Today Reilly and I headed out to West 11th Pediatrics for her 9-month appointment.
When we got in the door, a five-year-old boy approached me and said, “Don’t let them give your baby a blood test.”
I told him not to worry, and that Reilly wouldn’t be getting a blood test, though she might need a vaccination.
“What’s that?” the boy asked.
“A shot,” I said.
He wrinkled his nose at me and walked back to his mother. Clearly, I was one of them.
When we got into the examination room, the first thing that Doris the Nurse said was, “Okay, no shots today, but we will be taking Reilly’s blood to test for anemia and lead.” I had to laugh. Damn that little kid.
The taking of the blood from the baby went as you might imagine it would. Doris the Nurse was apologetic, but Reilly was screaming too loud to hear anything anyone was saying. Doris the Nurse got out of there fast. Unfortunately, I had to stay and comfort a baby that was looking at me with betrayal in her eyes.
By the time I calmed her down, Dr. Zullo came in for the checkup. Reilly broke into tears the second she came in the door, no doubt recalling the ear cleaning she received last time she saw the doctor.
The stats, generated by this percentile calculator:
15 lbs, 14 oz = 4th percentile
2 ft, 3 inches = 23rd percentile
44 cm head circumference = 35th percentile
So, she continues to live up to her nickname, “Pippy” (short for “Pipsqueak”). Also, she has real potential to end up a tall, skinny girl with a big head.
The doctor also gave me a lecture about our lax sleep training, overuse of the pacifier, and slow introduction of the sippy cup.
Prepare yourself for some lamentable blog entries in the very near future.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Palm trees and a cool breeze
These past few days in Florida had an amazing effect on Reilly. It was such a pleasure to watch her petals unfurl as the tropical environment stimulated her little mind. She was all smiles all the time, giving them out for free to anyone who was near her, but especially to her three grandmothers, two grandfathers, her aunt, and her brothers and sisters (the pets).
Her favorite thing to do was to chase the dogs around the house. Leia, our old dog (now rooming with the in-laws) would settle down for a nap, only to have Reilly slap her way across the tile on hands and knees to pinch her nose. Leia would then move to a quieter spot, only to have Reilly crawl her way over to interrupt her nap again.
Speaking of interrupted sleep, Reilly didn’t take well to sleeping in the porta-crib. She would wake up afraid, not knowing where she was, and howl for her mama and dada. To punish us further, she took to waking up around 4:30am, and refusing to go back to sleep. Shawn and I would take her in the bed with us, only to be kicked and prodded and punched with tiny fists of fury as our maniac baby tried to get comfortable.
The one sweet moment that came of this was when I woke up one morning to find my baby with her head resting on my stomach, her face calm, quiet, and still.
Reilly also had a truly brilliant afternoon swimming in the pool, slapping the water and squealing with glee.
Another highlight was a visit with Nana and a trip to the playground at Central Park (that’s Largo, not NYC). And what else would we do there but go to the swings? Reilly was smiling from ear to ear the whole time, her hair blowing in the cool wind that is the harbinger to all afternoon thunderstorms in Florida.
There was something so nice about being in Florida this past weekend, to see Reilly with her family, and to watch her open her eyes to a whole world that she never knew existed. More than once, I caught her just staring at the trees, as if she was trying to decipher what all the greenness was. And though it is supremely difficult to travel via plane/car with a baby, it was all worth it, if only for just this one moment:
Her favorite thing to do was to chase the dogs around the house. Leia, our old dog (now rooming with the in-laws) would settle down for a nap, only to have Reilly slap her way across the tile on hands and knees to pinch her nose. Leia would then move to a quieter spot, only to have Reilly crawl her way over to interrupt her nap again.
Speaking of interrupted sleep, Reilly didn’t take well to sleeping in the porta-crib. She would wake up afraid, not knowing where she was, and howl for her mama and dada. To punish us further, she took to waking up around 4:30am, and refusing to go back to sleep. Shawn and I would take her in the bed with us, only to be kicked and prodded and punched with tiny fists of fury as our maniac baby tried to get comfortable.
The one sweet moment that came of this was when I woke up one morning to find my baby with her head resting on my stomach, her face calm, quiet, and still.
Reilly also had a truly brilliant afternoon swimming in the pool, slapping the water and squealing with glee.
