Worst. Day. Ever.

Not for me, thankfully, since I have thirty three years worth of days that a day has to be worse than to get top billing, but for Cleo. Got that? A bad day in the life of the kid, poor thing. 

Being a beginning walker is a little like being a beginning anything: lots of missteps, lots of uncomfortable lessons, lots of learning the same thing over and over in slightly different ways. How Not to Fall Face-First Onto The Floor she has down pat, but she has a ways to go on How Not to Fall Face-First Into A Pesky Chair-Leg. She put out her arms to catch herself, but the chair leg got right through her defenses and whacked her hard on the cheekbone. Now she has the kind of bruise that indicates a good story in her recent past. A real you-should-see-the-other-guy blooming up in blue and purple. The holler that this face-whack produced was one of those slow-building eardrum-busters, impressive in both length, tone, and volume. She was a little subdued the rest of the day, so I'm not sure what we were thinking when we did what we did at lunchtime (the foreboding music starts here).

Months ago, I had to go away for a whole day, and instead of blowing through our supply of frozen breastmilk, we decided that she could have some formula. Some soy formula, since she does not like (will not drink, no way, no how) the dairy-based stuff. She sucked down two or three bottles, and by the time I got home, she had been throwing up for an hour already. We weren't sure it was the formula, since there was also stomach bug going around, so we tried it again a few weeks later. Same story: barf, barf, barf, doctor visit. The doctor was unconvinced that this was soy-related-barfing, and suggested that we try it again. At that point, my response was a polite version of, "Hah! Right! As if!" But yesterday, after a vomit-free few months, it seemed like a reasonable (and doctor-recommended, after all) thing to do. We gave her three small bites of soy-based veggie burger. Two hours later, the answer arrived: Soy=No Good For Cleo. That answer kept arriving every ten minutes for two and a half hours, and left poor Cleo limp and sad, and her parents sad and covered in, well, you know. We got enough fluids back into her that she could get reassuringly cranky, and we all slept fitfully. 

Today she's a bruised and subdued baby, but no serious harm was done. There are thunder clouds gathering over that benighted doctor's head, though, as the wrath of A Mother Who Has Been Proved Right prepares to descend upon him. 

Good Morning

It's 5:45 in the morning. I'm blearily checking email and generally farting around online while Cleo sings to her two-headed duck and says, "Ba ba buh buh nuh nuh nuh naaaaa" to her wooden cup. Soon I will be awake enough to make some toast for myself and a vile yogurt/prune concoction for her. But for now, I have to share a link with you. I'm a loyal reader of Antonia at Whoopee, and this is why: she misses the sea.

The Days These Days

It seems impossibly dull to recount right now, but I know that in three months, three years, three decades, I'll look back and wonder, "What were all those days like? Was she ever really a baby?" So, for my future self, for Cleo some day, and (possibly) much to your bored eye-rolling today, here's a typical day these days:

4:30: The baby monitor lets us know she's awake and none too happy about it. One or the other of us mumbles, "Snot five yet. Less juss wait till five. Swhat tha book said." She settles after a few minutes.

5:00: Using her Atomic Superbaby Clock, accurate to within thirty seconds, she wakes again, hollers again, and The Sainted Dada stumbles in, changes her, and delivers her to Mama, who can only bring herself to open one eye at a time. After her first meal of the day, Cleo is carefully watched for signs of nodding back off. This hasn't happened in weeks, but we fondly remember the days of sleeping until seven.

5:30: Up. Sometimes one parent sleeps in, sometimes the other, but the official version of events starts the day now, for everyone. Once Cleo hears full sentences come out of our mouths, some containing the magic word "up," she gets the full body wiggles and starts her monologue: "Dadadadadada. Pah. Pah. Pah." We're pretty sure by now that Dadadada means Dada, but we have no idea what the significance of "pah" is. All we know is that if we say it to her, it always results in her whipping her head around and fixing us with her full attention. Maybe it means "We're going to take you for a walk in the sling, but first some Cheerios and maybe a visit from a puppy."

6:00: Solid food for all! As we have breakfast, we spoon mushy stuff of various colors into Cleo's mouth. These days, sweet potatoes, peas, prunes, pears, oatmeal, and carrots are in heavy rotation, complemented by bits of cheese, yogurt, egg yolk, pineapple (a new hit), and the perrenial favorite: Something From Mama's Plate.

8:30: First nap. The naptime routine consists of a book (Everywhere Babies? Goodnight Gorilla?), a new diaper and a snack, then a pacifier and into the crib for a rest. This nap, and all of Cleo's naps, is about half an hour long. I have friends who casually drop mentions of their babies' two hour or three hour naps, but I'm pretty sure they're just messing with me. Impossible, right? Right?

