Stranded in a Subaru

The title may sound vaguely familiar with good cause. Not 8 months ago, the pre-quel to this saga unfolded in the elegant Lincoln Towncar parked in Grandma and Grandpa's garage.

Since then, Espen has grown in both height and coordination. He now boasts abilities such as operating electric locks, starting the electric car and deftly manipulating key fobs. He can climb in and out of a vehicle into his carseat and can reach the front seats with his little feet. We are a merry duo indeed now that Espen's dexterity is on the rise.

One fair Friday in October we headed to the Columbia River Gorge for a fall hike around Latourell Falls. Espen is now a proficient hurler of stones so we spent a good deal of time casting rocks into the creek before returning to Brian the Subaru for lunch. "Let's hit historic Troutdale!" I suggested and Espen smiled in assent.

We landed at an Italian joint run by Latinos and wolfed down mac and cheese. The wind was blowing outside and we were both looking forward to a cozy drive home and the ensuing nap.

I carried Espen to the car, handing him the key fob to distract him as I buckled him into his car seat. I have gotten extremely efficient at this maneuver-it takes me less than five seconds. I've timed myself. Then I grabbed the fob, threw it on the front seat, shut the back door and jogged around to the driver's side.

Up goes the handle.

It stops just shy of opening.
And by "just shy", I do mean, doesn't. Open.
As in, Is Locked.

I know Espen can trigger the fob to make honking noises I cannot reproduce with any combination of buttons. It also takes him at least a minute to achieve so I figured it was safe letting him have free reign of the fob for five seconds. There is no telling how the baby managed this; I suspect that even high speed photography would miss the prestidigitation Espen performed on the fob.

The facts are these:
-All the doors were unlocked when Espen's buns hit his car seat .
-In the five seconds between initial contact and separation, he managed to lock every door in the car. And do it under the ever watchful Eye of Mom.

I stood frozen in place on the main street of downtown Troutdale, the handle glued to my clenched fingers.

Dear God, not again. 

Of course the spare key was at home so I reached into my pocket to phone Tobias.
Where was my phone. For that matter, where was my wallet?

I stared at Espen, wondering how I was going to break the news to him. "Honey, you're locked in the car again. Care to learn how to unbuckle yourself from your car seat this afternoon?"

Once, I can understand, but this just felt like negligence.

The irony was that if he'd been free ranging, the door would've been opened before you could say "GAH!" He's very good at opening car doors now. I made sure of that after the Lincoln Episode. But like any smart monkey, Espen has kept his learning curve steep enough to lull me into a false sense of security.

He smiled and waved from his car seat. He looked at the front of the car. There, on the seat next to the keys, were my thoughtfully placed phone and wallet.

I did what any self-respecting parent would at that point in time. I left my baby unattended and ran a block up the street to the restaurant we'd just left.

"Can I use your phone?" I gasped to the lady at the front desk. "My baby just locked himself in the car."

Yes, I felt guilty for a moment. My BABY locked himself in the car? What kind of lame parent puts it on the toddler? And yet, in moments of extreme intensity, I find myself yelling out the truth, even if it would be wiser to just fib a bit. Or maybe fob.

She smiled at me and said in broken English, "You have triple A? Call them."

Well no, as a matter of fact, I do NOT have triple A because my car insurance provides road-side assistance, but their number is also LOCKED IN THE CAR WITH MY BABY. 

Thankfully that was kept internal.
Still, I didn't want to panic so I dialed Tobias. No answer. WHAT the F.
I called my sister on her cell phone. No answer. Seriously?
I called the hard line at Grandma and Grandpa's house. My sister picked up. Honestly.

"Please go tell Tobi that Espen has locked himself in the car and we are stranded in Troutdale. Tell him to drop everything, get the key and come."

"Oh my god." was my sister's response. Yeah. I'm aware. Thank you.

I was on my way to race outside when a Latino man intercepted me. "You lock baby in car? I bring hanger."

Bless you sweet man and damnit, damnit, damnit.

At least four minutes had elapsed by this time and I ran back to the Subaru where Espen was looking around, still calm, waving, like, "Come ON mom, hello, NAP TIME."

Brian the Subaru was parked next to a metal sculpture gallery which I was casing to see if any pieces could be used as blunt objects to break a window should Espen panic before help arrived.

A woman parallel parked in front of us and smiled. "Hi, how's it going?"

"My baby locked himself in the car."

"Oh! You can call triple A."

So helpful. And off she went. Part of me was extremely baffled. Apparently a section of my brain puts stranded baby above the crowd appeal of rescuing a cat. This, I learned, is another example of my unrealistic views. Several groups of people passed, asked what was wrong, suggested triple A and moved on.

Meanwhile, Restaurant Hanger Guy had appeared with pliers and hangers in hand. For the next fifteen minutes we shoved metal rods through the rubber flashing around the driver's side window and came annoyingly close to touching the keys. Finally, I grabbed the pliers and jammed them between the window and the door frame. Not a word was exchanged between Latin Rescuer and myself besides groans and sharp inhalations when the metal would scrape over the "unlock" button.

As a consumer note to the key fob designers at Subaru. NEVER make the the Unlock button slippery and convex. It should be a concave, sticky chasm that sucks metal hangers to it like a magnet.

Around this time, Espen started to wilt a little. To his credit, he remained optimistic, even amused, for twenty minutes, but after awhile, even the Brave reach their Limit. He began to emit little sobs punctuated with high pitched wails that pierce the most stalwart heart. I started towards the metal sculptures.

As I turned, I saw a looming beacon of Red Hope cruising down the street towards me. The firetruck slowed as it approached, no doubt because my Latin Knight and I were furiously trying to break into the Subaru. They had their headphones on so I pointed at them, then pointed at my car and made a twisting key motion. A ginger fireman laughed and said, "We'll turn around."

That calmed Espen right down. He loves machines. Restaurant Guy gathered his tools (pliers and hangers) and headed back to his business. "Thank you so much!" I yelled after him. He smiled and kept walking.

The firefighters pulled right up next to Brian the Subaru and
brought out a zipped bag that looked like it contained a huge axe. "Where the blazes is Tobias?" I thought. "This could get expensive."

They extracted a plastic wedge the size of a hammer and a metal rod that looked like a thick hanger with a hook on the end. Their plan was the same as mine, just with better presented tools. Fine. Just get my baby out of the car.

The second before they hooked the lock, Tobias and my sister showed up in a cloud of dust and screeching brakes. "Stop!" they yelled, "We have The Key!"

Summer tossed the key over the firemen in slow motion, I snagged it and opened the door before they could trip the latch. Tobias lunged into the back seat and freed Espen from the car seat with the drama of a late night talk show host. Espen wanted to climb in the firetruck. He also wanted a hug. So torn. So close to nap time.

Tobias and I loaded Espen into Evie, the electric car, which is impossible to lock yourself in or out of. Summer drove Brian home.

One of my friends has assured me that her toddler pulls the same kinds of shenanigans. All I can wonder is, "What's next? Bank vault? Speeding train? Cockpit?" Stay tuned.

I'm 1, Walking Independently and Mom Stopped Pumping!

Momentous things tend to happen in threes.  Celebrities are born or die in triads, godheads tend to run in trinities and babies and moms make big transitions in trios.  Also, cake. Danish Layer Cake, to be specific.

.

Case in point.  Espen is officially out of babyland according to Tobias' boss Heine, who is apparently an expert on both Business Intelligence empire building and accurate nomenclature for aging transitions of children.  Espen is now a child, thanks to turning 1.   

Not only has he graduated infancy, he also decided to make the transition from largely assisted steps to predominantly unassisted toddling on his birthday.  

The Brain of the Bear has a flare for well timed revelations.  For the majority of March 31 he ambled around, sitting on balloons, sloshing about on other babies and cackling without restraint as he walked from chicken coop to flower pot, down the canyon and back again.  You'd think he'd discovered the wheel, cause this kid was rollin'. 

He gets the most blissed out expression on his face as he experiences uninterrupted walking stretches.  It's as though he's realizing the freedom of his feet, that the possibilities of mobility are as big as his wanting. The uncensored joy, free from ego, purely present, is phenomenally inspiring.  It makes me want to learn to walk every day, which I can, if I am willing to let go of expectations of rightness.

I was also experiencing some liberation on his birthday.  I pumped the Milk Bags for the last time with the fancy pants Medela pump that has been a permanent accent in our house for the last year.  It's hard to believe that I now have 4-5 hours back that I can spend playing with Espen or working on other projects.  

Getting back both the time and the "milk energy" as Tobias calls it has resulted in a renewed application of will towards my writing and singing.  Suddenly, all of the perseverance, patience and will to nurture developed over the last year has the opportunity to extend to myself and Tobias and hopefully, the larger world.  I aim to make a real go of using my voice on this planet and to expand into the Largeness of Being.  Producing good writing and free singing is where I'm starting now that time is flowing into my court again.  

Now that everyone is fully afoot and Spring is in the air, the blog posts may become a bit spare but the adventures will continue apace.  Check Facebook for up to date happenings and I will endeavor to keep the truly momentous stories and happenings on this site in perpetua.

P.S. If and when the word "Deutna" (DOOT-nah) becomes a new linguistic meme, Espen is to be credited with its creation.  We believe it means something to the effect of, "Hey! Woah.  That's oooh."

Locked In A Lincoln

Someone once told me that the difference between comedy and tragedy is that everyone ends up either married or dead.  Since Espen is not yet old enough for nuptials, neither is he dead, this story lies somewhere betwix the two poles. I leave it to you, the jury of one and all, to decide whether to laugh, gasp, or cry.

You may chuckle when you mention that friend of yours who still lives with his mother at the age of 35, and I would join you...except that I am 35 and my husband, son, and I all technically live with my mother.  I am proud of this because are part of a real community of mom, dad, aunt, aunt's dog, and the three of us.  Out here in the country we help each other out.  We work together on the garden, we share eggs, we pick up each other's mail and we transport each other to and from the airport.

That said, my parents, grandmother and great aunt were returning from New Mexico Friday last, and it was up to Espen and I to fetch them at 2.50pm from the Southwest departure area.  A simple enough task, but one that could only be completed in the Montero due to its two jump seats in the back.  With five adults and a car seat, none of the other vehicles could accommodate.

The Montero has been a faithful workhorse for my mother over the last decade, squiring her around in an elevated and four wheel drive cocoon that has kept her above and out of harm's way.  Since she and dad retired this year however, a little style has been allowed to trump functionality.

Enter the Lincoln.

The Lincoln is a sacred family relic kept in mint condition since 1997 or thereabouts.  It had been sitting in state, kept away from dust, rust and an early demise, in MY grandmother's garage with 20,000 miles on it and regular outings once a month to keep it in tip-top shape. Since she is now well into her 87th year, grandma decided it was acceptable to pass it on to my parents to enjoy in all its grey leathered, crimson exteriored glory. It now sits in the double garage bay while the Montero is crammed next to it  in the single garage, largely ignored, and grateful to be out of the elements.

Espen and I made our way to collect the Montero on the day of aforementioned airport pick-up. I pushed the garage door opener.  Nothing happened.  Not even a noise.  Not deterred in the slightest, I placed Espen in the driver's seat and shut the door so I could manually release the door and free the car.  Due to some technical malfunctions I still do not understand, it took me at least 7 minutes to pry the door open while Espen merrily pretended to drive the SUV, cackling with pleasure.

That done, I returned to the driver's seat, placed the babe on my lap and turned the ignition. The theme of nothingness continued.  Oh, the lights flashed blearily and the wiper blades limped from side to side, but there was no sign of further life.

My best guess was a dead battery but in the heat of racing against the clock, I couldn't be certain. Still, there were jumper cables in the back and I had  no other ideas so what the hey.  I grabbed the cables, Espen and headed to the Lincoln.  Espen went in the driver's seat,  I flipped the hood release and went to the front of the car to spring the latch and open the hood...except it wasn't there.  I ran my hand under the entire lip of the hood. Nothing. Time was not standing still.  Espen waved at me. I re-released the hood and tried again. Nope. I crouched down and peered under the hood as I pried it up with my fingers.  It giggled at me and then I saw it. A tiny, yellow lever almost flush with the bottom of the hood. Jerk Lincoln designers.

That done, I managed to get the jumper cables hooked up to both cars without using myself as the ground.  Pleased, I returned to the Lincoln and lifted the driver's side door handle so I could start the car.  Espen smiles at me.  From the other side of the window.

I slowly try the handle again, a creeping realization making its way through my brain.
My.
11 month old.
Is locked.
In THE LINCOLN.
with the keys.

Now some parents might have panicked, or experienced profound guilt and shame wash over them at this moment. Maybe it was my lifeguard training kicking it.  Perhaps a morbid sense of humor.

