JULA EMERSON GEIB: YEAR TWO

March 2008
Happy Birthday

Ah, March! we know thou art Kind-hearted,
spite of ugly looks and threats,
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!
Helen Hunt Jackson

Well, the doctors finally decided that I needed ear tubes.

I had had so many ear infections that the doctor claimed I was only hearing a bit of what was going on in a room at any time, and ear tubes would make it much harder to get ear infections in the future and allow me to hear perfectly again. My parents would be overjoyed to see an end to these infernal ear infections and its inevitable cycle: poor sleep at night, myself in bitter pain and crying at 3 a.m., a tired baby the next morning, subsequent poor eating and life with bags under my eyes, etc. This offered hope to our family that these unending visits to the doctor might come to an end.

"Good health" - my parents would do almost anything to give it to me. I had had much more ill health than my parents would have predicted before I was born. And the minor operation implanting tubes in my ears seemed to work! I began to sleep better at night, although this was uncertain: towards the end of March I started crying over and over again in the middle of the night, and my parents thought we were back to square one. Then finally they noticed I had sprouted a new tooth in my upper mouth: I had been teething.

This month was the absolute hardest for my parents in their work: it was "Farch," where teachers and students are exhausted and Spring Break seems to approach with glacial rapidity. But I was doing very nicely, thank you. I was "cruising" around by pulling myself up on whatever was near, and I was full of infinite curiosity and spent my energy exploring every nook and cranny of the house, my parents in tow to make sure I did nothing dangerous. I had long since figured out how to go up and down the stairs, and my parents knew it would not now be long before I started walking. My babbling also seemed to take on a bit more distinctness, and if my parents listened carefully they could detect that I would repeat imperfectly what others said out loud. I also giggled and laughed out loud; I could feed myself easily with food put in front of me; and I turned one year old.

March was overall a good month for me. I put minor health difficulties behind me and started eating like a lumberjack. I would romp all over daycare and then run up and down the stairs in the evening. I was sleeping in my own crib. I would be walking soon; I would be talking soon.

My parents were quite expectant!

APRIL 2008

April saw me continuing to be more mobile and able to communicate:

See what I mean? There was much progress and every month I was a bit more fun and lively.

But my father continued to struggle with what was the proper balance between pushing me to become independent and not dependent on parents, and what was "too much too soon." The best place this could be seen was with sleep. At daycare I had long been used to being rocked to sleep while sucking on a bottle of cold milk. At home or at daycare, in fact, I would not readily go to sleep with my bottle and the rocking ( and sometimes this made no difference at all, and I would go to sleep not at all!). But many were the persons who warned that in rocking a baby to sleep too long a child would never learn to fall asleep independently -- to learn to "self sooth." Several warned my father to just put in my crib and let me sleep.

My father wondered.

I was still pretty young, and this time late at night where he rocked me to sleep was a quiet and intimate time where we could bond. We did not see much of each other during the weekdays, after all. We had our bedtime ritual down: my father undressed me and took me to the bathtub where my mom took a bath with me, then she handed me to my father who dried me, whereupon my mother dressed me and brushed my hair and teeth, and then she returned me to my father who read "Goodnight Moon" or "The Owl Babies" to me before turning out the light, rocking me to sleep, and then putting me gently into my crib for the night. When should he just put me in the crib and let me sooth myself and fall asleep independently? Critics said of him: "Of course she will cry if you put her down without rocking, as she knows you will pick her up. She needs to learn to be more dependent." Was daddy "spoiling" me? He thought deeply about it, and he just felt it was not time yet for Julia. She was very sensitive; Julia was still very young; it was not yet right for her. My father felt this in his "gut." In the end, he would trust his "gut."

He figured this would not get easier as his daughter grew and matured. What is "too much too soon" for your child? What is juvenilizing and overprotective? Where is the right balance? How can one know?

My health, or at least the non-ending ear infections, had improved. In fact, I had no troubles at all with my ears after the tubes were installed. For a few days a noxious-smelling fluid drained from my ears, and then the ear infections were behind me. My parents were most pleased, and the wisdom of the doctor in making a very quick and unambiguous recommendation of ear tubes seemed fully justified. Yet it seemed I had the vestiges of past sinus infections, and the fluid drained into my lungs and came out my perpetually runny nose. I had a bit of a crackling when I breathed, as it took weeks for the fluid to drain finally from my body. I had a bit of a cough still. My parents wondered if to be a baby just meant to be sick much of the time.