9:00-3:00: What do we do all day? Damned if I know. There is rolling around on the floor, there are trips to the market, there's coffee with other mom-and-babe duos, there is standing up, sitting down, crawling around, and putting things in the mouth. Popular games include "Mama goes awaaaaay, sooooo far awaaaaay [crawl slowly backwards].... Mama's coming to get you! Mama's coming to get you [grab, tickle, tickle, roll around]" and "Cleo does a handstand!" Both result in shrieks, giggles, and multi-generational laughter. Lunch is in there somewhere, as well as a midday nap.

3:00: Dada time. Having started work at 6:30, Dada is now done for the day. The idea is that now Mama gets some work done, and this does happen some of the time, but other days, the afternoon disappears into a haze of dinner preparation, showering, email, bill-paying, and staring blankly into space (emphasis on items three and five). Sometimes Cleo has another nap, sometimes not.

6:00: Baby bedtime. Bedtime routine is much like naptime routine, with more books (Hop on Pop, Yummy Yucky, and Goodnight Moon), and a few more rounds of "I've Been Working on the Railroad" before she's happy to be put down.

7:00: Grownup dinner. These days, it's often the same thing a few nights in a row: curry or homemade pizza or tortellini with vegetables. The theory is that I can cook once, and we can eat three times, and one of my great pieces of good fortune is that The Washer of All Dishes doesn't mind at all. It's rewarding to cook for someone who manages to be so accepting of repetition and mediocrity, while also being appreciative of a good variety of delicious food when it happens.

7:30-9:30: I spend these hours doing more time-frittering non-accomplishment, all the while telling myself to go to bed already, since five AM is just getting closer every minute.

11:00: Operating on the principle that, "it's dinnertime somewhere," Cleo has her first nighttime meal. I stumble down the hall, feed her, and she generally goes right back to sleep. Occasionally I'll hear people or cars outside, and my first thought is, "What are they up to in the middle of the night?" And then I remember that I didn't always go to bed at nine, and they might not either.

3:00: It's dinnertime somewhere else! Cleo's second meal. I realize that feeding a ten-month-old twice every night might seem excessive to some, but it's so much better than the five times of just a couple months ago, it seems perfectly reasonable to me (although that might be the Stockholm syndrome talking).

And Cleo's a very active baby, so I admit that I like those nighttime feedings, when she lies quietly in my arms, my big heavy baby, and then goes back to sleep cuddled against my shoulder. During the day she's a bundle of muscle and activity, always on the move, and she seems like what she is: a strong, agile baby who's small for her age. But at night, when she's sleepy, she seems to double in size and weight, and I remember the days when she was a much smaller sack of potatoes sleeping on my chest.

4:30: And we begin again.

Research

There was a baby squirrel hopping around the yard this morning: cute, but worryingly small. It was clearly an escapee, and I tried using my special mamamojo (that's a thing, right?) to let its mother know that she had a runaway. No concerned adult squirrel appeared, and the little one kept cavorting, inexpertly climbing trees, tripping over sticks, and gamboling in the leaf litter.

Cleo and I watched from the window. Or, rather, I watched the squirrel and sent urgent telepathic messages to its mother, and Cleo kept her eye firmly on the cup of dry Cheerios on the table. She has recently graduated from "baby puffs" (essentially less substantial, more expensive Cheerios) to the real deal, and she's smitten with the little round things. If she's in her high chair and I set one in front of her, she'll delicately pick it up, pinkie extended, and transfer it to her wide-open mouth. If I present a whole little pile, she'll fill her fists and try to cram both hands, all her fingers, and multiple Cheerios into her mouth at once. The concept of one-at-a-time apparently requires thinking above the pay grade of a nine-month-old.

Once her mouth contains at least one Cheerio, she thoughtfully gums it while she manipulates any strays with an intense focus. Some of her Cheerio projects include:
Testing Gravity
Feeding Mama
Down The Shirtfront
Down The Shirtback
Sticking a Damp One Behind The Ear
And testing hypotheses like: "I will be able to eat a Cheerio and suck on my pacifier at the same time"

Inevitably, a few will get away from her (even when she's not Testing Gravity). Once they hit the floor, they change status and become Floorios. This does not necessarily render them unfit for comsumption. On the contrary, thanks to a well-timed article in the New York Times, I welcome the chance for a serendipitous immune challenge. And she seems to like discovering a Floorio even better than being given a Cheerio.

Which brings us full circle. You know how squirrels hide food all over the place in the fall, and then spend the winter digging up stuff and eating it? Don't you wonder if they remember where they've buried all their nuts so they can find them later, or if they just bury willy-nilly, and trust that they'll somehow find food when they need it? Well, Cleo certainly seems to be operating by the latter principle. She makes an effort to scatter her treasure as widely as possible, and then her whole day is just a series of exciting, surprise snacks.

I eventually lost sight of the baby squirrel this morning, but I hope it found its way home, or failing that, that it at least happened upon some of the Groundios that litter our yard.

The Cleo Songbook, Month Seven

The key to Cleo's taste in music is: quantity, not quality. She'll tolerate almost any length of car trip, even when she's fussy, as long as the singing flows without ceasing. This works out very well for me, since I'm not much of a singer, but boy do I have stamina. The best songs (besides the evil "Song That Never Ends") for singing forever are ones that combine a singable tune and a structure that lends itself to stream-of-consciousness lyrics. Some songs that have proved effective:

-She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain, since she'll also be doing any number of other things that have the right number of syllables, like:
She'll be driving to the market.
She'll be wearing her sunglasses.
She'll be flipping off the jerkwads.
She'll be hunting for some parking.
She'll be scaring off the pigeons.
She'll be turning off the engine.
(this is the grocery store version, as you may have gathered)

-The Wheels On The Bus, since there can be a lot more things on the bus than you might have thought...
The jocks on the bus go "Dude, that's sweet!"
The kids on the bus say "Yo, wassup?"
The grandmas on the bus say "What's that, sonny?"
The girls on the bus say "That's my phone!"

-And finally, the tune of My Country 'Tis Of Thee (Or God Save The Present Monarch), which for some reason lends itself beautifully to the singing out loud of random road signs (try it, it's fun):

My country 'tis of thee
sweet land of liberty
stop light ahead.
Providence twenty miles
Fall River Exit four
from ev'ry mountainside
Pete's Lube and Gas.

Bulk Soup

Soup is usually an opportunity to improvise. It gets concocted out of a little of this, a little of that, and whatever odds and ends seem compatible and need using up. All in the pot, simmer til done, eat, and move on with a cleaner fridge and a fuller belly. My dad is an expert at this kind of soup improvisation. If asked what's in one of his creations, he'll just smile and say, "Have some first. Then I'll tell you." Secret ingredients of his that I can recall include jam, old salad, and ketchup. But the soup pot always manages to transform the mixture into a meal worthy of the family, if not reliably something you'd want to trot out in front of guests.

But the other day, faced with the prospect of a tablefull of wintertime lunch guests, I needed a more predictable soup. Far be it from me to follow someone else's recipe, I started from scratch. I was out of homemade broth (thanks to an intestinal bug that made the rounds), and I didn't have the patience to make a whole new batch that would be used up in one meal. And I wanted something easy. So I started with the tricks I knew worked: sausage (it's pre-seasoned, pre-cleaned, and contains enough fat to carry a soupsworth of flavors), dried garlic and onion (optional, of course), browning, long simmering, and the magic of the overnight wait.

About that overnight wait: soup and soup-like foods are always better the next day, after the flavors have had time to swim around each other for a while, so it only makes sense to harness the power of that phenomenon and serve day-old soup to guests. The problem arises when you have a lot of guests and not a lot of space in the fridge. So in the recipe below, only part of the soup sits overnight: the ingredients that have the most to give (sausage, onion, garlic, spices) and the most to gain (beans, potatoes,) by the wait.

Sausage and White Bean Soup
serves 8-10
cooking time: 2 days (mostly waiting and simmering)

2 pounds sweet Italian sausage links (or 2 pounds bulk sausage)
3 cans cannellini beans, drained
4 white potatoes, diced
one or two bunches of kale or collards (you could use frozen)
1 tablespoon dried onion flakes
2 teaspoons chopped dried garlic
3 boxes low-salt chicken broth (or 12 cups homemade)
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes, or to taste
sherry or white wine, to taste

The day before you want to serve the soup, brown the sausage links well on all sides. Once they're cooked through, chop them up into small bite sized chunks. If you have time and the inclination, brown the chunks again. In a large pot, combine the beans, sausage, potatoes, onion, garlic, red pepper, and one box (or four cups) of the broth. Simmer for an hour or so. Refrigerate overnight.

The next day, de-stem and steam the greens and chop them (do this neatly to avoid long stringy green bits trailing from people's soup spoons). Heat the bean/sausage mixture in a large pot and add the rest of the broth and the chopped greens. Let the soup simmer for at least two hours, if not four. There is nothing in this soup that can be over-cooked. You want the greens to go from bright green and springy to dull green and tired to dark greenish-gray and thoroughly limp. The potatoes and beans should fall into mush at the lightest touch. The sausage should be but a shadow of its former self, having given its all for the good of the broth.

Once the soup seems good and cooked, and you want to eat it soon, start tasting and adjusting. With all the simmering, it may have lost a good amount of liquid, and may benefit from the addition of water. Depending on how salty the broth and sausages were, the soup may need dilution even if it didn't get cooked down much. And it will likely need some acidity to perk it up a little. I tend to add wine or dry sherry, but vinegar would do it too. If you want it spicier, a little hot sauce would help.

And a word about volume... Thanks to our one-cup measure which works nicely as a ladle, I happen to know that this recipe, as made by me this week, made a little more than twenty cups of soup, and two cups make a nice serving size, with bread and salad and dessert.

Fortissimo!

She wears her pants pulled up to mid-chest. She has learned (today!) that her plastic chain makes a lovely noise when she thrashes it back and forth with some vigor.

She looks like nothing so much as a fat, bald conductor, leading the orchestra with great concentration and a slightly furrowed brow.