New tricks

There are just so, so many of them, and they're coming faster than I can keep track! The past month has been a whirlwind of developmental leaps, and when I thought Cayden's personality debuted at eight months, I had no idea what was in store in coming months!

My performing monkey now:

• gives kisses on command (although he's stingy with them, and the kisses now are not only open-mouth face plants, but also include him dragging his wet tongue across your face like a dog);
• lets you know what a rooster says when asked, thanks to Mimi's persistence as a teacher (ok, so he's only got the "ca - ca" part of cock-a-doodle-doo down, but he loves hearing the rest of it);
• throws both arms straight up in the air for "so big" when asked how big Cayden is (I think Grandma polished this trick);
• plays peek-a-boo, giggling like mad when he pulls the blankie or towel off his face in anticipation of the "peek-a-boo!";
• practices opening drawers and doors anywhere and everywhere he can;
• may or may not point out puppy-dogs and monkeys in picture books (he has done it, but I'm not quite convinced yet it wasn't luck);
• practices putting blocks and balls in containers, then taking them back out;
• eats foam (he's no longer allowed unsupervised access to his summer sandals or nerf ball);
  tries climbing anything and everything he can;
• tries to blow bubbles on command in the bathtub, although 9 times out of 10 he breathes in instead of out, resulting in a coughing fit;
• gets a kick out of sounding an Indian battle cry (thanks to Granddude);
• and throws food he's dissatisfied with on the floor (Hercules loves this new trick).

Ten-and-a-half months old is a fun, fun age, although a stage that requires much more supervision as all these new lessons are learned and as limits are tested.

Jailed

The wall we built this past winter suits its purpose well.

It even holds up well agaist the shaking Cayden puts on it when he's dancing. Because he does that a lot all of a sudden -- boogies down to music, bopping his little butt up and down and side-to-side.

A month and a half until he's one...

But Not the Hippopotamus: RIP

So what would cause us to throw out a perfectly good, albeit slightly chewed board book?

What would cause an improptu mid-afternoon bath of the lower half in the bathroom sink?

A baby who has discovered how to take off his own diaper -- after filling it with poop, then trouncing around in said poop -- that's what.

So after the poop was removed from between Cayden's toes, we threw the crib sheets in the laundry and pitched But Not the Hippopotamus. Not even my cheap ass would consider trying to clean the book; in this case it just wasn't worth the $6 sticker price.

Cayden is not quite ten-and-a-half months old, and he is never, ever, ever again sleeping in a diaper alone.

Help Sam

As many of you know, I spent a good number of years in high school and college helping to fundraise for the Four Diamonds Fund, with the ultimate goal someday of Counquering Childhood Cancer.

We still make our regular donations, and this past February was the first time in about a decade that we didn't make the annual trip to State College for our own little THON reunion among friends.

So naturally Jill's spur-of-the-moment fundraiser over at Baby Rabies for baby Sam -- who was diagnosed in April, at four months old, with Stage 4 High Risk Neuroblastoma -- tugged at my heartstrings.

So I donated.

And after tremendous initial response to her little fundraising effort -- through which she wanted to help baby Sam's parents pay for 2/3 of a month of COBRA health insurance by raising $1,000 -- Jill has now set her sights at raising $7,500 for the family.

No, the money won't go towards research that could benefit a multitude of littles down the road; rather it will all go to one family in need, a family I know nothing about and will never meet.

But now that I have my own little boy, I can't imagine turning down this request for a little bit of help. I see the innocent joy in that little boy's eyes as he plays in the hospital waiting room , and my heart aches for his Mama and Daddy, whose love and fears and hope and despair must be so tangled together in a mess of daily torture and confusion. Yet they must do their best to lay aside their heartsinking apprehension and financial anxiety to stay strong for their beloved boy.

It's Just. Not. Fair.

So I donated a little bit again. He's only one little boy with cancer, but so could be mine. And I know I'd appreciate and be uplifted by the kindness and generosity of empathetic strangers, should I ever have to face a simliar fate.

And I'm sharing baby Sam's story so that all of you who understand the unbelievable love and bottomless what-if fears that a child brings to his or her parents have the opportunity to pay it forward, if you so wish.

If you pray, add baby Sam to your prayers. And if you are able, donate $5 to help Sam and his parents breathe a little easier during this unimaginably tough time.

