Neglected Blog Returns After Hiatus

This is just a post to say that following a month-long blogging hiatus in which we were tremendously busy working and also going on vacation, I've resolved to get back on track. 

"You are not the only fatface in the world. There are many others!
 But you are my favourite one." - Alex, some time last month.

Here are the top five things that happened in the last month:

1. We went to Italy and looked at very beautiful scenery and ate ourselves stoopid. McNoodle likes truffles! That's our girl.

2. While on vacation, Alex got a tick in the usual unfortunate area. He is totally unfazed by such things but they fill me with deep horror and the need to go check myself every 15 minutes, even if, for example, I haven't sat in any grass for the last three days. Note to self: Get everyone shots. 

3. We finally installed a baby jail structured play space in our living room so that I can actually go do things while the child is awake.  Sadly, she often sits clutching the bars exterior boundary and screeching at the top of her surprisingly sturdy lungs crying while I slice apples or whatever. In terms of nerve-wrackingness this is only a marginal improvement to overturning the cats' water bowl (again! and effing again!), emptying bookshelves full of looseleaf paper, and chewing on cables. 

4. McNoodle outgrew everything. I swear, the kid doubled in size overnight. Everything in size 74 (6-9 months) is now just a little too small for her. However, we refuse to accept this expensive new reality and so half the time she just crawls around with a diaper wedgie. 

5. McNoodle's doctor informed me that I'm rubbish as a parent. Actually, he said that the baby is in perfect health, but noted (I did ask) that her eating habits are all wrong. Apparently she was getting double the amount of formula she's supposed to (like, when did that change and was I supposed to get some kind of memo?), and also I should not feed her vegetables at night. Because gas. And somehow also because, he doesn't know about other places, but here in Austria we eat a meal with meat at lunch and we do not eat vegetables at night. 

"What? We do so," I said. 

He looked momentarily troubled. Perhaps because one does, in fact, eat vegetables for dinner in Austria, if not gigantic schnitzels that overhang the plate all the way around. 

These are not vegetables, but this was not Austria.

"Ja, gut," he said. "But she should just have porridge. It will help her sleep through the night." He sat back down in his swivel chair and was typing up his notes, which meant our little meeting was over. 

"She already sleeps through the night," I said, perhaps a tad confrontationally. 

He gave me a slightly distant look, as if he was remembering what it had been like back when I was still standing in his office, and swivelled gently. And won, that bastard. 

"Okay, so porridge at night," I said. "Right. Thanks a lot. See you soon."

"Come back in two months," he said. We were dismissed.  

I left very confused about what the good doctor generally has for dinner and what time of day the baby is, in fact, supposed to eat vegetables (as snacks?). But I also decided that my doctor doesn't know very much about vegetables, or Austrian eating habits, and so I resolved not to ask him dietary questions any more because they undermine his authority. Am I truly supposed to take the no-veg-at-night rule as seriously as I would take his instructions on, for example, the frequency and dosage of baby medication? Of course not. He might be a doctor and all, but he's also twice as old as me, which means he has had twice as long to forget what it's like to even BE a baby, so, you know, I'm pretty sure we're both right. 

Anyway, I digress. Porridge at night. Except for when I give her vegetables. Which is often. The End. 

P.S. I actually really like this doctor, because he is kindly and loves kids and is not prone to overmedication. We just do a terrible job communicating with each other. For my benefit he sometimes speaks English, except he only says the really easy things in (worse-than-my-German) English, so the things that I might actually misunderstand remain in German. It's an awesome system. 

P.P.S.: ToothWatch: Keep watching. 

P.P.P.S: It's Noodle's nine month birthday! HOORAY!

Where There's Smoke

The unacquainted often mistakenly believe that bibs are for catching dribbles of milk and food. A reasonable assumption, but sadly incorrect. In fact, they are mostly for drool. Newborns drool a lot because they haven't gotten the whole swallowing thing worked out yet. 

The end of the drool is a sign that they're ready for solid food. (Also babies will stare at each forkful on its way into your mouth, smack their lips and generally act the way polite dogs should not). 

No teeth anywhere.

The resumption of the drool is a sign that baby teeth are on their way. We've brought back all our little cloth bibs with their pro-Grandma messaging ("Take me to Grandma's!", "Grandma's Little Blessing", "I love Grandma!") and are waiting anxiously for teeth to arrive.

Except, so, like, where the hell are they? 

The signs of impending teeth have been there for at least three months. For those not in the know, other signs include chewing on fingers, gnawing on corners and toys and cables, chewing on thin air, and desiring to be held and cuddled and chew on Mommy's necklaces and wedding ring. And let us not forget the grumpiness. 

This is what all babies do: They will try to stick a rattle the size of an egg into their preposterously small mouths, will sort of dislocate their jaws, and then hurl the rattle onto the ground with a scream of frustration. 

The teething baby, however, is not just frustrated, but utterly defeated. These little setbacks make her very sad. Her lower lip trembles. A tear gathers in one eye. She will look at me, arms raised, beseeching. When I pick her up, she'll bury her face in my shoulder and wipe her snotty nose on my shirt and rub her eyes and say, "Meeeeeh," and sigh dramatically all the while.

