The Adventures of James D Bear...Volume 3: A Birthday Party

James D Bear lives in the nursery at 749 Washington Street. One day his father woke him up and said, “James Bear, today we are going to a birthday party!”

“Yay, I love birthdays!” said James D Bear “Whose birthday is today?”

“Today is your cousin Hayden’s birthday,” said Father. “She is two years old.”

 

Cousin Hayden lives in Batavia and sleeps in her very own big girl bed. She is a monkey.

 

Mama and Father Bear packed up James D Bear in his seat, and drove to Batavia.

 

James D Bear fell asleep.

When he opened his eyes, it was a party! All of his aunts and uncles were there, and Nama and Papa Bear.

And even Great-Grandfather Bear.

And so was the birthday girl, his monkey cousin Hayden.

“James D Bear!” shouted Hayden, “I am so excited you came to my party!”

“Happy Birthday, cousin Hayden!” said James D Bear. “I brought you a present wrapped in green paper.”

“It is a game that we may play together. But first I will give you a hug, because I am glad you are my cousin.”

James D Bear loves his monkey cousin.

The Adventures of James D Bear...Volume 2: Valentine's Day

(A small disclaimer: VWH writes the stories, not me.  So while I happen to think that James D Bear loves BOTH of us the best, I have to go with what Father Bear has composed.)

James D Bear lives in the nursery at 749 Washington Street.

One morning his Mama woke him up and said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, James D Bear!”

James Bear said to his Mama, “Mother, what is Valentine’s Day?”

Mama answered, “Valentine’s Day is a special day when you give presents and tell someone you love them very much.  It is a special day for you and your Valentine!”

“Giving presents?  That sounds like Christmas!  Yay!” said James Bear.

“Silly James Bear,” said Mama, “today you give presents to your Valentine!”

James D Bear made a serious face.  “Mother,” he asked, “who is my Valentine?”

“You may choose who your Valentine is,” said Mama.  But James D Bear still did not know.

So James Bear called his father at work to ask him about Valentine’s Day, because Father Bear knows almost everything.

He told James D Bear, “Your Valentine is the person you love more than anyone else in the world.”

“Mother, now I know who my Valentine is!”

“It’s you!”

Happy Valentine’s Day, James D Bear!

The Adventures of James D Bear...Volume One: Tummy Time

James D Bear lived at 749 Washington Street.  He slept in his nursery until his Mama came to wake him up.

James Bear smiled his happiest smile at Mama, because he loved her more than anyone else in the world, and she loved him too.

James D Bear ate his breakfast and then said to his Mama, “Mother, I want to play!”

James Bear played on the floor with Ladybug, who sang him songs and swayed back and forth.

Then James Bear batted his rattle with his little bear paw, and pretended to make beautiful music like his Mama and Papa.

Just then Mama Bear came in and told James D Bear, “Little James, it’s time for you to play on your tummy!”

James Bear does not like tummy time.

His little bear paws were trapped beneath him and now matter how hard he kicked his little bear legs he could not roll over.

“Mother Bear” he said, “I do not like tummy time.  I cannot roll over and I cannot see Ladybug and I cannot play my rattle!  Please help me roll over.”

But Mama Bear knew that James D Bear needed to do his tummy exercises every day, so he could be a big strong bear when he grew up.

James Bear does not care for tummy time.  He became so upset that he began to cry.

“I will never get off my tummy!” he thought.  “I will be stuck here forever and never see my Mother again!”

Just then James Bear felt someone’s arms around him.  Mama Bear had remembered him after all!

“Sweet James Bear, you just needed to finish your tummy time.  But now I am glad you are in my arms.” 

And James D Bear was glad he was there too.

Look son--both hands!

Boy did I miss blogging!  There’s something so…productive…about writing a long, good blog entry.  It contrasts nicely with the years of sweat and tears over college papers, when it would take me 5 times as long to write the same number of words.  Of course, in a blog I’m allowed to use filler, non-specific words such as very, so, some, quite, and like.  Take that Dr. Mrs. Berry!