Pay it forward because you understand that "only one little boy with cancer" could have been or be any of our babies. Do it out of the compassion and understanding for other parents and families that only comes when you have a child of your own.

Question for those who have done this before...

So we dropped the crib to the middle setting two weeks ago, when C started pulling to his knees.

When do we drop it to the lowest setting?

I don't think he's tall enough to go over the top, even though he's standing, so what is the trigger to drop the mattress down to the lowest setting?

Not that I'm looking forward to it -- it's hard enough putting down and picking up 25 pounds from the middle setting -- but we'll drop it again, if there's no point to the middle setting...

Aaaaaand, we're up!

As has become our afternoon naptime routine in recent weeks, this afternoon we put Cayden in his crib, turned on the camera, walked out, closed the door and turned on the monitor to watch his hi-jinks until he finally decided to fall asleep.

Such hi-jinks have included rolling around in the crib, playing with stuffed animals, singing to himself, sitting up, blowing raspberries and -- most recently -- pulling up to his knees.

So today I'm in the kitchen with the monitor turned on -- cleaning, whipping up a batch of brownies and eating my own lunch, all at the same time -- and I glance over to see how close this baby is to winding down and passing out, blue blankie in-hand and thumb securely lodged in the mouth. Instead, I find a nearly empty screen.

Empty, except for two little feet at the very edge of that black and white picture, where I know the front wall of the crib is. So I call Brian from downstairs, and we pop in the nursery.

To see a standing baby.

Granddude predicted it would happen in Canada, but instead it happend a few days after we got home.

Cayden is ten months, one week old, and he's spent all afternoon practicing his new-found skill: pulling up to stand.

(Don't mind the nasty red bumps all over his face; turns out our Chicken has picked up another ugly, yet not-too-worrisome viral infection.)

Cat food and Mascara: Breakfasts of Champions

The Daddy in our house is sick. And I mean S.I.C.K. So for the past two days he's quarantined himself downstairs, in an effort to avoid getting Chicken and Mama sick.

Baby-Cayd and I have survived so far without Daddy's extra pairs of eyes and hands, but I must confess to at least two "Holy shit, get that OUT OF YOUR MOUTH" moments over the past couple of mornings.

It is a tough, tough thing to keep a mobile baby entertained and safe, while at the same time getting myself showered, made-up, dressed and packed for work. I need 40 minutes, and I only like to contain him in the jumperoo for 10-15 minutes.

So that leaves a heck of a lot of time to simultaneously ready myself and distract the boy who is intent on exploring all the things he decidedly should NOT be exploring. And so I've resorted to any quick distraction I can afford, misdirecting my boy's attention to whatever seemingly safe and simple object I have at hand and with which I can tempt his fixation for a minute or two.

Enter cat food and mascara. Well, not intentionally.

Yesterday morning I set up a toy corner in the kitchen for Cayden as I got our lunches ready and cleaned up some dishes. But next thing I know, I hear the distinct sound of cat food rattling around in the plastic cat food dish. Knowing both cats are full from breakfast, I peer over the island just in time to see Cayden put a handful of kibble in his mouth.

I got all but one piece out. So he had kibble breath yesterday morning and probably had a nice sheen to his fur -- I mean hair -- the rest of the day. One piece of cat kibble can't hurt him, right? Not that we'll be making it part of our daily diet, but I'm not freaking out over it.

Damn cat food companies. Why does their food look so much like Cheerios?

Then this morning, I distracted him every few minutes with a new make-up tool or compact in the bathroom. One of which was an old mascara brush that I had cleaned and dried to use as a poor-man's lash brush. But the black smudges all over Cayden's hands, face and the bathroom floor first startled me, then led me to quickly realize how a few years of brushing and separating mascara-ed lashes built up some layers of eye goo on the brush I stupidly assumed was still as clean as the day I washed it. Of course the mascara brush had gone to that wonderful and mysterious source of infant enlightenment -- the smacker -- and made a mess of my baby and my bathroom floor. Which, ironically enough, I had just cleaned on my hands and knees last night, while Chicken splashed in the bath.

But again, I've never read about death-by-mascara, so we're just chalking it up to life experience.

Cayden is 10 months, 5 days old, and he's a wonderful, fantastic kid, yet a royal pain in the ass in the mornings.