After her swim, she lounged with her mother in the sun for a bit before taking a nap to end all naps in the shade of a camphor tree. Don’t you wish you could nap like this?
Another highlight was a visit with Nana and a trip to the playground at Central Park (that’s Largo, not NYC). And what else would we do there but go to the swings? Reilly was smiling from ear to ear the whole time, her hair blowing in the cool wind that is the harbinger to all afternoon thunderstorms in Florida.
There was something so nice about being in Florida this past weekend, to see Reilly with her family, and to watch her open her eyes to a whole world that she never knew existed. More than once, I caught her just staring at the trees, as if she was trying to decipher what all the greenness was. And though it is supremely difficult to travel via plane/car with a baby, it was all worth it, if only for just this one moment:
Friday, April 7, 2006
Week 39 Pictures
Week 39 pictures are up at the Smugmug site. Please click here to view. Since I'm posting this from Florida, there is no picture of the week for this round. Sorry!
Wednesday, April 5, 2006
The Old Monk and an Apple
As many of you know, our family lives in a brownstone that is owned by a Buddhist church. For most of the year, we are the only tenant, and the house is overrun with the minister, his sisters, parishioners, and students of the religion. There is one monk, we call him, the “Old Monk” (for obvious reasons). He used to sit in a chair at the landing below our staircase and pray. We never could tell whether to acknowledge him or to let him go on praying, so, for a long time, we walked by him without ever speaking. Over time, we have attempted some conversation with him. I say ‘attempted’ because he doesn’t know a lick of English. Still, we got to like the guy, an eccentric old monk wandering the building.
Lately, he’s stopped going to the chair at the bottom of our landing. I don’t know why—perhaps his bones are getting old. He lives on the first floor, and his chair is on the third floor, so perhaps his age is preventing him from making it up those two extra flights. As it is, he has a hell of a time making it up the first flight. So, instead of sitting on the third floor, he stands at the top of the first landing. And every time I pass him by with Reilly, I feel obliged to stop, since he just loves the baby. He loves to pinch her cheeks and touch her face, which Theresa downstairs says is a great blessing. I don’t see it that way. I see it as an old man with dirty hands touching the face of my baby.
It’s gotten to the point now that I hate coming home, because he is always there, and there is no way for me to get past him without the compulsory stop and pinch. It’s hard because sometimes all a guy wants to do after a long day at work and an annoying pickup at daycare, is to get up to his apartment and kick off his work shoes. For those in suburbia, imagine coming home from work to find your neighbor sitting on your porch. EVERY TIME you come home. Shawn takes another angle on this. She says he’s just a sweet, old, lonely man who has nothing to do all day except wander the hallway outside his apartment, and so he waits all day for Reilly because it gives him a little human contact.
This past Sunday, we ran into the Old Monk downstairs as we were leaving the apartment. He went to the Holy Food Box and pulled out an apple. He then handed the apple to Reilly. Never mind that Reilly is incapable of holding an apple. Or of eating one. The old man wanted to give her a holy apple, and so he did. Shawn took it on Reilly’s behalf and I ushered our family out of that weird situation and into the Sunday sunshine.
Later that afternoon, as I sat outside of Shawn’s salon, Avalon, waiting for her appointment to end, Reilly started to get bored and cranky. I reached inside her diaper bag for a toy, and instead pulled out the apple. What the heck, I thought. I gave Reilly the apple. She grabbed it.
Lately, he’s stopped going to the chair at the bottom of our landing. I don’t know why—perhaps his bones are getting old. He lives on the first floor, and his chair is on the third floor, so perhaps his age is preventing him from making it up those two extra flights. As it is, he has a hell of a time making it up the first flight. So, instead of sitting on the third floor, he stands at the top of the first landing. And every time I pass him by with Reilly, I feel obliged to stop, since he just loves the baby. He loves to pinch her cheeks and touch her face, which Theresa downstairs says is a great blessing. I don’t see it that way. I see it as an old man with dirty hands touching the face of my baby.
