I remembered

Guilt #12:
My knives are dull! So dull that I can't cut tomatoes with my chef's knife! And must use a serrated knife! Of which I have many! For some reason this is a problem! Not sure why!

that tooth

So about that tooth.
I knew it was coming eventually. Really I did.
Well, mostly.
See, a while ago, I read a post on some random parenting blog/site/Yahoo group where a mom was wondering if she should be worried that her child didn't have teeth. At fourteen months. And someone said, well, maybe go to the dentist.
See, that was only two months away!
Part of me wonders: what would a dentist do? I mean, do you get little tooth pliers and pull them down like blinds? Or just take x-rays to confirm that yes, in fact, there are little tooth seedlings germinating?
Luckily, I don't have to find out now!

Now that she has a tooth, Lucy and I are back on the playing field with the Ginger competition. See, my friend Abi's daughter is five days younger than Lucy. Which makes them great ages for comparison.
For a while, Lucy was just slightly ahead of Ginger. She stopped taking her third nap first, and crawled first, and was just generally more advanced. I felt very magnanimous about it, like Oh, well, it's not that important...Ginger will catch up soon. Besides, these developmental milestones don't mean anything!
Then Ginger started eating, standing, signing, waving goodbye, and getting her first teeth. Yes, people, plural: teeth.
Suddenly I wasn't feeling so magnanimous. Developmental milestones don't mean anything...unless you're behind.
Okay, I'm kidding. Really, I'm kidding.
It kind of bothered me that I noticed/cared/observed that I might care if I let myself.
So I'm glad to have made up some ground.

I think I'm going to get Lucy some leg braces so she can catch up on the walking part.
Or maybe just some dentures.
Perhaps I have to go to the pediatric dentist after all.

shirking scripture

So I haven't been doing my homework.
"Homework?" you ask. "What homework, pray tell?"
The homework for church. See, this summer our church is doing a manuscript study of the book of Philippians, in the New Testament. A manuscript study is a really in-depth study, looking at the book as a whole, then in sections, observing words, sentence structure, repetition, themes, etc.
"But Heather," you say, "This sounds right up your alley! You were an English major and did this stuff all the time! You are a total manuscript nerd! So why aren't you enjoying this?"

Before I go into those reasons, I want to point out that I think the sermon series is, in general a good idea. I think it's great for Christians to actually read the Bible and study it in depth--especially so they understand the context behind certain favorite passages that are oft-quoted. Last year our church read the Bible (yes, the whole Bible. Well, I did the Old Testament) together--I participated happily. And I like the way our church is doing it. I don't feel peer pressure to do homework--they give you space during the service to do catchup if you didn't have time during the week. And our speakers are good.

But when I sat down to actually try to participate, I felt as though I were forcing myself to eat some very unpalatable vegetables. Mixed with some sawdust.
Why?
I've been feeling mildly guilty about it for a few weeks now. It's not just that I'm avoiding the reading/study--I've also kind of not enjoyed the sermons so far. Like the whole experience turns me off for some reason.
Rather than feeling guilty/bad (my usual modus operandi) I decided to come clean! And examine why this sermon series isn't sitting well with me, personally.
Here are a few reasons I've come up with:

• I did a little too much of this kind of study in college. My college church experience was a little extreme in some ways, and bible study was huge. Two examples: I used to do personal devotions each day, examining bible passages with this same method, and filled notebooks with Observations, Interpretations, and Life Applications (OIL for short! Isn't that clever?). I got just slightly burned out. To this day it's hard for me to do daily prayer/study and not feel like I'm forcing myself to do something unpleasant.
• Another bad vestige of college: at one point I took a weekend theology class with my college fellowship. Our teacher told us that with the Bible, there were many "Applications" but only one "Interpretation." Being my then-meek self, I said nothing, but inside, I was aghast. A book in translation from 2000 years ago only has one interpretation? You've got to be kidding me. The Great Gatsby doesn't have frickin' one interpretation.
  
