4 Month Pedi Visit

The Pop-Tart is 4 months old.  At this point we are having pediatric visits every two months.

Dr. Dreiling examined her on the crinkly paper.  He began by putting Poppy on her tum-tum to see if she can hold up her upper body.  It turns out that she is able to hold herself up.  I was nervous about this test as we are certainly negligent with the supervised tummy time sessions.  It stresses me out to see her all squirmy on the floor.  Dr. Dreiling showed me how to help her by holding her bum down to sort of anchor her body.

Poppy came in at 25.5 inches tall (or 'long' in her case since she is generally a horizontal being), which puts her in the 85th percentile.  This is good, tall is good.

She is 16 pounds and 9 ounces, which puts her in the 95th percentile for weight.  Oh boy.  Chunk'a'monk.  Dr. Dreiling said that it's fine and that she will slim down once she begins crawling and walking.  Meanwhile, I think that we'll have to get her some Baby Spanx.

'i'd never spank a baby, but I'd sure Spanx one,' -snl.  

'do you have a fat baby?'

Dr. Dreiling was impressed with the progress that Poppy's belly button has made.  It's becoming less and less herniated and soon it won't be herniated at all.

Dr. Dreiling: 'How's everything going?'

Me: 'Great.  She's great.  She's been consistently sleeping through the night since 6 weeks.'

Dr. Dreiling: 'Wow.  I wouldn't tell a whole lot of people that.  I get some babies in here that are 10 months old and still not sleeping through the night.'


Having recently experienced a victorious and peaceful first plane ride with Poppy, I was eager to tell Dr. Dreiling.

Dr. Dreiling: 'Flying with infants is easy.  In planes, you are effectively flying at 8,000 feet when the equilized air pressure is taken into account.  This makes babies feel drowsy.  Flying with toddlers is difficult; they aren't able to pay attention to a full movie yet.  So they want to run and play in the aisle.  It's for that reason that I say if you don't have to fly with a toddler, then don't.'

It seems that whenever I have a little success story about Poppy's relatively docile comportment, people proceed to tell me about how it won't last for long.  A big bucket of misery is lurking just around the corner.  Coincidently, it was these same people who told me how difficult it was to have an infant: I won't get any sleep for months and months, it will be really taxing on my marriage, I will lose all interest in things like going to the gym and reading the New York Times which will be convenient since I will never have time to read it anyway.  It will take a full 9 months to lose the baby weight (I read that in Vicki Iovine's The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy).  When I was pregnant, I began to get scared that 'when the baby comes', it will be all over.  Youth, hobbies, travel...nope.  All gone.

I know that we are lucky to have a baby who can focus on things and is generally content to do so.  I also know that I am very lucky to have the option to take care of Poppy O. instead of having to work.  Having said that, Poppy lays quietly in bed next to me while I'm reading The Times (I read one article aloud to her), she stares at me from her Bugaboo while I'm on the treadmill, and I'm sure that she'll do fine at Mommy's Day Out a few hours a week while I'm in class.  My point here is this: when you have a baby, it's the baby who is moving in with you.  It's okay to expect to be able to continue your own life alongside your baby's life.

Poppy's Strong Reaction to Music Together

'this isn't your favorite drum, is it?'

Music Together at Tiferet Israel was even more amusing than usual this week.  After having gone through the customary 'Hello Song' and 'Playin' in the Kitchen', Ms. Gila brings out the instruments.  This is fairly routine protocol.  The mommies are supposed to bang on the instruments in such a way that the babies can feel the rhythm or beat (I remain unsure as to what the difference is, but I think that's okay) of whichever song we are singing.

Poppy has just taken about one ounce of milk when the drumming circle begins.  In an effort to show off Poppy's new silver bracelet that we bought from the Native Americans in Santa Fe last week, I begin to tap her right hand on our borrowed drum.  I tap Poppy's hand to the beat of 'Biddy Biddy Bum Bum'.  

tap....tap....tap....tap....bla!!!!

(Refer to the action shot above for an excellent visual representation.)

Maybe this was a reaction to the new (and unsavory) florescent lighting in the classroom this week.  

'get me outta here.  this lighting does nothing for my complexion,'  -poppy.

