The Good 'Ol Days

Few hours old

2 Months-helping teach Sunday school


9 Months- Munching toes

1 Year- Still loves pears

14 Months- Can't believe Brian let me wait this long to cut his hair!

Brian and I often notice that these are the days. Eli is more like a buddy we hang out with than a little one to take care of. He sleeps a good 10 hours, is half-way potty trained, eats what we eat (usually by himself), and plays on his own, no longer clingy and needing constant attention and holding. He likes to watch movies, go on walks, and even cleans up after himself. Although, mischief is often involved when he runs off, usually meaning a hunt in high places for candy or tormenting the cat.

The other day I was looking into our archives for a picture Brian's mom wanted and all those pictures of our used-to-be baby got me remembering the fun days (not necessarily nights) when he was smaller and less independent. Since the blog is pretty new and even my memory of those times has faded, I thought I'd share a few.

A Fig, A Phobia, & A Gyro

So I get these weekly email updates on the development of the baby and it often relates its size to a tangible object. This week, it is the size of a fig. And this morning was our first doctor's appointment, the exciting one where you hear the heart beat for the first time. It was taking so long to find I got worried, but somehow the doctor tuned in on the fast rhythm of the inch and a half long person. I smiled and my eyes quickly met the doctors' to see if that was really it.

It is quite a shame that they should combine such an amazing moment with a trip to the phlebotomist. "Needles are my ultimate phobia." The doctor and phlebotomist had to know. I watched the girl get ready. She sure looks young, how experienced could she be? I always request the most seasoned person. She checked to see which vein was bigger and used a special needle. I started to like her, as much as one in my position could. When it was over I was brave enough to look over at my 6 viles, the doctor said 2! Somehow I didn't get woozy or turn white, which happens even for a simple (for most people) shot. After I told her she was amazing and Brian told me I was really brave, we were off for my treat- Greek food conveniently located across the street.

No, the real treat was hearing a couple seconds of that sweet, fluttering heart.

Charlie's Health Scare

Last Tuesday morning I opened the door for the furry orange guy to come in, but he just stayed still on the porch. Usually he comes flying in once the door is open 4 inches. I reached to get him and found evidence that he'd been throwing up. Inside he was super weak and wouldn't walk anywhere, except under the couch to get away from Eli's love taps.

The vet said 107 was the highest temperature he'd seen in a long time and sent us home with antibiotics and an appointment for the next day to learn the blood test results. "Possible feline auto-immune deficiency and something attacking the liver." Poor thing wouldn't eat, drink, or walk and came home all matted and mangy from a bath at the doctor's. I hadn't thought of it, but Brian said he might die and that pets usually wander away to do so alone. He kept going missing in the day and I would find him in strange places, which got me scared.

This feels silly for me to say, but when we went to meet him in January to see if he was right for our crazy family, the instant I saw him I got this feeling he's supposed to be our cat. And why for only two months. The vet called back after a retest and said it was just an infection, no immune deficiency. Brian braved the claws and bites and fed him his antibiotics twice a day and he's totally better. I knew it was working when he found the energy to jump up to the fireplace mantle to drink out of the betta's bowl.

Eli must know he's gotten better because he stopped being quite so gentle with him. I guess we're just supposed to appreciate him more. Brian's always brushing his long fur to keep it nice and we don't mind buying the more expensive food and getting his pricey vaccinations. We're just glad he's still around.

Wurst

Brian, the doll face, has taken the boy out while he trains with a student who will be testing soon. I'm supposed to be napping in our silent house made dark with my eye mask, but my grumbling stomach has kept me up. But I don't want to eat anything. Nothing we have here anyway. I know what it all tastes like coming back up. I'm not complaining, this time, so far, is much easier than Eli.

Despite my queezy stomach, my mind keeps turning to wurst. I rather like the European idea of making a neat, homogenous package out of the leftover meat that looks or tastes unappetizing. This is where I part from my humble Mexican ancestors and Andrew Zimmern who eat funky stuff in its natural form. I keep looking down at the skype window with my sister's name on it and wish I could switch spots with her, even if just for lunch. I bet she has all the supplies for making wurstsalat in her Swiss fridge right now. I feel like driving downtown to the Vienna Bistro just to ask the chef if he would take pity on me and make the salad of cold sliced hot dog and onion on a bed of butter lettuce swimming in a creamy, vinegary dressing. While you think about how crazy that sounds, I'm wondering why I have to want something out of season and thousands of miles away.