82,64,5

Violet is destined to be a model. A SUPERmodel. I just know it.

Just like every kid who loves cars will be a race car driver, and every baby who throws a ball is going to be a baseball player, and every toddler who loves dogs is going to be a vet; now mine has an early vocation, too.

See, Violet is tall and underweight with a huge melon which clearly qualifies her for the most prestigious of all chic jobs: SUPERmodel. How do I know that she's model material, you ask? Well, my friendly pediatrician told me so.

Every infant/toddler "Well Visit" begins with the all-important ranking of the babies. It looks a lot like the last 25 minutes of The Biggest Loser; there is a scale, there are fat rolls on legs and wrists, lots of white skin, and usually some crying. The peds nurse who plots your baby on the infant growth chart isn't really supposed to diagnose anything by these numbers, but you can tell when she finds a kid who is more than a standard deviation from the mean, she makes an asterisk by the number in the chart so the doc can grill you about what in god's name you are doing to your baby that has caused her to be so not-normal.

So, at 17 months Violet is a 19-30-20. It's kinda like the bust-waist-hip ratio that defines a woman's beauty except these numbers refer to a baby's head circumference, length, and weight. And instead of just delivering you the numbers, plain and simple, the pediatrician also goes the extra mile and tells you how your wee one stacks up against other babies in the country. Because that is a good thing to know.

"No two children are alike. They all grow at their own pace. Don't compare your child to your neighbor's, they're individuals."

But really, don't you wanna know how your baby compares? Should you be more winded at the playground toting around your baby than another mom or are you just out of shape? If your sister's baby picks a fight with yours, who will come out victorious? Are those leg rolls really just cute baby fat or did you give birth to a lardass?? These burning questions are why I go to the doctor, plain and simple.

And why do growth charts seemingly disappear from doctor's offices once we reach a certain age? Why don't 20 year old women get to hear where their weight falls on the chart? That would be an interesting tidbit of news for the nurse to deliver. "Well, let's see there, Jenny, you are 140 pounds and that is in the 70th percentile for 20 year-olds. That means you weigh more than 70% of your peers. Congratulations. I'll get the doctor."

Violet's percentages are 82-64-5. Like I said, bigger melon than most, taller than a lot, and skinnier than almost all. These percentages prompted the doctor to ask me what kind of milk Violet is drinking (whole and GASP, still breastmilk as well), how much she's eating, (a lot at times, virtually nothing at others), and what her poops look like (to varied to describe in this forum). The doctor (who isn't our normal pediatrician, I should add) told me she isn't concerned yet about Vi's weight, we'll just need to watch it. When I inquired about what we would do if it did become a concern her advise was to add extra butter to Violet's baked potato and give her Baby-Ensure. Sounds genius.

All of this is good information to know, however. For instance, I know to buy hats that are 18-24 months instead of trying to squeeze my giant-headed baby into a 12-18 month chapeau. Now that I realize that Violet is of fairly average height, I will know that other 18 month-olds who tower over her at playgrounds are freaks and probably have that Andre The Giant disease. And, maybe most importantly, I know my tot has a bumping bod that is made for a two-piece and I'll definitely make sure she rocks her bikini all weekend long when we get to the beach tomorrow.

No Stable Required

Violet is an animal lover. Thinking she'd like to watch the ponies at a recent festival, we walked over to take a look. Violet was done watching in about 30 seconds and wanted to RIDE! She spend the duration of the 3 minute ride making her horse noise and swatting at Shawn trying to get him to let go of her so she could ride her pony solo. And I thought she was too little!



I am sure when she gets older she will show up at the front door with puppies who followed her home and kitties she "found" in the street. I know that to be true because that's the kind of kid I was. Any animal, whether he was truly homeless or just strayed to the edge of his driveway, became my pet for the day. I would work on luring the cat or dog home, usually with a Kraft Single as my bait of choice. I succeeded in getting quite a few of them back to the house, only to be denied entrance by my Mom or Dad at the door. "We already have two cats" they'd say, and reason that bringing in the newcomer in will throw off the tentative balance in the house. So I'd set up a creche in the garage and hold vigil with my new pet until it eventually tired of being a prisoner of love and escaped back to the mean streets of Indianapolis.

