Wednesday, January 31, 2007

spare time

Lucy's asleep, dinner is in the crock pot, I just folded laundry, I dusted earlier this week, and I can't vacuum while she's snoozing.
What does a girl do with herself when--there's nothing pressing to do?
One writes a book review, of course.
I love mystery novels. Especially the almost bloodless, formal type, like Ngaio Marsh or Agatha Christie or Alexander McCall Smith, or the slightly more bloody PD James (love her the best) or even the somewhat raunchy Elizabeth George. Oh, for a good mystery to drown my head in.
So it was with much anticipation that I received "Maisie Dobbs" in the mail from PBS the other day. It was touted as like the Ladies #1 Detective Agency series, but set in post WWI Britain.
Just the ticket, I thought.

Oh, the disappointment!!

Why did this book become a bestseller? It's not awful, but it's so...obvious. The descriptions were poorly written. Maisie steeples her hands and places them underneath her chin to indicate that she's thinking. How...cliche! I kept rolling my eyes.
I mean, I roll my eyes a little bit with Precious Ramotswe, but geez, there's so much that's refreshing in Smith's novels. Botswana, for one. Witty dialogue, for another.
In contrast, everyone in Maisie Dobbs is trying too hard.
Oh--I just figured it out. There's no irony in the novel at all. It's so earnest it made my teeth hurt. When the author says characters are laughing, I don't really believe her. Or I'm not laughing with them.

What I don't understand is how the book got such glowing reviews. It takes all kinds, I guess--but if someone had turned this in for a fiction writing class, I would have been mostly positive (good historical detail, and enough suspense to get me through the novel--hey, I did look forward to finishing it). But I would have set the novelist down for a few lessons in characterization, proper use of attribution ("What's wrong, Dad?" Maisie queried is not okay) and more edge.

I guess I'm growing curmudgeonly if I'm this disdainful of a New York Times bestseller. Jacqueline Winspear, the author, obviously figured out her audience, and damn the attribution errors.

Sigh. Just goes to show: I should be a bestselling novelist.
Hey, if Lucy keeps sleeping this well, I might have time to write something other than this blog.

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

my scent

So Lucy has been sleeping fabulously the last few nights. So well, in fact, that I went out after she went to bed to get groceries, and I wasn't even too worried she'd wake up. (Incidentally, on the way over, I realized it had been a long time since I'd been out after dark. It gets dark awful early right now.)
Anyway, we decided it was high time I come back to sleep next to Dyami (I've been sleeping on the couch or in the second bedroom for about a week).
Lucy wouldn't know the difference, right?
Hah hah! I'm sooo funny!!

Last night wasn't bad at all, but she did wake up at 1:30 am (after she'd been sleeping through till almost 5). Hmmm. After I got up at about 1 am to pee.
Coincidence? I think not.

Here's the dialogue I imagine went on in her head.
Doop de doop. Sleep. Sleep. Hmmm. Wake up. Dark shapes. Shadows. Swinging in bed. Hmmm. Suck my tongue. Hmmm. Rustling. Sniff. Sniff. Milk? Milk? Oh! Milk! I remember milk. Hmmm. Milk at night. Hmmm. I remember milk at night. Ohhh. Snuggles. Mmmmilk. Warmth. Mmmmmilk. MMMMama. Milllllllk.

I think I need me some of that.
(Wiggle. Wiggle. Fuss. Fuss.)
So after the nursing and the settling her back to sleep, I went back to my solo bed.

Sunday, January 28, 2007


Lucy is really moving. She's practically balletic.
She wants to crawl so bad I can taste it. She's got the 'army skooch' down pretty good--sort of forearm over forearm to propel herself forward. (She's mobile enough now that we kind of have to keep an eye on her unless we want her sucking on the soles of our shoes). But today, she sort of got stuck in one place for a while because she dug her toes into the ground and tried to lift her bum off the ground.
Man, the sheer effort involved in movement is really amazing to watch.
Then she started turning around--sort of pivoting with her belly button as the fulcrum. She just turned, and turned and turned. Belly loop-de-loops.
She has been surprisingly content on the floor the past few days because (I think) now that she skooches so well, she isn't so frustrated that she can't get to stuff.
I think this phase is close to ending. She was pretty frustrated that she couldn't crawl. Then I picked her up and lay down on the floor with her on my stomach and started singing to her.
Have I mentioned how much she loves me singing? I've gotten compliments on my singing voice before, but there is nothing better than having a little baby's face light up the second you start singing a nonsense song you're making up words to.
All this was happening while I had the remains of a migrane, was tired out of my mind (despite the last few days of great sleep) an extremely sore shoulder, and was flying solo while Dyami was at church.
I was just content to be sort of out of it with my slightly fussy daughter, waiting for her bedtime so I could be alone for a while.
Thank you Lord, for contentedness striking when I expected it least.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