Then I caught some kind of stomach flu in early-April. I was a bit "not myself," and my parents by now could tell this just by my behavior. On Friday April 6th they thought to have a rare family night out with a dinner at Mimi's Cafe. They stopped first at Lowe's to pick up some floor cleaner, and it was there in one of the aisles that I threw up all over my father. He was holding me one moment, and then I puked and it hit him all down his sweater, jeans, and shoes. Needing to clean my father up, my parents just drove straight home and the evening was a loss: this was probably not the last family evening turned disaster they would experience. I then proceeded to give my father this stomach flu, too, as on April 8th he spent the entire evening throwing up and looked a pale shade of green until the end of that next week. He spent much time sleeping, as he still had a sinus infection that had lasted by now months and had not felt 100% since mid-February. But he kept up all his work and home obligations, although he had almost no time to work out or relax. (In fact, my father completed a 50 mile bike race without having ridden at all since late December and surprised himself by doing well, the continual coughing and spitting up of green stuff notwithstanding!)

I also celebrated my first birthday! I was oblivious to the fact and my parents kept the affair "low key." There just many people at the house, and this by itself was most unusual; frankly, this specific day was really more a celebration for my parents in having survived their first year of parenting. Nonetheless, it was quite an accomplishment for me: I had gone through much from that first day of life. It is not to be underestimated all the changes and challenges that newborns face.

I had done well. I had come a long way. Check this out --

  • Playing in the Grass: Outside waiting for Mr. Geib's students to come to tea. (108.2 mb)
  • Mormor Visits: Playing with my toys and babbling to myself and Mormor. (88.9 mb)

-- and see what I mean.

But it was time to move from infancy into toddlerhood.

MAY 2008

In the month of May I continued to experience illness. In fact, it reached a bit of a crisis. Not that I was seriously sick; I had none of the life-threatening illnesses that one might encounter in the children's ward of a hospital. Really sick is when an infant has leukemia or heart trouble or some other Godforsaken thing. No, I was not sick in the bigger picture view of things.

But I had a persistent sinus infection draining down into my respiratory system, and then I fell ill with "foot-hand-and-mouth" disease. I had been feverish all one weekend with my parents worrying and myself being irritable and clingy -- this being a sure sign of illness with me. But the fever went away and I seemed all right, and so my parents dropped me off at day care on a Monday morning May 12th, 2008. But then my father suddenly got a phone call from mommy who informed him that the daycare called and said I was sick and we had to come pick me up right this moment. It was 9:00 a.m. on Monday morning and my father had just gotten started with a new work week, and we wondered with a bit of panic what he should do. "Come pick her up right now?!?" he thought to himself. "Don't these people know we have jobs?" He called in a few favors from co-workers, and he was picking me up twenty-five minutes later and I was at the doctor's office one hour after that. The prognosis was easy: I had an enterovirus and would be highly contagious and feeling miserable for a few more days.

I needed almost constant TLC from my parents for that week, as painful fever blisters in the back of my throat kept me in constant pain. I slept in my parent's arms often and drank bottle after bottle of milk: the illness took away my appetite, but the milk soothed my sore throat. It was a tough week for me.

It was perhaps tougher for my parents, especially my father. It was clear I could not return to daycare that week, and my parents once faced the fact that they had little help here in Ventura. They would have to scramble to take time off from work to stay home with me. My father took most of Monday off, and then my mom took Tuesday off and stayed home with me. My father had his conference period on Wednesday, so he got a co-worked to cover his morning class and he did not need to show up until after noon; so my parents got family friend Elisabeth Egelko to baby sit me for three hours whereupon my mother returned home after school. This is how they made it until Wednesday. Thursday my father took the entire day off, and Friday my parents hired Terry Carrol (a professional) to watch me that day. By that next week I was ready for daycare again, but by then my father had gotten the enterovirus from me and felt horribly. The doctor expressly told my father that he would not get this illness from me, but he did. My cousins down in Irvine contracted this same annoying childhood "hand mouth and foot" disease, and my Uncle Steve also caught it, despite the doctor's assurances. Like chicken pox, it seemed to be an illness that was worse for adults than children. My father and Uncle Steve were truly miserable for a few days.

This was a most stressful and challenging week for our family.

