A Farewell to Breastfeeding.

Ode to the things we get used to as mamas and then the subsequent things we get un-used to.

For the better part of a year, I became deeply accustomed to considering how everything I put in my mouth would affect my child.

What to eat. What to drink. How would the sugar I just sucked down affect my tiny daughter. It's been a constant consideration.

And it will presumably take a very long time to train my brain to un-think in this way, to adapt to the fact that the child at the end of my breast is now a fantom limb while the real child scurries off to her toy corner, hollering follow me shrieks of glee.

As with co-sleeping, the magic number in my head had been a year.

I figured (based on who knows what) that I'd breastfeed for at least one year and then, in all probability, for longer.

And when the time would come to ween my daughter, I expected to have some say in the process. I envisioned sharing a few lengthy chats with Jesse over dinner, prompted by the feeling of needing a change and accompanied by a notebook and pen to aide in the planning/decision-making process.

Alas, not so much.

It all transpired in the matter of exactly one month.

Opal began to sleep through the night at the tail-end of August (see A Simple Plan: Revisited)—still a notable luxury— and it took less than a week for my body to no longer require me to wake up and pump in the middle of the night. Then, days later, I didn't even need to pump before I went to bed, many hours after Opal did.

She started her day-care (two half-days per week) the first week of September. At that point she was nursing four times per day—in the morning first-thing, before bed, and before two naps. (This included pumped milk for Jesse or her Daycare mama to give her from a sippy cup.)

Flash forward another week and I was no longer producing enough milk for one of her two naps! Enter Baby's Only Formula as a new character in the cast of pantry-fillers. By the following week, I needed Formula for both naps and to supplement bedtime. (Eeek! It's just happening so fast!) By the last week of September, I was nursing Opal one time per day, first thing in the morning, hanging on fiercely to those uninterrupted moments between she and I as we nestled in the rocker in her room.

I've heard of many mama's who comfort nurse, which is essentially allowing your child to suck on your breast when there is very little to no milk to offer. This particular option just didn't jive for us. As my body slowed in milk production, Opal's independence increased exponentially: the teeth, the inadvertent (or occasionally deliberate but never malicious) biting, the kicking, the squirming, the reaching, the popping off to smile or point or practice a sound that tickled her throat to get out. I tried once to offer her an empty breast for comfort when she was sick, but she seemed not only uninterested, but vaguely insulted.

So there it is.

The last day came without warning. I awoke on the morning of October 4th, the day of my Mighty Licensing Exam, without any milk to offer. The bar was stone dry. Zero inventory. The previous day was the very last day she was to nurse and I didn't even know. (Not sure what I'd have done differently had I known—likely an increase in sentimentality over ceremony.)

Two weeks exactly have now passed.

In all honesty, I'm not at all enjoying the option of eating or drinking whatever is put in front of me with no one to consider but myself. It doesn't feel like freedom yet, though I'm sure soon enough I'll imbibe on a regular Chai and enjoy every sip as well as the frenzied vibe that follows. (I bravely attempted to drink regular Chai tea only twice during the year since Opal was born and let's just say the outcome was ugly and seemed slightly cruel in it's effects on the tiny body of my girl.)

Most people respond to my news of no longer breastfeeding with something along these lines: Isn't is great to have your body back? and How wonderful that you can go away for as long as you want now!

To these ideas, I will speak frankly. Never once did I feel a desperate desire to get my body back. I didn't at all mind sharing for that short period, that just wasn't my experience. (Now, to the mother who was on Dateline NBC because she continued to nurse her 7 and 8 year old daughters, I would be totally on board with the sentiments of demanding your body back.)

As for going away, well, I've been able to go out until late at night—at least plenty late for my needs!—since Opal was 4 months old. Either I'd nurse her right before bed and make sure I was home by the time she was hungry again, or when she got a bit older, Jesse could put her down with milk in a sippy-cup. As a matter of fact, I could've gone out for many more solo-movie nights and ladies' wine nights than I did. I clearly wasn't chomping at the bit to head for the hills.

On the other hand, I'm not feeling a particular yearning to go back in time or to force my body into a state that it's organically finished with. (By taking herbs or pumping excessively to stimulate the mammary glands.) I don't feel a longing for the connection that was so exclusive in breast-feeding, I suspect because Opal's daddy and I both bond with her all over the place. It's not as if removing the puzzle-piece of breastfeeding leaves a gaping void in it's wake.

The thing that takes the most getting used to, if I may speak candidly, is learning how to gracefully vacillate between supporting my daughter in her developing autonomy while also feeling a deep and honest ache as I watch her grow.

An ache that lives in the very organs that, at one time, scooted over to make room for her tiny body to grow.

Sickness and a Bit of Rambling

It's been an impressive week.

The author would like to be begin with an apology for her recent absence. She wont bore you with a list of excuses because the list consists of a single distracting item: The State Licensing Exam for Massage Therapy.