• I think I have some problems with reading the Bible this way. Or, maybe, more accurately, reading it only this way. I felt great relief reading A Generous Orthodoxy by Brian McLaren, where he points out that the Bible is not a great big answer book: not every passage lends itself to Life Application. Some of it is poetry, some law, some prophecy, some history. It isn't always "applicable" in the same way that, say McLaren is. Philippians as a book is really more readable this way--it's meant to instruct. But still, something in me rankles.
  
• Something about this way of reading, for me personally (surely not for everyone), takes a lot of the joy out of the Scripture. Maybe it's like dissecting a cadaver instead of sitting down with a person and talking. I found our quick read-through of the Bible refreshing--I got so much context and felt no pressure to "get" everything.
• Sometimes, having been in Bible studies since ninth grade, and doing this OIL thing on and off since then, I feel like I've heard every possible angle on the heaviest-travelled verses. The surprise is gone. The words have become cliched and fail to surprise me. "Take up your cross." (Yawn.) "Love your enemies" (Sigh). "For God so loved the world" (Next). I say this not to be sacrilegious, but I think reading the same words, the same way, for that many years gets reductive. I want to be taken aback by the glorious grace and openness of the Scriptures. Not bored because I'm hearing them the same old way.
• Maybe because I am an English major, this kind of reading is maybe too easy--or too head-based for me. I love to dissect text and squeeze out the OILs. So much so that I almost forget what it is I'm squeezing. I'd love to have a love affair with Scripture--I read authors like Phyllis Tickle or Kathleen Norris and am amazed at how they describe this book that seems so standoffish to me. I'd love to see its words with fresh eyes. But when I do my same old same old Interpretations and Applications I find it more an intellectual exercise than anything relating to my heart.

When I sing Scripture, it goes straight to my heart. When I pray Scripture, it does too, to a lesser extent. What I'd really love in a sermon series is a way to read scripture that is also in depth, also takes seriously the richness that is in the Bible, but is not the old Evangelical bugaboo of OIL. MacLaren says that sometimes the Evangelical church makes Scripture into an idol: we worship it, rather than God. Yet Jesus was also the "Word made flesh". Made flesh though--living and active. Breathing and running and jumping and dancing.

If anyone has suggestions for me about how to find new eyes for the Bible, I'm all ears. (or eyes?) I've looked into stuff like Lectio Divina (not terribly substantially) in hopes I'd come up with ideas, but beginning and actual practice of something new has seemed too hard. I'd love to have company.
So there you go. Now that I've read all my reasons, I feel better about shirking. I pray these reasons aren't excuses, but help me figure out how I can find joy in the Bible for myself.

developments

There have been some exciting developments around here.

• We bought a new fridge. We'd been talking about it a while (after seeing An Inconvenient Truth and learning that our charmingly ancient fridge was an electricity guzzler), and on Saturday we just went out and bought one. Just like that. Sometimes it feels like you should need a license or a class or legal counsel to buy things like fridges, but you don't. All it takes is a trip to Sears and a charge card. Oh, and maybe money in the savings account to pay off the card.
  
• My hair turned fabulous last night. Well, fabulous might be overstating it, but it was day two of no washing (my goal was last three days with no shampoo) and I looked in the mirror and it looked tousled and slightly wavy, and fine, and I was completely fine not washing it that night. Before, it had been a grit my teeth kind of ascetic not-washing. Then this morning I woke up and ran to the mirror and it still looked fine, and I squeezed a little water into it and then it even might have qualified as fabulous. The excitement! I had to wet it while taking a shower later on and I was a little disappointed. So my experiment has been a sucess, and I might not even wash it tonight. So there. (Note: my idea of fabulous is more than okay to go out in public with absolutely zero effort. I think I have low standards.)
  
