The Pink Party Part R.A.(h): The Final Chapter (I swear)

Originally I was going to have Rebecca photograph the party. I will say outwardly that this was because Iris' third birthday was her first she'd actually remember, her first for which she'd actually been self-aware enough to actually have a say in the planning and, while this is all true, it's also the first that I'd put so much effort into the decoration and thematic direction, and I really wanted some professional photos of my pretty, pretty tablescape my beautiful, opinionated child on her birthday.

Anyway, we ended up deciding to wait on a RA photosesh till this summer, when hopefully Cormac can keep his guts in-check and we're all a little more pulled together on pretty much every front. Rebecca Allen, Photog Extraordinaire and Good Friend to boot (it's your official title now; go with it) is so wonderful that she, after having been canceled on for the photosesh in the flippiest of  textual manners (go me), took some shots anyway. She's wonderful, no?

And I'm so wonderful I'm making you go to her website to view the photos and buy many, many prints.

The Grammy Series: Pink Party Part Deux

Okay, I had to make these all really small or blogger wouldn't let me even upload this many. As you can see, the chaos was abundant. I still maintain it was one of the best parties we ever threw. Giant mushy thanks to Grammy K. for getting these photos (see facebook for the full set), since Kyle was preoccupied with maintaining Cormac's happiness (though Grammy did her fair share of that too. huh.), and I was busy running around like a crazy person trying to keep the party going (we have fifty-seven candles in this house and the only ones I could find were non-matching, slightly pre-used, and one was shaped like the letter "E.").

Aside to Aunt Di: Sorry the only photo of you is with your eyes closed - you look so dang cute I couldn't resist.

One more photo-heavy post soon about the Pink Party then I swear I'm letting it go. Enjoy!

It's an addiction now

This changing up the blog every few days? Yeah, I'm really going to try very hard to stop. I like this one a lot better than the last one though. I mean, it's still essentially the same, but I found these cool background patterns, so... anyway, sitting on my hands over here. Really.

Want That

So I've been working on losing weight. By working on it, I mean doing slightly less than absolutely nothing, in that I do everything exactly the same as before, I just don't eat as much, and when I do, it's something much less likely to cause me to gain weight. The only way I know (for now) to guarantee that what I eat is not going to make me gain weight is to eat one of those little frozen dinners/breakfasts (they're making great strides in frozen omelets. no, really.) and then a re-freaking-diculous pile of baby carrots. So basically I cook less (amazing amounts of time saved, guys), eat less, and weigh less. Revolutionary. It's going really slowly and I'm trying not to focus on it too much at all, but it's SUPER exciting to start fitting into old clothes again.

So as much as I pull on my tiny pants and make Kyle tell me my butt looks nice, I have been trying hard not to let Iris hear me go on too much about it. Losing weight hasn't changed my character in any way, or made me suddenly smarter or more successful, it just made my butt smaller, yaknow? And the size of my butt really has no bearing on anything other than the size of my pants.

Iris likes to read the same stories over, and over, and over again till she's memorized them. She likes to have the same conversations that many times over again as well, so we have a LOT of repeat conversations around here. In reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar (Iris: "Can we read the vewwy hungry pattykiller?" Totally.) we always get to the end of the book, when the caterpillar isn't hungry anymore, he's really fat, and he's ready to cocoon down and become a butterfly, and have the same conversation. Every time, like EVERY time, Iris goes, "the caterpillar is fat. (Adult who Iris knows but who I'm not about to out today) is fat too." The first time she said that I was all "WHO said that to you? WHY would you say that about her? She is NOT FAT." Her response: "She told me she was fat."

I was floored. I'm sorry people, but telling a toddler you are fat goes way beyond your own self-image or issues with yourself. I can state completely emphatically and correctly that we do not know anybody who is overweight enough that they should be described as fat. And that word is SUCH a loaded gun; it carries so many horrible self-image issues and societal burdens and just, so many -isms I can't even begin to analyze.

Now my kid has the information that a regular sized adult is fat. Now, if she ever gets close to that size (this person is PERFECTLY NORMALLY SIZED, IF NOT ON THE SMALL SIDE), she's going to think she herself is fat. What is a child to do with this information? She's already of the opinion that being fat is bad, so will my perfectly normally sized child then someday start taking measures to make herself smaller? Is she going to start to believe that by calling herself fat, she's somehow being humble? I don't know. I hope I can model good behavior and self-image/esteem/worth and combat this terrible mind/body relationship that she's been shown.

Mostly I just want her to forget about it. No child should ever look at themselves and think about whether or not they see a fat person looking back, and I'm pissed that anyone introduced the concept to her. I mean, she was two years old when that conversation took place. That is ridiculous. I want her to look at herself and focus not on her size, but on making sure she doesn't have schmutz stuck to her face, or that her clothes are on straight or something. I want a few more years before I have to worry about my little girl obsessing about her body. I want her to equate getting bigger with growing stronger and older, not fatter.