Obviously, this is adorable. But also, I feel terrible for her. She appears to be in pain some of the time, but also this suffering has not resulted in a single tooth. Not a one. 

Little eyes on the prize. ToothWatch

All our other baby friends have at least two little punctuation-sized protrusions in their lower gums, the better to scrape at steamed fruit with or gnaw on overcooked rice. But not our poor, gummy Noodle. Oh woe.  

We'll keep you posted. 

The Parents Were Here

Grandma and Puffes Noodle

My parents were here, so of course I have been drinking.  This is not a reaction to them. This is simply the organic result of having free babysitters who are happy as little clams to bounce the baby and stuff her full of pureed carrots. 

They came last Thursday, suitcases bursting with beautiful baby clothes and toys and books and candy (that's for the grownups around here, who apparently are believed to have the dietary preferences of six year-olds raised in an American food desert), to spread merriment and good cheer around our humble abode. Hooray! And then in the wee hours this morning they left. Sorrow.

Luggage McNoodle and her dad

The trip was a great success. On Saturday we drove out to Peilstein to wander around the 7km "Erlebnisweg", but about two kilometers into our walk the sky darkened and it began to drizzle, so we turned around. The last kilometer or so we were walking into a freezing, hurricane-like wind through shards of frozen rain, which was sort of adventurous and magical until the Noodle (understandably) decided she had had quite enough thank-you-very-much and lapsed into a low-level grousing combined with repeatedly smacking her father about the head. 

Granddad in the woods

Weather notwithstanding we managed to gather a big bag of Bärlauch (bear leek, or woods garlic) and before driving home we warmed ourselves up in a Heuriger with beer, diverse pork and knödel, so we can't really complain. 

It's always good to have Noodle's grandparents around. Our baby had the time of her life because she got to be carried around all day long and there was always someone around to play peekaboo and wake up with her at five a.m. (thanks, Dad!). Alex and I could leave the apartment with nothing in our hands (hooray!) and even go on dates with each other, can you imagine, including to the cabaret. I've had three separate low-level hangovers in six days--great success! My mother spent her time campaigning hard for grandparent of the year, reading books, shaking rattles and singing nursery rhymes over and over and over again. Also she has rearranged my pantry in her usual wonderful if totally inscrutable way. 

Slightly manic mama and her indignant, pink-cheeked offspring
dry off after walking through the driving rain.

My poor father, however, did not leave Vienna unscathed. He went out on an innocent 9 a.m. hunt for sausages on Monday morning and ended up getting punched in the face by a flying street sign, which had been dislodged by a tremendous gust of wind. Sadly for all of us scroungers at home he didn't file a complaint or otherwise extort the responsible shopkeeper. Such a nice man. As of yesterday the bleeding had stopped and the swelling has gone down, so that's good. He has refused all offers of ice but has been eating copious amounts of ibuprofen and appears to be recovering well. He is a beacon of manly suck it up-ness. Stiff upper lip and all that...get it? GET IT?  

Battle scars.

Come again soon, Mom and Dad! We miss you already.

Oh Barf

Okay seriously though. The kid needs to stop barfing. The child is perfectly healthy (thank goodness), so I use the word "barf" advisedly. I realize that with respect to cheery, milk-guzzling little wiener people the preferred nomenclature is "spitting up," but let's call a spade a spade. Milky it may be, but barf is barf, and make no mistake about it. 

An oldie but goodie: Noodle at four months, barfing...she's
lucky she has me wrapped around her little finger.

When she started eating solid food I thought the barfing would slow down but as usual I was wrong. My sugar pumpkin barfs onto her pants. She barfs onto my shoulder. She's barfs while we're Skyping with my mom and she barfs while she's playing with blocks. When she's crawling around she's been known to do a little casual barf off to the side. 

I feel a song coming on. 

Barf on the couch and barf on the floor, 

barf down your front; don't stop, barf more!

Barf to the left and barf to the side, 

barf pooling below or barfed far and wide. 

Now in a haiku:

After a bottle

of nutritious formula

comes, like the rain, barf.

Between our also barf-happy cats and my daughter, I would conservatively estimate that I spend approximately 16 hours a day cleaning vomit off of surfaces. I split the rest of my time between poop, enthusiastically reciting ancient and oddly dark nursery rhymes, and having fitful dreams about running out of paper towels. 

I don't really mind though. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Thank God babies are so freaking cute. I'm especially partial to mine. 

The cats better get their s*** together, though, or I'm hurling them out the window. 

Hope you're having a great weekend!

The Greatest Gift of All

Diverse toys + Mega Pooh

Consider a baby’s toy. Is it safe? Is it beautiful? Is it educational? Was it hand-stitched by ruddy-cheeked, well-insured farmers’ wives, or shat out in a plume of factory smog in a land whose only comparative advantages are coal and suffering?

There are many criteria by which to judge children’s playthings. But as anyone with a baby knows, the only thing that really matters is how loud it is.