• We are now in a period of nap transition. We are a little shocked that Lucy seems to be ready for one nap (yes, she is advanced for her age) but she seems to be ready. Actually, what I want to write is too complicated to put into one bullet, so I am transitioning out of bullets:

Ahhhh. Anyway, I think there are three phases of naps. Okay, four. And this is for new moms, because I don't know anything about more than one kid.
1. The Chaos. This is when you're first starting out, and the baby has stopped sleeping magically wherever they land, and no one sent you the memo that naps are actually work and take effort and so you're wondering why the baby is yelling at you all day, because if she were tired wouldn't she sleep?
2. The Schedule. This is the somewhat militant phase, but the also charmingly predictable phase. She naps at 9:30 am and 1:30 pm, you say, with military precision. Then you add, (less charmingly), So why the hell are you inviting us over at 2 pm? You know that's just not feasible. This is especially true when the baby is still taking three naps. Three naps require the coordination skills of Martha Stewart, and about the same amount of bitchiness. You have to protect those naps, dammit.
3. The Schedule That Doesn't Work Anymore. Phase 2 devolves into Phase 3 as soon as the baby is ready for a new nap Schedule. The problem is that the baby does not send you a memo (nor does she page Martha Stewart). And since you've gotten bitchy and inflexible about the Schedule, you persist with the old Schedule for days, and wonder what is wrong with the baby that is no longer falling asleep according to her contractual obligations.
4. The Jerryrigged schedule. This is a schedule that is turning into a Schedule. This is where we are right now. It may involve alternating days (one day two naps, the next one nap). It may involve experimenting with longer and longer periods before the nap so the baby only takes one nap on a day she might probably do better with two, so that you can put her to bed early and watch Law and Order with your husband instead of commenting about how adorable your baby is at night. For the fifth time. Somewhat bitterly. The great thing about this schedule is the possibility of one nap! (or two, from last time we were in this phase). This means a lot less work and more flexibility!) The problem is this nap schedule is exciting which is code for stressful. You put them to sleep hoping they'll sleep 2 hours like they did yesterday, in which case they'll be charming the rest of the day. Instead they wake after 45 minutes and act like Pol Pot. You have more riding on success with this schedule, whereas with Schedule 1, you just stick to the hourly chart and if they wake up early or late, it's not so big of a deal.

So there you go. There's my nap theory. I know, brilliant.

theory vs. reality

Since I'm such a discipline expert now, I've decided to review a book on discipline called Unconditional Parenting.
I have to be honest--I didn't really like it. Also, I didn't exactly read it; I mostly skimmed it. Mostly because I had a sense that if I read it too closely I'd start obsessing.
Certain books have this effect on me.

The thing is, a lot of the ideas in the book I find compelling. Since I'm such a hippie, I like the touchy-feely, positive-discipline theories (we'll see what I like when Lucy actually gets old enough to need discipline). So Unconditional Parenting really stands with a lot of books I found very interesting and encouraging, like Positive Discipline and How to Talk So Your Kids Will Listen. And my favorite, Kid Cooperation.
So, you all ask, what was wrong with this one?
Well, here's the deal. I just found it too theoretical. I think I'm kind of opposed to theory in parenting books. Not that theory doesn't have it's place. I mean, I want to understand the values that cause me to make the parenting choices I'm making. I want to be grounded in what really matters, so that, at least, parenting decisions are grounded in some sort of coherence. Not for coherence's sake, but because I want my whole life to have that coherence: work, money management, eating decisions, friendships, how I spend my time.
But being just slightly prone to idealism and to idealized (and impossible-to-live-up-to) ideas, a little theory for me goes a long way. Like from here to Pakistan and back.
Unconditional Parenting is about 95% theory and 5% practical applications. When you're a first-time parent, all you really need is practical applications. Because you don't know what the hell you're doing.
Take sleep. I read some books on sleep, but really, all the reading in the world left me woefully unprepared to actually help Lucy learn how to sleep. What really would have helped was watching someone put their child to bed each nap and nighttime, but unfortunately I didn't have any friends that wanted me in their bedroom that much.
Instead, all the books did was give me a bunch of ideals to live up to ("no cry" and "co-sleep" and "nighttime parenting" and "insanity"---okay, not that last one) that mostly just made me feel bad when I was at my wit's end and was willing to let Lucy sleep at our neighbor's house if it would help things.
Once I got some practical experience, the books proved more helpful. Then I actually recognized some of their ideas and thought, Oh, THAT's what they're talking about.