Uhg, I feel like I'm just ranting in circles now. Know what? I'm gonna take my size-whatever butt, and my pink dress-obsessed daughter, and we're going to dress up all fancy and go on a date. And when she says to me "Mommy, you look beauuuuuuutiful," I will not respond by putting myself down. I will thank her, and compliment her outfit as well. She will learn that it's okay to love the way you look, and she will learn how to be gracious, and complimentary, and she will feel good about herself, and no part of our conversation will have anything to do with fatness. I want that to be true forever.

Conditioning

I had a social studies teacher who once told our 7th grade class that air conditioning was originally invented to literally condition the air. It had little to do with cooling; more of a filtration effect was desired. I don't think that's correct, or cooling wouldn't have just been a handy side-effect. It's difficult to cool air, especially when one has only ice and ammonia at the ready to accomplish the task. It seems that the history books tell us that, from the outset, air conditioning was contrived of to cool the air, and also to control its humidity. Thus, the term "conditioning" came into being, since it sought to achieve both simultaneously.

We didn't need to turn on the air. Not really. Not when you're only looking at outside temperatures and how they affect internal ones. Windows open, fans on, the house was surprisingly pleasant to inhabit (talk to our tenants in the old place, they'll tell you a different story). So, ugly brown ranch for the win, it would seem.

The problem is that the littlest Kelley suffers from the kind of allergies that respond to fractional changes in allergen pollution. The first whiff of warm air causes all the little flora to burst with randy glee, which in turn causes Cormac's face to start pumping the mucus hydrants like his face is on fire. The poor kid is miserable.

We made it maaaaaybe two nights without the AC on before it became evident that we needed to shut ourselves off from the outside air. He could just barely get air through his nostrils, and didn't seem to be very agreeable to mouth breathing (while I understand the concept is disgusting, I was willing to give it a pass if it meant proper blood-ox levels). It got so bad that I took him to the doctor, terrifying thoughts of his tiny body trapped under piles of apparatus, being whisked away to the ER to establish an airway. I am nothing if not thorough in my hypochondriac projections.

The doctor (new doctor! competent office! amazing thoroughness and insight!) did a good job of assuring me that yes, it's miserable, but no, there is nothing we can give a baby so small. Hoover the crap out of his nose with that bulb boogie sucker thing. Use saline drops if necessary. If his fever spikes, call. If he's still exactly this miserable or worse in two weeks, call. If he starts vomiting profusely, call (she seemed perplexed when I started laughing though).

We had a brief aside to discuss the reflux, and she enlightened me a bit. It seems that any medicine given to infants with reflux is only there to diminish the presence of acid in the reflux, but not to diminish the output in any way. We shouldn't be expecting the medicine to do anything but make him more comfortable. Well, more internally comfortable. More "hey, my esophageal lining is still in-tact," comfortable, less "my damp-ass shirt is giving me a rash, still" comfortable.

She also pointed out that this time in his life should be the worst of it, as far as reflux goes. He's learning to roll over more efficiently (and more frequently, god help us), and he's learning to sit up, and all those muscles moving and working really hard just irritate an already irritated pylorus (spot where stomach meets small intestine). Apparently, once he masters these tasks, he'll be tirelessly upright so much that the reflux should abate drastically. I shall withhold judgement till proof becomes available.

Hindsight is happening now, and I'm left wondering: why didn't old practice tell me all of this? Why was the whole thing left to be this terrifying mystery? We have watched for months as he continued to vomit, fretting that the medicine wasn't working, that something much more grave and sinister was happening. Why weren't we made aware of what our expectations should be?

I have spent so much time worrying that reflux wasn't the issue at all, and that the next obvious cause, pyloric stenosis, was a genuine concern. Don't think this is just me being a hysterical worrier; the issue had been discussed multiple times with the old doctors, but they couldn't readily see any evidence, so they kept up with their usual rhetoric of "well, it doesn't seem like pyloric stenosis, but we've never actually encountered the situation, so...(insert shoulder shrug here)." They were always full of this noncommittal speech. People, the solution to pyloric stenosis is SURGERY. I spent months worrying if my baby needed surgery.

Then one conversation calmed all my fears. Just like that. Poof. I can't believe how long I put off changing doctors.

In other news: A tooth has emerged. Five months, nine days. Clock it.

The Manly Missus

Iris received a set of pink mustaches for girls from Lois for her birthday. Tagline on the package: "Don't be caught in public with a naked upper lip!" Each one is a different shape and comes with its very own name: The Frida, The Grandma (what??), The Cowgirl, The Bollywood, The Lip Liner, The Heroine, and of course, The Manly Missus. In a fit of style overload, Iris combined the Frida, Heroine, and Manly Missus to create this pink monstrosity of awesomeness.

Also apparently I only take photos in front of this little book case. Huh.

Books

Cormac is normally asleep or half passed-out and nursing when Iris' bedtime routine goes down. So normally, he's not so lucid for the book-reading portion of the evening. Tonight though, I propped him up on his boppy next to Iris in her bed and read them both the requisite four books. He was so thrilled with everything - he loved the pictures and giggled every time I made eye contact with him. He actually bounced in his seat every time I turned the page. I am in love with this development.

Now look at some pictures of the baby trying to sit up: