JULA EMERSON GEIB: YEAR ONE

"A baby will make love stronger, days shorter, nights longer, bankroll smaller, home happier, clothes shabbier, the past forgotten, and the future worth living for."
Anonymous

*****

March 2007
The Honeymoon Period

On March 16th, 2007, my mommy and daddy came come from the Community Memorial Hospital with me, their daughter, in the car seat of their Honda Civic. They were most excited at this big event in their lives and their first-born (me!), but I was more concerned with the more immediate preoccupations of food, sleep, and voiding.

In fact, this was pretty much all I was about for the first few weeks. I slept some sixteen hours or more per day, and when I was awake my parents held and cuddled with me:

It was a pretty good life, eh? I slept next to my parents bed in a bassinet, or in my crib next to my Paddington Bear; my parents had my room was all made up and ready for me weeks and even months before I arrived.

I had these spindly little arms and legs which I kind of flailed about, not having much control over them yet. I endured hiccups that seemingly would never end. But the doctor, on the fifth day of my life no less, noted that I had actually gained two ounces, when most newborns lose approximately 10% of their body weight. And he also noted that I had the neck muscles of a two-month old! I had my fussy periods and could scream like any other baby when the mood struck, but I was a pretty easy baby, comparatively speaking.

But my brain and understanding were still very immature. I still seemed a bit "asleep,", and my parents had to wait a bit for me to "awaken" and become more responsive. I watched and heard everything and took it all in, and in time I would come to understand more my surroundings. I just knew the most important thing: when I needed something and cried, my parents would come and attend to me. I felt my parent's love and attention. I never felt alone or unwanted. I so often felt my parent's presence and knew their smell and touch in some direct, primal place of my immature brain.

But my parents were a bit disappointed that I could not return their smiles or give proper respect to their tender attentions. That was considerably beyond me. I was focused on learning how to suck and process milk through my digestive system: this was a big thing for me at that time! More refined human actions would have to wait for later. I would attend to the basics first.

But if I was a bit clueless about what went on around me, my parents had the consolation that I was absolutely adorable! Tiny and helpless; implausibly miniature hands and feet: a new life, just like the rising of the early morning sun. Who could see me and resist? Not my parents.

Yes, my parents were in love! They would often just sit there staring at me with smiles on their faces. Often I would fall asleep in my mother's arms or cuddled on my father's chest. My father would take pictures or shoot video of me, and my mother would sing and play with me on her lap. At four in the morning when I woke up hungry and cried for food, they were less enthusiastic. In fact, they seemed downright groggy. But I never went hungry for long and always found comfort when I cried. Even in those early days, the world seemed a place where I mattered. Unfortunately, I was so young and immature that I barely registered anything larger than a nipple. I was pretty clueless -- and so were my parents, They were so nervous about even the smallest things, and the smallest things were hard for me.

Beginnings are delicate things, and the Geib family set about trying to figure itself out here at the beginning -- during my first month outside of the womb. My father learned how to hold a baby and change a diaper. My mother learned that she could breast feed just fine. I learned how to suck at the teat and strain and pass gas and poop.

This entire first month could be best described as an "adjustment period" for everyone involved, but the first two weeks can be properly called the "honeymoon stage."

  • Week One Video: Parents and child get to know each other at the very beginning of it all! (123.4 mb)

April 2007
Crying My Eyes Out!

"When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools."
William Shakespeare
King Lear

After a relatively quiet first two weeks, my father went back to work at his high school on March 28th with my mother staying home to care for me. This by itself was an adjustment, especially for my mother.

Life also started to become a bit more difficult around this time, as became a bit more alert but also much more fussy. I would take on my usual load of breast milk late in the evening, and then I would start to whimper, then cry, and end of howling in pain as my immature stomach strained to digest and move nutriments. My parents would become almost disconsolate as they rocked and tried to sooth me, and I merely screamed further into their ears. Around one or two in the morning our household took on something of the air of a siege mentality, with baby crying on and on and parents desperately trying to pacify baby and put an end to the crying. That should a small creature such as myself could cause so much noise! My father would reflect on the fact that if anyone other than a baby screamed like that, he would immediately call 911. My mother took my piercing shrieks to heart and would almost start crying herself, feeling each cry from her baby as a cri de coeur of physical pain. Had the baby been fed? Yes. Was her diaper clean? Check. Had she been comforted by parents? Yes. Were the surroundings quiet and soothing. Check. Is the temperature temperate? Yes. THEN WHY IS SHE CRYING LIKE SHE IS UNDERGOING TORTURE! Nobody knew.

You see what I mean?

Well, babies cry. It was nothing personal from my end. Sometimes baby cry and parents just have to endure it. I would have a few good evenings and then a very bad one of bawling all night long. I would bawl until I was so exhausted that I would almost fall asleep between screams and sobs.

Finally, I would sleep. My mother would become so distraught during my cry sessions she would begin to cry herself; it was as if she physically felt my cries. Although he did not enjoy me yelling into his eardrums, my father was more stoic. He wondered if he might even miss those late nights with baby. But a screaming baby is stressful for any parent. (April 6th, 11th, and another growth spurt around the 21st... these were long and grim evenings for mommy and daddy.)

My parents read best-selling books like The Happiest Baby on the Block where author Dr. Harvey Karp instructs parents in the "five S's" (swaddling, side/stomach, shushing, swinging, sucking) towards being able to "calm crying and help your newborn baby sleep longer." It sometimes worked, sometimes didn't. Or it seemed like sometimes my parents could get me to stop crying temporarily, but I got so worked up not even God could have calmed me down. I would cry for long periods of time, for seemingly no reason, and then I would stop, again, seemingly for no reason.

The evenings could be long and full of anxiety, piercing screams, and parents at their wit's end, and then the next morning I would be the perfect baby and all was tranquility and harmony. Angelic one moment, demonic the next. The happiness of my parents at my beatific tininess was tempered by a certain fear of what might happen in that next hour. They had heard about those difficult first weeks when baby did not sleep through the night, and they soldiered on. My dad arrived to his classes in the mornings bleary-eyed and exhausted. Others told him that this was just a stage and that I, baby Julia, would move past it to sleep through the night around three months or so. My father would fall fast asleep during his lunch period, drool coming out of his mouth onto his desk as students re-entered his room for afternoon classes. Time slowed down and became blurry. What day is it? What did we do in yesterday's class? What is my name again? My dad would sleep like a dead man during his 30 minute lunch break on the couch in his classroom. It was a quasi-twilight zone existence for a while. It was not unexpected.

My Aunt Katie told my parents simply to hunker down for those first difficult six weeks, and that things would improve then. She said that as a baby they would simply sit my cousin Patrick near the sink with the water running, and that this noise would calm and sooth him; Aunt Katie and Uncle Steve McEwen might have had exorbitant bills from the water company, but they had a measure of peace and quiet when Patrick was in his colicky stage. Aunt Katie suggested my parents try this tactic. My father did and sometimes it worked. He recorded various other sounds that supposedly echoed the noises I heard while in the womb and put them in his iPod to play over me in my midnight and beyond bawl sessions --

-- and sometimes it worked, sometimes not. Or more often than not, it would work for a limited time until my peevishness overcame any natural diversions. My father watched Dr. Karp's propaganda video, and with bitter sarcasm he would wonder how many takes it took to get THAT on film -- and how many failures did NOT make it into his promotional video!

Late in the early morning darkness my father would look down at me howling and wonder why -- what was wrong, what was I feeling? He never got much of an answer. None of the obvious problems presented themselves as a cause. My father, at best, simply watched me grimace, scream, and writhe in my crib. The infamous baby doctor Benjamin Spock told parents: "Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do." My dad was not so sure.