magic sleep part trois

Okay, I took Spanish, not French, so my knowledge of the language is limited to shaky understanding of ballet terminology. Is trois three?
Our Internet has been down for two days, which is why I haven't posted. I was sort of bereft, but realized after the first day that I was actually getting stuff done, like exercising, and felt like I had a lot more uninterrupted time during the day. Hmmm. Maybe Lucy isn't the problem, but our cable modem.
Anyway, there have been exciting developments on the sleep front. The last four days, I've slept in the other room (on the couch while my mother in law was here) and Dyami with Lucy. When she wakes up, he tries comforting her while I try vainly not to notice her crying through earplugs. He goes for as long as he can, and then I go in and nurse her back to sleep.
I don't know why this should work, but it seems to be doing so. The first night she woke 3 times instead of 5-6. Second night, 2. Third night, 1. Last night, she woke up an hour after I put her to bed at six, and then didn't wake up until five am. Five am!!! I went to bed at 9, and my body woke me at four, which is a magic 7 hours of sleep. Then after I nursed her to sleep at five, I went back to bed, and slept until 8:30.
I feel like a million bucks. Omigod, sleep is like drugs. Very, very high-quality drugs. A co-worker of mine once had to take Oxycontin for surgery, and he said that he loved it. "I felt like I did in high school." I know exactly what he meant.
Things may regress anytime, and I certainly don't expect so much sleep every day. But this much improvement in such a short time gives me great hope for the future. She's teachable!
I think I'm going to start on reading next.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

the experts

Why do I do it to myself?
I got a baby book in the mail the other day. A friend had mentioned it (not a recommendation; she just said she was reading it) and so I got it at Paperback Swap.
It's a perfectly fine book. Pretty middle-of-the-road philosophy-wise. Looking back on flipping through it, I disagreed with some stuff, but that's pretty standard for parenting books. Other stuff I thought was helpful. Also standard.
Then there was the other 50 percent of the book that I wasn't sure if I agreed with or not. It sounded convincing. (And remember, I believe pretty much everything I read).
So when I finished skimming it, I felt completely inadequate. Like I had done the wrong thing since Day One with Lucy and it was going to require a Major Upheaval of our lives and patterns to get things Back On Track.

Oh, those experts. Americans love experts.
I love experts. And hate them.

I had always heard the saying, "Babies don't come with manuals," and nodded, naively. (Thinking--what moron thinks babies come with manuals? How hard can diapering be?) I figured the expression meant you had to learn the skills as you went.
What I didn't realize is that it is not the basic tasks you need a manual for (diapers are pretty standard stuff) but the day-to-day reality of your unique child in your unique house, city, family, and circumstance. All unique! Your baby will fit the book descriptions in Some Areas, not all. And only generally. No one can tell you what to do when your daughter's nap schedule gets out of whack and starts falling asleep on your lap an hour before her bedtime. (Let her nap and have a completely late bedtime? Wake her up and put an extremely cranky baby to bed waaaaay early?) There are literally thousands of decisions to make every day. Socks or footed pants? Onesie or t-shirt? Hat or blanket? Pee now or later? Left breast or right? Floor play time or sling? Is she fussy because she's hungry or tired or has to pee or is bored? All mundane decisions, and all extremely pressing.
So no one can really tell you what to do! (Or they can, and will, but you are allowed to ignore them.) Sometimes I desperately want someone to tell me what to do. Sometimes I try to get my pro mommy friends to do this. But they aren't biting. Sometimes I get my knickers in a twist when I suspect people are trying to tell me what to do.

Wouldn't it be nice if I could decide what I wanted?