The test actually took place nearly a week ago (hallelujah I passed) and for the two months prior, all pockets of free time were dedicated to re-filling my head with intellect of the anatomic and physiologic variety, force feeding my brain as if attempting to fatten it up with smartness.

Believe-you-me, my out of shape writing-muscles were chomping at the bit and I've been dying to write all week, but Opal and I have been battling a full-body bout of a food poisoning/flu bug combo. Up until today, the only appealing way to spend nap-times was horizontal and reading the new Franzen novel. So, pleased to report that I'm feeling as if my insides and my outsides have re-establised a general sense of alignment—poor little Doodle threw up a few times this morning, but she also seems to be improving—I feel it's time to initiate a reunion with my blog.

Hi. Hi.

Nice boots.

You, too.

So far so good.

Anyhow, what shall I say about the world from inside the vantage point of my trusty noggin?

Which words to choose and which route to take? Again with the sore muscles.

Let's touch back in on the sick stuff.

Monday night, I was sicker than I can remember being in my entire adult life. (Rivaled only by a blurry recollection of spitting into a bucket due to a throat infection from Mono when I was in the 8th grade.) I puked. I shat. I did both at the same time. There were accidents. I was unable to stand without my knees threatening to collapse and my skin going cold and damp. It was a solid 12 hours of wild physical elimination with no reserve, no abandon. It was a fast-track cleanse. And the following two days were a blur reminiscent of the grand partying escapades of my youth.

By the time the brillo-patch of smoke cleared, days later, Opal came down with the pukes.

Thankfully, her version was a much softer, gentler one. But even still, if given the option, I'd have easily taken on her two hours of puking for my twelve. No questions asked. I'd have just perched myself over by the toilet, pleased to be doing my time for some higher good, while she remained healthy and continued to amuse herself by putting balls of tiny socks into the egg carton and discovering various angles from which to harass the dog who slept on the chair.

But clearly, I wasn't given that option and that's not how it went.

Jesse was sleeping downstairs to prepare for leaving on a trip to Halifax in the morning where he was to lead a program of 150 people.

So it was the dog and I who heard her through the baby monitor—a cough followed by gagging followed by the evident and liquidy audio signals of vomiting. I raced into her room to find her sitting with her impeccable baby-posture and heartbreaking vulnerability, covered in a putrid, rejected combination of what she'd eaten that day along with mucus and sprinkled with hundreds of tiny kiwi seeds (her new favorite food). Nothing in the crib escaped unscathed. The sheets, the down comforter, the stuffed animals (thank goodness for the fact that we made an unsolicited yet concerted effort just one week earlier to find a back-up for her favorite stuffed animal, her lifeline B the bunny—), not to mention her jammies, her hair, her hands. The look on her face as she turned her water-dish eyes my way, crying, was a combination of shock and something-is-totally-wrong-here-and-I-need-my-mama-bad.

Within moments I'd stripped the baby and the bed, cleaned and re-dressed both in fresh, unsullied goods, and snuggled next to an unsure little Doodlebug along with B's understudy (everything about the replacement stuffed bunny is the same, same size, brand, shape and texture, though the original is noticeably more worn and has whiskers while the other is clean shaven and has finger-digits inexplicably sewn in) and Opal's favorite book with the pop-up rainbow. By the third or fourth page, Opal was grabbing to help me turn the pages and by the time the book was complete, she looked up from inside her nestle in my armpit, flashed me a big just-two-gals-up-late-reading-books sort of grin, gently poked my face right about my lips and said, noh. (nose).

As I write this, I am remembering a line that came from an Alzheimer's training I took a few weeks ago. The instructor described how folks with this kind of dementia have no ability to put on airs in any way and so they respond best when genuineness shows up before them. What a gift, she said, to work in a field that challenges you to remain connected with the truest version of yourself. (I work giving massage to residents with Alzheimer's and dementia.) It was something that to that effect, though the exact words may have been slightly different. She talked about how the elders often became agitated when someone came at them with their own agenda, not taking a moment to check in or inquire about what they may be needing. Interpretation and translation of these needs often requires nothing more complex than simply slowing down and clueing in. Babies are strikingly similar.

As I rocked with my daughter in the same chair we've shared for nearly a year now, reading speedily and strategically skipping words to keep up the pace with her rapid page-turning, kissing the top of her head again and again, able to smell a faint sniff of lavender from her bath that night in a spot of hair in the back that was left untouched, I had the overwhelming desire to thank her.

She does this, unwittingly, and all the time. She calls on me to show up in front of her with 100% of my finest mama self, the prime cut, the cadillac. And, in so doing, leave what it is I think I would rather be doing in a drawer somewhere with the lighters and twistees and moist hand toilettes. Those arbitrary ideas, e.g.: sleep, are most likely not to be visited again because once I get to where she calls me to be, I would almost always prefer to be exactly there.