A Gym Truce

There has been a bit of rivalry between me and the homosexual anesthesiologist in my building.  This began around September of 2010 when I let Mr. Kili into the pool at The Rienzi.  I had just returned to Texas after a 4 month stint with an NGO in Ghana that ended with a powerfully parasitic illness.  I was happily playing with Kili in the pool of our apartment when a conservatively flamboyant and well exercised short man came outside in a huffy rage.

gay anesthesiologist: 'You're not allowed to have dogs in the pool here.'

me: 'Ummm.'

gay anesthesiologist: 'You don't get special privileges.  I have dogs too and I don't let them in the pool!'

'i didn't do it,' says Kili.

I paused to ponder the fact that this man had seen me from his window/balcony.  He found the rules governing the pool to be so compelling, so sacred, that he was unable to passively observe them being violated.  No sir.

me: 'Umm, okay.'

I then brought Kili over to a pool chair to sit next to me.  This man continued to stare at me, his hips cocked to the side with an air of impatient frustration.

gay anesthesiologist: 'He's not allowed to be in the pool area at all.'

I ignored him at that point and took Kili upstairs 10 minutes later.


This past January I was working out in our lovely little apartment gym.  Being 5 months pregnant, my workout was reduced to walking with purpose on the treadmill.  The huffy short man walks in at around 4pm wearing bright blue scrubs.  I know that he recognizes me, so I attempt to make friendly conversation.

me: 'Do you work out here often?'

gay anesthesiologist: 'Just right after work so that I can have some quiet time to myself.'

I decide not to take the hint.  I am determined to alleviate the tension in this small gym.

me: 'Oh, are you a Doctor?'

gay anesthesiologist: 'An anesthesiologist.  I graduated first in my class from Harvard med.'

I don't really know how to respond to this.  I think it's very lame of him to lay his credentials out so quickly.  I hadn't asked him where he went to medical school, and I certainly hadn't asked to hear about his report card.

me: 'Oh, that's really cool.  I'm pregnant.'

I thought that maybe this would inspire him to say something like 'Oh, I have done epidurals before,' or 'My partner is an OBGYN' or something.  Anything.

....Nothing...

I finish my workout (in the midst of opaque tension) while skeptically pondering the validity of his alleged achievement at Harvard.  If someone has finished first in their class at Harvard Medical School, would they feel the need to tell anyone who will listen?  I would think that this kind of achievement would elevate their self-esteem to a point where they wouldn't need to get recognition from relative strangers.  Perhaps he simply wanted to assert his superiority over me.

Since these little episodes, I have seen the gay anesthesiologist around the building and in the gym.  We have dutifully and purposefully ignored one another while trying to seem cool.  I have thought about trying to make small talk again, but have repeatedly decided against it once I remember that he is a rude poser with no life.

Until yesterday.  I park Poppy's bugaboo next to my treadmill in our little gym, mute the TV, and put on the Olympics.  It's that event where girls are dancing around gymnastically while throwing balls to one another.  It's impressive.  I begin my fast walk at an incline while quizzing myself with French flashcards.

I see that someone is coming into the gym and instinctively do a little wave before realizing who this person is.  I realize that it's the gay anesthesiologist, but decide to follow through with the wave that is already in motion.  I smile.  He gives me an obligatory wave back.  I mean, does he really have a choice?  If he hadn't waved back, the tension in the gym would be at code red and one of us would have had to leave.  And who wants to leave without getting a workout in if they've already conquered inertia and arrived at the gym?

I have 20 minutes left in my 60 minute workout.  I run half of it and walk half of it.  Once I've finished, I gently begin to load my stuff onto Poppy's bugaboo.  As I'm getting off the treadmill the gay anesthesiologist says:

'You have the quietest baby ever.'

He is just sitting there, blinking innocently on the workout bench.  I'm truly shocked by this friendly compliment, so I ask him to repeat it just to make sure.

gay anesthesiologist : 'You have the quietest baby ever.'  

me: 'Oh, yea.  She's amazing.  She's been sleeping thought the night since like 5 or 6 weeks old.  Mommy's gotta work out, so she comes with me.'  

gay anesthesiologist: 'The noise is probably very soothing to her since you worked out while you were pregnant.  It's likely that she remembers the sounds.'  

me: 'I hadn't thought of that.  That makes a lot of sense.  Hm.'

gay anesthesiologist: 'Have a good day.'  

As Poppy and I leave I'm satisfied that there need no longer be tension in the gym due to my nearly involuntary southern friendliness.  I was also happy to discover yet another reason to workout (read: walk quickly on the treadmill) whilst one is preggers.  I knew that this guy had some interesting medical tidbits to share with a pregnant woman-

the rienzi gym

i work out