So, last night, I got all sad and fearful that I'd ruined Lucy (who, by the way, was sleeping, peacefully and happily.) But by the light of the morning, (and after some rest) I decided I didn't really care so much what the book said. For one, my friend who has used it has had some (but not complete) success with it. Pretty much par for the course with parenting books. For another, I feel pretty good about the decisions we've made. Sometimes I don't like their short-term results, but they were decisions, not accidents. Also, I think parenting can be largely done by instinct. The more I pay attention to my child, the better off I am. Also, the woman who wrote the book has a business of going to peoples' homes to troubleshoot their childrearing.
That kind of creeps me out.
I don't really want or need that kind of intervention. We're doing just fine, thank you very much.
Don't you think?

Friday, January 19, 2007

poor Dyami

Dyami has been a little down because Lucy won't let him comfort her at night.
When Dyami comes home from work, she is ecstatic to see him. She crows like a rooster. She laughs. She giggles. He takes her to the bathroom. She babbles at him.
Then he starts the nighttime routine (the shortened, much more sane night routine, BTW).
She immediately gets upset.
"She's too smart," he says. "She knows what she wants, and she knows I don't have it."
We decided to have him do first round of bedtime wind down and first response comforting if she wakes up. The hope is that she will get used to it at some point and he will be able to comfort her.
A month ago, he had the magic touch and could get her to fall back asleep when I was pulling my hair out.
Now she wants nothing to do with him after we turn out the lights.
Poor Dyami. It's kind of hard on him.
I'm disappointed to--I would really love him to be able to comfort her. Gosh, it would be nice to hand off some nighttime duties. (And honestly, even him trying unsuccessfully makes me feel better--at least I'm sharing the duties).
Though some completely insane part of me is happy to be so--essential. See, I was convinced that Dyami would be a superior parent (and he probably is, considering I have the boobs). So to be able to do something he can't--
Gosh. What an achievement. Great. Really great. Oh, good, Lucy's waking up--and I'm the only one who can comfort her.

Sheesh. Poor me.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

the mornings

I love the morning with my daughter.
Well, maybe the first half-hour of the morning. Not that I hate the rest of the day, but in the first half hour, Lucy is well-rested and full, and has just peed. And she's cute at all times, but when she's in her super happy mood that first half-hour, and all of her needs are met at the same time, I can just enjoy her.
So I eat her belly.
This is a very fun game for all of you uninitiated. First, I hold down her arms. Then I make a growling noise and I get louder as I get closer to her belly. Then I sort of gnaw on it.
She loves it! She squeals, and if I do it right, she even laughs.
The laughter of a small baby makes all the night wakings worth it.
I also eat her armpit and her hands. Gosh, it's fun.

Sometimes I feel a little guilty. As a small child, I hated being tickled. Hated. So how can I justify doing it to my baby? My defenseless baby? I mean, what if she's laughing out of pain or fear?

But this is the best part of my day! My highlight!
You wouldn't deny me my highlight, right?
Plus, I really think she likes it. I think.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

she takes after me!

Okay, the jury is still out, but early polls indicate that Lucy looks like me!
Well, her eyes are more like Dyamis: gorgeous, wide-spaced, and big.
But her smile is vintage Heather. And her little chin. It's a pretty cute chin.
It's hard for me to tell, really. But more and more people have been saying that, so today, when I was holding Lucy over the sink, I watched her her smile at herself in the mirror. Then I kind of practiced making the same faces in the mirror.
This was while I was counting in a funny voice. See, I count to 120 or 150 so I know how long I've been over the sink. If I don't, I start going crazy, wondering how long I've been holding a nearly 13 lb weight over a sink. If I count, see, then I know how long it's been and I have a good excuse to stop. Usually.
And I do it in a funny voice because it entertains Lucy, and sometimes she isn't so fond of being over the sink (partially because I think she's peeing al ot less these days, so I hold her a little more often than needed).
So here I am, making weird faces, and counting out loud, in a very squeaky high voice and a very boomy low voice, and Lucy is laughing, and she's pooping and peeing and farting, and I'm rocking back and forth, and--
Hmmm. Maybe I don't want her to take after me. I'm a little crazy.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

