Shannon Phillips

I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday—actually a midwife appointment, as this time around I’m planning to deliver at UCSF, taking advantage of their midwifery program (although of course doctors will also be around if it turns out that I need another C-section).

Anyway, it was a quick visit, in-and-out, but we did get to hear the baby’s heartbeat on doppler, so that was very cool. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh! Heartbeat sounds fine, my blood pressure and blood test results are all fine, everything’s fine. My next appointment is Feb. 11, when we’ll get to peek at the kid on the ultrasound. So that’ll be exciting!

I hope all of you who celebrate Christmas are having a wonderful day today. I made chocolate chip pancakes this morning, and we’re taking it easy and enjoying all our new toys. We opened our presents on the solstice, but that doesn’t mean we can’t heap them around ourselves in piles and enjoy them all over again now. Which is exactly what Robin is doing:

(My big present this year was a brand new camera, the first fruits of which you are viewing right now!)

As you can see, Robin got some fuzzy new shoes (and some new clothes, not pictured), along with a whole depot’s worth of Thomas the Tank Engine merchandise. I’m not sure I’ve posted about this yet, but as anyone who has spoken to Robin recently knows, the boy is obsessed with trains. “Choo choo!” is often his first word in the morning and his last at night. He brings his trains to bed with him, and he won’t leave the house without at least one engine clutched in his little fist.

I thought maybe this train mania was a Phillips genetic legacy, but then one day at the park another little boy spotted the train Robin was holding, and started shouting urgently to his mommy: “Choo choo! Choo choo! Choo choo!” So now I’ve decided that it’s a more universal thing—little boys just love trains.

Our present to Robin, though, wasn’t a train. Because Robin’s driven to imitate us, and because Sam and I both spend a lot of time on our computers, it’s been a constant struggle to keep him off our laptops. We gave him an old laptop to play with, but he quickly demolished the keyboard. So, we decided that a great present for Robin would be an age-appropriate computer toy. After doing some research we settled on the LeapFrog ClickStart:

It communicates wirelessly with a console that hooks into the TV, so he gets to bang on a keyboard and move a mouse around, but the screen display is the television. There are lots of games for the ClickStart: it comes with four, and we also bought a Thomas the Tank Engine expansion cartridge that has three additional games. These are aimed at kids three and up, so some of them are a bit too advanced for him right now, but Robin’s already gotten the hang of the simpler games. And he loooooooves it.

He loves it to, frankly, a kind of scary extent. The first night he got to play with the ClickStart, he threw an enormous, epic tantrum—the likes of which we’d never seen before—when we finally turned it off and told him it was time for bed. Not wanting to see that behavior again, we’ve been limiting his time with the games, and not allowing it right before bed.

There’s a running debate in parenting/early education circles about the appropriate use of games and TV for small children. Some educators recommend no screen time at all for toddlers, and most recommend strictly limited amounts. Because Sam and I are both big nerds, we tend to view electronics pretty positively, and our instincts are to be fairly liberal about letting Robin explore this world. So far I’ve been very impressed with Robin’s ability to determine, for himself, what he needs in order to learn and grow: he seems to really seek out appropriate challenges for himself. There is a lot of educational content in the games and programming that we give him: he’s already learning numbers from Sesame Street—not, I think, the concept of mathematics, but he likes to chant along when they’re counting to ten. He’s only reliable up to three, but he sort of hums along for the other numbers. He does the same thing with the alphabet.

So, I only feel slightly conflicted about allowing Robin to watch his videos when he asks, or to spend time on the ClickStart. I am keeping a close eye on his behavior, though, and if it turns out that screen time really is associated with more problematic behavior for him, that’ll be a big strike against the games.

Anyway, right now we’re all headed out to the park. Hope everyone is having a wonderful winter day!

I’ve either just passed or am nearing the end of the first trimester, depending on how you break the weeks down—some count it to twelve weeks, some to fourteen—and, pretty much on cue, I’m feeling less fatigue and the morning sickness is ebbing away.

Unfortunately, what’s ramping up instead is worse: the rollercoaster of emotional instability that I remember from my first pregnancy too. I call it The Crazy, as in, “Here comes The Crazy.” It’s awful because it’s so hard to recognize if you’re being crazy when you’re crazy: in those moments, obviously, your judgment isn’t functioning at its best. It always seems like I ought to be able to compensate for fluctuating hormones with rational thought, and yet in practice that just never seems to work.

