Goo-goo, ga-ga: Advice for baby & parents

PK and I had a baby shower yesterday for son Quinn & his wife, Heather, who expect their first child, Noah,  in early June. Parents no longer guess about their baby's gender, making it easier on shower guests, who still purchase the color-appropriate baby garments and accessories. Shower attendees were mostly good friends from forever, it seems, and one new young woman. Before gifts were opened, advice for the new parents and the person-to-be were solicited. Here, for your reading pleasure, are their words of wisdom followed by an invitation to chime in.

Advice for the parents-to-be
Michael: Don't shake the baby. No diaper pins. God, they cry when you pin 'em.
When the baby cries and works into a fit, lay him on his tummy and press down gently and bounce him. This pushes the air out. When his face gets red, he can't cry.
Paul: Be ready for anything. You don't know what's going to hit you, but something will.
Gail: Be consistent. They'll work you against each other. This is a huge issue. And don't argue in front of the kids.
Mark: You only have one chance. Do the right thing for your kids, same as love. Do what you need to do to do right by them.
Dave: Children are such a positive and special part of a marriage. But you have to work to keep your relationship together and not let it get hijacked by the kids.
Susan: If you are the stay-at-home person, keep your creative energy alive.
Ferron: Anyone who has raised animals knows that you make a prompt response to behavior. Bad! Good! Do this before they learn to speak.
Elke: You'll make mistakes. Don't sweat the small stuff.
Catherine: Don't coddle. Children are resilient.
Jeanne: You think when they're little that childhood will last forever and you'll never have time for yourself. It doesn't last forever. Enjoy your children. They're gone too soon.
Gary: Your children are always with you. It just changes.
Mary: Children are born with a temperament. You can't do anything about it except to observe and learn what the child's nature is, then accept this little person for who he is.

Advice for Baby Noah

Paul: Be patient. Your parents have no idea who you are. Believe that they'll learn.
Gail: Laugh a lot. Life is good.
Sueji: I love your name, Noah. It has to do with boats. I want to take you on the river! It is important to know that your parents are human. Cut them some slack. Good parenting is the hardest job in the world.
Ferron: Get together with other newborns, and seriously consider a class-action lawsuit against circumcision.

Elke: Be patient with your parents. And be happy.
Catherine: Your parents are smarter than you are. Listen to them.
Mary: If your parents are mean and unreasonable, call Grandma!
Katarina: You're the firstborn. You're the experiment. Your parents will try everything on their first kid. Be patient.

Heather and Katarina cavort in the kitchen with baby Noah present in some way.

Got any words of wisdom for Noah or his parents? Ears, eyes, and minds are open wide. And hearts, too. And maybe even fetal comprehension.

Where the hell is Roatan?

Cruise passengers (the white people) are greeted by Roatan dancers who aren't all that amused.

The cruise ship docks just a short pier off the tiny island of Roatan, much to the delight of locals who view the cruise  ship industry as an economic opportunity where economic opportunities are rare.

I've been back from two weeks in the Caribbean for one week and it seems like I never went anywhere! Before "be here now" takes over entirely, I have a few words and images.

Roatan. Ever heard of it?  Neither had I until the cruise ship stopped there disgorging about 2,000 passengers onto this small—37 miles long, five miles wide—and hilly Honduran island. 
PK and I opted for a day at the beach. At $35 each, it was the least expensive of about a dozen excursions offered that day. (We were still clueless about independent excursions. More on that later, if I ever get to "what I learned about cruising.")
Here's what we got: a van ride over hill and vale thru tropical jungle to the beach: a huge buffet cruise-style barbecue lunch (all cruise food comes in huge); a park-like entrance to the beach; lounge chairs lined up like this with cruisers in various states of, uhhhh, ecstacy? Are we having fun yet?

A line is drawn in the sand and inches outside are locals, toes on the boundary,  trying to make a buck off us cruisers. PK and I strolled outside of the sanitized area and were immediately accosted by the woman in the green and black striped blouse. She was selling massages performed by her daughter, Larissa, that younger woman on the left. I bit. A half hour massage for $15.

Most importantly, according to the cruise-line sales pitch, this beach had been sanitized of sand fleas, which are apparently a plague upon tourists and locals alike and probably the universe. At any rate, something toxic was sprayed upon the white sands and within the confines of the private beach, we were not bitten.

And here is Larissa, ready to  knead the white pasty flesh of some old woman from god-knows-where.

Larissa claimed to be 15 but seemed older. Although we occupied an unsanitized area of Roatan, I didn't suffer any flea bites. Only sound bites of Larissa's life. I asked if she and others were able to buy food at the opulent cruise barbecue buffet, which was wafting tantalizing aromas from maybe 100 feet behind us.  She scoffed, "No. They'd rather throw food away than give it us, or even sell it to us. They treat us like dogs," she said. She pressed her thumbs especially hard into my shoulder muscles. Ummm.
She slathered me with baby oil. No pricey scented oils here. No massage table. No licensed massage therapist. Just Larissa, a teenager who told me she's still hoping that a former  cruise customer from Syracuse will make good on a promise to house her in the  U.S.A. and help her with college. Larissa went on at length about this woman, who Larissa believed, would deliver her from the poverty that plagues Honduras. The massage went past 45 minutes. Maybe I knew this woman? Larissa said she had the woman's phone number and had called her many times. But the woman hadn't called back.Why hadn't she called back?
Silence. What could I say about the temporary goodwill extended by tourists?