better and worse

Things have gotten so much dramatically better that I can hardly believe it.
Point 1. My cough is still here, but it's manageable, not keeping me up at night, and not threatening to turn into bronchitis (which I had in seventh grade for 4 months)
Point 2. My mother in law is here. Yea for Donna! She cleaned the bathrooms this morning!!! And emptied the dishwasher! And cleaned the island for the first time in about a month! And cleaned the sink!
Point 3. Keep this on the down low. (shhh.) Lucy's sleep is better. Much, much better. Amazingly better! Last night she slept 12 hours total, with one (gasp!) seven hour stretch. At this rate, I might actually stay sane!
I'm afraid of saying the last point out loud because who knows how long it will last. But really, that brings me to:
Point 4. The fact that things have gotten better after being so terrible means that this mothering thing might go in cycles. Phases, if you will. That if we enter a period of horror, it may not last the duration of Lucy's childhood. This realization brings some much-needed peace of mind. If things get bad again, I can probably count on them not staying bad forever. This is good! And "not forever" in this case only meant a couple of weeks.
Anyone can survive for a couple of weeks, right?
Hmmmm. Maybe get back to me next time Lucy's sleep goes down the toilet.

Monday, January 15, 2007

nobel prize

Okay, I deserve a nobel prize.
But first: how do babies get their socks off so quickly? I just put Lucy's socks on thirty seconds ago and BOTH PAIRS are now on the freezing floor. These are the socks that used to stay on (the super-cute Trumpette Mary Jane socks). What is a mother with a cold house to do?
Now for the Nobel Prize. Last night, Lucy woke up at 6:45 after I put her to bed at 6 (finishing at 6:30). I was so bummed! Dyami was at church, so I went in the room to comfort her back to sleep. Usually, I just pop Breast A into Mouth B, but we are trying to explore alternative comforting mechanisms. Patting.
Patting seems so --unsleepy to me. I mean, it's just patting! Whereas breastmilk is food and love and warmth and snuggle and magic all at once.
I decided to pat her. For five minutes. Until she got upset again. (Notice I said until, not if).
Pat pat pat.
Baby looking around, somewhat agitated, but not crying. Great, it's not working, I thought.
Pat. Pat pat. Baby looking around less. Somewhat still. (Or is that just my imagination?)
Pat pat. Pat pat pat. Pat pat pat. Pat. Pat Pat. Pat.
Pat. Pat pat pat. Pat! Pat! Pat!
Baby not moving. Asleep! From patting!
I graciously accept this award, on behalf of Lucy, God, and everybody. Thank you.

Friday, January 12, 2007

what do you do?

Lucy is sleeping right now.
Gosh, I have some time to myself! Who knows how long it will last--so I better get on all the things I can do while she's sleeping.
Hmmm, what should I do first? Oh, well, I am writing. That's something.
Then there's--hmmm. What else is there to do?
How did I use up the whole day when I had literally 24 hours to myself?
Now that I'm finished posting, perhaps I'll go get the mail.
Oh, okay. That's something I could do.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

not a mineral

This morning Dyami watched Lucy for a while while I slept. (thank God!)
He held her on his lap while he worked.
"She kept fussng and leaning forward," he told me when I woke up. "So finally I let her touch the computer. She got all happy and started typing, seeing new windows pop up. Then I tried letting her touch your computer, which was off."
This was not an acceptable substitute.
She's been more vegetable or mineral for so long it's hard to adjust to how much she's taking in. She's, like, a person! Who knew?
Apparently, when people said babies change quickly, they weren't kidding!

Sunday, January 7, 2007

Lucy is a mushroom.

More on The Omnivore's Dilemma: in the last chapter, the author prepares a meal he gathers and hunts himself, the big two items being wild pig and mushrooms. He talks quite a bit about mushrooms and how mysterious they are. Here's a quote:
"When I went to visit...the renowned mycologist (mushroom expert)...I asked him what he considered the big open questions in his field. Without a moment's hesitation he named two: "Why here and not there? Why now and not then?""

I think these are my big open nap/sleep questions. Today was a day of frustrating naps. (Luckily, bedtime was a breeze.)
Since I'm getting over a cold, I actually wouldn't mind spending much of the day snoozing in bed with Lucy.
Of course, she has chosen this week to not like sleeping in bed. She likes sleeping in the sling only during the day, thank you very much.
Sling sleeping is not so restful for me.
Today I needed a nap. (Warning. Do not need anything with a baby around. It is a sure way of not getting it). Sleep last night wasn't so hot, and she wouldn't nap in bed in the morning. When the afternoon nap time rolled around, I was determined to have her nap in bed with me next to her. (Warning. Warning. Do not be determined with a small baby. Eject! Eject!)