I think my first inkling of The Crazy came, not from last night’s screaming fight with Sam (can’t remember the last time that happened—and this time it was over a smear of chocolate on my needlework, for which I felt Sam was exhibiting a monstrously insufficient level of remorse and concern), but from finding myself sobbing helplessly in front of the computer monitor over a relatively innocuous story of the Depression. It wasn’t even the deaths or the malnutrition or anything. It was the bungalows and the cannery that were torn down, the sense of change not necessarily for the better, the glimpse of a sweet way of life lost. The nostalgia just swamped me and I broke out crying. That seems pretty crazy.

And, oh yes, day before yesterday I was weeping openly on the street, pushing Robin in his stroller, because Sam’s taken up smoking again and I’m worried about him dying of lung cancer.

I hope the waterworks don’t last for another six months. I don’t think they did last time; the second trimester was the worst in terms of emotional fragility, probably? I joked during my last pregnancy that Hallmark should make sympathy cards: “I’m sorry you’re crazy!” Because, really, it sucks. I’d rather have the morning sickness.

This little ticker will update daily to show how far along I am in this pregnancy, so anyone who’s particularly interested (hi Mom!) can bookmark this post and check back whenever they like.

We don’t really know very much at this stage (haven’t had an ultrasound yet), but we do already have the names picked out: if he’s a boy he’ll be Luke David Phillips, and we’ll call him Davy; if she’s a girl she’ll be Rosaura Gayle Phillips, and we’ll call her Rosaura — or Rose or Rosa or Rosie or Rosarita or Petal or Rose-storm or Stinky Flower or any one of five hundred things, probably.

I’m watching Robin eat squash soup, all by himself, with a spoon. I tried to get him just to drink it from a cup, but he wants to use the spoon. It’s crazy messy, but I know that it’s good practice for him, and that it’s toddler nature to want to do things the way his parents do. He’s no fool: he can see perfectly well that we eat our soup with spoons, and he’s made it his job to figure out how to do that too.

I actually love watching his care and concentration as he navigates the soup to his mouth. And more than that: there’s something deeply, intensely rewarding in watching my son slurp up his vitamin-packed, all-organic, all-local, cooked-from-scratch squash soup. It’s like with every bite he takes my hindbrain purrs, good mom, good mom. Partly because food = love in my brain, but even more particularly because it’s squash soup, and I associate squash with my mom, so it’s like: Yes! I’m doing it right!

Weird the kind of deep buttons food can push for us, huh? Well, at least the mess is pretty localized, so it’ll be easy enough to mop up later.

So we’re here in Baltimore visiting Nina and Bizzy and the utterly snorglable baby Silas, enjoying the (considerable!) charms of Charm City—we all went to the railroad museum yesterday, and today we’re planning to hit the aquarium. But I want to tell you about our adventure last night, after we’d kissed the baby’s toes for the last time and headed back to our plush hotel.

We knew we needed diapers, so we stopped by a grocery store to pick some up. However we got distracted in there (“We should pick up some bananas!” “How about some cheese?”) and ended up coming out with two full bags that did not include any diapers. We only realized our mistake back in the hotel room, two bananas later, when Robin started tugging at his pants and announcing “Poopy! Poopy!”

He sure was. He was very, very stinky: and we were out of diapers. It was close to midnight local time (we were still awake because it’s three hours earlier in San Francisco). We called down to the concierge and asked if there were any 24-hour groceries or drug stores nearby. He suggested a 7-11 a block away, so Sam set off on foot to buy some diapers, while I stayed back in the room to distract my poopy boy.

Unfortunately, the 7-11 didn’t have any diapers, so Sam was back ten minutes later and I was on the phone with the concierge again, getting directions to a grocery store a bit further afield. Meanwhile, Robin, perceiving that Sam was about to go out again, began expressing his desire to go along. It started with him tugging on Sam’s pant leg and then running to the door: “No,” said Sam, “you should stay here.”

“Maybe we should go with you,” I offered, “I can help you navigate and make sure you can read my directions.”

“No,” said Sam, “it’ll be easier if I just go. You’re in your pajamas.”

“It would only take me a minute to get dressed. The boy can stay in his PJs.”

Sam looked over at Robin. “Well, I guess since he’s already got his shoes on he might as well come.”