For a second, I imagined Espen's face looking like this, but what I really saw is displayed below. He was having a blast.  Part of me that still remains a child whispered that if I just jumped the Montero and prepared to leave, the Lincoln would magically unlock itself by the time I tried the door handle again.  The other parts of my brain were saying:
1. Get the baby to unlock the door.
2. Find something to break the window.
3. Guess the key code for the door number pad.
4. Take a photo.
5. Write this story down.


Espen DID try to mimic my ambiguous hand movements, but to no avail.  Bored with trying to interpret my intentions, he returned to throwing the turn signals on and off and bouncing on the leather seat.

Since my parents were flashing through the air in a plane at that moment and Tobias had taken my phone with him to work, I thought I'd better buy myself some time to come up with a suitable plan. I returned to the Montero and climbed in the front seat.

There we sat, mother and child, side by side in our respective vehicles, both in the driver's seat where we like to be.  It was like that internet meme of the dad who photo-shops his baby doing all sorts of dangerous looking things like, handling cleavers and blowtorches. Sans photo shop.

I am glad to say that the irony was not lost on me in the moment, surreal though it may have been.

Is it safe to jump a car when the donor car isn't running? Who knew.  I figured I might as well try since there was no way to either roll the Montero OUT of the garage nor to get another vehicle close enough to jump it. I turned the key and waved to Wesp. He jumped up and down, a muffled squeal emanating from the Lincoln.

Presto. The first thing that worked.  Great. I unhooked the cables, backed the Montero OUT so as not to carbon monoxide the baby and visited him at the driver's window again. By this point, he'd begun to wear out the toggling options and held out his hand for me to get him.  Oh dear.

I had no idea if or where the spare key could possibly be due to a recent total house purge by mom and dad, so I ran to the phone booth to try and find my grandmother's phone number. Not there. Called Tobias.  I believe the words that came out were in this order.

"Hello. I do not need your judgement right now, I need your help."

I then asked him to call Aunt Rebecca and get grandma's number and then call her to get the key code and then call me back. If I didn't answer, it was because I was breaking the baby out of the car, so just leave a message.

And then I became a human pinball between the garage and the phone, ricocheting crazily back and forth trying to keep the baby in good humor and not miss vital information.  Five minutes became an eternity. On the third pass to the phone I detoured to the junk door, JUST IN CASE.

This junk drawer has been known to swallow entire solar systems without blinking.  If something goes in, it does not come out and I was reticent to even slightly buoy my flagging hope for a simple solution.  Still, desperate  times call for desperate measures. I opened the drawer.

The Great Purge had found its way to the Junk Drawer as well.  I saw a single key and grabbed it.

By this point, Espen had been in the Lincoln for at least fifteen minutes and was ready to be done with the Giant Crimson Steed.

For a moment, I stood at the front of the car looking at him, the key and the Lincoln.  There were two upright rectangles staring back at me from the key and grill.  This was the moment everything boiled down to.

I inserted the key and turned.  Nothing.

I took a deep breath, summoning all the magical thinking in the universe and slowly turned the key backwards.

Click.

Espen smiled with delight as I unlatched the door, scooped him up and ran back into the house to call Tobias off the chase.  Then it was off to the airport and business as usual.


The Lincoln sat serenely in the garage as we bounded down the road towards the airport as though carnapping infants was a favorite past-time.








 

Baby's First Scar

Parenthood is about finally doing everything your parents forbid you to do as a child.  Rules regarding things like sanitation, "FOR GOODNESS SAKE! Don't Eat Things You Find On The Floor!", and personal hygiene, "Honey, you should BATHE before going into public!" are suddenly optional values.  I have eaten things and fed them to my baby MINUTES after they have hit the ground without blinking.  Though I try to shower every day, sometimes it's just not as attractive as a nap, even if the public may be scandalized. Wound care and injury prevention are another fluid meme.

I grew up with a mom who poured hydrogen peroxide (or Fizz, as she liked to call it due to its rabies like response to air and GERMS) on EVERYTHING that looked hurt.  That was after she scrubbed it until it bled good and long. Blood washed the germs out too.  As we got older, she'd come at our scratches and cuts with a clean toothbrush and a choice.  Either we could scrub it or she would.  She'd be the one to "Fizz" it after the dirt exorcism for complete absolution.

It was only a matter of time before it was revealed whether I would take after her or grow bacterial colonies between my toes for fun.