She cried for a half hour. (No, I wasn't torturing her. I was very nice to her.) First, she needed to pee. Then--well, I don't know what her deal was. I sang (I don't have much of a voice left). I cradled her in my arm (she tends to like this). I rocked her (rocking while laying down isn't the easiest thing). I offered Brand Y boob. I offered brand X boob. I stood on my frickin' head.

For those of you in the peanut gallery, she was tired the whole time. That was not the problem. She was rubbing her eyes, yawning. She may have been overtired, but since naps are so difficult for us right now, there wasn't much I could do about that, now, could I?

I gave up. "Take her," I said to Dyami. He wore her around in the Baby Bjorn for about ten minutes.
I rubbed my eyes, sleepily and in frustration. "I'm going to try again."
Dyami looked at me in disbelief. "You sure, honey?"
I nodded. He handed her to me.
Laid down. Boob in mouth. Fell asleep in ten minutes. (To clarify: Lucy and me fell asleep).

Again, I ask you: "Why here and not there? Why now and not then?"
Apparently, my daughter is a fungus.

Saturday, January 6, 2007

baby clothes

I think clothing manufacturers send psycotropic drugs to grandparents. And other baby well-wishers. Especially when said baby is a girl.
We have received a lot (a lot!) of baby clothing. I was so naive before Lucy was born. At her shower, I got a few outfits, very cute ones. But not a ton of clothes, all told. I thought, I might need to go buy a few outfits to finish her wardrobe. A few shirts, perhaps?
Then we got some handmedowns from friends. A wardrobe full of handmedowns. No more shopping necessary.
"We have everything we need," I told everyone. (And with one dresser drawer full of space to devote to Lucy, I was pretty serious.
Then Lucy was born.
And the packages started arriving.
Baby jean jackets. Baby dresses. Hats. Onesies (millions of them). Summer clothes. Newborn, one-year-old clothes. Sleepers. Sweat suits. Shoes. Socks.
Don't get me wrong--they're all cute. And would be very useful.
If she didn't already have more clothes than Imelda Marcos.
My mom, in the first months, started bringing over even more clothes. Because she's my mom and is nice, I was able to tell her Lucy didn't need any more clothes.
I have already taken a few bunches to Goodwill. And given back some hand-me-downs. And bought plastic bins for the clothes for later sizes.
And the one drawer is packed.

This wouldn't bother me so much, except I barely have the energy to change Lucy every few days. When she has enough outfits for two per day, minimum, this gets disheartening. She has already outgrown several things she's never worn. And other stuff she's outgrown, she only wore once, (and that was because I was feeling pressured to have her wear the stuff.) I had some stuff in a plastic bin in the laundry room, waiting for the tags to be taken off and for the stuff to be washed when I had time. When I had time, she was already too big for it.

And then came Christmas. Sigh. More clothes. From grandparents and great-grandparents. Again, a lot of it is absolutely exquisite! I actually wish I could wear some of it. A jean skirt with a denim hat! A sun dress! A Tommy Hilfiger sweatsuit! A hand-made outfit!

Oh, dear Lord. What am I going to do with it all?

Friday, January 5, 2007

ch ch ch changes

They're really quite dizzying--the changes these babies go through. Looking back on previous posts, Lucy is doing almost none of the things she was predictably doing before. Sleeping schedule: changed (for the worse, sigh). Nursing for forty minutes at a pop--long gone. Demanding constant attention--well, she still does that, but it's different somehow--she can go for quite a while without needing something from me.
I think she's wearing down my resistance. Before, each change brought on fear and anxiety. What will she do next? What if I can't handle it? Now, the changes are so constant and frequent, I no longer notice them. Hmmm. She's standing on her head. Interesting. I need to pee.
I think it helps that I decided I don't have the energy to vacuum and cook and dust. Some weeks, I have the energy for one of those things. (I like to cook, so that's it by default). But things are getting very cobwebby around ehre, and I don't really care so much. Hopefully Dyami can vacuum this weekend. When my day is a blank slate, i don't notice so much when I don't get 15 minutes without Baby Demands.
Plus, the dizzying rate of change helps me understand that all of these baby behaviors will end. Eventually. And everyone keeps telling me it gets easier, so I'm waiting for month six or seven. Then we'll decide if I'm really so relaxed about Lucy's demands.