The rest of the night wound up being quite merciful. We spent a few hours caving up in her low-lit room, wading through the minutes as we read her favorite books, sang my favorite songs, rocked and cleaned up a few more bouts of vomit, until sleep was close enough to touch. She was eventually able to fall asleep (in spite of a strangely timed, uber-lengthy and wall-shaking thunderstorm that arose just as I was leaving her room) and slept through the night. I'd have slept in her room or with her in my arms in the rocker (or curled up with her in her crib!) if it seemed the most comforting for her, but she is a girl who needs her space to sleep. So I lied in my bed across the hall with my eyes slitted like mini-blinds, prepped and ready to leap to her side.

These last few days have passed quietly and spent close to home as we both healed up. (It took until yesterday for me to be able to eat real food again without feeling devastatingly nauseous.) No day care or work. No meetings with friends. No long list of errands. We've clocked in many slow and mindful walks together with the dog, often more than once per day. We've spent hours sifting through the depths of the toy bins in the living room, discovering long lost items we hadn't thought of in months (Hello Baby Einstein Pelican that plays a Beethoven symphony in four parts! How we've missed you!). No agenda and no particular place to be.

Grandma has payed us many welcomed visits, bless her heart. The two of spent many meals at the table with Opal, marveling at her ability to say the words purple, mirror and oatmeal with unmistakable precision. We applauded as Opal pushed her little walker back and forth in front of us, proud as a peacock, with teeth brimming like tulips from her bottom lip as she grinned so intensely she pushed out rivers of drool. We shook our heads at the mention of what Opal was wearing on that particular day, as if the beauty of it all was just too much to bear. Stacks of undistracted sweet moments.

The days have felt deliciously loose-waisted and elastic, edgeless and fluid, a lot how we passed the time when Opal was much younger. These kinds of days don't work so well as the norm now that Opal is older and more mobile and longing for the things that stimulate her to continuously change. But as for now, post-test and post-sickness, spending time with her (and her grandma) in this way feels about as medicinal as it gets.

Daycare: The Unabridged Lengthy Version

Before we know it, she'll be picking out her own tutu—tiara ensemble in the morning and hopping on her bike to ride to school.

Just over a month ago, I would've dismissed the notion of daycare as something other people do. Things were going smoothly and we were in our as-of-a-month-ago groove. I had a few massage clients who I visited in the evenings and on weekends and I was beginning to piece together support for a might-be, basement cottage sewing business.

Opal remained the nucleolus within the nucleus within the cell of a day.

And then.

I was offered a part-time job giving massage to the residents of a lovely Alzheimer's facility just down the road. Landed, plop, like a small, soft animal in my lap. Had it been three months earlier, I would have politely handed the animal back, or put in on the ground to scamper away.

But as of a month ago and as of now, what we have is an 11 month old baby who is ready for (very part-time, 10 hours a week, or so) a change in environment. More excitement and adventures.

And we happen to also have a mama who is just as ready for the very same thing, along with some money and an additional sense of purpose. So there you have it; the offer was just too good, as was the timing. I said yes on the spot and started the following week.

Opal stayed with grammy (Jesse's mama) while I worked and loved every minute of it. Playing with special grammy-only toys, chasing after their gentle canine-giant, Lucy, and being doted on by everyone who walked through the living room—grammy, grampy and auntie Alex to name but a few.

But when grammy was scheduled to leave town for over two weeks, I began my quest in exploring other options for Opal-care during work hours, saving other grammy-sitting possibilities for the luxurious variables like, perhaps, getting a haircut or going out for a date night.

My first thought was to hire a babysitter—classic, simple—for two afternoons a week. But that idea came with a very distinct question mark around never quite knowing how they would be spending their day. Would the sitter be on her cell phone all afternoon texting her boyfriend (like I used to do when I was a babysitter, ahem.) while Opal vied for her attention with her big figgy, dewy eyes? Would they stay in the house all day playing with the same toys and doing the same (anti-climactic) things she's been doing for months? Would our neurotic dog cause problems and force us to spend an extra $10 per day to put her in Doggy Day Care?

Then grammy asked about daycare, which, honest to god, hadn't occurred to me until then. As I said before, the idea of daycare did not exist in my Opal-under-one vocabulary, which has been the case with many developmental milestones: Oh, wow, I thought we had a lot more time before that one came. I best be hitting the library and emailing other mamas to inquire bout' this one.

So I called every commercial daycare center in Louisville and found that only two had infant-rooms, typically for children one year and under. Opal and I went to visit them both.

There were a handful of things I noticed right off the bat. Neither of the centers allowed children Opal's age to play outside. The cribs for the little ones were part of the play room and had very little privacy. Whether or not Opal would have little friends to play with depended entirely on the ages of the kids who happened to be there. So if the majority of the kiddos were very young that day, she'd have to entertain herself amidst a sea of status-quo toys, bless her heart, sweetly turning the pages to a board book while whispering the her-version-words to a nearby stuffed animal.

Another thing of note, as we were leaving our second visit, the infant-room staff woman (who, at first, I felt exuded a certain sense of calm but quickly realized it to be exhaustion) said softly to me when the director of the center was out of earshot, "This is so hard. Taking care of so many babies is so hard." And she shook her head as if caught in an inadvertent plea for help.