Many of Violet's first words are animal noises. Do those count? She can imitate a dog, (ruff, ruff), a chicken (bok, bok), an elephant, (bbbbbvvvvrrrrr), a lion, (roar), a snake, (ssssss), a horse, (pbpbpbpb), and an owl, (who, who). When she began walking this spring, Scout was often her first destination. Violet would muster all of her balance to toddle over to the dog who would snarl a hot-breathed growl in her direction when she arrived. Scout's out and out loathing of her new owner has only grown, and seems inversely proportional to Vi's love for her dog. The low grumble of Scout's growl served as a daily reminder for me and Shawn that this Lhasa we own is not a family friendly pet.

So, we did what any good parents would do. We got Violet a pet of her own. After we got settled in the new house, we spent the better part of the next month looking for a cat. We combed Craig's List and PetFinder, we visited the Humane Society, we even drove to Muncie to meet a potential adoptee. Our cat standards really aren't that high, we just kept hitting road blocks. The Indy Humane Society only had a handful of cats up for adoption because many of their animals were quarantined after being exposed to a virus. We'd find what looked like the perfect pet for Violet, make the call to the owner, and hear that he had just been adopted. All we wanted was an declawed adult that didn't have any history of mauling babies. And finally, we found her.

We adopted Sasha from a rescue group that operates out of a local pet store and we definitely found the perfect animal for us. She is litter trained and friendly and, most importantly, she will let Violet have her way with her. The cat is either extremely grateful for being rescued, really a fan of 1 and a half year old lovin, or stupid as hell. Violet makes sport of chasing her from bedroom to bedroom and still hasn't gotten that Sasha's tail is not a handle to be pulled. There is a certain shriek Violet reserves only for her kitty and, miraculously, the cat takes it and comes back for more. Ears splayed, tail flitting, she lays on the bed next to her toddler and begs for more. I can't help but think of a pledge at a fraternity who wants desperately to fit in. "Thank you, sir! May I have another!" It's Sasha's motto.

So, Sasha is the anti-Scout. Even after a day of Violet's special brand of love, she'll curl up right next to her at night.

Crawling

Shawn told me tonight that one of his students has Swine Flu. Last week he got an automated phone call from Brownsburg School Corporation that Whooping Cough has been circulating. Recently, signs have been posted all over one of the homeless shelters where I work reminding residents to WASH YOUR HANDS, as there are 22 families living there at any given time and sickness runs rampant. Oh, yeah, and the bedbugs. One of our shelters has an outbreak of bedbugs.

Is it any wonder that I get home from work and refuse to touch my sweet child who is screaming for me until I have stripped down and scalded my hands as I scrub? Should I be surprised that I have dreams about getting lice? Am I a worry-wart when I won't let Shawn have a snack when he gets home from work until I see him wash his hands?

Violet has a routine doctor's visit coming up next week and I am still debating over the right choice for her vaccine-wise. Up until this point, we have had her on a delayed immunization schedule, so she's getting everything that the CDC prescribes, but at a much slower pace than they recommend. Instead of receiving 3,4, or even 5 different inoculations per visit, Violet only gets two. The idea is that she will be fully immunized by the time she begins Kindergarten, but she will not be at risk for any (real or perceived) interactions between vaccines. Also, if she does have a bad reaction after a round of shots, it will be much simpler to identify which vaccine was the culprit.

Besides spreading them out, I have put an out-and-out hold on a couple of the more controversial vaccines; the MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) and the flu shot. The MMR is the vaccine that is most frequently sited as having negative effects and often comes up in discussions regarding autism. This shot is usually given (per CDC guidelines) as early as the 12 month visit. We are going to wait until Violet is at least 24 months to give her the MMR. I would like for her to be speaking clearly so that she can articulate any problems to me.