He had read thoroughly several books about raising babies, but the process was more art than science, my father concluded. Much was unknown; each baby was different. No baby communicated much to researchers directly. They were an incredibly variation of baby behaviors that were "normal." Certain book's authors took diametrically opposed viewpoints. Consequently, my dad was left scratching his head, and he sort of figured that time would cure me of my late night fussiness more than anything he might or might not do. He was right. My mother would frown in pain when I cried, feeling each cry physically as if it were her own. My father sometimes made crying noises along with me. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!" My mother would unendingly try to conceive what was the genesis of my crying; if she could uncover the cause, she could remove it. My father more resigned himself to my crying and figured it came with the territory: past a point, he reasoned, babies are unreasonable creatures. Babies cry. Parents do what they can. Eventually, parents and baby move beyond infancy; this malady time will cure.

My dad was never quite sure exactly what was going on with me. He stopped worrying and kept one eye on the calendar.

Perhaps my dad should have ready fewer books and just watched me closer, letting life itself instruct. Yet even after I had finished one of my marathon crying sessions and finally fallen asleep in my bassinet, my father would remain looking down at me and wonder what kind of person was his daughter. It was hard to tell through all the crying and newborn flailing of spindly arms and legs, and only time would tell. My father had absolutely no experience with babies before me. He just had the rock firm conviction that I was his daughter and he would do whatever it took to raise me well.

Do you not understand what I mean? Then read this --

-- and you will understand more fully.

My parents were enormously happy with me, overall. I was a healthy baby, the future looked bright, and they never lost sight of just how lucky they were in this; everything else was minor and endurable, if their daughter was in good health. They kept the big picture in mind and waited out my fussiness. For a limited time a person can put with just about anything. Furthermore, my parents had thought long and hard about becoming parents and were reconciled to enduring its pains as much as basking in its joys. As in other parts of their lives, they were not persons easily discouraged. And my father suspected that even when a baby screams bloody murder in your ear it shows a strong fighting spirit, and that is all to the good! My pediatrician, Dr. Kevin White, pronounced it "miraculous" that I was able to hold my head up when he saw me on my fifth day of life - I supposedly had the neck strength of a two month-old! My dad would have preferred me a bit fussy and physically strong rather than docile and languid. His preference was granted.

Friends brought meals and gifts to our house in large numbers in those early days, and veteran mothers gave loads of good, practical advice on raising infants --

-- and my parents did grow more skilled and confident as parents over time.

And if I did cry bloody murder at times like I did not in my first two weeks of life, I was also more "awake" and less "asleep" --

-- wasn't I just cute as a button?

I was still pretty much all about eating, sleeping, digesting, pooping, and emitting gases from various parts of my body. I was not yet operating at the rational or fully "awake" level. When my father put me on his shoulder and rock me, for example, I would sometimes turn my head and try to breast feed from his ear - as a newborn infant the entire world to me was pretty much a nipple, in much the same way that to a hammer all the world is a nail.

But I would only become more alert and responsive with time. My parents held out the prospect of one day not far off when I would look up out of my bassinet at my doting parents and beam a smile of recognition and happiness at them.

Bliss, thy name would be Richard and Maria at that moment!

That moment came on Saturday evening April 28th, 2007. Rocking back and forth in the swing, I looked up and smiled at my father for the first time. He was so shocked you could have knocked him over with a feather. He was half-convinced it was not a smile but gas. It was not gas.

May 2007
Riding Out the Storm

"A baby is an inestimable blessing and bother."
Mark Twain

The natural cycle of my life continued to have a life of its own: I would have a few good days, and then a growth spurt or something would start and then for a space of three or four days I would cry several hours daily. Actually, I would scream in pain for several hours almost non-stop. Terri Carrol, the pro brought in to help my parents at night with me, pronounced me the most colicky baby she had ever seen - "and I have seen a lot of babies," she added. My parents were not overjoyed to hear this pronouncement, and they had pretty much concluded this kind of crying was normal in a baby. Terri reminded them it was not. There is normal baby crying; there is also a baby shrieking in pain -- and I had the latter all too often.

An ultrasound exam of my stomach was ordered to check on my pylorus sphincter, but there was too much gas to see much, believe it or not! Anti-ulcer medication ("zantec") was prescribed to me to cut down on the acid in my stomach. There were Mylicon drops and "gripe water," and every other home remedy in the world passed on to my parents from worried onlookers. The weeks dragged on. My parents grew to shun any "cure" and simply watched the calendar for the end of the eleven and twelve week markers when this sort of crying was supposedly to fall off and the digestive system matured. The crying usually started around nine in the evening, and it might just go until around one or two in the morning. I generally cried in pain until I was so exhausted I collapsed into a prolonged sleep.

Yes, there were some stressful moments and my parents at times seemed at their wit's end in these first eight weeks. There would be a wave of crying for a few days, and then there would be a quiet period of exhaustion before it started again; my parents learned to respect and ride out the natural wave of this crying cycle --

Difficult and trying times.

But even in those late night crying spells my father was always a bit in awe of the miracle of my existence. What a treasure, what a gift! It would be a mistake to think my parents regretted the entire experience. They sought to keep this in perspective.

For example, other parents had sickly progeny with congenital diseases and feared for their children's lives. In contrast, my father had a baby that cried and screamed -- he figured that was not much of a problem, relatively speaking. Some very unfortunate parents had children who lived in hospital intensive care units, or endured an ominous "failure to thrive" diagnosis. In contrast, I ate like a ravenous lion, passed through piles of diapers, and grew quickly in size and weight: this fact was more important than any crying -- Julia's two month doctor's checkup produced a growth chart that showed Julia in the 95th percentile with regards to growth and weight. Not bad! I was remarkably strong and wiggled and squirmed so much even in these early days. I almost always was wearing only one sock - the other discarded somewhere in my screaming and kicking. It was almost a metaphor for those early days.

My father never doubted my strength. He figured as long as I ate liberally, grew strong, and was healthy I could cry as much as I wanted, as far as he was concerned. Everyone told him the crying would pass as time passed and my digestive system matured. In fact, the doctor predicted my colic spell would peak around week five and six and then lessen, and he was pretty much correct. Around the beginning of May I started to make some interesting cooing sounds, much like a feral racoon. My parents grew more used to my crying. I went longer between feedings. My eyes could track more. I slept less.

In short, I was becoming more interesting.

My parents were also learning to relax and enjoy me. For example, on weekend afternoons they would take me out of my crib and lay me down between them as they lie in bed. Then we would all cuddle and nap as a family; my mother on one side of me, father on the other - a sort of tent of intimacy around me as we slept and shared our bodily warmth. My father would kiss my forehead and then kiss my mother and proclaim quietly how much he loved "his girls," his family. The three of us would lie in silence and the stillness of shared sleep --

-- it does not get much better than that in life.

In between extended fits of crying and sleeping, I began to have longer cogent periods. Sure, I was pretty much out of it most of the time and stared off into space or sank inward with my own thoughts. But once or twice by mid-May I would be in a pleasant and conversational mood, and I would focus on my parents and coo and even smile back at my parent's smiles --

-- do you see what I mean?

Five and six weeks came and went, and my crying did not improve. My father took to putting me in the sling and simply waiting for me to fight the tight swaddling against his body until I grew tired and went to sleep; this calmed me almost without exception. In the tight confines of the swing I would put my hand up like when I was in the womb as a foetus, my knees up by my face. It was impossible to flail my arms and legs and too hard to cry. What else was there to endure the tight space and go to sleep.

Is this not how parents all throughout the Third World and through huge stretches of history carried their young?

June 2007
Beginning to Enjoy It!