The following day, while sitting at the park watching our little ones crawl over blankets on the grass as if they were navigating their way over a series of rafts on water, one of my mama friends who has two young children in part-time daycare, reminded me, "Just remember, nobody will do it the way you do it. Nobody will even come close. That's just how it is. Nobody will ever match you or your environment. You're her mama, after all."

Good point. So then the question became, what did good enough look like?

When I was a wee peanut, I remember spending time in a home-based day care in a house that was so close to ours that you could just barely see the edge of the brown roof from our porch. I was much older at the time, elementary-aged, and I went before and after school. The details are fuzzy: the early morning cold and dark, the smell of microwaved oatmeal, my arms wrapped around a stuffed animal, seemingly lots of kids including a little demolishing tank of a toddler boy weaving about, the TV filled with Fragile Rock and Pee Wee's Big Adventure. Very different than my own mama did it, for sure.

I continued searching.

I requested info and suggestions from other mamas and checked out Craigslist, which is where I found two women who were intriguing enough to call. Both boasted extensive degrees in child development and had many years of experience under their belts. Both watched children in the comfort of their homes. Within the week, I had called and visited them both and found that one of the homes, the home of a woman named Cindy, seemed like a really good place for Opal. A really good place.

The scene from our visit: a large, clean, comfortable home with lots of natural light, hardwood floors, rugs, a sweet backyard where they do go out to play on nice days. There were separate sleeping areas for all of the children and rooms with closing doors for the younger ones. Pierce, Connor and Elisabeth, 2 years, 8 months and 3 years, respectively, played freely in the space, clearly relaxed and unencumbered. Toys of all colors, textures sizes, books galore. Within moments, Opal wriggled out of my arms and scurried over to where Pierce and Elizabeth were playing with an open-up farm house and joined right in. In that moment, I felt as if I'd discovered something I'd been looking for without ever knowing exactly what that particular missing thing was. It was as if my eyes declared in unison, Well, hello! You happen to be precisely what we want to be looking at.

I commenced to calling every single referral Cindy had listed in her orientation packet. Most of them were mamas who'd had, or have, children in her care. Nearly all of them took the time to either call me back and leave a message or to have a leisurely chat. In addition to handing out one after another gold star for Cindy's daycare, they also provided a hefty load of unexpected support as mamas who have also gone through this transition in their own respective ways.

Jesse joined us for another visit and our final decision was made. Just like that. Another parenting verdict under our belts.

I was so busy with the particulars of filling out forms and collecting what was needed to fill Opal's daycare bag that the reality of the adjustment didn't really hit me until that first morning, now nearly two weeks ago.

I was shocked by how hard it hit me. I woke up crying. I cried for the entire length of Opal's nap. I couldn't eat or check emails. I felt as if I were stuck out in an unexpected storm with no umbrella and no place to duck underneath. After a while, it dissolved and became just water that eventually stopped coming and dried up, for the most part, by the time Opal woke from her morning nap.

I made a plan on that first day to call Cindy at a specific time (while the kids were napping, so as not to distract her from their care) to see how little Doodlebug was fairing.

I stared down the numbers on my watch until my eyes were sore and my head a little achy until I could make that call (Opal fussed a little when you left, as all kids do at first, but she took her bottle and crashed for her nap in no time. Bless her heart.) and again as the minutes ticked by at a pitiless, lethargic pace until 5pm when I got to wrap my arms around her again.

Funny thing is, when I knocked at the door to pick her up after a grueling, meandering span of five hours, my body rushed with the nervousness of a brace-faced schoolgirl going for a first date, heart skittering and hands sweaty. I may have been a bit too loud and eager to smoosh her and kiss the under-part of her chin, a gesture she responded to with bright eyes and a smile, but certainly much less yearning than her mother displayed. She was perfectly fine. She'd taken a three hour long afternoon nap, as a matter of fact. She was that fine.

By day two, she was showing up to the door (in Cindy's arms) holding the most recent toy of intrigue. Day three, she was saying bye-bye to Connor and the cat as we stumbled out the door. Day four, she pointed to the ground to indicate wanting to continue with playtime and hollered when I put her in the car seat.

Cindy was mercifully tactful in her reply.

She withheld stating the obvious, which was that my daughter had indeed adjusted beautifully to being away from mama and in this new environment. She suppressed the desire to vocalize that it was and would continue to be mama who'd feel transitions more poignantly, more painfully, than Opal. That this was just the beginning and that it would presumably continue for the rest of my living, breathing life.

Instead, as she glanced back and forth from me to Opal and then back to me again, she said, "Yea. My daughter didn't like the car seat too much either."

The 10.5 Month WonderNoodle

Ok.

I'm a mama who needs to revel in her daughter's magic.

I'm at the point where I will absolutely not be able to sleep tonight unless I plop down in the middle of a hearty session of impressed reflection.

If this kind of thing turns you off as a reader, allow me to have warned you in advance and recommend that you skip on to something else.

Myself, I have some waxing to do.

My daughter is 10.5 months old and she is not at all the same baby I reported on a little over a month ago. Her developments are pronounced and bold-faced as I witness her in a state of awe. I can't help but to wonder how much I could accomplish—perkily— if I approached my endeavors with the same sense of trust and open-hearted abandon as my daughter does. There is no worry. There is no expectation. And there is no self-judgement. It's a little like watching a hummingbird dance its wildly animated, edgeless shimmy—it doesn't know or care that you are watching. It does what it does for the sheer glory of doing it.

Better begin or we'll be here all night.

To My Dear Opal:

The most obvious place to start is with the fact that you had your first crawl just a few days after your nine-month birthday, which consisted of a few four-legged steps toward Grammy while I was out getting a hair cut. Grammy was so excited that she called to tell me, even though I was driving home and minutes from being there in person. The next few days you were shy about it, and a handful of days passed before your daddy got to see your handywork (I actually think he saw it first on a video that I took and showed him), but within the week, you were confident and moving through the space like a wild animal.

After a few weeks passed, you figured out how to pull yourself up to standing, tasting for the first time the view from a fully vertical, bi-pedal position. The splendor! Now you use crawling to get from point A to point B, but once you get to your destination, you pretty much prefer to be standing. You cruise unsteadily while holding on to the couch, our fingers, or your little toy-walker (the 'lawn mower' as cousin Stella called it when she saw it on a Skype call). You haven't yet grasped the concept of movement-while-erect. But I wouldn't be a bit surprised if that tentativeness is a thing of the far-off past come your first birthday.

Kudos, kiddo.

The crawling is surely the marquee-headline, but there are so so many other bits to report on.

Sleeping: After having gone through a lengthy phase of challenges with getting to sleep—you'd often pull yourself up to sitting and pace the length of the crib in spite of facing total exhaustion, and then collapse into a rousing melt-down—you seem to be back in the saddle. We shifted your naptimes to one in the morning (9:30 to 10:30 or so) and one in the afternoon 1:30-3pm or so) in order to get you used to the routine they will have in day-care (more on that later!) and you have taken to that like blue on sky. Ahhh, much to our delight.

Speaking: You said MAMA for the first time right around your 9-month birthday, while driving up to Estes Park with Ama and Papa! So we had many appreciative witnesses for the occasion. DADA is still your favorite catch-all word for everything, but Mama does make consistent cameo appearances. Beeeeeee Beeeeeeee is such a funny sound and often can get you started into fits of giggles. Your current vocabulary is extensive, in my opinion: mama, dada, doggie (in variations), hi, bye bye, banana (nana) and apple (ap). You are also impressive at mimicry. I say "cheese" and you reply with your apt version "zeeez". It is a daily occurrence that you repeat something we say with a voice and word that is close enough for us to know exactly what you were attempting to say.

Eating: HUGE STRIDES. About a month ago, you started to feed yourself with the tiny wooden spoon (easier to hold than the springy plastic ones) and you are getting quite adept at it. I load the spoon with food and hand it to you and you take it from there. Your aim is excellent, for the most part, though it's not uncommon for food to end up in your eyebrows, up your nose, in your hair and on the adjacent walls. Also, since you've started to practice feeding yourself, mealtimes have doubled in length-of-time, often taking upwards of an hour each.

Just recently, you have really begun to excel in the art of feeding yourself with finger-foods. Catalyzed by my home-made banana bread, your skills totally bloomed. Since then, you have enjoyed such finger foods as provolone cheese, tempeh, pita, steamed yams and other veggies.

It's wonderful to be able to feed you what we are also eating, cut up into tiny tiny bits. This morning, for example, I fashioned an all-yolk omelet for you with spinach and Parmesan that I cut into minuscule bits (as opposed to pureeing) with a knife and fork, and fed to you from a spoon. You loved it. I loved it, too. Makes life so much easier.

You can also do the sign language sign for "more" now, though you don't quite understand placement. You continue, however, to be a pro at the sign for "all done."

A few weeks ago, you started with the ET finger, and enjoyed being the instigator of making connections with daddy and grammy and I by touching pointers together, laughing with glee at the fact that we knew what you were asking for. Now the pointer is less about connecting with others and more about information gathering. You point at something when you want to know what it is, when you want to hold it, taste it or touch it. You point at food as a way of saying "more." You point at the crib when you are sleepy. The pointer has taken on a life of it's own and, I must say, it gets the point across with power and precision.

Another favorite game is the give-away-get-back game in which you hand an object to someone and they are to say THANK YOU and promptly hand it right back to you in kind. If someone is not keen on the second half of this ritual, you are immediate to set them straight with a holler. You even tried to play the game with Ama and Papa while we Skyped a few weeks ago, dropping a tube of sunblock onto the laptop keyboard and peering at it and their sweet, 2-D faces, as if waiting for them to understand, pick up the object and hand it back to you.