That brings us to influenza. Until this year, I never gave the flu shot much thought. Some years I got one, some years I didn't, and I never noticed any correlation with my illnesses or lack thereof one way or another. When it comes to Violet, I figure why risk an extra vaccine when the severity of the illness didn't seem to warrant it? I know that people can and do die from the flu, but, the risk seems acceptable to me. The Swine Flu (I refuse to call it by any other name), seems a bit more ferocious. From the accounts I've heard, it sounds like a huge bitch. I don't doubt that most people who get it will live to see another day, but the severity and duration of this one sounds brutal. I heard a frightening story on NPR about a nurse working in D.C. who lost a pregnant patient to Swine Flu. The nurse was devastated and you could tell that encounter was enough to scare the bejesus out of her and make her respect the power of this strain of flu.

Am I scared of it? I guess, yeah, I am. I really don't want to be sick like that, I don't know how I'd take care of Violet. I don't want Shawn to get sick like that; I make a really poor nurse. Mostly, though, I don't want Violet to get sick like that. Even her sniffles break my heart and when she has a fever--forget it. I am a nervous wreck.

But, I don't think we're going to get her vaccinated for Swine Flu. The lack of testing on this vaccine does not sit well with me. No one knows how well it will work, either, and that also, seems asinine. Some of these shots have mercury (one of those red-light ingredients) and they all require the patient to receive 2 doses for "complete" coverage. That, in addition to all the other vaccines that Vi is still in line to get this winter, and it just becomes too many for me to feel comfortable with. I've done my homework, I'll hear what our pediatrician has to say, and then Shawn and I will weigh the pros and cons.

So, yes, germs freak me out. I'd like to have a safety bubble around our house so no outside germs could penetrate it (no lice either!) but I know that's not an option. So I'll keep washing every one's hands, try to keep my fingers off my face, and hope to God these decisions are never something I end up regretting.

My Number

Every female knows their number. Your number isn't necessarily how much you currently weigh, but it is the number you once weighed or the number you've never weighed but always wished you'd weigh, or the number you think your friend who is your height weighs so you figure you should weigh that, too. Maybe your number was your weight in high school or college or at your wedding. Whatever the significance, I think most of us are always on a quest to get to that number.

So my number for a long time was 130. I don't think I've ever weighed 130. I may have briefly weighed 130 on my way from 129 to 131, but I've never actually held my weight at 130. Why did 130 become my number? I'm not exactly sure. It seemed to be a healthy weight; not to fat but not unattainable. 130 was the weight my Mom was (maybe is right now) and she seemed slim and pretty, a good role model as I grew up. 130 is toward the bottom of my range as provided by Weight Watchers. 130 seems like a number you could have on your driver's license without fear that the bouncer carding you might think you're a fattie.

When Shawn and I got engaged, I went back to Weight Watchers, hired a trainer, and set my sights on 130. If I didn't get to 130 for my wedding day, I figured, I would never get to 130. So I worked out, lifted weights, saw vast improvements in my fitness level, ate a very healthy, balanced diet, and never saw 130. I felt great on my wedding day, despite being many pounds heavier than I had planned. My dress fit beautifully, my arms didn't jiggle violently, and I was head-over-heels in love with my fiance. Had it been a different time in my life, had I not lost my Dad 3 months before my wedding, I probably would have obsessed over the number on the scale. But that spring, those awful weeks when we helped my Dad leave the world with all the dignity he could hold onto, really put the number in perspective. I was surrounded with all the people who loved me the most and people who gathered to celebrate a milestone for me and Shawn and 130 seemed irrelevant. So, that's how I gave up on 130. I guess after seeking it so long, there is still a part of me that believes at 40 I will become one of those late-blooming triathlon athletes and maybe then I'll see 130. But that's a pretty small part. Like maybe only a pound of me.

The bigger part of me, like the other 145.8 pounds of me, figures this weight is about where I shake out. (If you are a between the lines reader and also good at math, you may be able to figure out how much I weigh. When my number was 130 I NEVER would have released that info to ANYONE without MD following their name. And even the MD's usually got the -5 estimate.) I'm eating relatively healthily, lots of greens, leaves, and fruits, no red meat, and the breastfeeding allows me more sugar than I'd probably get without it so my sweet tooth is satisfied. I've felt compelled to offer Violet fresh food, including lots of veggies and fruits, and I think it has rubbed off on me. Wine is a regular part of my diet as is pasta, and I put butter on things that need butter. I feel happy after meals, though I still occasionally overeat, I feel more relaxed about it. Truly no guilt.

There are improvements I could make, must make, to be as healthy as I want to be. Mostly, I need to get back to exercising regularly. Around this time last year, when Violet was 5 months old, I found an elliptical trainer on Craig's List for 80 bucks and convinced Shawn we HAD to have it. This piece of equipment, I knew, would be the end of my puffy, jiggly, post-baby body and the only route to shedding the 25 pounds that stood between me and my pre-pregnancy weight. So, we bought it from a chubby lady, jury-rigged it in the CRV, and drove home with it sticking out of the back end.

Our tiny bungalow was filled to the brim with baby paraphernalia and had no space for the machine except for a corner in our leaky, 90-year-old, basement. So it wasn't exactly the most appealing place to spend 20-30 minutes sweating off baby weight. I had worked out on the machine 4 or 5 times the morning I saw a mouse in our kitchen and then never used it again. What is the mouse-elliptical connection? If that mouse ventured to the bright, cheery, kitchen to fuck with me, imagine all his creepy, skittering, mouse friends darting around the basement waiting to drop down from the ceiling onto my head and down my shirt while I was on the elliptical listening to my ipod so I couldn't hear them coming. See? Case closed, workouts over.

A year later, through no herculean efforts on my part, I've gotten back to where I was when Violet was conceived minus and extra 3 pounds (have I sung the praises of nursing frequently enough on this blog? If not consider me belting it out right now)! The oft-neglected elliptical made the move to the new place where it is waiting in the garage to find if and when it will be allowed in the house. I know I need to initiate and stick to a regular workout schedule; the things that are most important to me in life rely on it. I actually love working out once I establish a routine and I know that fitness will be key if I want to have a successful VBAC with our next baby. The lung disease that killed my Dad as well as his siblings is showing disturbing familial ties and I suspect cardio-vascular fitness won't hurt my chances of avoiding or surviving it should (God forbid) Pulmonary Fibrosis be in my genes. And, not as tragic, but definitely worth a mention, I have the beginnings of Mom-Ass and I would like to nip it in the bud before Lee is the only brand of denim that fits me.

So, I'm moving the elliptical in today. It will sit in one of the spare bedrooms and I have my fingers crossed that it will fit in a spare closet when we have guests or parties. If it doesn't fit and has to sit out, I suppose that there are worse things than having people know that Shawn and I own a piece of exercise equipment. Like, for instance, wearing Lee jeans.

Snot Nose

As if on cue, Violet and I both got our first colds of the season this week right as the official last day of summer cashed out. Shawn has, thus far, remained healthy. It's not the Swine Flu, thank Christ, but a mild runny-nose-itchy-throat-pain-in-the-ass-cold. Mine is only a figurative pain in the ass, but Vi's virus was accompanied by a diaper rash, too. As if having a raw nose isn't annoying enough...Poor Chicky!

Violet has been in beautiful spirits, though, just running a bit more slowly. The most heartbreaking thing is that she's too congested to nurse, so when she wants to snuggle in and just totally relax, she ends up unable to breath. Tonight as I put her to bed, we repeatedly tried to find a position where her nostrils might clear enough so she could get a breath while she nursed, but didn't have any luck. I sat up and cradled her, we tried to nurse side-lying, I laid down and laid her on her side on my belly but nothing worked. She's such a trooper, though, she didn't get mad or cry a bit. In fact, she let me give her face tickles (a Bill Schroeder specialty) while she got cozy on my lap and zoned out.