Enter the catalyst of parenthood.

Espen is learning how to walk. Most of the time he is very well planted before he makes a move. Occasionally, the call of upright mobility overwhelms his need for stability.

In fair dining room is where we lay our scene.  Espen crawls to mum and tugs at trouser leg.  Mum crouches down to give Wesp a hand. He scrambles to his feet rapidly, proud, beaming at mum. His legs wobble and collapse as mum reaches to stabilize him. There is no need.  He has arrested his fall with his teeth. Punched clean through his lower lip.

Now the baby is languishing in waves of woe, blood filling his wee mouth and dribbling down his chin.  He is still proud, but shaken.  Mum recalls The Incident Of The Cut Finger and all the drama that resulted from attempting to sanitize and bandage the baby without physical -containment of any kind .  She grabs dad instead and makes him hold the baby while she presses a towel to The Bear's lip.  Espen finds this capital fun.  Blood everywhere.  Cleanliness dubious at best.  Scars imminent.  All is joyful.

Travelling Solo In An Airplane With A Wild 11 Month Old

In a sane world, there might be some general rules for How To Manage Squirrely Babies When Confined In Metal Tubes Hurtling Through the Stratosphere. I imagined such a world when Tobias and I decided to take Espen on his first plane ride at 6.30am in the morning.  That meant getting the baby up at 4.50am and carting him off to the airport in his moose jammies whilst feeding him a bottle on the way as he tried to figure out how the heck his mum and dad were awake before him.

We had done our internet research. We had milk, toys, and snacks to amuse him and keep his ears equalized.   We were prepared to walk the aisle, do cartwheels, and apologize to angry AM fliers.  What we did not anticipate was Espen not just liking the experience, but going mental with delight.  That’s a lot of wiggling, people.

To his credit and the airlines', we were assigned the seats JUST behind first class due to his baby status, and possibly the everlasting dismay of the first class passengers.  A small rant: If you're going to shell out the dosh to travel first class, for godssake, do it on transcontinental flights, but save your money on those four-seat commuters.  You'll still hear a baby through the flimsy curtain dividing the posh from the status quo.

Espen, was in FINE form at 6.30am.  Between the two of us and the extra leg room, he had free reign to squeal and ooh and try to pry the plane apart at the seams.  Having a baby means discovering a world you never thought to notice.  For example, did you know that there are plastic strips that hold parts of a plane together that a baby can, with sufficient diligence, remove by prying out the screws? Espen did. Terrorists don't need bombs, they need infants.

There were no tears the entire flight.  The kid was over the moon.  

Our time at Manhattan Beach consisted of Espen deciding to embark on an epic marathon across the sands, whereby he could sample the fine subtleties of sand textures available at different locations.  With his mouth.  Can babies expire from over-consumption of sand? Espen was earnest about finding out.  He shoveled handfuls of sand into his mouth for ten minutes straight, despite my efforts to substitute bananas for sand. He was not tempted at all. Not even a little.

After five days of delightful frolicking beneath piers and throughout the Getty Villa, Tobias headed to Vegas for a conference and Espen and I prepared for our solo air adventure back home.  

 

Here's the thing. Never underestimate the cumulative effect of carrying a baby, a backpack, and a suitcase, even if it has wheels.  Even if you think you're travelling light, take a moment to consider how this can play out.

Say your flight gets delayed, twice.  Say you then need to give a wild baby snacks and sips of water.  Say he spills water all over himself and manages to grind banana into every fold of his clothing.  Say you need to dig out fresh clothes and change him right there in the middle of the airport because there's no way you'll get his wet, slimy self to the bathroom without needing to change yourself as well.  Say you know exactly where all the necessary items are to perform this clothing slight of hand.  Say that you must simultaneously keep said baby from trying to lick the garbage can, rip everything out of the carefully organized backpack, and yell baby pick-up lines at the Syrian refugees trying to find their connecting flight on the monitor above his head. Say things like this happen for the entire time you are waiting for your plane to finally start boarding.  

If you feel tired reading the above paragraph, imagine doing it all with a bouncing forty pounds strapped to your upper torso whilst trying to maneuver a suitcase that now has a plastic shopping bag full of toys hanging from it that occasionally fall out, because it was far too complicated to try and shove it back into the backpack AND keep the baby from ripping off a rabbi's dangly tassel things in the coffee line.  

All I'm trying to say here is, I will be travelling with a manservant, maidservant, and/or husband from here on out. 

Espen thought it was all splendidly fun. He practiced his parade wave when I took him strolling up and down the aisle, yelling "HEY!! HEY!!" at both sides equally. Someday when he has children of his own and calls to tell me stories like this, I will smile and nod and go take a nap, just from the nostalgia of it all.    

First Snow, Sharing, Touching the Pump, and Baby Hovercrafts

Espen has been busy for the last month. He has grown two great top front teeth, experienced his first snow, and discovered the joy of sharing.  I can say with great certainty that the first thing he ever offered to share with me was slightly chewed beef jerky.  Nothing says love like, "Here mom! I've gotten this hard meat nice and softer for you! Try it!"

As an aside, before becoming a parent, I admit I was rather off-put by stories of parents consuming or pre-chewing their offspring's food.  Not so anymore. Now I gleefully gnaw on a piece of dead cow that has been in Espen's sweet, drooly mouth only seconds before.  While my ability to nurture and run on little sleep has increased exponentially, my sense of interpersonal hygiene has leapt straight back to the Stone Age.  Me mom. You baby. We eat foods.

Yes we do.

In slightly cleaner (appearing) adventures, it snowed three days ago.  It has completely shut down the city of Portland. Only Thai restaurants and Home Depot seem to be open, so we've been stocking up on take-out and light bulbs when we get cabin fever.

Espen was not impressed with his first run-in with the fluffy white stuff that kids of all ages adore.  Normally, he likes to sit at the open sliding door and laugh at the outside world.  When he realized that the outside world was a new color and COLD, he wept.

As good parents, we decided that a bit of warmer clothing and a nice sledding expedition would be just the thing to introduce him to the fun side of white cold.  To his credit, he learned to sit a snow glider very quickly and managed to tucker himself out from all the brisk aired excitement.  Still, as we drove our trusty Subaru Brian to the store later that day, his little face showed great concern over the monochromatic world whizzing along outside his window.  The baby has opinions and snow seems to have settled in somewhere between "WHA!? and hmmmmmmmm."

And now a statement that may be TMI.
I have been exclusively pumping breastmilk for Espen for the last four months.  Those of you who are following this blog may recall the challenges we have had with breast-feeding and I will simply refer to earlier posts for those who want to know what I'm talking about. The upshot of this is that I spend many hours a day strapped to the pump, sitting on the couch while Espen amuses himself at my feet.  Or tries to dismantle the Oh-So-Fascinating array of tubes that seem to run from a growling box to mum's boobs.  Recently, I have had to start sitting on top of the couch so he cannot reach the tubes. He's getting tall.

Finally, this weekend, I realized that the mystique of the pump had to be addressed or I would be hanging from the ceiling in an attempt to keep my statuesque, curious baby away from the milk horns.  I let him explore the pump.  He was overjoyed.  I'm still not certain whether it has increased his excitement over the milk machine or desensitized him to it, but we're going to continue having supervised play dates with the apparatus until he either stops caring, or gets weaned. Either way, it will all end in about a month and a half when he becomes a big baby and we move to solid food exclusively.

Espen has started to remove his hands from whatever he is supporting himself with while standing and HOVER.  It's fairly exciting and not a little shocking when I look down and see him free-standing beside me just long enough to smile and then plop down on his bum.  I know, I know, babies do this all the time, but that's what makes parenthood so damn wild.  It REALLY feels like it's the first time anything like this has happened. EVER.  It's like being a kid with the ability to drive and get into debt.  SO CRAZY.

Needless to say, I'll be showering and preparing for the day now in hopes that Espen will have another delicious snack to share with me.

As an aside, his first share with Tobias was a carefully rolled diaper. And yes, it was dirty.

Espen's Teeth and Dropping Meat In Public

Espen's first top tooth has made an appearance this week.  I cannot say for certain if it plans on staying out for the long haul, but it's a very impressive debut.  You know how everything always feels HUGE when it comes to mouth developments? Say a cut, or a chipped tooth.  It's like there's a titanic anomaly threatening to take over your entire oral cavity. Well. This tooth probably feels like the Missoula Ice Dam breaking and rushing through  the baby Columbia River Gorge.

In order to assuage Espen's potential, or real, discomfort, I accidentally stumbled upon a grand solution.  Forget those plastic teething toys, the real order of soothing teething distress is beef jerky. It's tasty, tough, and simultaneously soft enough to give baby gums a good massage.  Espen loved it.