"A baby girl...
one of the most beautiful miracles in life,
one of the greatest joys we can ever know,
and one of the reasons why
there is a little extra sunshine, laughter and happiness
in your world today."
Anonymous

By around the end of May my periods of full-meltdown had started to dwindle and my lucid periods of smiles and interaction with my parents had increased. Parent after parent had counseled my exhausted parents that "things would get better," and this finally started to come true. More and more I was able to at some length dialogue with my parents --

-- before I became exhausted, overwhelmed and then retreated back into my "thousand yard stare" and avoided my parent's eyes by looking the other way. My parents marveled at the cognitive development occurred right before their eyes on almost a daily basis. There was a marked improvement in maturity, even compared to two weeks previously! My baby acne had cleared up and I was much more substantial little weight when held in my parent's arms. My face was rounder and my gaze more firm. In short, I was maturing.

  • Morning Feeding: Mother and daughter bonding time.
  • Toy Time: Playing with my Tiffany's "Man in the Moon" rattle from Julia in Switzerland!

My father, in particular, never ceased to be in awe of the entire situation. That the numerous tiny bones and tendons in my finger and knee joints worked as they should, that my kidneys unerringly performed the complex filtering of my blood 24 hours a day, and that my heart and breathing never failed as I woke up from even the deepest REM sleep - he found this to be nothing short of miraculous. My parents still marveled a bit that they had this flesh and blood human being that they had created together. It has happened relatively fast. Had this little creature actually been conceived in love, grown inside, and then delivered from Maria Geib?

Not only that, but my parents were actually beginning to consider themselves not the worst parents in the world! They would feed me around seven at night, give me a bath every other evening --

-- and then dry me and put my pajamas on, rock me a bit while playing classical music, and then darken the room and put in my bassinet -- and I actually went to sleep! My stomach gradually began to calm down and I became more like a "normal" baby. As I ceased to cry and scream so much my parents managed to get more sleep, and hence they parents began to relax. As I became more social and had longer awake periods, everyone became happier. We exited the "crisis mode" where the Geib household had moved into a "bunker mentality." We entered a time of happy familyhood.

Everyone had told my parents that parenting would get better around three months into it, and they were right. Colic began to recede into the rearview mirror as my journey towards mature infanthood gathered speed. My parents could not have been more relieved! There were two or three "touch and go" moments in those first few months, when my mother was just about on her last wit. In the middle of one of my crying fits my father would sit me down on his chest and most earnestly ask me, "Why, little Julia? Why? You are fed, changed, warm, and loved! Why then do you cry on and on like this?" There was no answer to these questions. I was a baby; I cried. That was it.

But maturity progressed onward, and everyday there seemed some progress. For example, in addition to the standard crying I would also coo and smile back and forth with my parents, trying to echoes their noises with my own "ahhhs" and "oooos." I sought to master tongue and the art of making noise with mouth, and I could communicate back and forth with my parents for some ten to fifteen minutes until I was done. I would have had as much as I could handle. Then I would avoid my parent's gaze and look left and right curiously at the lamp or wall. I was done for at least a few hours. But then I would come back stronger than ever the next day; and so I progressed in learning little by little, perceptively making progress in controlling my hands and fingers and learning to speak.

My parents had travel around me the iPod with classical music for children surrounding me; my father at first objected to the fruity-cutesy interpretation of the classical music, but it was explained to him that the higher pitched music was easier on an infant's sensitive hearing, and so a piece like this --

in baby-land now sounded like this --

My father had previously envisioned an existence continually surrounded by the best music. At first, silence seemed best when tiny Julia the newborn was finally and precariously at sleep. Then, in the first few months, serious instrumental music somehow seemed too much, too threatening -- and so he went with the flow and "Baby Einstein" was it. One had to adjust one's vision to changing realities on the ground, my father realized. So I often fell asleep to a background such as this --

This was not what my father had envisioned for me when he spent months preparing music for my iPod, but it was the reality, at least for the time being. There is the vision and the dream, and then there is the reality. Alas!

At any rate, by around the end of May I mostly slept through the night; I would take one final feeding around 10:30 at night, and then I would sleep straight through until around 6 in the morning. This was a great blessing to my parents - and for my mother, in particular. Emerson was correct when he claimed, "There never was a child so lovely but his Mother was glad to see him asleep" --

I almost never held one of my crying/screaming fits in the middle of the night. And by the middle of June I was able to reach out and grab toys and blankets in my bassinet, or my mother's hair or father's glasses when held by them. This was another cognitive benchmark for me. And only at their own risk did my parents ever hold me without a small hand towel to wipe up my spit ups and the drool continually dribbling down my baby chin. "If you were to open up a baby's head - and I am not for a moment suggesting that you should - you would find nothing but an enormous drool gland," claimed Dave Berry, and so it was with me in my third month of life outside my mother's womb.

On June 16th, 2007, my father's classes let out for the summer and I could see more of him for the next two months! June 16th was also just about the exact anniversary of my conception, and hence the end of the school year would always take on new meaning in terms of celebrating and marking new beginnings. Good times!

Summer vacation -- two months of mommy, daddy, and little Julia with not too much else to get in the way! What a special, precious time this would be!

July 2007
Summer Fun

“In summer, the song sings itself.”
William Carlos Williams

By July we had sunk into the intimate swing of summer languor: lots of visits and playtime with not only mom but dad. I was much more a "solid" infant well-settled into life, and my parents no longer worried about the malady that dare not speak its name. I would spend considerable time just sitting there looking around and playing with my hands or putting everything in my mouth: this astounded my parents, who wondered if this is what a "normal" baby looked like. For so long I had either slept or screamed, and now I was like a new child. My parents were much relieved, although I still needed so much of their time and energy. The difference now was that my parents enjoyed me more. Everyone had told my parents that "things would get better with time" and they were right.

Don't get me wrong: I still cried, and sometimes I even howled. I had my "Jekyll and Hyde" routine. But I never howled for hours with acid reflux as in earlier months, and I usually cried for a clearly defined (more or less) grievance which my parents could (usually) satisfy. I cried when I was hungry, for example, and I was fed; the crying ended. I cried when I was tired, and my parents put me down in a quiet place to sleep. I fell asleep.

Clearly, this was much better than before.

  • Patrick, Sean, and Julia: July 4th in Irvine with the cousins at the Woodbridge Independence Day Parade.
  • 4th of July Video: A slideshow montage of the cousins celebrating together in a wheelbarrow. (15mb)

Once or twice a day, often after feedings, I started cooing and making noises to myself in what was the beginning of acquiring speech - my parents called it "talking to myself." I grabbed anything within arm's reach, often my mom's hair. I stuck everything around in my mouth, usually my blanket or bib. I drooled and drooled and drooled; my parents were obliged to bring a little white towel everywhere I went. They threatened to rename me "Droolia."

I was four month's old! I was now mature enough to engage my parents more substantially and at more length. Everyone was happier.

Where previously my parents had struggled just to survive fits of screaming, now I settled firmly into something of a routine. I awoke around seven for my morning feeding followed by a nap, and then the 10 and 1 and 4 and 7 feedings all followed by naps. In my awake periods my father and mother would grab my arms and legs and jiggle them around as I smiled and cooed. Around ten at night my parents gave me a bath, then clothed me in my pajamas, put on soft music, and laid me down to sleep for then night after one final feeding. This routine gave me stability and structure to my day.

My father lamented the fact that often he was more an “assistant mommy” than a bona fide "father." My needs were many and relatively basic: feeding, burping, diaper changing, and soothing when crying. My father was willing and happy to help mommy as much as he could. On the other hand, what my father considered his greatest fathering gifts would not come into play until later. Reading at bedtime, enrolling and coaching Julia’s soccer team, etc. My father consoled himself with the thought that those would come in time.

