Filet Mignon would be so nice

As much as I love both my daughters, let's face it the games a four-year-old plays can be so tedious. It seems that my daughter has been obsessed with food since birth; first the boob, then sweet potatoes, then a fish stew I couldn't shovel in her mouth fast enough, then chocolate ice cream and endless bottles of milk. I don't remember when I got her the first set of pretend food, I only know that from day one, it's been the favorite. Not the first set, most of which is gone, but any pretend food. Her Melissa and Doug ice cream set might be the all-time most played with toy and it doesn't even show signs of wear and tear. Chrissa's picnic lemonade set from the American Girl store easily gets more play than all of the dolls Eliza owns combined. It may have been the best $25 I've ever spent.

The only problem is Eliza wants to pour lemonade and play picnic constantly. I can't tell you how many thousands of pretend calories I've consumed slurping that lemonade. The set also contains little sandwiches and watermelon slices. Yesterday, when Eliza decided to play beach, naturally the picnic set got in on the act as well. No one goes to the beach without sandwiches and lemonade, right?

Tired of beach and the endless cups of lemonade, when Eliza opened her beach bag ready to offer me another "picnic snack" I requested filet mignon. This would stump her and hopefully end this endless waltz of slurpy mime chewing.

"les-ignon?" Eliza looked at me quizzically. "Is that another word for sandwich?"

I laughed and shook my head. "It's like steak," I said.

"I don't have steak,"Eliza said. "How about this yummy, delicious sandwich?"

"Sure," I said, probably sounding similar to a tire deflating. I long for spring and real picnics outside with both my girls. But for now, it's a carpet beach day and fake sandwiches with an endless pitcher of pink lemonade.

What to do when your baby falls

This was written in September of 2006 on my old blog at Club Mom. Since it still gets traffic, due to the title, I thought I'd move it over here. If you're not interested in this trip down memory lane, scan down for the latest photos of the girls.

Eliza fell off our bed yesterday. In the space of a second that felt like so much longer, I watched her fall from a seated position and slam against the hardwood floor. I was right next to her and still somehow I didn't stop it. The sight of her falling will be replayed in my mind in bright technicolor for years to come.

My bed is the one furniture item I brought with me when I moved in with C at six months pregnant. The bed was my special splurge after landing my first television series. On the day I bought the bed, I couldn't get two salespeople to wait on me, perhaps because I was dressed in overalls and looked about 12 years old. I bought luxurious sheets and basked in the comfort of my new, extra thick mattress, the kind that takes "deep pocket" sheets.

That thick mattress means this bed is a good six inches higher than a regular bed. So my little girl, clad only in a dirty diaper I was about to change, smashed her back and perhaps her head against the floor from the height of more than three feet.

Before the fall, I placed her on the bed while I rummaged through her dresser to get her pretty pink dress. Accented with curly, colored laces, I refer to this as her Senorita dress. But she didn't fall while I looked for the dress as I stood right beside her and probably could have prevented it. No, she was having so much fun on the bed, I climbed up there with her for some kisses and cuddles.

I'm not sure exactly what happened. I think as she crawled down the middle of the bed, she got a little tangled in the comfort and sat up to steady herself. But when she sat up, her back was too close to the edge of the bed. Panic stricken, I reached for her but it was too late. She was already on her downward descent. She fell, she screamed, she cried, I scooped her up. I held her against my hip, shushing in her ear, my head pounding because I had no idea what to do.

After a fall what do I look for? My own feeling was if I could calm her quickly, then it probably wasn't that serious. If she was really hurt, she'd cry for hours, right? She did calm down within a few minutes but what if this theory was wrong? Should I take her to the emergency room? Should I immediately put ice on the back of her head?

Unable to decide for myself, I called my mother who told me to call the doctor. My mother has turned into a bit of alarmist since Eliza was born and if I say anything about so much as a hangnail she wants me to call the doctor. The reason I hestitated to do this was Eliza's regular doctor is on vacation and one of the on-call doctors scared me a few months back when Eliza had a fever. Afraid the doctor would frighten me more, I balked at calling the office.

Instead I hung up with my mother and called my friend Meredith, the proud mother of six kids. She assured me that if Eliza seemed okay, she probably was, just watch her pupils, watch for vomiting and don't let her go to sleep. This posed a problem because it was now Eliza's naptime and her eyes drooped accordingly. I know about the no sleep after a head injury to avoid comas rule but I wasn't sure I should do that right now for my daughter. She'd had a rough morning, my gut told me she needed to sleep. How could I really keep her awake if she was determined to snooze and would keeping her awake be the right thing for her?

Meredith couldn't talk long (with six kids, who could?) so after we hung up, I called a friend who'd told me that her baby fell off her similar-sized bed. She told me the doctor just told her as long as the baby was conscious after the fall, she then should watch the baby for anything unsusal. The doctor also didn't encourage my friend to forego the kid's nap. Eliza was already asleep in my arms so I felt relieved that I wouldn't have to wake her. I did call the doctor and leave a message for the nurse to call me back. I held Eliza for a few more moments and then gently placed her in her crib.

When the nurse called back, she calmly told me what to look for. Reassured that her first words weren't "bring her to the emergency room immediately," I listened carefully to what she said.

So here's what you look for if your baby falls and hits his or her head:

Watch the baby's mobility and if there's a regression. For instance, if the baby was sitting up and suddenly can't sit up well, that's the sign of a problem. Watch his hand and leg movements to see if anything looks different. Repeated vomiting is the sign of trouble as is a noticable difference in the size of the baby's pupils. If one pupil looks bigger than the other, it's time to call the doctor.

She also said it was fine for the baby to sleep but I'd have to go in and stimulate her once an hour. Eliza didn't need to wake up and look at me, she simply needed to move, roll over, do something. It was around 10 am or so and the nurse encouraged me to do this until midnight.

Eliza ended up not taking her full nap but she woke up smiling and ready to play. Heartened by her happy mood, I felt the worst was behind me. We did have a nice day together, culminating in a wonderful trip to the playground. Eliza laughed so much in the swing, the only other person in the park, a woman with a baby, sat near us to watch. It wasn't until the evening that things got tough again. C's son came over and since he arrived about 20 minutes late, it threw off Eliza's schedule. I ended up not getting her dinner (steamed vegetables) on the table until 7:30 when I usually feed her around 6:45. After a long day with very little naptime, she didn't want to eat, she just wanted to go to sleep. I tried to get as much food in her before giving up and putting her down. C's son was set to sleep in our living room because his mother would be out late. So the three of us were stuck in the living room together with C tense about the Agassi/Bagdahtis tennis match and me determined to stay awake until midnight because I had to check on her. In some ways, it's great that C's been through all this before so he's not a worrier but often on nights like last night, I feel very alone. It's not that I don't trust C to look in on her every hour, it's just that with an intense tennis match going and his "Oh she's alright" attitude he might not think it necessary. So the TV blared, C's son talked loudly over the TV and I went in to check on my girl. At 8:50, she really gave me a fright, barely moving when I lightly patted her back repeatedly. It was a kiss on the cheek that caused her to stir. When I went in at 9:50, I could barely find her because she'd managed to completely flip so her head to face the other end of the crib. I realized this probably meant she was okay but I patted her anyway until she curled up more against the crib. And I kept this going until midnight, when finally I turned in. It's terrifying to love some one so much. The freaky, superstitious part of me feels like it could be regarded as sinful by some kind of otherworldly God. However, if that were the case than mothers everywhere could be regarded as sinners every day. And knowing that I'm not alone in this love, it comforts me.

Baby pix

My girls at the same age, guess which one is which.

More Xmas photos, see the portrait below

Here are two favorites.

the Xmas portrait

Maybe I'll make some new year cards with this one. Maybe. Eliza and Elena, December 2009, the year that was.

Should have named her Joia

Yes, I'm back in 2010. All it takes is a few comments to bring me back here to talk about me, myself and I. Or me and my two wonderful daughters. We are all sick here at chez Midlife Mama so I'm going to have to be brief tonight. But if you check in and read this, I promise to add a few photos of the girls over the next few days.

2009 ended well. We are enjoying life here in our new home and I managed to eke out a little bit of work on a new show called "White Collar." I'm still looking for a "real job," something a little closer to home but I'm grateful the TV work came in and allowed me to pay my rent for three months in a row without dipping into my savings. It's a good show to work on and I hope I can work on it some more when it resumes shooting some time in March.

My mother is doing okay, thanks to those who've asked. She's often watched my girls when I've worked and I have to say that she is never more my mother than when she is babysitting her granddaughters. I don't know that what I'm doing is good for her or safe for the girls but when I call her while I'm at work, it's one of the rare times I talk to my mother, the woman she was before all the health issues that have plagued her this past decade. I wish us all a healthier new decade but I'm grateful that if my mother had to get a brain tumor, at least she got one that could be removed.