A local beer and the groomed entrance to the private cruise-ship beach just beyond.

Larissa said the food sure smelled good. "You want some?" I asked. "Would you?" she replied. I went through the buffet line and piled barbecued chicken, coleslaw, beans and rice, and wonderful tropical fruit onto a paper plate. I covered it with another plate and sped to the "line in the sand" where Larissa whisked it away, followed by two others. I saw them under some palms savoring the feast. She glanced over at me and nodded her thanks. Believe me Larissa, it was nothing.

Cruise Blues #1

Not exactly what you want to see when you step onto your cruise ship balcony to gaze at the tropical sea,  right? Not just that there's a crapload of tankers out there, but it's a metallic morning with a stiff breeze and just 64 degrees and you've signed up to go snorkeling. You're committed. The cruise line has a Draconian 48-hour cancellation policy. The $74 per person excursion charge has already been added to your swiftly escalating cruise account, and no matter what, you're going. This is kinda like eating a restaurant meal even though it sucks, or staying through a revolting movie just because you've paid for it.

And besides, it's a "free" cruise, which means I won it. No kidding. I took my elderly mother to a promotional event at a retirement center where the big prize was this cruise.  My number came up. It seemed really lucky to win, even though PK and I aren't exactly cruise material. But here we were a couple days into the cruise thinking that an opportunity to skim above a piece of the world's second largest coral reef—we were in the Caribbean off the coast of Belize on the Yucatan Peninsula—was not to be missed—or dismissed just because our teeth were chattering.

So we followed the herd onto a safe and comfortable craft (everything on cruise vacations is safe, if not  always comfortable) and headed with about 125 of our closest friends to the reef six miles distant. It wasn't getting any warmer.

This is a crew member enjoying the unseasonable March cold.

We arrived at the reef and were given our safety briefing; wear the mandatory flotation and don't go beyond the approximately basketball-court-sized area defined by crew members in plastic boats. And don't drink the rum punch until afterwards. Rum punch? At 9 a.m.?

So we floundered over the rail and with at least 100 other eager cruisers, splashed into the cool aquamarine.  Some wiser souls, including a couple of college girls in spaghetti straps, however, said NO WAY and got a head start on the  punch. More on that later.

I didn't mind the cold too much as I possess adequate natural insulation—fat. My ectomorph husband, however, quickly became, uh, chilled, a condition that would soon spread from his body to his mood. Especially his mood toward his wife. 

The pleasures of snorkeling with the masses in an intimate area is not to be downplayed. You will come into contact, fin or face, with at least 75 of them, one for each dollar paid for the experience. We were allowed an hour to snorkel, but most people couldn't hold out that long. PK and I soldiered on for maybe 30 minutes before I got sick of seeing way more people than fish, and  PK got sick of shivering. 

I took the above photo when we were back on the boat and all but the most persistent had called it quits. PK was wrapped in a damp towel and quaking like a hairless dog. Determined to cut my losses, I sought out the plastic barrel dispensing rum punch, the only free alcohol on the cruise where even a simple lite beer costs $6. It was maybe 10 a.m.  

College girls (?) on spring break cavort under an imagined sun.

A Scottish lad celebrates the not-so-fair morn.

And his fair lass goes along for the fair ride.

A lubricated couple prepares to smooch.

Rumless PK was not amused.

The cold was forgotten. The dance tunes were cranked up and whoo hoo! I believe the crew had  dumped an extra load of rum into the barrel out of sympathy for people who had paid too much for too little.  I think I can safely say that no one who signed up for the snorkeling on the world's second largest reef expected to be snockered before noon. 

Later PK and I  took a tender (a boat transporting cruise passengers into ports without proper depth to accommodate behemoth ships) into Belize City. Judgment clouded by the punch, I ordered a daiquiri on shore when PK got a beer. I couldn't drink the daiquiri, however, and handed it off to this receptive individual who was crafting trinkets near a bridge in Belize City. I believe his expression captures the spirit of the day.

I don't know this man's name, and I can't identify any of the people pictured above—except for that one unsmiling and annoyed person. If you were along for the ride this March 2010 day and happen to be pictured above and don't like it, please respond and I will remove your photo. Until then, thanks for a good time and bottom's up!

 

Blog drought

Johnny Jump-ups make February appearance.

Or maybe that should be blog paralysis.  I've been mulling several topics, all of them languishing in the draft stage. But the following sentiment, or something similar, depending on time of day, obstructs my progress: Who the hell cares?  I should just go watch the Olympics. (Not unlike my thoughts when I started this blog.)