Moreover, my parents never lost sight of the fact that they were incredibly lucky to have a healthy baby. My father was always a bit incredulous when other parents lamented overly how the demands of a child was cutting into their golf game or time with friends. How many would-be parents would do almost anything to have a healthy baby but could not conceive, or how many carry heavy burdens for decades with ill or disabled children. Perhaps this was simply a byproduct of my father being an older dad: he had the big-picture and long-view in mind. He was always thankful.

On July 16, 2007, I had my four month doctor's check up. I was already up to 16.3 pounds in weight, but most surprisingly I was already 25.5 inches long. My parents, on the way out of the doctor's office, encountered another set of parents with their four month old baby and she was a midget compared to me. At any rate, I was in the 90% compared to my peers in weight and length. My parents began to wonder how tall I might be later in life.

I was also teething. I would scratch at my left ear constantly and bite and gnaw on whatever was at hand to release the pressure on my gums. I also developed my first slight fever, perhaps as a result of the teething of my second round of vaccination shots I received at my four month doctor's checkup. My dad noticed me suddenly becoming quite listless, as when he held me I plopped my head down on his check and slept for two hours straight. My forehead was hot to the touch, and my parents used their baby thermometers for the first time: 99.9 degrees. A slight fever, but my parents hovered about and held and rocked me with a worried and attentive air. They caressed my back and forehead and told me how much they loved me. Even in my feverish state, I looked up and smiled back at them now and again. But mostly I slept and slept and slept. In two day's time I was fine again.

My father did not like the feeling when his daughter was ill. Did not like it all!

My parents also strove to detect the individual traits which when all taken together would be my unique individual personality. It seemed clear that, as an infant at least, I was shy. My parents took the adventurous step in July of taking me to two parties in one night, one of which sported a live band and dancing. When brought near the music and crowd I began to howl. My father had to take me out of the party and walk the neighboring streets for fifteen minutes until my emotional state again found its equilibrium. Furthermore, I most often cried when my parents handed me to strangers. There seemed a point -- and this point was reached easily -- where I just had too much stimulation and would suffer an emotional meltdown. I would cry and cry. My parents wondered about me. Of course, none of this should have surprised them. My father was exactly the same way, and his father even worse. My parents were fairly quiet and introverted people.

I was also a stubborn little baby! I would not -- absolutely would not! -- take a bottle for feeding. Both my parents tried at length to get me to eat from a bottle in the first few months of my life and for up to an hour or two I would fight them and cry and scream. My parents relented and I got the breastfeeding that I wanted instead of the bottle.

How much of this was indicative of my core personality which would only become more apparent with time? My parents would have to wait and see.

An increasing worry for my parents -- especially my mom -- was the fact that I would not take a bottle. No, I refused to eat except when my mom gave me her soft, warm breast with the skin contact and the milk at just the right temperature. I was no dummy -- why should I take milk in any other way? But my mom has nightmares about day care starting without me eating in any other way but from her. She thought maybe she would have physically to leave work just to feed me. So they enlisted a professional: Leni, a pediatric nurse, took me for a whole day, and by the end of that day I was taking a bottle. Our doctor had warned my parents that no baby ever starved by refusing to take a bottle: if the baby is hungry enough, it will take a bottle. So it finally went with me.

After Leni broke me like a cowboy breaking a wild stallion, I would take a bottle from my father and this was a great relief for my parents. Daddy made the entire eating process enjoyable enough. He jumped around like a cheerleader while preparing my bottle, and he was loud and emphatic with his exhortations and praise when I drank from the bottle. For my part, when I was hungry I was able to satisfy my hunger this way. It worked for everyone.

What else? I discovered my feet, and then I promptly put them in my mouth. My parents thought this a bit uncouth, but they consoled themselves with the knowledge that my feet were not ever walking on the ground and it could not be too unsanitary.

Summer progressed. Our family grew in understanding of each other and in love for each other.

August 2007
A Time of Transition

"August creates as she slumbers, replete and satisfied."
Joseph Wood Krutch

With the arrival of August came less drastic physical changes for me: I acquired better manual dexterity and could move object from hand to hand, and seemingly took in more and more in my silent gaze as I watched mommy and daddy move around the room, but it was not like the first three months when every couple weeks I looked like a different baby. No, at five months of age the change in me was more subtle: brain maturation and better understanding of human speech, intense and painful teething, less sleep and more awake time. The change was taking place "under the hood," not readily apparent at first glance.

What was apparent by the start of August was the Geib family hand enjoyed a positive, bonding summer. I now took a bottle from my daddy, and this freed mommy up for the first time since my birth. By the beginning of August daddy was in charge of the 10:30 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. feedings, and so mommy could leave and meet friends for lunch somewhere and be gone for a large chunk of the day. She could, to an extent, get a bit of her life back. I was left with daddy, and this provided us with many fruitful afternoons of play and etc

The first two weeks were the "dog days" of summer, languor reigning supreme. Mommy would wake me at 7:00 a.m. for my morning feeding, or else I would wake her first with importunate whines and cries that demanded a feeding. Afterwards, mommy and I would join daddy who was still asleep in my parent's bed and we would happily sleep until around 11 in the morning.

This shared intimacy of lazy sleep was perhaps the best thing about the entire summer.

But summer was coming to an end. And if I did not change drastically in my appearance, our family life did change drastically. My parents prepared to return to work as teachers with a new set of classes for the 2007-2008 school year, and they introduced me to Amalia Escobar -- my day care provider. For many months my parents had Amalia lined up, and on Monday August 13, 2007 they delivered me to her at 9:00 p.m. but picked me up at 1:00 p.m. after several hours of crying. My mother also cried that day, as she walked away from Amalia's house without me and received a consoling hug from her husband. The day care option would take some getting used to for both child and parents.

My parents also bought a new car! They purchased a 2007 Honda CRV that would be the "baby mobile" with plenty of room for my baby stroller in the back, as well as all the other accoutrements (diaper bag, etc.) I brought with me wherever I went. My mother would be kidded that with this new car she was officially a suburban "soccer mom," but the car made sense and mommy was thrilled.

So the school year started, and my father took me to Amalia's in the morning and my mom picked me up after school let out. Starting their new classes and adapting to day care, my parents were utterly exhausted after the first week of school. They surely had much on their plates between work and baby and they worried about me and day care. They scrutinized me at night and wondered what I had done all day, and they questioned if perhaps mommy staying home with me would have been better. They trusted Amalia and her many, many years of experience with infants. I ate well at Amalia's, but I didn't sleep. As a consequence, I seemed a little out of it at night. My daddy, in particular, greedily spent hours playing, talking with, and holding me that next weekend, as if to make up for not seeing me as much during the week.

Even as I teethed painfully and cried for hours on August 25th, 2007, my father could hardly get enough of me. He held me close, made me feel secure, and repeatedly reminded me, "Your mommy and I love you so much. We are so proud of you! We are so happy you are here, beautiful little girl!" My parents thought they could detect the first vestiges of tiny little teeth pushing through my gums.

My dad continued to scrutinize me for clues as to my more permanent temperament. He had almost no experience with babies, and so he had nothing to use as baseline "normal" behavior. But it seemed I was a pretty intense and quiet kid, whose intelligence and ability to learn were more than matched by an ability to be overwhelmed by too many people at one time, to much loud noise -- too much stimuli, generally. I would be OK for awhile, and all of a sudden it would cross some line and be too much - and I would start howling in protest. I seemed to be very sensitive to what I perceived as chaotic and threatening. But this should not have surprised anyone, as my father and his father were exactly the same. They are just better practiced and more able to endure it with a smile frozen on their faces. But get me alone after a good nap and I was as full of smiles and giggles as any baby!