I was a little nervous to start blogging again, because now I have a baby, and I would hate for those who read my blog (which, who am I kidding myself, probably number less than 5) to tune out because the things so interesting to me as a new mom would be snooze-worthy to them.  But then I thought, “Who cares?  It’s my blog.  And 2 of the 5 people are probably James’ grandmothers anyway.”  So if the flavor and consistency of future entries evokes spit-up and dirty diapers, it’s up to you if you care to weather through with me.  I’d like to think that a well-written, entertaining blog about the most beautiful, clever, and intelligent baby of all time is enjoyable to others…even if thousands of other new moms are also blogging about their most beautiful, clever, and intelligent babies of all time.

James truly is a precocious child.  His first trick he pulled on his parents was to make them wait forever and a day to meet him in person.  Mr. 11-11-11 was born ten days late, and only then after we finally pleaded with the hospital to induce.  The pleading had a lot more to do with the 70 hours of labor I had experienced at home and a lot less to do with it being 9 days past my due date.  We had gone to the hospital twice over those 70 hours but were told both times that my body was refusing to dilate more than 1.5 centimeters.  When we finally walked through the big double doors past triage where I had been previously examined I mentally shouted, “Oh yeah suckahs—we’re going to the REAL DEAL now!”  And when the anesthesiologist gave me the blessed epidural I thought I had died and gone to heaven.  I slept for the first time in 4 nights right up until it was time to greet our baby boy.

Maybe someday I’ll give a blow-by-blow of the entire labor and delivery experience, but my VWH has already written his perspective, which is still too fresh in my mind to put my own stamp on it quite yet. If you’re curious you can check it out at http://harmonious-smith.blogspot.com/2011/12/story-of-birth-of-james.html.  

Being a mother to a baby in a hospital is entirely different than being a mother to a baby at home.  At the hospital there are lots of nurses and doctors and lactation consultants and assistants and…well, really way more people than you want or need hanging around offering advice.  I slept more the night before James was born than the two nights after, and it wasn’t because he needed to eat nearly as much as it was the steady stream of medical personnel.  In a way, they did me a favor, because instead of being terrified of going home, I quickly became more than ready to get out of the hospital and start figuring things out on my own terms.

And oh, how much we’ve figured out!  We now know that bath time is fun, with sponge baths far preferred to the baby bathtub.  Dirty diapers are survivable, but spitting out the binky is not.  The changing table is the ultimate hang-out spot.  Reading books is a load of laughs, but only if ON the changing table.  Looking around wide-eyed at things quietly and singing songs with Mommy are the BEST.  Lots of concurrent conversations and places other than home are not.

James sleeps like a champ.  It only took about 2 weeks before he was sleeping for 7 hour stretches at night, giving his mommy a new lease on life.  Bed at 8:30, snack at 3:30, breakfast at 7.  I can deal with that no problem and look forward to his big smiles each time he wakes up.  I also look forward to when he shares those enormous grins with others.  So far he reserves the majority of them for me when his diaper is getting changed.  This makes me feel simultaneously honored and embarrassed when I tell people excitedly how much he loves to smile and then he never does it for them.  (Maybe if they offered to change his diaper?!?)  And when I get my camera ready to capture James' irresistible elation he eyes it most warily and refuses to cooperate.  Precocious indeed.

Well, this blog entry has not been the best, but it was fun to sit down and relax for a few minutes, typing with both hands.  I’ll leave you with what all of the thousands of new moms leave their faithful bloggers: a picture of the most beautiful, clever, and intelligent baby of all time.

Merry Christmas!  And, yes, I actually do have 2 feet.

Hey! I'm still here!

A lot has changed in my life the past few months.  I’ve traded my 40 hour-a-week office job for a 24-7 home job.  I’ve traded musical opportunities for chances to experience all hours of the night.  I’ve swapped Saturday and Sundays of leisure for Saturdays and Sundays that feel pretty much the same as Tuesdays and Wednesdays, only busier.

Last night I was in a rehearsal (I haven’t traded all of my musical opportunities) and listening to a fellow musician explaining matter-of-factly that she and her husband were looking to buy a bigger house.  The one they had just wasn’t big enough for them and their little one-year-old boy.  With two of her younger sisters living with them, 4 bedrooms just wasn’t enough.  And I thought to myself, “You already have a 4 bedroom house?  You’re barely 4 years older than me!” 