You Love Books. Period. Especially Touch-and-Feel Books. You love to read books to yourself and your stuffed animals. It's a sure-fire way to buy me 5 or 10 minutes to clean up the kitchen after a meal to set you in the highchair with a book and an animal to read it to. Your favorite thing to do while in the carseat is to read a book out loud. There is nothing more precious than to gaze back at you in the rear-view mirror to find you with a book held high like a newspaper in front of your face chatting aloud without reservation. That's my girl.

You love walks. They are back to being part of our daily routine, I am pleased to report. The weather is cooling off and we go out first thing in the morning. You hold the green dog leash and exude a sense of self-satisfaction that is almost aromatic. The green leash renders a pavlovian response of glee from both you and the dog now.

You still love music and dance whenever you hear anything with a beat. One of your favorite toys is the drum your Ama bought for you and lately I've been strumming some guitar chords for you and you come right up and strum the chords yourself.

You've been able to clap audibly for over a month now and do it often to show pride or excitement about something.

You nestle up against daddy and I, climb up our legs and backs, wrap your arms around our necks. Are you growing into a cuddler? Joy.

Last night, we shared an amazing moment after I nursed you and read you your book as usual. You turned around to face me with the distinct purpose of giving me a hug. You thoughtfully wrapped your arms around my neck, nuzzled me and began to softly giggle. I nearly died. The sweetness of this action had the power to cast a spell of amnesia over any and every challenging mama-moment that has happened and that will happen for years to come.

And it was done purely by your own initiative, that's what got me. You are no longer a passive little almost-person. You have your own thoughts, ideas, actions and motivations. I have a feeling it will take me a long while to get used to this.

During a recent play-date with one of your best girl-friends, Eva, who is two days your junior, Eva's mama commented on how engaging you are. She called you an 'entertainer' and was impressed with your awareness of the people in your sphere.

This is an aspect of your personality receives frequent comments. Your ability to and love of engaging. You will start two half-days of daycare this week (tomorrow!) and I know you will flourish because of this fact. (Mama is going back to work part-time giving massage to elders.) Your little mind thrives on new and stimulating environments to find adventures to get into, new kids to play with. I will expand on this subject in more detail after we've both had a week or so of it under our belts. Frankly, at the moment, I am feeling a little nervous about how I will miss you so.

What I've been thinking of lately is is this: For so long, you have been a baby who's been so intent and focused on her body and the physicalities of it all: how to sit up without falling, how to roll over, how to get on all-fours, how to crawl, how to cruise. These things have been very consuming for you. And though you have many major physical milestones yet to hit, I can't help but to notice that the level of comfort in your little body seems to really be improving, opening you up to other things, allowing your personality to peek and snicker, allowing you to see the world outside of your flesh and bones even a little more clearly.

And here we are, your Mama and Dada, standing nearby in that very world with open arms and jaws resting comfortably on the floor.

xoxo.

The Simple Plan: Revisited.

I woke this morning, less than an hour after having finally fallen back to sleep close to 5:00am, from a dream where Opal was home with a babysitter and I wasn't able, for the life of me, to make my way back to her. It was an epic journey through the minutes of this obstacle-ridden day, and hours passed by as I was in a holding pattern, unable even to call and make sure the sitter could stay until I got there. At one point, after hours of this, I stopped of at a diner to take a breather and figure out my plan of action, when I spotted the babysitter eating in an adjacent booth. You are supposed to be watching my daughter! I yelled. And promptly woke to the sounds of my real-life daughter gently calling for me from the other room.

Morning, mama, she said. Time to get up. Time for some boob.

And as I nursed her after having gone nearly 12 hours without seeing her, smelling her, touching her, another night of restless, dream-ridden sleep, I collapsed into our rocking chair, arms wrapped like twine around her and her bunny, and fell into a deeply blissful sleep as she nursed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I recently looked back over a blog entry entitled "The Simple Plan," written nearly three months ago about my (fleeting) efforts to get Opal to sleep through the night by not rescuing her with breast-milk every time she made a peep. I wont go into a detailed recapping, but let's just say that I quickly discovered it was harder for me to let go of the night-time feedings than it was for her.

Much has happened since that fateful, inspired evening I reported back on June 1st. We spent much of June traveling, being in different time zones and foreign beds, we attended to many out of town guests and joined many occasions worth keeping Opal out a little later then usual. These things all mess with sleep patterns. Not to mention the fact that she spent much of July learning to crawl, using her body and her mind in ways she was entirely unaccustomed to, thus making it more challenging to settle into sleep at night.

For those reasons, we let the sleeping thing go. And because I sought comfort in the fact that if I got up to feed her, I'd be up for a bit but at least I'd eventually be able to go to sleep, knowing that my daughter was tucked backed into bed with a full belly and warm body. And I always had my morning nap to supplement what sleep was lost during the night.

But lately, this has simply not been the case. Even when I was getting up to feed her, which had increased to two or three times per night, I was unable to get back to sleep. And in spite of a morning nap, I was feeling recked during the day.