Thursday, January 4, 2007


The whole CSA thing is also seeming sort of part and parcel of the new lifestyle change Dyami and I decided on, which is to give up wheat, soy and chocolate (along with dairy). So much processed food has little bits of everything in it (why does granola need soy lecethin and whey powder in it?) that giving up one things means you can't eat pretty much anything.
In the interest of sanity and less cooking prep time, I bought a crock pot.
We're eating a variety of healthful, whole-food soups and veggies and roasted potatoes and brown rice. I feel pretty good, considering I like bread (and beer) a lot, but still, I kind of was yearning for some good cookies today. I had apples and almond butter instead.
See why I can't give up apples?

whole food

I really shouldn't read anymore. I'm too suceptible to books' suggestions.
I'm reading The Omnivore's Dilemma. It's really good, but like reading "Fast Food Nation", you can't really read it without feeling guilty and/or disgusted by pretty much everything in your refrigerator.
We eat pretty whole foods (most processed food we eat is either cereal or canned goods, ie, beans or tomatoes). Oh, and some prepped meats from Trader Joe's. But I don't buy organic because I'm a cheapskate.
I might decide to start buying organic. Or even more crazily, local. When you hear about monoculture cornfields that bankrupt our farmers and fatten and sicken our nation, one feels led to do something about it.
Evidence of my suceptibility to books: halfway through the book, I decided we needed to join a Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) club to get our produce direct from a farm around here. Some friends of ours did it a while ago, and I thought, "How quaint of them.". Now I'm convinced it's the only way to go.
(After reading Fast Food Nation (on a long plane ride--bad call. One already feels queasy after 10 hours in the air) I decided to not eat fast food anymroe, unless it was In N Out. Which promise I promptly broke, only to feel sick from the McDonalds. Now, I pretty much stick to it. Fresher food, decent wages= In N Out for me.)
Or maybe I'll just go shop at Jimbo's and try not to buy the five dollar asparagus from Argentina (much as I love Argentina).
Or maybe I'll keep buying 19 cent bananas at Trader Joe's and just feel virtously guilty? Or buy the 25 cent organic ones?
One is just so wedded to the Way One Has Always Done Things. Like, I'm not sure I can get apples locally. Should we stop eating apples? Or what if I want to make soup from scratch in a month where celery isn't harvested from my CSA? And how exactly do you prepare turnips (which would be included in produce I got from one CSA).
Hmmmm. No more fancy-pants reading for me! Too much of a hassle.
Oh, in good news, the farm used as a model in the book (which operates with very very little waste--no trucked in compost--animals and plants nourishing eachother) is operated in Virginia by a conservative Christian who says farming is his ministry. How cool! Would that mothering and whatever else I do with my life could be a model, as well.


So Lucy is sick.
I think.
It's not so easy to tell with a little baby. They can be fussy without being sick. Their noises change all the time, so a new screech could be a new screech or could be esophagal wasting disease.
Lucy has been subdued. Maybe. Oh, wait, she just started batting her toys wildly! and crowing. Maybe she's fine.
Now she seems upset. Sort of moaning. Oh, wait, she just needs to pee.
Maybe I could take her temperature. 95 degrees? (Taking my temperature, I'm 96 degrees. Is the thermometer wrong, or are we both suffering from hypothermia?)
Now she has pink spots. Are they spider bites from the chicken coop? or the beginning of chicken pox?
Bottom line, I think she is okay, but all these diagnoses are making me a tad bit...nervous. And frustrated.
I'm calling my nurse sister-in-law. Maybe she can help.

Tuesday, January 2, 2007


Well, the other difficulty of our lovely trip to Ojai to visit in-laws was that everyone there (almost) was sick. When we got home, Dyami got sick on New Year's Day (fever, sore throat, achy awfulness) and now I'm starting to feel a bit under the weather. Just a touch, which sent me running to get some wellness tablets (super-expensive health food possible placebos that contain obscene amounts of echinacia (how do you spell that, anyway?) and vitamin C.)
I don't want to get sick, but more to the point: I really don't want Lucy to get sick. Or more particularly, I don't want to her to get a fever and really have to worry about her. (Like I don't worry enough). Oh, Lord, please protect our little girl!