eat off-brand food kind of cat we all dream of). 

I think that some of this loving simplicity may be as good for Izzy as it has been for Messy Kitty. While I don't intend to embrace a benign neglect sort of parenting style, I do think that I will put the camera down, talk a little more baby talk, and let myself be amazed by my daughter.  Good kiddy.   

Running with the Snails

   It has now been three months since the arrival of our daughter, Izzy.  If I were Heidi Klum, Jessica Alba, or Kate Hudson, I would be approximately 6 pounds lighter than my pre-pregnancy weight and ready once again for spandex and a micro-bikini.  But since I have banished my personal chef, trainer, and nanny back to fantasy land, I guess I am on my own to fight the Battle of the Bulge. 
   The fitting room should bear the words, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" but I am, perhaps foolishly, not discouraged!  The reason for this unfounded hope?  I went running today.  I wasn't quite propelling myself quickly enough to stir the perception of the wind in my hair, but I was out there!  My wonderful baby daddy is making a great effort to get me back on the road to fitness (I think he caught a glimpse of the semi-nude post-pregnancy body that I'm sporting) and took the Izzy duty for some daytime action.  Granted, I only actually ran 1 mile - and a slow one at that.  But considering that the longest distance I've traveled recently under my own power has been between the couch and fridge, this is progress! 

   I have discovered the secret weapon for breastfeeding moms who want to run without incurring black eyes:  the Enell bra.  With (I kid you not) 18 eyehooks and the profile of a bullet-proof vest, it is designed to keep everything compressed and in it's place during aerobic endeavors.   Donning this monstrosity feels akin to Scarlet O'Hara tightening the corset to achieve her 19-inch waist with a little help from some friends.  Just like the words  episiotomy, cerclage, and Braxton-Hicks which were unknown snippets from another language prior to pregnancy, Enell has made its way into my vocabulary to stay.  And, no, I have not been paid by the makers of this fine product to hawk it to unsuspecting women with extra large mammaries.  I am just one happy mama eagerly awaiting my next opportunity to put my sneakers back on the pavement and perhaps have a shot at wiggling into a one piece at the very least this summer.

This Sums It Up

Lessons for the Uninitiated

I admit that I was unschooled and naive when I entered Babies R Us.  Not so upon exiting.  I was 6 months pregnant and, with a list of practical essentials, about to register for my upcoming baby shower.  I was your typical knocked-up idealist with dream-fuzzed images of peacefully tending to my cooing baby dressed in all white (and myself of course dressed in a fetching size 4 number just weeks after delivering my wee one).

What a Baby is Not

I remember well the curious feeling of my face contorting into an unbidden and  unfamiliar expression when I saw the word "Pregnant" on the home test.  It could best be described as somewhere between the "Oh No, Mr. Bill!" expression and the perpetual smirk worn by the Geiko gecko.