I think U.P. would send me down that guilt trip road even more quickly. I couldn't get through even two chapters without feeling inadequate. The author backs up his parenting ideas with a lot of research saying how parents who didn't use U.P. ended up, in clinical studies, with unhappy, hateful children (I exaggerate--he didn't make such grand claims--but did tend to show how more traditional discipline methods fared in studies). I appreciated some actual science (many parenting books have no rigorous proof for their ideas) but the general drift was to make me feel claustrophobic. And the lack of practical tips (I would have wanted the balance of practical/theory to be more like 50/50) left me feeling not just inadequate but incompetent.

One more thing: Kohn just seemed kind of extreme to me. He's all about the kids, all about involvement and respect and compassion. Which is fine--and probably he's extreme to counter more authoritarian ideas in vogue. But still, I don't think there's anything wrong for kids to be subject to the authority of parents. I don't think there is any way to explain every decision, even to older kids. I don't think it's wrong for kids to learn to obey. Sometimes simply to obey, without understanding all the reasons. Believing in the God I do, I think that's a perfectly healthy idea.

I'm really glad that I read U.P. after reading Kid Cooperation, a book that was refreshingly practical, compassionate in it's methods, but also emphasized the authority of parents. That we're in charge! That's it's okay to say, "Because I said so" every so often! Touchy-feely is fine, and compassion and mutual respect and kids that aren't just blindly obedient is great, but life isn't always fair, and parents can't always be Ghandi.
Plus, I think a relentlessly practical book is just more realistic for parents. It causes less feelings of inadequacy when the author shares how they struggled with a situation, and then tried a new angle that worked. I need to hear the struggle to keep in mind that we're all just doing the best we can. And that books are just books--they can't get up with you in the middle of the night, or calm down your kid in the middle of the grocery store.
In the middle. Ain't that the truth of parenting: you're always smack dab in the middle of it.

turning thirty

The cool thing about turning thirty today is that because it's such an important birthday, I get a free pass from the hard work of motherhood, and can just enjoy my baby while someone else takes care of her while she's cranky from not sleeping much last night. I especially appreciated that last night, when someone else woke up with her every half-hour until two. And someone else also gets to suffer from my blossoming cold that's keeping me indoors and might otherwise put the kaibosh on the fun plans I had for today.

Oh, wait.

active

I've had an idea for a while of hosting a party.
I was inspired by this website, momsrising.org, an advocacy group for family-friendly policies. They produced a documentary about the issues, and I got a DVD. They recommend that people hold house parties and show the movie, then have conversations about the issues/ideas it raises, to try to raise awareness about the current state of affairs, and some ideas for how to change things.
All good, right? Fun party, being active and helping other moms, helping other people to find a better life, and making our society more livable for everyone. And with a movie, we could even make popcorn!

So I haven't actually planned anything yet. Part of it is that it's hard to have projects when your day is divided up into 10 minute chunks.
But that's not the only reason.

I have never really been an activist. I've always thought I should be spending time doing dogooderness of some kind. But I've never really done anything. Sure, I serve in my church, and give money, and be kind to people, but it's not the same thing. I've never really had a cause (except for my faith, which calls me to do dogooderness as part of showing God's work in my life).
I've always been a bit uncomfortable with causes. I think to be active in stuff, you really have to be sold on something, and willing to put yourself on the line to make something happen. You have to be full-bore about something and identify yourself with it.
I'm always so wishy-washy I am never sure about really committing to causes.
Actually, I think a lot of it is fear of looking stupid.
I kind of have a pathological fear of looking stupid. So much so that if I play games with Dyami and lose frequently, I get bent out of shape, because I am so afraid of being "bad" at, say, Duck Duck Goose.

So to invite a bunch of people to my house and show a video, I have to say, This is my cause! Join me! Aren't you excited about this too? Isn't this important?
What if everyone yawned? Or said, hmmm, I don't find this very compelling? Or, why are you sending me an invite for a cause? I need to go do something better with my time.

Okay, this is all sounding like a really bad case of "everyone like me" syndrome.
Sigh. Will I never get out of junior high?

The thing is, I am tired of being so wishy washy. I am tired of being cynical about causes. I am tired of not being willing to put myself on the line. I don't think being cowardly about letting people know I care about things is a good way to spend my thirties. (I'm almost thirty, by the way. At the end of the month. !)