But even through this difficult stage of eating little and suffering much, I matured and grew. In fact, my parents could discern the first vestiges of language. How strange it felt for my parents, as they came to see me in a different light as I began to express my needs and recognize objects through sign language first and then recognizable facsimiles of spoken words. As I sat in my high chair and watched my parents eat, hoping for some directed my way, or in how I crawled over and hugged their legs, sometimes I seemed like a dog than a human beings. But as I began to speak words and clearly communicate a desire for a bottle of milk or that I was full and wanted no more food, I was beginning to look more more "human" and intelligent.

Moreover, as May neared its end and my father celebrated his 41st birthday, good times looked to lie directly ahead. The end of my parent's school year was almost upon us, and that would mean eight weeks of vacation and relaxation for them. My father's AP exams were over, and even as he had been sick almost continually since late February he finally began to put all sickness and sinus infections behind him. In our house the "cold and flu season" seemed to be at its end. My father reflected on all this sickness. Do babies, with their immature immune systems, just get sick a lot? Or was it a matter of daycare? Between the sicknesses Julia was exposed to at daycare, the germs that came through my mom's and then dad's classrooms, we were seemingly catching about every illness Ventura had to offer. Was I more than a bit sickly? Was my father's health declining precipitously? It seemed as if my arrival into the household had brought not only joy and fulfillment but a quantifiable amount of increased illness. My father, however, did not dwell overly long on these questions. It was behind us.

And we were looking forward to a restful and healthy summer. It had been a tough year for all involved. Not a "bad" year but just a hard year. We survived it, and we would move into the summer stronger and with the earth more firmly under our feet. Every month I was more mature and better able to navigate this world. Every month my parents as parents liked to think they knew more what they were doing, and they were not entirely wrong.

JUNE 2008

June was (blessedly) a month without sickness and a month with my first real walking and first real talking. I firmly and clearly learned how to say "no," even as this was not supposed to happen until I reached the "terrible twos." I could say "milk" and "open" and "all done," and "burd" for "bird" and "night-night" for "good night." It also seemed clear to my parents that there were many words I understood when they spoke them, even if I could not come close to saying them. I would use baby sign language more than talking and this way I could communicate clearly my needs to my parents better. The experts at day care taught me the sign language and my parents scrupulously used the same language at home. They were done with their classes by the middle of the month, and this only meant that they had that much more time and energy to pay attention to my language development and work with Elizabeth and Theresa and what they taught me during the day.

The doctor also told us to end using the bottle. As explained at length before, I was quite an intense kid to get to go to sleep at daycare or at home, and it had long been a practical policy to rock me to sleep while giving me a bottle to drink. But this was bad for my teeth in the long term, and the doctor said it was time to replace the bottle with a sippy cup. My father knew this would be trouble since it was clear I used the bottle more for emotional relief and for sucking on then to get milk out of, but it was time: he cut me off, and explained that this also be so at daycare, on Friday June 13, 2008. He hated to see pout and cry but would be just about as hard as he had to be with me if it was a matter of my health and welfare. I cried for a couple of days and then forgot about bottles. By now I could ask for what I wanted, and I was happy to get a sippy cup when I asked for "milk."

It seemed as if I was more developed in language than with walking. Actually, I could stand up and walk a bit for many weeks. Sometimes I would be standing there unaided and my parents or someone else would see me, and then I would sit down quickly before they recognized that I could do this. It was as if I were hiding my ability to walk. Or maybe I just lacked confidence or a real reason to launch into walking for real, and so I was content to stay until around the end of June. But my parents were watching closely since walking was the next major milestone in my development, and finally I began to launch off into longer excursions by foot. My parents bought me my first real pair of shoes and started to lead me on longer walks: they would put out one finger which I held onto, and then I waddled around and worked on my balance and the muscles in my legs. I still had that "not-quite-seaworthy" walk of the toddler --

videos

-- but isn't that the very definition of "toddle"? To waddle about like Godzilla or a drunker sailor, and to fall on my haunches often? Even after weeks of seeing it, my father could not get enough of watching me take to my feet and waddle around the house. I was mobile, and there would be no going backward now.

I was finally walking. For reals!

Not surprisingly, the management at La Petite Academy decided it was time for me to move from the infant to the toddler room. My first official day as a "toddler" would be June 23, 2008.

This brought in a whole new set of rules, toys, and greater freedom. I didn't want to return to the infant room! My parents, on the other hand, had to suffer the discovery of "Raffi" and Elmo (video). My father cringed but carried on for my sake. (He preferred this Elmo video.)

JULY 2008

My parents celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary right before July arrived on the scene, and they began to speak about perhaps another child - a sibling to accompany me into a growing family.