Time for a change.

The plan this time around was for Jesse to be the one to go in when she fussed for more than 10 minutes, speak softly and lie her back down nestled between her favorite stuffed animals. The idea here being that if I went in and didn't feed her, it would be even more puzzling and upsetting. This plan was to take action on a weekend, but never wound up being necessary.

A few nights prior to the weekend-in-mention, when Opal called out as usual, I felt like I was unable to play out the habit of feeding her for comfort, when she had just eaten a few hours earlier. What was fine and ordinary the night before simply ceased to be so. So I decided to see what would happen if I went in and comforted her without getting her out of her crib, without milk. I sang softly, lied my hands on her chest and said "time for sleep, honey" and left. A thunderous explosion of sobs ensued as I closed the door behind me and then, within moments, total silence.

She slept until 6:30am.

I only needed to go in for one more night to comfort her . Beyond that, her night-time peeps have been short (under 10 minutes) and un-agitated.

Piece of cake on her end. I even got the sense that she was a bit relieved at the prospect of no longer having her little sleep-abyss be disturbed to commute all the way to the rocking chair to nurse.

It seems, as with the last attempt at all-night sleeping, that it's me who requires the re-adjustment period. I still sleep with an ear-to-the-monitor, as if it's a piece of medical equipment I'm hooked up to. Not to mention that fact that my boobs require some adjustment time, as well. Having been used to feeding her in the night all these months, I've woken up on in a milk-puddle more than once and am required to get up and pump. Then I'm left lying awake for hours after the rigamarole of bottles and tubes. Also, 12 hours is a long time to go without checking on Opal—because checking on her inevitably wakes her up— and there have been a few mornings when she's kicked off her blanket and has popsicle-toes.

But the state of the (sleeping) union is good. Excellent. Border-line remarkable.

With the tiniest bit of effort, Opal has adapted swiftly and without resistance to sleeping through the night, from 7pm to, roughly, 6am without relying on milk to do so.

Mama (along with mama's boobs) is still— happily, willingly—in the process of adapting.

Tantrums.

It was one of those perfectly gorgeous summer days.

The sun gently toasted any exposed and vulnerable bits, arms and cheeks, dangling legs, the sky was perfectly polished and pockets of confetti-flowers bloomed on every corner.

We had just left the Shambhala Center where we'd gathered for a Children's Blessing, having mingled with kids of all ages, dispositions, demeanors.

My mother-in-law and I crossed the street, with Opal strapped to my belly, facing out, when I noticed what was happening behind the windshield of the car that'd stopped for us.

The driver was throwing a tantrum.

He shook his head fitfully and threw his upper-body against the steering wheel while grunting audibly through the open window. By the time we reached the other side, clearly at a pace not to his liking, he sped forward like a drunken drag-racer.

Watching a grown man throw a fit like that is quite a sight to behold. Very different from watching my almost-ten month old daughter, who is currently embarking on her own phase of tantrum-throwing, do the same.

When things don't go as she anticipates, or when she'd just plain rather be doing something else, —which is much of the time, frankly— she lets us know her opinion by intensely protesting. Getting in the carseat, for example, when she had it in her mind to stay on the floor and play with the farm-animal puzzle is met with arched-back squirming and wailing. Removing something from her little hands that she was interested in or moving her away from something of intrigue are actions that are met with the same response.

Clearly, her little mind it able to hold on to ideas and mental pictures like it hadn't before. Life is expanding from the exclusivity of simply here and now. She recognizes her little friends when we have play-dates. She shrieks when the dog-leash comes out with the expectancy of going out for a walk. (The leash renders a pavlovian response in both the baby and the dog, as a matter of fact.) She identifies her Ohio-family on the computer screen when we Skype and smiles a silly, tooth-flaunting grin when their 2-dimensional faces appear before her.

This new capacity for recognition and remembering is astounding.

Diaper changing is currently the most upsetting of all the daily rituals and the opposition begins before her booty even hits the table. The endearing squirms of a newly-mobile baby have recently shifted to animated distress; screaming, kicking, red-faced scowling, thigh-smacking and pushing herself over. Using every ounce of her baby-power to resist. A few rounds of this—ahem, especially when poop is involved— and I was beginning to wonder just how long I could put off the next diaper change.

Clearly something needed to change or else mommy would promptly commence to losing her mind.

Aside from occasionally needing to re-direct her from putting shoes in her mouth and pulling on electrical chords, discipline has simply not been a needed skill until now. But surmounting new territory—and making it up on the spot according to what a situation calls for—is nothing new.

In the case of diapering, a firm hand on the chest accompanied by a deep no with a head-shake seems to get the point across. She may continue to cry and throw anything she can grab against the wall, but she stops the wild swiveling, at least for long enough to accomplish the mission-at-hand. She may even settle completely, seeming relieved and even grateful, to let go of the depleting struggle.

Then we're all done.

We move on to the next thing and she sees the dog and screeches with glee and crawls towards her as fast as her little legs and arms will proceed, breathing heavily and preciously through her two front teeth..