Today Dyami and I were talking about feminism, and some of the issues the movie raises (he hasn't seen it), and in typical Dyami fashion, he raised some good points of critique with the way I described things. And then I got all bent out of shape because he was critiquing me.
I realized, after I calmed down, that it's that same fear of looking stupid. Because I am a baby, learning about all of these issues, and I don't really understand them all that well. And I don't know that much about them yet. So who am I to "raise awareness"? Who am I to invite people to a party about them? Doesn't that just smack of the novice, getting super excited about something she doesn't even understand all that well?

Anne Lamott descirbes the voices in her head as a radio station, called KFKD. (FKD stands for a bad word, okay?). The station plays all negative commentary, all the time. Shooting down any idea she has as stupid, irrelevant, hopelessly naive, etc.
I have no idea what the woman is talking about. Really, I don't.

I'm turning off the radio! I am taking a stand!
I am making an evite! I am inviting people! Whether or not they will judge me! I am joining a cause!
Just as soon as I get back from vacation.

Note: If you would be interested in coming to said party (or parties--I might hold more than one, since our house is small), you should comment, saying so. It will motivate me to get off my keister and actually follow through. And no, I have no idea what I will be doing about childcare (have kids there? Take kids to park? Who knows?). But I know we can figure something out.

I think

Lucy's teething. Or growing. Or has adolescent angst.
There has to be some reason she woke up five times last night, right?
It's not just random, right?
Or worse, deliberate?
Tea. (Groan) I need tea.

surviving

So on Monday night and Tuesday night, Dyami woke to hear me cussing. I hesitate to tell you which word, because you'll realize I'm a bad person, completely unsuited for motherhood. Sigh. Okay, I'll give you a hint: it rhymed with duck.
Anyway, I said it a lot. As I was trying to get Lucy to fall asleep after a few hours of trying (5.5 hours on Monday. Fewer hours, but later, on Tuesday).
I don't know about you, but the mental image I have of myself is spouting bad cuss words in the middle of the night. Not the image I want Dyami carrying around, either.

Thankfully, there was no cussing last night. However, I did rant for a while. I'm not sure how long. (Doesn't ranting just make the time fly?) When Dyami pointed out that I was ranting, I got really pissed, and then about ten minutes later (after crying), found it really funny. Makes sense, right?

I felt a little better after meeting with some moms this morning. Turns out three of the four of us had some sort of meltdown last night. So I'm doing about average. Whoopee!

I have realized that one does not emerge from the first year of mommyhood unscathed. One would desire to approach the experience with boldness, grace, and emerge stronger for it. Get our hair mussed, perhaps, but not feel like Valium was called for. Not for our sanity so much, but for the sanity of those that have to live with us.

Question: Why am I using the royal "we"?

I joke about my midnight f-bombs, but in reality, I'm ashamed. Why do I have such anxiety? Why do I let my fear get so ugly? Where is my peace, my joy, my unshakable foundation in the Spirit?
Scary thought: I'm doing much better than I was a few months ago! And these past few nights have been tough, but they have been by no means the worst I've been through! So why cussing now?

This ugliness was right below the surface, pre-Lucy. I'm just more raw, which is why all this stuff comes out now.
Also: I don't want the ugliness to get worse, when she's actually able to understand me better.
I have been praying more than usual, lately, which is possibly why I didn't get out the steak knives along with the f-bombs. But I would like to be doing better. To be better.

So how do I find grace and quiet strength in the middle of the night?

I don't have any answers for myself. (I tend to talk to myself a lot. When I'm not using the royal "we").
On the prayer site I've been trying to use, this was the reading this noon:
"O God, you will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are fixed on you; for in returning and rest we shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be our strength. " Isaiah 26:3; 30:15

I don't know what I'm returning to, but I want to turn that way. Badly. But my spirit is like balky stroller.
Oh, Lord, may I turn your way. And keep fixed on you. May I be strong, in the middle of the night. May you be Lord of my nights, as well as my days.
May my mouth be filled with your praise, and not--well, all those other things.
May it be filled with silence, if nothing else.

carnival time!