Another big change arrived on August 30, 2007 with the arrival of my cousin, Maggie McEwen. The only other distaff member of my generation of Geibs (so far), we would no doubt have much in common as we grew up together.

September 2007
Back to Work and to Day Care

“There is nothing wrong with change, if it is in the right direction”
Winston Churchill

September found the Geib family adapting to a new regimen of school and child care. In fact, that first weekend in September found all three Geibs taking long and deep naps - of two and three hours solid duration. They were exhausted! Yes, the halcyon days of summer were over. We would adapt to a new schedule and new demands placed on us.

Family and acquaintances told my parents how much I had grown in just the last few weeks, although they had trouble seeing it since they saw me daily. As I approached the milestone six months of age, I was very much large for my age. On August 30th the childcare people told my parents I had turned over once unaided, although my parents did not see that happen until four days later: my father placed me on my stomach for some "tummy time" and walked out of the room for no longer than 30 seconds before returning to see my curiously on my back. He put two and two together, called to mommy excitedly and placed me on my stomach again. I flipped over again with seemingly the greatest of ease and my parents started screaming and clapping with excitement --

  • She's A-Rollin'! Having finally figured it out, Julia rolls over with the greatest of ease. (38.5 mb)

-- such rookie parents! I could also now hold my head up more or less steadily, and I was babbling and making a long stream of "bzzzzs" and other nonsensical noises with my lips. I had long since begun eating solids, and rice pudding was a part of my daily diet.

What was obvious to my parents was that I continued to become more "social" and able to engage them more cogently. For example, by this point anytime my parents would walk into the room after having been absent for some time, my face would light up with a big smile. When my parents would hold me, I would occasionally look around to see who was holding me -- I had never done that before, and I had not even been aware someone was holding me. Long gone were those days when all the world was a nipple and I simply slept and pooped all the time, oblivious to all. My Uncle Tom pronounced me "much more like a human being now." High praise indeed!

Yes, my brain was maturing. I sometimes grew so excited that I would squeak or flail my arms and head around in pique.

This has never happened before September. I sometimes even produced a nascent giggle and laugh. When apprehensive or plain scared, I would briefly hyperventilate -- what my mom called my "Hatha Yoga" maneuver. My physical changes were not so drastic as in the first few months of life, but through my behavior and movements growth was much in evidence. Everyone asked if I were saying, "ma ma" or "da da" or crawling, but these landmarks of infant development still not seem imminent.

My parents delighted in my new sociability and ability to communicate. My dad would lift me in the air high above him and I would squeak with pleasure, and then he would drop me down and kiss my neck and I would giggle and try to wiggle away. Then he would say something to me and I would look him in the eyes the whole time, even if I did not understand what he was saying. I would hold onto my daddy's shirt when he held me, and if he put me down before I was ready I would hold my out my arms straight to him signaling my desire to be held again. I would cry if left alone too long, and I would pretty much only take a nap if it was on my daddy or mommy's chest. I knew them. They were safe. I could relax. On the other hand, after three weeks I still had not taken one nap during day care.

This problem did not change over time, as day after day I returned home in a bit of a stupor after having not eaten or slept for some eight hours. I would return home and sleep most of the afternoon, with my mom right asleep right next to me in bed - she was absolutely exhausted from nursing, teaching, and trying to keep it all together. My father even accompanied us in our afternoon naps in September when our family sought to adjust to work and day care. By Friday afternoon, we were just barely there - utterly exhausted!

Then after a whole weekend of my parents lavishing love and attention on me I would almost be back to my usual self. But then I would returned to daycare and fall into the same pattern and not do well. At home in the evenings I was OK with food and sleep, but during the day I would neither eat nor sleep! It was almost as if I were just waiting until my parents picked me up at 3:00 p.m. By then I was exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry.

My parents grew concerned, and that concern was only heightened when at my six month doctor's checkup it was discovered that I actually weighed less than I did at my four month visit! It is true that breast fed babies typically weigh less at this age, but my parents were very alarmed while Dr. White was just "concerned" - and railed against my day care provider, urged a change, and set up another appointment in three weeks.

Almost immediately my parents had me in about the most expensive day care in Ventura at La Petite Academy, where one caring lady could attend to me and only two other infants at the same time.

  • A Night to Remember: I may look back at these days and all their fatigue with nostalgia, my daddy thought to himself.

Almost immediately I began to sleep more during the day. My parents sighed deeply in relief, yet watched carefully my diet to make sure I ate enough. They would return to the doctor soon to hear his opinion.

But then at the end of October I got sick for real for the first time, my temperature rising to 101.5 degrees. My parents could not take me to day-care and so had to scramble. What do working parents do when their child gets sick? My parents were figuring this out on the fly, as seemed to be their custom. My father begged someone to take over his afternoon classes at his high school, and I came home early with him. I was over my fever and stuffy nose after a few days, and my parents were more worried than they should have been over a minor illness; but figuring out my care for working parents and figuring out how to take care of a sick child was yet more of the unending learning experience of being a parent.

Yes, September was very much a month of struggling, learning, and adapting. But by the beginning of Octobers, with reports like this one at day-care, I was back on track!

  • Months 0-6.5 Growth Chart: After a short blip on the growth trajectory, back in the bigger and better upwards swing of things!

October 2007
My First Autumn

“Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.”
William Cullen Bryan

Now we entered a happy time in the Geib family. I had made great strides in my sociability and had a much larger appetite for interaction with my parents. As a newer baby I would turn my head and stare away after a few seconds of smiles and kisses from my parents, as even this was enough to make me feel overwhelmed and threatened. My brain could only take so much at that time. But now I could banter back and forth with smiles and squeaks of delight. I could even giggle and almost laugh!

For sustained periods of time I could sit on daddy's chest and "play" with him and mommy. I was getting older, my brain was maturing, and I could just about sit up unaided and watch the world around me and smile at it.

It was a good time - a precious time for our family. I was old enough to be a joy and a delight, but I could not yet crawl or walk and get myself into trouble.

Many had mentioned to my parents how beautiful was this time in my life, and they were not wrong.

By mid-October I could easily roll over. My parents would put me on the floor to play on my blanket, and then they would turn around and I was a few feet away from where they left me pointing in a different direction. No, I could not crawl or walk yet, but I could roll over and move myself around the room. My parents started building "pillow blockades" to keep me from rolling off their bed or getting too far around the room. Actual crawling could not be far away.

My parents were still adapting to being working parents. A big chunk of our weekend consisted of sleeping off the fatigue of the week. Life had grown much more stressful with my arrival. My parents struggled to adapt to the demands of teaching the children of other parents and taking care of the needs of their own child. My mom, in particular, felt her attention and energy pulled in many different directions. My parents were still trying to transition into the new stage of parenthood, and they began to wonder if they would not so much "figure it out" but merely "get used to" continuous fatigue and the juggling of many responsibilities. It was not really getting any easier: time was more scarce than ever.

Towards the end of October I suffered my first ear infection and got it in both ears. For some weeks I had started waking up in the middle of the night again and crying, and now my parents knew why. In fact, I was spending much more time sleeping in my parent's bed. I would always start the night in my crib, but later I would wake up and start crying loudly. My father would stumble blurrily to my crib in the dark, he would bring me to my mother in bed, and my mom would breast feed me. Before long I was asleep on the breast, and my mom had never been awake long for this feeding; but I would sleep the rest of the night with my parents in their bed. My parents were far too tired to shuttle me back and forth to my crib.