It’s gotten to the point now that I hate coming home, because he is always there, and there is no way for me to get past him without the compulsory stop and pinch. It’s hard because sometimes all a guy wants to do after a long day at work and an annoying pickup at daycare, is to get up to his apartment and kick off his work shoes. For those in suburbia, imagine coming home from work to find your neighbor sitting on your porch. EVERY TIME you come home. Shawn takes another angle on this. She says he’s just a sweet, old, lonely man who has nothing to do all day except wander the hallway outside his apartment, and so he waits all day for Reilly because it gives him a little human contact.
This past Sunday, we ran into the Old Monk downstairs as we were leaving the apartment. He went to the Holy Food Box and pulled out an apple. He then handed the apple to Reilly. Never mind that Reilly is incapable of holding an apple. Or of eating one. The old man wanted to give her a holy apple, and so he did. Shawn took it on Reilly’s behalf and I ushered our family out of that weird situation and into the Sunday sunshine.
Later that afternoon, as I sat outside of Shawn’s salon, Avalon, waiting for her appointment to end, Reilly started to get bored and cranky. I reached inside her diaper bag for a toy, and instead pulled out the apple. What the heck, I thought. I gave Reilly the apple. She grabbed it.
She studied it.
And to my amazement, she stuck it in her mouth.
And to my great surprise, I found myself silently thanking the Old Monk for giving Reilly her first apple, and just a few moments of joy.
The Holy Food Box
As I was writing today’s entry, I realized that I would have to explain one of the proper nouns that shows up in paragraph 4, sentence 2: “Holy Food Box.” Since the Holy Food Box is such a unique part of our daily life, I figured that I would give it its own, private entry in the annals of Big City, Small World.
The Holy Food Box sits near the entry of our apartment building. In it are various different foodstuffs that have been blessed in the Buddhist prayer services. To drive this point home, there is a little sign that says “Blessed Food from our Prayer Service. Please Take.”
One might expect the contents of the Holy Food Box to contain authentic Tibetan foodstuffs like thenthuk:
or momos:
Instead, there are holy Fritos, holy Diet Coke, and assorted holy hard candies. The other day, I ate a bag of Wise brand holy barbeque potato chips, and they gave me a holy stomach ache. Now I stay away from the Holy Food Box. I don’t trust its karma.
The Holy Food Box sits near the entry of our apartment building. In it are various different foodstuffs that have been blessed in the Buddhist prayer services. To drive this point home, there is a little sign that says “Blessed Food from our Prayer Service. Please Take.”
One might expect the contents of the Holy Food Box to contain authentic Tibetan foodstuffs like thenthuk:
or momos:
Instead, there are holy Fritos, holy Diet Coke, and assorted holy hard candies. The other day, I ate a bag of Wise brand holy barbeque potato chips, and they gave me a holy stomach ache. Now I stay away from the Holy Food Box. I don’t trust its karma.
Sunday, April 2, 2006
From the Archives: April 2, 2002 - Age 26
One of the things I love about The City is that there is always something new to see, if I only take the time to look. Tonight I went to a screenplay reading at the New School by Marsha Norman (quite famous, it turns out—a Pulitzer and a Tony under her chiffon) and then walking home down 6th Avenue in the cool (that’s right, the cold is abating, the trees bursting forth in petals and leaves) night I noted a young woman with one of those padded guitar case backpacks strapped over her shoulders.
The sight somehow triggered in my mind that I have seen an outbreak of these guitarists lately, guitars strapped to backs. Is this a trend, or is it just the first time I took a moment to not just look, but process, recall, and form memory into concrete meaning? Or perhaps the spring brings out not only soft green shoots, but the outdoor musician in all of us, a whistle or hum; a tapping of feet. For certain the birds are for it, practically chortling with their enthusiastic song. Well, now I’m laughing at myself, at my sentimentality, but really—isn’t spring great?
The sight somehow triggered in my mind that I have seen an outbreak of these guitarists lately, guitars strapped to backs. Is this a trend, or is it just the first time I took a moment to not just look, but process, recall, and form memory into concrete meaning? Or perhaps the spring brings out not only soft green shoots, but the outdoor musician in all of us, a whistle or hum; a tapping of feet. For certain the birds are for it, practically chortling with their enthusiastic song. Well, now I’m laughing at myself, at my sentimentality, but really—isn’t spring great?
Saturday, April 1, 2006
Week 38 Pictures
Week 38 pictures are up at the Smugmug site. Click here to view, or click the link on the sidebar at the right for the main photo page. Here is your picture of the week:
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