Again, the world is wonderful, simple, accommodating place to be and there is no residue.

Baby-Proofing the World, In Real Time.

There she goes, crawls right passed me and, oops, she finds the basket of dog leashes and collars, tips it into a heap on the ground and waves a jingly handful in the air like a success story. I move her to a different spot which is met—predictably— with kicks, squirms and screams; her way of unmistakably letting me know how insulting the ordinary, already-plaid-with toys seem when juxtaposed against the myriad of forbidden fruit and untouched items. Like dog leashes. Dirty shoes. Keys. Love those keys.

Moments later she finds my basket of magazines and has the cover ripped from a current issue of the New Yorker before I am able to reach for it.

Then on to an area of upmost intrigue: an electrical outlet.

Electrical outlets are seductive in and of themselves, with their tiny nostril-holes that lead to seemingly nowhere, and the fact that they are often coupled with a chord only makes matters more appealing.

But let's back up a bit.

Opal flipped from back-to-front for the first time back in early June. Right away, I pulled out my Dr. Sear's bible, read through and dog-eared the pages on baby-proofing and commenced dutifully to Target to buy the largest combo-pack of baby-proofing items they sold (plug inserts, cabinet locks and door-knob covers). Though it took her nearly another two months to be able to travel on hands-and-knees with any sort of fervor, we were ready with our tiny arsenal of supplies—which, incidentally, helps to stave off at least some of the anxiety in anticipating the unknown.

Flash forward to Thursday, five days ago, when she executed her first real hands-and-knees crawl to Grammy, clunky and uncertain and so exciting that Grammy called me on the spot ( I was getting my hair cut). In the weeks leading up to that, she'd walk her arms forward and leave the knees behind until she wound up flat on her belly, where she'd stay for only moments before pushing herself back up to seated, scooting backwards for a while—because that's what worked—and trying again.

In the five days since her maiden shuffle, she's gone from tentative and wobbly to semi-confident power-crawler. Miraculously no longer unsure of her body's capabilities, she's able to pour her attention into targets and missions and how exactly to get there and complete the task at hand (read: examine and destroy).

Back to the electrical outlets. During breakfast with some friends, the day before yesterday, Opal crawled right up to the outlet, as all of us watched, and plucked out the outlet safety-cover as effortlessly as a golf tee from soft ground, holding it in the air with baby-pride as I swooped over to pick her up and re-locate.

Everyone gasped.

"New puzzle." Said Toby, good friend and baby-whisperer, in his usual unvarnished frankness and driveway-gravel voice. "We give them all these toys to play with that are essentially figure-it-out puzzles and then they find puzzles in the world around them and we say 'no way.'"

Too true.

Jesse and I had been playing a wonderful little game with her where we put something light on her head and then when she knocked it off, we'd tickle her. So eventually she anticipated the tickle and laughed just as, and then even before, she knocked the thing off her head. A totally adorable game, until she began pulling off her sun-hats, expecting a chuckle.

Ahem... no sweetie, you want to knock this thing off your head but not that thing. I reckon that might be a bit confusing for a little bambino.

I ran out that afternoon and bought a different brand of outlet-plugs, which she also had absolutely no trouble removing.

So the electrical plugs didn't get us very far.

(On the back of Outlet Plug #2 packaging, it says the following, and I quote: Children are curious and tempted to play with anything within their reach. These outlet covers are to be used only as a deterrent. These covers are not a substitute for proper adult supervision. Makes one wonder exactly what had to occur to compel a company to print such a thing directly on their packaging.)

Our dog's vet was just telling me how she paid some guy $100/hour to come and baby-proof her house for her daughter, who is 6 weeks younger than Opal. And that didn't include materials. She thought it was a worthwhile investment.

So...the report from Babyland is that everything has changed yet again.

Gone are the days of making breakfast while Opal sits on the floor with her basket of books, playing contentedly in one spot while I peek around the corner every minute simply to reassure her that I'm there. Gone are the days of setting her on the middle of the bed, where I can still see her from the bathroom, while I brush my teeth or do my business.

Sleeping has also become a very different beast since her newly blossomed skills have emerged. She paces the length of her crib like a tiny jailbird regardless of how exhausted she is. Last night at 2am, after a half hour of audible shuffling, I found her sobbing while sitting cross-legged in the corner of her crib as if she just couldn't quite figure out how to get back to being horizontal. I laid her back down between her bunny and gorilla and she was back to sleep in moments.

The unfamiliarity of it all and the knew level of required focus has me feeling a bit like I'm training for an athletic event that is totally out of my league.

But our little marvel is a sight worth saluting, her wide-fingered, boxy shuffle with the focus of a bird of prey inspires me to keep the video camera within arm's reach at all times. Just as it seemed as if she was born into a new-baby body when she went from a lying-down baby to a sitting-up baby, she now has hatched afresh as a quad-pedal being with the wits and curiosity of a feline with opposable thumbs.