The Moose Is Loose

We are in Maine for a bit, and hoping to see some moose, albeit not ones that are firetruck red.  Nonetheless, Owen prepared for his vacation with a bit of moose-riding practice:

Owen In May

I was going to unoriginally call this post flotsam and jetsam, but then I was distracted by wondering about the etymology of flotsam and jetsam, and then by the fact that unbeknownst to me, flotsam are goods floating on the sea, and jetsam are things thrown into the sea.  And then I had to think about that for awhile, since that is what my sleep-deprived brain does these days:  it hooks onto a little factoid and then floats away with it, not unlike flotsam, but not quite like jetsam.  Who knew.

So anyway, this shall be odds and ends, or as Virginia Woolf would say, orts and fragments.

Owen had his 9-month appointment this week and he basically cried from the minute we walked into the exam room until we left.  He is officially On To Us now, and knows that a doctor’s office equals a long needle stuck into a fat thigh, namely his own fat thigh, the worst kind to be stuck with long needles.  He also now cried all throughout what I, personally, would find the worst part of the visit—which is lying nude on a scale in the hallway and having his weight proclaimed loudly to all the world who might be listening.  24 ½ pounds.  Which I don’t think is much more than he weighed last visit, but still puts him in the 95^th percentile for weight.  He is now only in the 81^st for height!  And his head gets a solid D- at 64%.

Here is Owen in happier times with cool shades on 

and then with—hello ladies!—cool shades off:

His “communication” skills and his gross motor skills are a little borderline worrisome.  I’m not bothered by his gross motor laggings, as I think he really could be doing what he “should” be doing if he indeed was less inclined temperamentally to be okay with lying on his back and having one of his three adults bring desired objects straight to his outstretched hands.  But the communication issues—namely that although he talks non-stop, he doesn’t really say consonants yet—trouble me a tiny bit, so I think I am going to go ahead and call the Early Intervention folk for a visit.  Since the doctor’s visit, however, I was told by Martha that Henry’s first word wasn’t until age 14 months (“da” for dog), and told by my mother that Martha herself said “da” for everything for a very long time—so it seems Owen’s “issues” (such that they are) run in the family.

And now this entry is getting longer than I had intended, so perhaps I’ll make it all Owen and not odds and ends after all.  Bear with me.

Owen came into work on Friday with his father to pick me up.  It was his first time here, not including all the days he spent here in the womb, and many folks were eager to see him (or pretended to be in front of his proud parents).  My boss was out for the day, so we took the opportunity of taking a picture of Owen at her desk (and then promptly texting the picture to her).  Here is Owen, the big cheese:

Apparently at 11:30, Owen likes to watch a show on PBS called Daniel Tiger.  I have yet to see it myself, but said Daniel gets very close to the camera and talks directly to the kids watching, and this cracks Owen up.  Here he is laughing at Daniel Tiger:

 And finally, Owen is still not crawling forward yet, although he does get up on his hands and knees and pretends.

And here he is having propelled himself backwards under the couch in the sunporch, whereupon he was distracted by the wonder that is our ceiling fan.

 

Amazing!

Spring!

"April is the cruelest month, breeding

lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

memory and desire, stirring

dull roots with spring rain."  ~T.S. Eliot

It has been a long, cold, and gray March this year, so much so that I am eager to welcome April, however cruel it may be.  Yesterday was the first really spring-like day we have had here, and after holding out for a sunny day for the last two or so weeks, several of the flowers in our yard finally began to bloom:

We moved to this house in June last year, and first saw it towards the beginnings of last April.  I remember the tree in the front yard was in full pink bloom when we were here, and I remember seeing daffodils, but basically all that is growing right now is a surprise.

There's a bit of color indoors too:

Owen with stripes and rainbows!

Owen in Rowan

At very long last, I finished the sweater I started knitting for Owen a few months before he was born.  It is from Rowan's "Little Rowan" book and is the "Jack Horner" pattern made from their Siena 4-Ply yarn.  I'm a big fan of Rowan patterns and yarn, and about 75% of the sweaters I knit are Rowan patterns.  But I didn't really like the Siena 4-Ply yarn.  It reminded me of kitchen string.  And so I had a bit of a hissy fit stand-off with myself, not letting me start a new project until this one was done, and then not doing any knitting on this one either.  Not that I've had much knitting time anyway.

Luckily when I started the sweater I chose to do the 9-12 month size; and it is a rather large 9-12 month size, so it is still on the big side for Owen.

Here is the finished product:

The sample in the pattern book used cream colored yarn with blue stripes and red piping at the neck and waistband.  I used the same cream but then did light orange stripes with darker orange piping.  I figured Owen could look like a creamsicle while wearing it.  And he rather does.

Here is Owen modeling his new sweater:

Perhaps a bit wide in the neck, but otherwise respectable enough!  And now I can choose a new project from my obscenely long queue!

Fussy Face

I tend to choose the cute pictures of Owen to post, or at least the ones in which he is sporting a spiffy outfit and looking rather pleasant, like so:

But Owen has been a colicky baby, and whereas things have definitely improved in the fussiness department, I thought I'd post a picture of Owen looking, alas, how he often looks to us in the evenings:

That is the face Owen makes when he Doesn't:  Doesn't want to lie down, doesn't want to sit up, doesn't want to be held, doesn't want to be put down, doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to stop eating, etc. etc.

We are seeing less of it, to be sure, but we both will be glad when the colic becomes a distant "remember when," and we see more of this Owen instead:

A Boy and His Bumbo

Owen is not the world's best sitter, in case you are wondering.  He does not see the point in sitting propped up somewhere when there are two perfectly good adults in the house who could be carrying him about.  If we play our cards right, we can get him to sit in his catapult seat for about ten minutes before all hell breaks loose.  Lately, however, he has been a bit more inclined to humor us by sitting in his bumbo seat for a few minutes.  Here is such a session, documented:

See?  It's not so bad!  He's even willing to give us a smile.

And an enthusiastic "guh!"

And here he is wondering why this damn buggy has no wheels?!  How is he supposed to move forward in an unwheeled buggy?!

He gives up trying to move forward and instead admires his elephant footwear:

As well he should.

Devious Plan

Hmmm, I have a feeling I'm not going to like what plan Owen comes up with here...chocolate breast milk?  Riding Dorothy like a trusty steed?  Controlling the remote?