Crank Ball Sicko

We’ve been so diligent with Jack and germs. Hand washing is just what we do around here. So, I was fully prepared for Jack to get sick when he went to his first day at back-up-daycare last week.

Fully prepared.

Er. Yeah. Apparently you can’t be fully prepared for anything related to mother-hood.

The child is still sick, 7 days later. Runny nose, congestion, fever, crankiness, the works. His new nickname is crank-ball, but actually, considering he’s never really, really been sick before, he’s taking it pretty much like the 1 year old he is.

Arch contends that some germs are probably a good thing for the boy, “toughen’ him up,” he says. Meanwhile, I am contemplating this John Travolta Movie and thinking really, really unrealistic thoughts.


I’ve been walking around in a haze for days now. My new job is kicking my ass. I am out of the house by 7:30 and sometimes not home until 9 or 10 at night. I don’t get to see the boy that much, which sucks.

When I do see him, it’s like he’s stuck to me. He’ll crawl over and wrap his arms around my legs, when I put him down at night he clings to my neck like a monkey.

Last night was one of those nights where I got home at 7pm, just 30 minutes before his bedtime, and we played with his new blocks and read a little story before going to bed. He went to sleep without incident (well, for Jack anyway), and all was quiet…until 4am.

At around 4:05 I got up to see what all the racket was. As I stumbled out of bed, realizing that I had a breakfast meeting in approximately 3 hours, I started tuning into what the kid was saying.

“Mama.” Clang, Clang, Clang (the sound of a crib rattling)

silence for about 10 seconds

“Mama” – said with a little more urgency and then Clang, Clang, Clang again.

My cloudy brain was pretty sure there was no way the kid knew what he was saying. But hey, it worked, it got me up, so maybe I should go check on him.

I walked into his room and he took one look at me and said “Mama” again, giggling and sort of boucing on his toes.

So. With that experience I am calling the official first word.

Sorry Arch. You lost.

Bath Time

Just to be clear: I have no problem giving Jack a bath. Its just being in there with him that’s the problem.

In fact, I’m teaching him how to swim in the bathtub. This is in advance of our planned trip to the East Hampton next weekend where I intend to throw him in the ocean.

According to my Mother, my Father threw me in a pool when I was three weeks old. I figure, I survived, so Jack should be just fine. Plus I’ve given Jack an additional 8 months to prepare. Mostly to compensate for the fact that I’m throwing him into the Atlantic Ocean, not a swimming pool on top of a skyscraper on Lake Shore Drive. But also ’cause I’m a big softie.

See below for photos from training camp.




Almost ready to get out of the tub.


“Father, please remove me from this bath tub as soon as possible.”