At this moment, I should just go for a walk! or get ready for a vacation that starts in a couple days. But I've decided. I'm not going until "this" is finished, even though I'm not sure what "this" is. I learned during the years I wrote a weekly newspaper column that even though I often had NO IDEA what to say, a looming deadline—like the next morning—would spark an idea. So I'd perch before my primitive 1980's computer and start typing. Anything. Just like I'm doing now. Over time, I developed faith that thoughts that had been roiling in my brain would bubble up and spill onto the screen. They always did, of course, because I took those newspaper deadlines seriously.

Lots of those columns were absolute dogs. But recently I've been looking them over and thinking, Hmmmm. Not bad.  So my younger self is inspiring my 25-years-down-the-road self to keep trying, even though I recognize that deadlines=discipline, and the only deadlines I have for this blog are self-imposed—which could mean more drought.
But anyway. For you faithful (and much beloved) few who check periodically to see if I've been able to cough up another post, here are some topics rumbling in my drafts file:

• I'm jealous of my kids.
• Life is senseless. But I like it.
• Not a goddess. Uh uh. 
• Southern Oregon Soul Food (series)
• Characters in ordinary life. (series)
• Why get out of bed?
• Girdles are back. Aack!
• Changing places. (caring for 93-year-old mom)
• PK's the Man!

Cold frame lettuce abounds.

See anything interesting?

And then, of course, there's all those fascinating garden updates and irresistible "what I made for dinner last night" recipes. Speaking of garden updates, you must be dying to know what's up in February. Quite a lot, really, considering the fabulous spring-like Oregon weather we had for the past couple weeks. (Rainy today, however.) Here are a few edibles ready for harvest, or nearly so. I have trouble configuring blog photos, so bear with me. The captions for photos below are consolidated under the last photo.

 Cilantro not quite big enough to harvest. Magnificent Russian KALE and fall-planted broccoli that survived 8 degree nights in December. We aren't quite rolling in produce yet, but give us another month.

The belly as public domain

This is another one for my daughter-in-law and first-time-mother-to-be, who has recently complained about uninvited belly handling. It's rough, I know, but goes with the territory. I wrote the piece below when I was eight months pregnant with Chris. Don't worry, Heather. The bigger the belly, the worse it gets. 

Grants Pass Daily Courier
May 7, 1986

I'm getting to the big-bulge stage of pregnancy that's difficult to ignore. And, indeed, far from ignoring it, quite a few people seem to suffer from the delusion that a pregnant abdomen is in the public domain.

People I hardly know rub and pat my protruding belly as if it were some neutral object that happened to be between us, like a stone or a puppy. Some grab it with both hands as if it could be removed. They probe through the skin and fat, muscle and womb, right down to the baby. I silently command the little beggar to give the intruder a swift kick, but already the kid is disobedient and curls up sweet and docile.

There are the strokers who pet it and sort of coo. These are the ones who are speaking to the baby, not to me, and I feel old and in the way.

"Do you need a moment alone with it?" I want to ask, but don't.

The absent-minded feelers let their hands wander to my belly during casual conversation, as if walking their fingers around somebody else's tummy was the most natural thing in the world. Usually they're asking baby-related questions at the time time. "When are you gonna pop? or "Is it a boy or girl?" are the favorites.

Hearty patters give the old belly a slap and a ruffle, much as they might greet a large dog or a horse. "How's that baboo?" they'll ask.

I grin and bear it. For now, it's a part of my body that, being occupied by another person, is only partly mine anyway, and I view all the handling with some amusement. Depending on my mood, I even like it. When else will my midsection be lavished with so much attention?

Most of the time people are reluctant to touch one another in casual situations, but advanced pregnancy somehow invites intimacy. People seem to want to fuss over a baby even when the baby is still sheathed in its mother's body.

They want to fuss over the mother, too, opening doors, carrying groceries, picking up dropped objects, and performing other small services that suggest concern for one who's carrying about 25 extra pounds front and center. It isn't as debillitating as it looks, but most pregnant women appreciate the sympathy.

What they don't appreciate is people who feel compelled to relate Horrible Birth Experiences in gory detail. Even if you're able to stop them before they get to the worst part—the part they're dying to tell you—the damage has been done. Telling Horrible Birth Experiences to women about to deliver is akin to tell a mountain climber she can't reach the top, or a marathon runner that her lungs will burst at mile 25. It so rude and such a bad idea.

The absolute worst example of what NOT to say to a pregnant woman was said to me about a week before I was due with my first child. This moron's wife had just had a baby, and apparently the experience was not that uplifting, because he kept tossing out words like excruciating, terrible, and agonizing. His wife nodded gravely in agreement, doing nothing to soften the impression that giving birth is worse than the Chinese water torture.

He ended his tale with a remark to the effect that he'd sooner do himself in than endure such agony. Rejecting that option, I went ahead and had the baby. I found the event decidedly anti-climatic in the pain department and quite wonderful emotionally, despite Mr. Idiot's last-minute attempt at sabotage.

Fortunately for him, while blowing holes in my psychological preparation for birth, he didn't snake his oily hand over to prod my belly. If he had, I would have been sorely tempted to return the favor—with the bottom of my foot in that anatomical area where the sun don't shine.