“Okay!” I said brightly, and started changing. Somewhere in the middle of that I actually registered what Sam had said. Indeed, Robin was standing by the door in his pajamas and sneakers. “Wait,” I said, “did YOU put his shoes on him?”

“No,” said Sam, “I assumed you did.”

“I sure didn’t. Has he got socks on?”

No, he didn’t have any socks on, and that clinched it: neither of us had put his shoes on him. Robin had put his shoes on all by himself. And yet that, while a notable “first” and an important achievement for a little boy, is only the third most amazing thing about this story!

The second most amazing thing, to me, is the multi-step chain of logic he must have used. “Daddy’s going outside,” he must have thought to himself. “I want to go with Daddy. In order to go outside I’ll need to have my shoes on. I’d better put on my shoes!” I didn’t quite realize he was capable of such logical and ordered thought at this stage.

But the most amazing thing of all is that it worked. Robin was absolutely correct in his thinking. It was because he already had his shoes on that Sam decided to bring him along. He was right!

Robin has developed a bathtime ritual. He did it on his own; it took us a while to even notice. He got a set of dolphin-shaped bath toys for his birthday, and he likes to play with them in the tub. When it’s time to get out he’ll often grab a couple to take with him.

Then we noticed that out of a dozen or so plastic dolphins, it’s always the same two that he grabs: the orange and the light red (there’s also a dark red dolphin, but that one he never chooses). And he only holds on to them while we’re drying him off and putting him in his jammies. Once he’s set loose, the first thing he does is run back to the tub and drop the dolphins back in with the others. What purpose does this ritual serve? We have no idea.

He’s definitely gotten into the stage where he likes his routines. I think he mostly likes being able to make predictions about the world. He gets upset when, for instance, we start walking towards a destination he recognizes, like the park or the grocery store, but then veer off to go somewhere else. I think his understanding of the order of things is foggy enough that he really clings to the parts of it he can predict or control. Sometimes we call him the Iron Tyrant, on account of how harshly he protests when his expectations are violated.

At the same time, he is delighted by small acts of transgression. His very favorite reaction to provoke from us is one of surprise or mild disapproval: not anger, he doesn’t like that at all, but the recoil when (say) he runs up and licks us is hilarious to him. He craves our approval, of course, but it also seems that he craves our disapproval: he needs to know where the boundaries are, and he needs to push them just a little.

So that’s a toddler in a nutshell: he likes his routines, he wants a predictable environment, but at the same time he’s always testing and pushing the boundaries. Trying to bring more of the world under his control. Mwah ha hah, says the Iron Tyrant!

This was supposed to be a fig galette with gorgonzola custard. I was very careful when I made the pastry dough not to overwork the dough; I let it chill in the fridge for a couple of hours and then, again, took great care in rolling it out to the proper thickness; I mounded the figs in the center, folded the dough over, and poured in the custard mixture very slowly, so as not to spill a drop; and then, five minutes before the baking time given in the recipe was up, I smelled the burning.

That was most of an afternoon’s work, completely unsalvagable. I’m posting it here just to show that I have my share of spectacular failures!

Robin has made the leap from babbling “mama” to saying “Mommy” quite clearly when he wants my attention. I was delighted by this for about half a day, until it became clear that he doesn’t just say Mommy. He also cries it, wails it, sobs it: Moooommmeeee, Moooommmeee, with a quaver in his voice and tears shining in his sweet face. It’s a devastating weapon he’s developed, the nuclear option of the toddler world, and he unleashes it at the very slightest provocation. Are the fig bars gone? Moooommmeee, Moooommmeee, as if his little heart were breaking. Have I refused to put in a movie for him? Moooommmeee, Moooommmeee. Is he getting sleepy? Does he want a bath? Will the kitty not let him pet her? Moooommmeee!

He’s a little bit sick—I am, too: it’s just a runny nose and a sore throat. I fear it’s making us both whiny.

Of course just as I decide I’m going to barricade myself in the bedroom he goes and does something weird and cute, like licking me, which is apparently the new game du jour. When I go “ewww!” he laughs like a fiend. And I’m willing to be licked for hours if it means I don’t have listen to the piteous wail of Moooommmeee.

The house deal fell apart and our vegetable box was stolen. Robin poured a glass of water over my cellphone and now it’s a nice paperweight.

I’m reminding myself that at least we all have our health. Somebody at Sam’s work came down with swine flu, so “at least we don’t have swine flu” makes a pretty good refrain. For now.