He loved it so much he kept his whip of jerky clenched in his little paw as we moseyed around thrift stores and antique malls.  He oohhed and ahhhed over victorian chaise lounges with me, all the while drooling his dried cow into an squishy mass of masticated meat. He waved his meat hook gaily at the very somber antique dealer reigning supreme over the fanciest store on the block.  

Espen is the friendliest little human on the planet. He has never yet met a stranger and uses his most charming "Eh!" to get a person's attention when he sees them.  It's impossible for anyone with a soul to resist.  And yet, somehow, there are still the select few who choose to ignore the sunshine.  Said antique dealer was one of them.

We walked out of the store ten minutes later with good ideas for decorating and a sense of awe that a re-print of a map could cost 900.00.  He was cooing and gooing animatedly, commenting, I thought, on the outrageous mark-up.  

But wait. Something...was...missing.....

Where. Is. Baby's. Slimy Meat Teething Accessory.

I'll admit right here and now, that shop was empty except for us. There wasn't even a dog to pin it on.  Nope.

And more shamefully, did I walk back there and hunt down the meat surprise?

Nope.

Parents, friends, I hang my head in shame. SHAME! 

Ok, and maybe a little evil delight at the thought of said pompous dealer going to shut the shop for the night and noticing a little pile of....what is that?!?!?!?

Why Parents Really Get Tired

As a general rule, I'd say that I'm a pretty emotionally courageous person. For example, I just found my diaries from childhood where I describe things like bone marrow aspirations and Congestive Heart Failure. Survived that.  Interspersed between the hospital stays and chemo are stories of my upbringing in a religious cult. Managed to get out of that with a sense of humor intact, even after a nervous breakdown in Thailand.  Rebounded from a quarter life crisis, an abortion, a miscarriage, living below the poverty line for years, and ended up meeting the love of my life on a 500 mile pilgrimage across Spain.  

This gamut of life experiences has put me through my emotional paces and made me a more resilient human. There's not a whole lot that phases me or takes me for a ride.

Until I became mother to Espen Camino Eld-Mathis.

Now I realize that babies cry because they are communicating various things.  I'm hungry. Tired. Frustrated. Lonely. Angry.  What they don't tell you is that the volume and intensity of your baby's cry draws its energy directly from the life force that makes your own heart beat.

I can set my baby down for his nap, knowing that he has been hugged, read to, changed, rocked, fed, and entertained as much as he would tolerate, and STILL, when he opens his mouth and WAILS,  I can literally feel my energy levels revving up to fill the gap. Why? Because I may have given and done EVERYTHING I can think of to do and spent every last emotional penny trying to procure a satisfied baby customer, but none of that matters when The Cry That Pierced His Mother's Heart issues its demands.

Tired mom? Doesn't matter. Baby. Must. Be. Loved.  Even if I am doing dishes in the kitchen, resolved to let him work out his frustrations so he can learn to put himself to sleep, I am still beaming him every particle of love and comfort the universe has to offer around his crib and into his little baby heart.

I may have had my moments of doubt as to the possibility of remote healing before becoming a mother, but now, I am firmly convinced that energy can be exchanged between parties physically separated by space. All I have to do is go into another room when Espen cries, and I can feel the transfer occurring.

This to say, I stand before you all, humbled, an emotional titan no more.  Espen has shown me how very fragile and fluid I really am. I thank him for this revelation even as I drag myself about at the end of the day emotionally exhausted yet ready to do it all again the next day.  I thank him because as much as it stretches and pains me to love so inevitably, it makes the greens so much greener and the days brighter than I ever imagined possible.

New Years-Espen Walks! He Waves!

Well folks, here's what the baby was working on.

Yep, his Brio came yesterday, on his 9 month birthday, and within minutes of its final assembly, he was on a mission.  The baby is a flaneur. Well, actually, he'd probably run circles around them as he's not interested in strolling. He's interested in power walking.  For the record, he's also started waving whenever someone comes or goes in the last two days.  Clearly, his diligent cerebral connecting is paying off. It's very inspiring to watch him hit the ground running.  He carries such enthusiasm in his body and spirit, I am excited to embody more of this myself as we move into 2014.  Thank you Espen, for all your joy and magic; we're having so much fun watching you grow!