At the end of rehearsal she pulled out of the parking lot in an expensive-looking, giant SUV.  And I thought to myself, “You already have an enormous vehicle that looks like it’s brand new?  You were a music ed major like me in college…we don’t make money!”

Typically such wealth at an early age would cause me to scoff at the individual, wondering how much debt was accruing.  “Such foolish choices they are making!”  But this particular person holds a lot of respect from me—she is very common-sensical, intelligent, talented, and wise.  Instead of mentally touting my virtues and dismissing her into the “Well, I’m better than they are” group, I got jealous.

Arriving home, I climbed out of our compact car with 170,000 miles to its name and thought, “It sure would be nice to have a newer, bigger vehicle that I don’t conk my head against every time I try to put the baby in his car seat.  It would also be nice to have a vehicle that doesn’t break down every month and doesn’t look like it’s survived (barely) numerous Rochester winters.”  I then walked into my small apartment and surveyed the clutter in the living room.  (Because, you see, opting for a rehearsal every so often means that the house becomes messy in less than 3.1415 hours.)  And I thought to myself, “Someday it sure would be nice to have a whole house instead of just an apartment.  It would be great to have extra space and closets to keep things.  I wish we didn’t have to have piles of stuff lying around or have to store our clothes in Rubbermaid bins.” 

And then I walked into the kitchen, where my husband was sitting in this very chair, enjoying a precious few moments to do some Hebrew.  (I know that might not seem very relaxing, but it’s equivalent to most people watching a little television.)  He puts the baby to bed on Monday nights, and I could tell immediately that it hadn't gone smoothly this time.  My eyes met his exhausted ones, and all of the “I wishes” and “It sure would be nices” melted away in front of me.  Because, you see, he is working, always working, so that I don’t have to.  He comes home after 8PM several nights a week because he is stringing together this and that to cover the income I was bringing in from my office job.  And he’s doing it because he loves me and he loves our little boy.  He is my champion. 

Before we crawled into bed, I peeked in on baby James in his bassinet.  His gentle breathing, long eyelashes, and precious baby nose peeked back at me.  And I fully realized that lesson you hear all your life and believe in your head about “family is more important than money.”  Yeah, yeah—of course it is…but wouldn’t you be happier if you had both?!?  I thought back to my musician friend.  I remembered that she only spent 6 weeks at home with her own baby boy before she returned to her full-time job.  She and her husband both work hard so they can have the house and the cars, but she has missed out on 40 hours per week (at least) of her baby’s life.  I truly don’t think I have taken for granted the opportunity to stay home with James, but allowing myself to head down the road of “what if” even for a few minutes shamed me.  No, I wouldn’t be happier if I had both.  Because, when it comes right down to it, I have never been happier in my life.  Give me my VWH and my baby boy and my “Sexy Beast” old car and my drafty apartment.  I will take it and run and wish that those with “so much more” only realized what they are missing.

Why?

Why is it that every day for weeks as I drive by my college I see a morbidly obese person crossing the street (and never the same one twice), but once I mention this to my sister-in-law, I don’t anymore?

Why is it that mothers think 4:55PM is the best time to call a school to schedule a complicated college visit for their child?

Why is it that my stomach itches so intensely these days that I can’t think of much else and wake myself up in the middle of the night scratching it?  (I know the answer to this one, but I still ask, ‘why’?)

Why is it that if my dishes and laundry are done I experience a peace that passes almost all understanding?

Why is it that if I ask my husband every night if he’s set his alarm, he already has, but if I take one night off, invariably that’s the night he forgets?

Why is it that the thought of labor and delivery doesn’t really faze me, but the thought of my first day at home alone with a real, live baby is terrifying?

Why is it that God gave us a low-paying teaching job that couldn’t have made us happier after a year of searching, until the dream orchestra job came along two weeks later that we had to turn down?

Why is it that any woman who has a child feels the irresistible pull to share her pregnancy horror stories with first-time moms-to-be?

Why is it that my Fantasy Football team is inextricably tied to the fate of the Buffalo Bills?

Why is it that chai latte always tastes better in October than in July?

Why is it that my closest friends live so far away and we can’t see each other more than a precious few times a year?

Why is it that in a year or so I will have a toddler running around, asking incessantly, “Why, why, why?”

Why is it that I can’t wait to lay eyes on that to-be toddler?