Yet a Stranger in the World

This weekend there are plans for cake. The middle of March was tough this year. As a result, Fizzgig hasn’t yet had her first birthday party. And consequently, no cake. This is a wrong that must be rectified. With cake. And a late present from her folks. And some ice cream – boy does she like ice cream.

The ice cream is a recent development. We’ve been pretty lazy migrating Fizzgig to food because, despite the expense, formula is just so much easier than trying to deal with spooning color-coded slop into a flailing baby’s mouth while also meeting the needy demands of two other young children. Fizzgig has demanded that we change our strategy, however. She has six teeth now, three top and bottom but offset by one, with the next two on their way. While we’ve been occasionally tossing her snacky puffs for the past couple of months, in the last week or two she has decided bottles and such (at meal times anyway) are no longer worthy or her attention and are likely to be forcefully relegated to the floor. No, she wants want everyone else is having.

A few nights ago she had her first hotdog. She ate the whole thing, and macaroni and cheese, and probably some rice (because rice slows her down, Fizzgig needing to pick up each grain individually), and formula, and a few bites of ice cream. And she still wanted more. (Didn’t sleep very well that night.) So she’s a big girl now.

She took her first steps about a month before her first birthday. But apparently the experience didn’t meet with her expectations, because she didn’t make much progress after that. Standing was good. There are lots of neat things one can do while standing or from an upright position. Walking was neat, but only in a three-step-tourist sort of way. Crawling was far more efficient, and it worked just fine for the cats and dogs, who still hold the majority in our household. But then her attitude on walking changed too, and now that’s all she wants to do.

Her patience in dealing with her siblings and the animals is sometimes quite limited when she is toddling around, but it is really wonderful watching all three of the children when they are playing together. Boober is often a little too rough with her – it will be good when Fizzgig moves up another weight class or two. Meatwad usually starts out good but will then trend towards control and physical manipulation which is less good.  But Fizzgig lets everyone know, including the animals, if they have overstepped their welcome.

We were always amazed at how mellow and easy-going Fizzgig was as a baby. Being so close in age to her brother, we figured we were doomed. None of our kids have been difficult, and we figured we were due. But she was great. She still is. But now we’ve discovered the caveat.

While Boober is a stinker, with that infectiously cute dimpled grin, Fizzgig is a character – class clown perhaps. She loves laughing and getting laughs out of others. But she can also be cantankerous, when provoked. As this trait has matured, she has developed a temper and a tendency to yell at you about anything that displeases her. I have almost forgotten exactly how loud her brother was when he was a baby, but I do recall making a comment about his ability to melt minds. Fizzgig, while not as devastating with her sonic blasts perhaps, focuses her grating rage on specific targets, favoring calculated precision to her brother’s ‘shatter the cosmos’ style of attack.

But she’s not always disagreeable. One thing she has done for a while now, is when asked a yes/no question, she will nod her head in the affirmative. This response is appropriate, and contextually seems to accurately reflect her sentiments. What’s special about it is that it is a very deliberate, slow, exaggerated nod, her chin touching her chest, eyes very serious. Incredibly cute.

This past weekend she shook her head in response to a query. When tested, she responded in like fashion to a similar question, then nodded in affirmation of a different question. She can’t say ‘no’ yet, but she can say ‘no’.

There are 10 types of people in the world, and my youngest child can now nod her head with the first, and shake it at the second.

Enjoy ye all the Feast of feasts!

If I may be allowed to hijack the baby blog for a bit, I have a tangential thought I would like to share.

For those in the know, there is an annual event in Seattle called PAX.  Or perhaps I should have written, each year, in Seattle, the Event known as PAX occurs.  Because it really has transcended a mere exposition, despite what its formal name, Penny Arcade Expo, might imply to the uninitiated.  This year, PAX manifested itself in Boston, for the sake of those geographically inhibited from attending PAX prime, which will recur in Seattle in August as usual.  Despite the opportunity, PAX2 just wasn’t in the cards for us this year.

The keynote address was delivered by one Wil Wheaton, who, I’m told, is from the internets.  I have not had the opportunity to watch/listen/read the whole address, but a portion he quoted in his blog today struck me:

All of the things that make us weird and strange in the real world? Those things that people tease us for loving, those things that we seem to care about more than everyone else at work or school? Those things make us who we are, and when we’re at PAX, we don’t have to hide them or explain them or justify them to anyone; instead, we celebrate and share them.

At the beginning of March we had the opportunity to attend the St. Emmelia Homeschooling Conference at the Antiochian Village in Pennsylvania.  Despite the two youngest being sick with a nasty stomach bug, we had a really great time, learned a lot, gained some confidence as we prepare to step forward into this homeschooling thing for real, and met some really interesting people with whom I hope we can develop some lasting friendships.

But for all of that, one of the most striking reactions for us was that we were among people who understood us.  Nobody looked at us funny because we had three kids.  Nobody prejudged us as kooky because we would rather educate our children ourselves than turn them over to the public school.  And had we stated we were Orthodox, it would not have elicited a cocked head or the raising of a curious eyebrow.  It is a comfort, to know that we are not alone.

While I’m sure this is the same type of experience one has when any group of like-minded individuals comes together, whether they be fencers, or showing horses, or rolling d20s for a skill check,  Mr. Wheaton’s words resonated with my own memory from the conference.  Already, we look forward to the conference next year, to returning home.

Meatwad sucks her thumb.  It was actually a blessing when she figured it out, as she felt compelled to nurse continuously when she was an infant.  Made those first couple of days really hard on Mater.  Pacifiers are great, but not always as close at hand as, say, ones thumb… It being attached to said hand and all.  Unfortunately, Meatwad can suck her thumb with her mouth fully closed, having coaxed her teeth into a thumb-accommodating overbite.  Gotta get her off the thumb soon, or we’re going to have some serious dental issues.  But that’s a matter for another time.

When sucking her thumb, Meatwad’s accustomed style is a loose fist with her forefinger extended along side her nose.  As it happens, noses are equipped with finger-sized holes, and it is awfully convenient to sometimes nestle that finger in there where it’s nice and warm.  The arrangement is relatively symbiotic, as the finger offers some, at times much needed, cleaning in exchange for the nostril’s generous hospitality.  One of the unfortunate results of this transaction, however, is that the products of such scouring are often wiped on her lip or cheek.  Something I, personally, find quite revolting.  Alas, the attention Mater and I have drawn to the issue has, I think, diverted the deposits to her mouth.  Hide the evidence.

We have been trying to convince Meatwad for some time now to quit picking her nose, but to no avail.  As long as the thumb lodges in her mouth, that finger is always right there, a mere stretch of a tendon away from her boogery nose.  We’ve plied the “ballerinas don’t pick their noses” logic that worked so well with potty training, but to no avail.  So this weekend I called in the artillery…

You shouldn’t pick your nose, I said, you might attract a Booger Monster.  They like to live in well-picked nostrils.  And do you know what they eat? I asked with an ominous air.  Fingers.  If you stick your finger in your nose, and you have a hungry Booger Monster living in it, it might bite the end of your finger off!  So maybe you shouldn’t pick your nose anymore, eh?

I haven’t mentioned the Booger Monster since, by name anyway.  But if I catch her with her finger edging up towards her stuffy nostril, or see evidence that it’s already been there, I simply caution her, don’t forget what I told you about picking your nose.  She nods, retracts her finger tightly.  I have no idea if she remembers, but this is the type of thing, six months from now, where she’ll recite a dissertation on the ecology of the Booger Monster without any further prompting or mention.  There haven’t been any nightmares yet, at least none that can’t be attributed to being sick.  Am I being mean, have I gone too far?  I prefer to think of it in terms of authoring a modern fairy tale. Maybe I’ll pitch it to Neil Gaiman…

[Disclaimer: post title not strictly accurate.  I am a Christian, after all.]

I’m getting ready to jump into GTD again, listening to the audiobook as I change a diaper. Meatwad and Boober are playing unsupervised in Meatwad’s room for the first time; I hope nobody winds up with a cracked head.