I can instantly rank McNoodle’s toys in order of noisiness simply by recalling them in my order of preference. Quiet is good, noisy is horrible. Stuffed animals > foam blocks > that one stuffed bear that has a jingle bell embedded in its head > rustling fabric books > the fabric dog with the crinkly ears and honking foot > plastic stacking cups (individually lovely, collectively horrific) > rattles all sorts > battery-operated monstrosities.

In addition to toys, Noodle enjoys snacking on paper and plastic.

Battery-operated monstrosities, in fact, deserve their own category. The noodle loves them because they provide total and instant sensory overload. They light up and whirr and beep out little ditties about the alphabet. For the same reason, I only break out these babies in moments of true desperation.

Yet among these devilish gadgets is one so abhorrent it deserves special mention. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you: the Fisher Price Laugh and Learn Learning Wallet (only $9.99!).

Sure it’s electrified and loud, and almost certainly was not handcrafted on the banks of a Norwegian fjord, but what really sets it apart is its message. No numbers or letters over here, guys. My father Santa brought this in a fit of apparent insanity at Christmas. 

We unpacked it under the tree, opened its smiling blue cover and it burst into song: “Open up your wallet! Do you see a FRIEND? Maybe there’s some money for you to spend!”

Okay. There are a couple ways we can interpret these lyrics. The line “do you see a friend?” could be a totally random aside. “Let me open up my wallet and… hey! There’s Jimmy! Hi Jimmy! So anyway, do I have enough coins for this soda or what?” I’ll admit it’s possible. It is possible. 

Or, OR, this wallet is a sign of the End Times and the “friend” refers to one’s dwindling cash and mostly maxed-out credit cards. “Gee, I really want this sweater…which of these bits of plastic is gonna be my friend today? Is it you, little Visa? Or you, pretty Mastercard? Oh Chase. It’s been so long.”
Any other super obnoxious toys out there? Or am I overreacting? 

Floor Swimming

So what have I been up to lately, you ask?

A little work, a little play, but the short answer is that I've been up to nothing. Yet I've been oddly busy. Not in a bad way, just a busy way. 

Have you ever had one of those weeks where you feel like you did the army crawl through a mud-drenched obstacle course and then, at the very end, you got hosed down with elephant dung? This wasn't one of them. This was just one of those weeks on the hamster wheel, where you do one little thing you have to do and then another and then another and the next thing you know, you're a week closer to death and no more fulfilled than you were last Monday, and you still haven't done the things you really meant to do. And now it's Tuesday and I've caught the sniffles. 

The good news is that while I was busy chasing my tail, young Noodle was moving in better circles, namely floor circles. For a couple weeks now she's been wheeling around on her belly like a top*. Progress was marginal until yesterday morning's nap. When she awoke she could propel herself forwards with her fingertips and tippy toes. Ladies and gentleman, McNoodle has achieved locomotion. Crawling ahoy! 

Hope you're achieving great things this week. And I'll be cheerier tomorrow. *Sniff*

* I haven't seen anyone playing with a top in years and in all my recent visits to diverse toy stores I have not seen a single top. I haven't even thought about toy tops (or semi-professional tops, for that matter) in years. Do they even do tops any more? 

Booting Out Baby

In the oceanic dusk of four a.m., a voice rings out. It rolls across the hills and valleys of our bed, ever more insistent, like the refrain of a lonely humpback whale. 

"Awawawaoooooooooooooh," she sings. "AwaaaawaahahahaOOOoooWAHHHHHhhhooo."

Fast asleep, leg still in hand, by 9 a.m.

"Please, no," says a different, hoarse voice. It might be mine. "Please. Just ten more minutes." 

And so it has come to pass that we are throwing our daughter out. It's time for her to have her own room. A room far, far away where we can supervise her via a creepy spy cam and--crucially--turn off the volume in the event of a non-emergency. 

The good news is that we have two bedrooms. The bad news is that since we were co-sleeping anyway, our so-called "nursery" has never been anything more than a disgusting hoarder's paradise. It's where we hang our laundry. It's where we keep tools and our tent. It's also where we keep stuff that we're just not that into. Like, you know, stuff we just use but that we don't like to talk about with other people. Towels that are clean but discolored. My orange shopping trolley. Swiffers. Stuff with a good personality.

No one show my mother this photo.  

About a month ago we realized it was time to take action. It was time for a clean break. So obviously, instead of doing that, we took out what will soon be the babe's crib and painted it white, and then re-inserted it among the jumble. 

Pro Crastinating. 

Then it was really time to start sorting through the nonsense, so the next weekend we went out to the hardware store for supplies, came home and constructed little pinewood feet with which to elevate the crib and the pull-out sofa. 

Then we really were going to clean that room up, but first we needed to put the little feet under the furniture so we could stow our suitcases, but this was a chicken-and-egg dilemma that would involve real commitment, so we just ignored it completely for another week.

Dude, it's hard to break up with some stuff. But eventually, we did. Okay, actually we just hid it better, but that's basically the same thing. 

And voila! We now have a plain and empty bedroom. So what if all the furniture hovers two-and-a-half feet over the floor, as if a baby giant is about to move in. It's stuff-free and we're ready for the fun part: decorating!

Floating furniture. And yes, that's our laundry.
Look, it has to go somewhere.