My girls are my joy. Elena is eight months now and could easily win the title of "Happiest Baby on the Block." She is sitting up, managing to move about our apartment by dragging herself on her stomach with her arms and babbling up a storm. Her laugh is like the greatest love song I've ever heard. Her babyhood is flying by and sometimes I resent that I don't get to enjoy it without the interruption of another child.

But then Eliza is such a happy, flirty, musical, wiggling figure of a girl, I spend most days trying to hold onto that whirling, growing body as long as I can. I can't even begin to tell you how much fun we've had these past few months, starting with my birthday in early November and culminating in the best Christmas ever. Her birthday on November 21st was one of the best day's of my life. We had a birthday party for her class at a local kiddie gym then returned home for a surprise party made of of C, his kids, my family and two of Eliza's closest friends. My father bought a helium tank and filled Eliza's playroom with 50 balloons. Eliza entered her home to find paradise. She enjoyed her celebration so much, she said "I'm sad my birthday's over. I want more birthday." It made moving closer to my parents so worth it.

And now Eliza's at an age where she really enjoyed decorating the tree, the story of Santa and tearing into presents with the fervor of a shark in a feeding frenzy. Even Elena seemed energized by tearing into packages, her huge eyes blazing with a seeming understanding that yes, all this booty was being given to her. Eliza enjoyed the holidays so much, any scrooge that I've developed over the past few years evaporated and I was suddenly, joyfully vibrating with Christmas spirit. We didn't get to do half the things I'd wanted to do--a local Christmas show, the Nutcracker, singing songs with local carolers. But we did get to go to Storybook Land for their holiday light spectacular, bake a Waltz of the Snowflakes and Nutcracker cake, see the "Snow Queen" play in New York, spend time with my friend Julie and her family, and drive around various towns looking at Christmas decorations. Our holidays couldn't have been better.

But now I'm sick with a seemingly endless cold/sinus infection. It may be time to visit the doctor with this one. I'll try to update you all more in the coming weeks. Thank you to those who've checked in during this time. You truly do keep me going.

And now please, enjoy yourselves and I wish you all the very best and more in this new year.

One half year gone by

Yesterday was October 28th, the day my darling little Elena officially turned six months.  We celebrated on Tuesday with a fun party at Karinna's that included cake, goody bags and even three presents.  I made sure there was one present for Eliza, and her friends Lindsey and Julieann to open as baby Elena still hasn't quite mastered the skill of tearing open packages yet.  

Although Elena was oblivious to the gift-giving extravaganza, Eliza and her friends greatly enjoyed the gifts.  Eliza proudly showed anyone who walked into Karinna's house the cute little socks that look like ballet shoes.  "These are for ballet class," she said of the pink ones and "These are for leotard class" she said of the black ones.  Julieann, a first grader who recently mastered reading, was applauded for reading Elena's new book to her.  And the toy, a chomping alligator that scoots across the floor, was enjoyed by all of us.  Elena lay perched on her tummy, doing her little pushups, her head turning in confusion, every time the alligator chomped by.

Yesterday, the day of her actual birthday, Eliza and I celebrated with a pizza dinner and a group bath.  Yes, all three of us climbed into the bathtub and watched Elena kick and splash in the big bathtub for only the second time.  Her little legs are so chubby and short, it's so cute to watch her kick them in the water.  Eliza kept dumping water on her head but Elena never cried.  Nor did she laughed, she seemed focused and thoughtful about this new sensation of being immersed in a big tub of water.  

I am blessed a second time with a happy baby, the kind that makes me want to have 10 more.  Obviously, this is not only clinically impossible (I guess that's not exactly true in this day and age), but economically and emotionally impossible.  But having a baby is honestly the loveliest thing in the world to me.  I love her chubby legs, I love her soft, fine hair.  I love her giggles and her cries of delight and her look of wonder when she looks up at track lighting.  She is a miraclulous, pleasant, low-maintenance kind of girl who spends most of her time out in public smiling at everyone.  She has yet to experience any kind of stranger anxiety--when I hand her to some one else, she looks for me but seems content to be in whoever's arms.  She's not a good napper, spends most of the day fighting sleep and only succumbing for tiny, 20 minute naps.  She does sleep at night, so I keep my complaining about the day fussiness to a minimum.

"There's nothing quite like being a mother," my friend Meredith's mom once said to me.  It seems like such a simple statement but at the time and even now, it speaks volumes.  I love being a Mom more than anything else I've ever done.  Oh there are moments where I just don't think I have the strength to fight with Eliza to put on her tights or get the car seat buckled over her jacket or pay the bills that keep mounting up with very little money coming in.  But had I not had children, I would have missed out on the one great achievement that has easily given me the most happiness.