We even crawled into the rocking chair in her room, the chair we never use, and rocked off to sleep. This rocking chair is not the uber-cush one Grammy bought us before Vi was born. It is the wooden chair that I was rocked in as a stuffy-nosed kid after my Dad gave me a sip of a horrible hot lemon-whiskey concoction that probably would have gotten me to sleep if I could have choked it down. This is the chair that is pretty to look at, but not quite as great to sit in. But, you know what? It did the trick. In about 4 minutes, Little V was sound asleep and easy to lay down. She was sooo ready to sleep, just needed a little help getting there. What a pleasure as a parent to be that helper.

I am listening to her mouth-breathing on the monitor right now, bless her little snot-filled nose. Hopefully, this is our first and last cold of the season and this will be as bad as it gets. That would be fantastic. I know we can't have summer weather all year round in the Hoosier state, but is summer health for my kid too much to ask?

Sing A New Song

It really is a wonder that there are not more love songs written about babies. The romantic love that everybody is always crooning about is awesome, but it is so overdone. I can only think of a handful of songs written for babies. And, really, that love is just as kick ass as the kind of love between man and woman (or, I assume, man and man or woman and woman).

Maybe it is just because young lovebirds have nothing but time on their hands to sit around and ruminate about their mates finer features. When you're 23, spending 4 hours laying in bed leafing through photos of your crushes seems like a legit way to spend an afternoon. And, if you're the creative type, maybe you jot down a verse or two when you feel inspired and-- Voila--Brown Eyed Girl is born.

Then, you knock up the Brown Eyed Girl and she spawns a Gray Eyed Girl and suddenly your love multiplies. But your time is divided. The four hours you used to spend with the photo album strumming a guitar in your room becomes 1 hour shoving baby snapshots in an drawer before the baby shreds them. You've probably had to hide the guitar in the closet because she keeps dragging it by the neck down the stairs. So, see, it isn't that the emotion for song isn't there, it's just that new parents are robbed of the creative process they need to create something memorable. The creation is the baby, and like a new song, she requires a lot of attention and tweaking in her infancy. So you have to ignore the rest of the catalogue to get this one right.

But, honestly, the emotion is there. It is a fierce love, more constant and certain than anything I've ever felt before. I wish I could do Violet justice in melody and verse, but the best I can do is hum You Are My Sunshine to her when she's falling asleep. I don't think that she's any kind of Baby Bono or anything, but the kid does love music. Unfortunately for her, the songs that usually come to mind for me to sing to her are from my 12 years of Catholic school. She hears a lot of Eagle's Wings and Were You There When They Crucified My Lord. Neither age nor season appropriate but I'll be damned if I can't sing all those diddies start to finish.

We took her to her first concert two weekends back. It was Old Crow Medicine Show and she was tapping her toe and doing her twirls all evening long. She even got to meet Ketch, OCMS's lead singer after the show. You can see, she (or at least her Daddy) was thrilled! Then, at Uncle Jeff and Aunt Steph's wedding last weekend, we had to pull her off the dance floor. And, I swear, she was clapping along in perfect rhythm to Play That Funky Music White Boy. Later Labor Day weekend, Violet took in the 54th Street Jazz Festival with Patrick as well as a televised Metallica concert late that evening and followed each with equal gusto. I'm glad that her musical taste is broad. I'm sure she'll find her own favorites soon enough and never believe she gave the crap we play for her the time of day.

Tomorrow she and Grams are hitting their first Kindermusik class of the new season taught by none other than Auntie Aly. If possible, Vi will probably fall more in love with Aly after she sees her singing all her kiddo friendly tunes tomorrow. Maybe Aly would even throw in a verse of Play That Funky Music White Boy or a tune from Glory and Praise Volume 1. Either would be a big hit with our girl!

Kool-Aid Mustache Required

Shawn's best friend and roommate for years, Pat, had these words of congratulations for me upon learning Shawn had proposed:

"Well, that's a mighty nice ring he got you. Just remember, you marry him and you are in for a bunch of kids running around wearing nothing but diapers, cowboy boots and Kool-Aid mustaches."




Once I mix up a pitcher of Purplesaurus Rex, the Prophesy will be complete.