My father worried perhaps I would become too used to sleeping in their bed and they would never get me out. "But I don't really mind. I kind of like her here!" he admitted. We would all wake up cuddling together warm and snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug. Maybe my father would regret it when I was a toddler and would refuse to sleep in my own bed. We would have to see. In late October we traveled to the Bay Area for my daddy's work and on the road we had to share a bed. We left hurriedly in the midst of huge fires that had erupted all over Southern California , and that was scary. Traveling up the coast of California meant hotels and sleeping in the same bed but nobody complained, least of all me.

I also began to mature in my eating habits and moved well beyond mere oatmeal and rice cereal: I started eating baby food in the form of peas, squash, carrots, and prunes. I started to watch my parents very carefully when they ate, as I could see what was happening and I "wanted in." Yet still there were no teeth appearing from my gums, although I had been teething seemingly forever. Still, my father fed me some kernels of Spanish rice or other tiny munchables when my mom wasn't looking. I started so steadily and mournfully at him when he ate, he felt sorry for and fed me. I ate greedily. At this age, I would try to eat anything.

As October turned into November, as I experienced my first Halloween, I was seven and half months of age.

November 2007
Thanksgiving and Deepest Autumn

“When chill November's surly blast make fields and forest bare.”
Robert Burns

At this stage of my life I matured physically more slowly than during the first few delicate months. But my parents had to take away the swing I used as a newborn: I didn't fit in it anymore. Similarly, the infant bathtub they had used so far to wash me I barely fit into, and besides I always tried to crawl out of it now; as a consequence, my mom just brought me into the bathtub with her. The time when I would need a bigger car seat was also on the horizon, as I almost fully filled my infant seat. By November of 2007 I was more energetic and social than ever, and when fed and rested I proved to be one intense ball of energy! It was all wiggles and giggles, punctuated by shouts of joy and surprise. I liked my toys and began to have favorites. I would roll over and over and over again. In my crib I responded when my parents tickled me, sat up, rolled around, put my arms through the wood slats, and resembled more an animal in a cage than a newborn lying there helpless:

  • Rolling and Shouting: Active and engaging my parents with shrieks, laughs, and plenty of energy. (106 mb)

By the end of October it was clear that I would be crawling soon. My parents saw I was growing up!

This made them feel proud and excited, with a tinge of sadness for precious times that would never return. My father, in particular, sought to burn in these moments to his memory for instant recall, as well as to memorialize them on this website.

  • Mommy's Birthday: Approximately forty minutes before midnight of the day: "Happy birthday, wonderful mother of mine!"

Mid-November saw me entering a difficult time. I still suffered from dual ear infections that had gotten so bad that I was coughing because the fluid from the infection in my ears was draining down into my throat. I would wake up in pain numerous times in the middle of the night, and I had a bit of that glassy-eyed look I had in my abortive day-care experience with Amalyia. The doctor put me on the antibiotic "amoxycylin" and that did not seem to do the job. Then he put me on the even stronger "amoxycylin clavulanate potassium" to which I had an allergic reaction - and then I was back to no antibiotics at all! Eventually, the ear infections went away by itself, but it was a stressful week or two.

Because the evenings were so full of crying, my parents started bringing me into their bed with them in the middle of the night. After hearing me scream two or three times and blurrily getting out of bed and stumbling over to the room and carrying me to my mom, my dad stopped taking me back to my crib after I stopped crying. Frankly, he was already asleep by the time I stopped crying, as was my mother; so we just started "co-sleeping," as it is called.

It was so warm and cozy there with my parents that I got used to this practice and objected loudly to being returned to my crib. Actually, I was so tired at night that I did not mind falling asleep in my crib, but when I woke up at night and saw my parents nowhere in sight I would howl and scream until my parents came and brought me into their bed. When I got there it was so warm and cuddly that I always fell soundly asleep seconds within arriving there. My parents were a bit worried that I would get used to their bed and not return to my crib until I turned 5-years of age! They did not sleep so soundly with me waking up at so often, and everyone else said sleeping together was a "bad idea." But my dad kind of liked the closeness of "co-sleeping," and so did my mom. And it was better than stumbling back and forth between rooms in the darkness. They decided to spurn the "experts" and go with what worked from them, at least for the short-term.

My dad wondered if I was playing him like a cheap violin, He wondered if I would just throw a tantrum until he relented and let me sleep in my parent's bed. "Who is in charge of this family, anyway?" he wondered. But he also thought that if I needed the assurance, warmth, and love of being close to my parents at such a young age, he and his wife had plenty of it for me. He liked the idea of his daughter sleeping surrounded by her parent's love, if that is what she liked and needed. "Experts" said sleeping in my crib would teach me independence. On the other hand, my dad wondered if I was just a very intelligent little baby who had found out what she liked and would scream until she got what she wanted. My dad looked at how happy I was to snuggle up in the middle of their big, warm bed and fall deeply and completely asleep, and he wondered if it was going to take a jack-hammer to get me out of their bed and back into my crib. He put in my crib and, if I were not exhausted, I would scream. He put me in their bed and I would fall asleep. He contemplated between his head (ie. put daughter in crib) and heart (ie. let her sleep with us), and he trusted with his heart and what "felt" right. They would deal with the rest later.

The same was true with my father who was "the closer" in my bedtime ritual. My mom would bathe, clothe, and give me a final feeding at bedtime. Then my father would put on some classical music, turn out the lights, and rock me to sleep in his arms. It was an evening ritual and I knew well what was expected of me: time for sleep. But all the "experts" said babies should learn to fall asleep in their cribs and not in their daddy's arms. Supposedly, they would in this way become dependent on their parents to rock them to sleep. They would not become "independent." But my dad did not care; he enjoyed the last minute dance before sleep, as did I. And he saw that when tired I had no trouble falling asleep without him. He would trust his heart and what felt right and disdain "the experts."

Towards the end of November I finally overcame any vestiges of ear infections and returned to my happy self. My parents started putting me to bed earlier -- at seven in the evening -- and my day care providers claimed that I was much happier and energetic. "Keep doing whatever you are doing!" they encouraged my mom.

I also began to eat all sorts of vegetables and fruits much more actively, and my parents stopped worrying about me eating enough. I was growing and playing vigorously and eating much larger meals than before: everything pointed towards health. I began to have "object permanence" and to have my favorite toys: I smiled when presented with my rattle, and I cried bitterly when it was taken away.

Similarly, I began to suffer a bit of "separation anxiety." When my mother left the living room, I would cry hysterically. Even if she were only in the kitchen making herself coffee, I would wail in distress. As soon as my mom reappeared, I would stop crying. The same was true with my dad. It seemed I could not endure being left alone. My parents were gone -- forever! -- or so it seemed to me. Again, the "experts" claimed this was normal. Again, my parents had to deal with a loud bout sobbing and crying. Did I really need help? Or not? My parents looked forward to that day when I could use my words to explain what was wrong and what I needed. That time was still far off.

I also began to crawl! I had been rolling for weeks, and this still would be my preferred mode of transport, but if something terribly tantalizing was placed out of reach -- like a remote control or phone -- I would go ahead and push myself awkwardly across the floor unto the point when I could fully stretch out and reach it -- I could crawl!

  • Prototypical Crawling: My mom called it "crab-like and soldierly," but my earliest ability to crawl was quite the exciting moment for my parents! (37.6 mb)
  • Girlfriend Visit: Nicki, Patty, and Maria with Julia on November 18th visit to Ventura.

Perhaps "crawling" was too ambitious a description; a more accurate term might be "creeping." Nevertheless, I was mobile now and life would never be the same.

Realizing this new reality, however, made my parents more than a little nervous. I would reach out and touch anything with my hand, and then I would put it in my mouth; I had not the slightest bit of common sense yet. And now I could move around and explore -- time to "baby-proof" the house.