I'm joining in a fun carnival of breastfeeding "expectation vs. reality" stories. Here's my take. Join in the carnival through the links at the bottom of this post.

In the days where I had a gigantic belly and lots of spare time, I had already become insistent about my right to breastfeed in public. “I don’t want to be isolated,” I said. So along with the Lasinoh and a How-to book, I bought a Hooter Hider in a garish print (so garish my husband called it “clown-like”). I’m not hiding behind basic black, I told myself. No one’s going to keep this nursing momma at home.

What I didn’t realize is that breastfeeding can be isolating, even in the best of circumstances. Perhaps the closeness nursing creates with your baby is the fact that it’s so hard to get close to anyone else.

Even physically. After about the first week of Lucy’s life, I realized no one had touched me. Because no one could get close enough. I was surrounded by pillows. Besides a Boppy, I needed about three other pillows to nurse comfortably sitting up on the couch. That number increased to six in bed, and ten lying down. I’m down to three pillows on the couch, and three in bed, but still. No one’s snuggling while Lucy’s latched on.

And despite my chutzpah, it took me weeks--well, months--to get used to nursing in public. It didn’t help that my husband was just the tiniest bit squeamish. Or that I wasn’t quite dexterous enough to lift up my shirt, help Lucy latch on, and keep the Hooter Hider from billowing like a garish kite. And that was when she wasn’t upset, arching her back, and unlatching unexpectedly.

And until I mastered nursing in a sling, I just couldn’t find comfortable places to sit. On our first outing, (to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf), I brought the Boppy. It seemed perfectly normal after a few weeks of sleeplessness, but I wonder what people were thinking when they saw me march by with baby, diaper bag, and U-shaped pillow. Maybe they thought it was for some serious hemorrhoids.

For at least the first eight weeks, there wasn’t the possibility of going someplace and not nursing. We went out to dinner, and I nursed. I nursed in church. I nursed in the bathroom, on a walk, at my in-laws. In the library. At the park. In the car. Whether or not I had comfortable seating, or my arms were tired, or I had privacy, we nursed. Because that was our life.

And then we started recognizing that our daughter was sensitive to certain foods. Milk was obvious; I don’t usually eat it, but when I did after she was born, we were up all night. That’s easy, I thought. No more milk.

But her digestive system still seemed sensitive: I would describe the poops, but since this is for new moms, I’ll spare you the TMI details. I tried no wheat. This seemed to help. Then it was wine. Then soy.

If you don’t eat milk, wheat or soy, there’s not a lot you can eat. Actually, there’s plenty. There’s just not a lot of processesed food, restaurant food or other people’s food you can eat.

So now that our daughter stays up late enough for us to go out, and is mobile enough that we could eat at other people’s houses, we stay home. Oh, sure, I invite people over. And luckily, I get enough sleep these days that I have the energy to cook. I even like to cook.

But I miss dinners after church, or getting take-out when I’m too tired to cook. I miss not having to give people detailed instructions about what to bring over--scratch that; I miss telling people not to bother bringing anything, because it’s likely either they or I will miss something I can’t eat.

And yet--and yet, it isn’t all so bad as it sounds. My daughter smiles now; she plays games with us. She has started standing with support; we’re hoping she will crawl before she walks. She shakes her head back and forth when she’s delighted; she smiles at strangers, even when she’s tired. She crows when I tickle her ribs.

Social? No--breastfeeding isn’t exactly social. Yet it’s connective, like nothing else in the world.

Check out these other carnival rides:
Motherwear Blog - What I Didn't Expect When I Was Expecting
Breastfeeding Mums - What I Wish I'd Known About Breastfeeding
Mama Knows Breast - Top Ten Things I Didn't Expect About Breastfeeding
Breastfeeding 1-2-3 - What I Didn't Expect When I Was Expecting
The Lactivist - Nursing Isn't Quite What I Expected...
Spit Up On My Shoulder - Education is Key
Adventures of a Breastfeeding Mother - what she didn’t expect about breastfeeding
New Mama's Next - The Surprises of Breastfeeding an "Early Bird"
The True Face of Birth - What I Didn't Expect While Pregnant
Down With the Kids - Goodbye Booby

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.