And my first tooth started coming in! It had seemed as if I had been teething for months without any sign of a tooth, and my parents finally felt the first one coming even if they could not yet see it.

December 2007
Holiday Cheer and Winter

"In cold and dark December,
Families around the world
All gather to remember,
With presents and with parties,
With feasting and with fun,
Customs and traditions
for people old and young."
Helen H. Moore

By early December my maturation began to pick up speed. If I were slowly and awkwardly crawling one day, by the next day I was crawling twice as fast with only half the effort. One day I started to crawl, and then the next I could sit myself up on my haunches without help.

My parents fairly marveled at this learning process where I could do what just a few days earlier I had not been able to do. While the days seemed to pass by slowly, the months seemed to have flown by; or, moment by moment and diaper by diaper, time did not seem to be flying by. But watching me begin to crawl, my parents saw that my infancy was closer to its end than its beginning, and they realized I would be a toddler before long. It put things in perspective. By the middle of December, I was almost ready to move to a toddler car seat; I had almost grown to big to sit in the infant seat.

I also sprouted my first tooth! Right in the front on the bottom finally erupted one tiny little tooth. It was about time, as it had seemed as if I were teething forever. Finally the tooth came forth and was visible when I smiled. Hurrah!

I did not crawl much: why crawl when it was so much work, and when people brought most of what I needed to me? I would only crawl on my belly like a soldier when necessary, and then I would crawl only far enough to reach out my arm at far as possible and grab whatever I needed, and then I would back up on my haunches and examine the item in my hand: this was a scene my parents were to witness often. Most of the time I was content to sit and play with a toy without moving too much across the floor.

My parents were happy about this, as when I became truly mobile they knew their lives would become yet more hectic in perpetually shepherding me. It seemed predictable that I would do little crawling and just wait until I could walk to become truly mobile. Why drag myself inefficiently across the floor? Why not just wait until I can walk? At daycare I would watch the other babies - especially the male ones - thrash around on the floor exhausting themselves, and I would take a different route. There would be less thrashing about by me and more patient reflection.

With regards to sleep, if tired I might sleep anywhere.

But at night I had pretty much taken over my parent's bed. Around seven in the evening I was happy to fall asleep exhausted in my crib but I would wake up an hour or two later and scream and protest in terror in finding myself alone in the dark. My parents would consequently take me into their bed and I would fall asleep immediately, relieved. In fact, when my father lifted me up from my crib to comfort my crying, I would already look to the door and their room as if saying, "What are you waiting for? I am ready to join you and mommy!" Many were those who advised my parents to break me of my habit of sleeping with my parents. "If Julia gets to used to it you will not get her out of your bed until she's seven!" my grandpa warned them. My father never imagined that I might usurp his sleeping space...

But my parents kind of liked me close by. Maybe the "co-sleeping" arrangement was as simple as this: I spent so much time away from my parents at day-care that they, as much as me, enjoyed the nighttime hours together, even if only shared in sleep. Perhaps late night cuddling and the occasional flurry of sleepy kisses to a little baby healed both parent and child from their daily separation. Or maybe it was just that I was in a bit of a strange and dependent place emotionally: I continued to suffer "separation anxiety" and cried whenever they left my sight. Supposedly, I had only just learned that my parents were separate beings from me, and when they left (even if only to the next room) I was not sure they would ever come back. I would howl in complaint! After having transferred me to their bed I still might wake up crying bitterly and almost desperately, but as soon as my dad came in and kissed my forehead and spoke a few soothing words I would calm right down and fall back asleep almost immediately. As one of the numerous "experts" my parents read explained it:

"From about nine months, a baby is starting to discover that she is an individual and separate from her parents. This is a good feeling, and necessary. It happens to every baby. But separation is a real struggle, with much anxiety, a struggle your child has to resolve for herself. How well she does so has a lot to do with developing initiative and making decisions of her own."

It is in this spirit my father concluded that if I needed such reassurance at night in being so close to my parents, then I would have it. He concluded at only nine months of age I was still too young to manipulate them: I could sleep with them if I wanted. I was still so young, and when I woke up at night and cried in fright my dad knew it was no bluff. Moreover, my parents could find no medical reason why it was a bad idea to "co-sleep," after all, and they were not wanting a screamfest or some traumatic couple of days of "breaking" me of this "bad habit," as some experts advised. Frankly, they were not even sure why or if it was a "bad habit." It seemed right for now. I woke up every night and cried out into the darkness, waking my parents up. It could happen at any hour. What were they going to do?

So when I woke up frightened and cried out at 4 a.m., they could just reach over in the dark and give me kisses until I went back to sleep. They were tired of getting up and stumbling blearily over to my crib in the pitch dark, and I seemed much happier with the reassuring presence of my parents near. My mom and dad seemed to realize this was what I needed and what worked. Perhaps there were laid back babies that slept soundly all night in their cribs, but this was not me. I was a baby that took a lot of work; I was not "laid back," whatever else I might be. Even my father, who had next to no experience with babies other than myself, could see this by this time.

But my parents looked forward to the time when they could get a solid night's sleep again. It had been a long time.

Maybe my parents were just getting used to being sleep-deprived. Hard-pressed working parents all across America stumbled through their days with tight schedules and and a sense of barely holding it all together. Sleep was almost the first luxury to go. Working parents dwelled just this side of a nervous breakdown as they careened through days which passed only slowly but months that flew by.

There were some especially difficult spells: for example, I acquired another ear infection that brought me up crying a dozen times on December 15th, and the next evening I cried so long and bitterly that my father put me in the car and drove me all the way to to Santa Barbara and back just to lull me to sleep. His back also went out on him, and then suddenly it went out on him again two days later as he bent down and lifted me out of my car seat at La Petite Academy. My dad not only had a bad cold that day, but his back hurt whenever he moved -- and he had a full day of class and then a college class to teach that night! It was a long and painful day, as was the rest of that week. My parents were plain wore down by the middle of December.

It was harder than ever to complete household chores with a young infant in the house. The washing machine was always running. The dishwasher seemed never to stop. The house was rarely as clean as it was before my arrival. It was harder for my parents take care of themselves. Worst of all was the constant sleep-deprivation my parents suffered: small scrapes might turn large and loud, when all involved were exhausted and in need of a good night's sleep. So it went.

But they could look forward to a chance to sleep and enjoy their daughter's first Christmas!

Right before the end of the year I experienced my first real illness. On New Year's Eve, December 31 of 2007, I had a fever that reached 103 degrees. All day long I was lethargic and laid in my parent's arms. They held me worriedly and brushed my brow and gave me kisses. My forehead was hot to the touch, and I began to wheeze and cough with phlegm and congestion. My cheeks were flushed and I was "not myself." I did not giggle or play with my parents: I laid there with a blank expression on my face.

I had trouble sleeping that New Year's Eve, as if I laid on my back (which was my habit) the phlegm would send me into fits of coughing. My father put me on his chest and urged me to sleep on my stomach, and I tried to sleep but could do so only fitfully. My breathing was shallow and labored, and often I made a feverish noise. My immune system doing what it was supposed to do, as my body was fighting all-out an infection. I woke up constantly and would start crying. My father would sit up and caress and kiss me back to sleep, and this continued late into the night. My father lay there worried with sick baby in his arms and waxed meditatively about how babies in the past babies died so often, and about how unthinkable and devastating it would be to have one's infant child fall sick and expire. He thought of how the average woman in the 19th century would give birth to five children only three whom survived childhood, and how Benjamin Franklin had suffered the pain of his dead "Franky" the rest of his life -- a grim and depressive New Year's Eve it was for my father, surrounded by his unhappy reflections, lying there in the darkness, comforting feverish baby Julia on his chest.

We both finally fell into a deep sleep sometime after two in the morning. I was exhausted and my father was exhausted: a typical symbol for this year. I was not an "easy baby."

But there was great tenderness, attention, love, and forward progress -- the next morning, the first day of that next year, my fever was almost gone.

It was an auspicious start for 2008.

January 2008
A New Year Begins

“New Year's Day is every man's birthday.”
Charles Lamb

January was a difficult month for my parents and I. It was especially hard for my father.

The beginning of the year 2008 saw me come down sick with bacterial pneumonia. I was lethargic and irritable for almost the entire first week of the year, and I required constant attention, love, and care. I was soon feeling somewhat better, and after a week I was pretty much back to my same old self; but I felt horribly for a number of days. During this time my father had no less than 24 college letters of recommendation coming due for former students; with me sick, he felt as if he had to choose between daughter and students, and this gave him much stress. Ultimately, he was able to get both done in a week that will be remembered by him as a blur of comforting sick daughter, sitting in doctor's offices, writing letters of recommendation, and sitting at Kinko's making copies of college application forms. This was his last week of winter "vacation," and he was happy to go back to work. Work was less stressful than this vacation season had been.

I was growing more and more daily, and every new month of my life meant a deepening relationship with my parents. I continued to become less of a "fourth trimester" newborn that just ate, slept, and pooped and become more "human." For example, I now waved my hand at mommy and daddy and could communicate more my wishes more than just crying. When my mother bought a new vacuum machine, or when I received a toy that shot balls up into the air and made noise, I grew frightened and reached towards my parents for succor. I held on tightly and cowered for protection.... a way of expressing affection and even love towards my parents which my dad, in particular, drank in like a man starving of thirst.

  • Spencer T-Shirt: "Future Harvard student" gift to incipient scholar, Julia.

But I still struggled with my health, here in the very depths of the "flu and cold" season. Everybody seemed sick at day care, and my parent's saw many of their students fall sick, also. Although I was beyond the pneumonia, I still had some difficulty breathing and would weeze when breathing in - alarming my parents. This meant more doctor's office visits, and my parents received a new "nebulizing" machine that would help me to open up my lungs. I also had yet another ear infection. Frankly, my father suspected the same one I had had for months was still plaguing me. This meant more of the same at night: I would wake up in the dark howling in pain, clutching at my ear, and crying inconsolably for a half hour or so.

Then my father had his infamous final exams: they lasted a week and a half and consisted of five sections. It also resulted in an orgy of all night grading sessions, as he had to have it all graded by that next Wednesday. And he had his annual Johns Hopkins Center for Talented Youth meeting down in Orange County. On the last day of his final exams my father suffered a stress nosebleed which resulted in copious bleeding. He had not worked out in weeks. Stress, stress, stress. It was an emminently unhealthy way to live.

With my ear infection I still did not sleep through the night. My parents also did not sleep well, as I still slept with them. In last January my father was so tired one morning he put his boxers on backwards and did not discover it until about half way through the day. My parents had operated on adrenaline for the first few months of my life, but now they were getting bone tired. The cumulative effect was beginning to show: my parents were bedraggled. They began to see that taking care of themselves was going to be as important in the long-run as taking care of me.

February 2008
Well into 2008

“February, fill the dyke with what thou dost like.”
Thomas Tussler

On February 5th I said my first word: "Oh, oh!" Seeing me constantly my parents often could not see the small changes that result in big change over time, but they could gauge my growth through my language clearly enough. Now I would often immediately repeat what they said, "Da-da" would often prompt me to repeat back this babbling. "Oh, oh!" was another favorite. The aquisition of language was well underway, and I clearly recognized my own name. I lifted my arms to help my parents take my shirt off. I would climb on my daddy to play, and often he chased me around the room on all fours snarling like a wild beast while I squealed with joy and excitement.

I could also crawled at a furious pace when I wanted to, and could climb up the stairs unaided from first to second floors. My parents bought a gate to keep me away from the "dangerous stairs but really never used it: I learned how to go safely up and down the stairs, and that was that --

  • Julia Tackles the Stairs: Following my father up the stairs, one by one. (46.8 mb)
  • Playing With Toys and My Mommy:
  • Sunday Morning:

I pulled myself up on everything and was curious as to everything. I crawled into every corner, and pulled myself to see what was on every table and dresser. My parents furiously baby-proofed the house.

I also celebrated my baptism on February 3rd. This was a particularly special day, as I was baptised by my Uncle Bill and with my cousin Margaret Mary McEwen. My Aunt Margie and the Wilkinson clan came down from the Bay Area for the event, and the religious event was nicely wrapped around plenty of family warmth and support:

Yet my parents and Godfather, Martin Lopez, had to get our requried training the day before in the morning -- there was the morning training, then afternoon drive down to Orange County, drinks and dinner with family, a late bedtime -- and the next day baptism, post-party, and then drive back to Ventura County. It was another very busy and stressful weekend.

Our house badly needed cleaning; my parents needed "down time"; everyone was exhausted as another work week began. Then I was sick again with fever, cough, and conjunctivitis. My parents were growing mighty sick of sitting in the doctor's office with me and scrambling to make emergency lesson plans for the substitute teacher who would watch their classroom while they watched me. There was talk of putting tube in my ears to prevent more ear infections. My dad got sick with me and -- having not worked out or really relaxed for weeks if not months -- he felt worse than ever. My dad had these feverish dreams about becoming terminally ill. He felt no pain himself, although there was great pain; all he was conscious of in this dream was the dread of not being around the help raise his daughter. "Who will father this girl?" He bargained with greater powers than he: "God, if you can allow me to live until she reachers fifteen years of age, then she should be fine and do with me as you wish..." My father stirred uneasily in his feverish sleep.

My parents saw a four-day weekend coming. They started to enlist some friends to help watch me. On Saturday February 9th, they had their first date together in some seven months. My father felt feversish and weak, so it lasted only two hours, and I was at home with Elizabeth crying for my parents most of the time. Then my parents - especially my father, got REALLY sick. Dad barely moved for two days in the middle of February as he had the chills and then sweated and endured feverish dreams, and had my conjunctivitis in both eyes, also. He realized he needed to get a grip and find a more healthy way of being a parent. His serious sickness was almost surely the culmination of eleven months of stress. The fevers plus the double "pink eye" made my dad look more than a little like a zombie.

It was at this time my parents decided to move me to my crip. They were prepared for a "breaking-in" period of crying/screaming bouts by me lasting hours. Happliy enough, I moved to my crib with very little crying. "Oh, blessed day!" my mother exclaimed. Finally, my parents got a bit of a break from me after I went to sleep around 8:30 p.m. They got their bed back. They had some time to themselves and that made a difference. I had endured constant ear infections from around last October on, and so sleeping with them and waking up in pain consistently and crying/screaming meant my parents almost never had any time to themselves nor got a good night's sleep.

That changed when I moved to my crib.

  • Learning to Live in My Crib -- Still in my stage where everything was "dadda, dadda" and the crib was more than a little like jail... (201.6 mb)

My father was going to relax and parent smarter, not harder; he was not going to carry stress around with him as he had, and was going to move back into a more natural rhythm of life. He was convinced he would be a better father thus. He also excused himself from blame for being such a stress case as a new father, as it is no easy thing to adapt to the responsibility of a new baby. But if he ever had a second one, it would be different. He was no longer4 a rookie father. He had earned his stripes.

February was just a tough month for everyone. It was the height of a vicious flu and cold season (or so we thought), and everyone was sick, seemingly; in the Geib household, all of us were sick for most of February.

We hung in there.

We did the best we could.

END OF YEAR ONE!