For a long time my mother had banished any mention of another child, and my father was happy to oblige. My parents were plenty exhausted with me, and they wondered if all babies were this difficult. Was it because my parents were a bit "older parents" and had less energy than younger parents? Or were they just naive about babies and how much work they were? Maybe I was just so stubborn and unpredictable that I naturally exhausted them? My cousin Maggie so often seemed so mellow and quiet in comparison, and my dad saw these other babies at daycare who seemed to laid back and easygoing. I was never laid back or easy going. My father took this for a good sign in the long-term: he chose to see my intensity and willfulness as a sign of intelligence and ambition that would pay off later in life for me. One of his favorite high schools students, a Ms. Emily Pierret, was supposedly exactly like this -- and my father told himself if I turned out like her than he would be pleased indeed.

But my parents almost always as exhausted as they were delighted with me. They were often "just hanging in there." And my ability to walk and talk added new difficulties and stresses to parenting: for example, when I had a bad night (this still happened) I would stand at my crib and actually call "dadda! dadda!" over and over again, making him feel even worse than before. (I could still be as stubborn and determined as an old mule...)

They thought maybe two children three years apart. Three years gave me enough quality time with only my parents with no interruptions, yet it would not leave my little brother or sister so distant in age from me that we would grow up as strangers yet not so close that we would be competitive. Three years would be a nice difference, they thought: not too much, not too little.

But then they thought about the labor and delivery, the first few months of life, another episode possibly of colic, and all the exhaustion they had with me and grew a bit discouraged at the thought of another. My mother did not relish the idea of going through pregnancy again. Between my mother and father this all was an ongoing negotiation. We would see. They thought my birthday plus three years, minus nine months for gestation, and when they would want to start for a second child and did the math.... we would see.

And would future months and years begin to speed by faster and faster? Would my father turn around and be amazed to see Julia starting elementary or high school? If this were so, these first few months and years had gone by slowly and with much effort. The school year was like this, my father reflected, with all the hard work in the first few months and then pretty much smooth sailing once students were trained and a working routine and rapport established.

My father, as this gentle reader may have already noted, ruminated much on his daughter and parenthood. The joys, as well as the pains, he found to be profound. Sometimes he and my mom were happy to drop me off at daycare on Monday morning and go to work. If they always loved me, sometimes they didn't like me much -- when I was overtired, would not go to sleep, and cried and screamed for hours, for example. "Will Julia always be so tightly wound, and always have difficulty relaxing and staying grounded?" "How much of her adult character can we discern from infancy?"

But no matter how frustrated they might have been with me, they always understood what a precious gift I was - and were hugely thankful for a basically healthy, well-adjusted child. "If you want to see real stress," my father would point out to himself and others, "look at the parents of a child with Down's Syndrome or a heart defect!" My parents had been blessed, they knew it, and they never entirely lose sight of this fact. Even at four in the morning during one of my crying fits, my parents were thankful. It is just that parenting is not for the impatient, the immature, or the uncommitted. As I entered his life, my father was none of these three with me. He was neither of those with his wife.

Along with frustration came interesting baby steps along the path of maturing for me. For example, now I would bring one of my favorite books over to my dad, plop myself down next to him, and lift the book up to him. He knew to read me the book, and he knew this is what I wanted him to do. Now I would watch video of myself on the computer and know it was me on the screen. I began to stick out my lower lip and sulk when unhappy; this was also new.

Speaking of being unhappy, I had some more bad evenings in July. I was now more assertive than ever and could personally wail, "Dadda! Dadda!" This made him feel ever worse when I was "not in the mood" to go to sleep. Check this out --

  • "Waah! Waah!" Eighteen minutes of audio of a raging toddler that did not want to go "night night" yet on the eve of July 24, 2008. (27.8 mb)

-- in fact, I cried for over 45 minutes on two evenings in July. My father finally cried, "That's it! That is it!" I absolutely could not calm myself down and go to sleep so he took me out of my crib and carried me outside. I immediately stopped crying. My father went and laid down on a park bench in a local park, and there in the darkness I calmed down and finally fell asleep. My dad was heartily sick of my crying. He thought how strange he must have looked in laying there on a park bench at night with a baby asleep on his chest. "Parenthood," he said to himself under his breath.

AUGUST 2008

Ah, August -- the lethargic depths of summer as well as the herald of "back to school." August was a month of transition for me. It had been a good summer full of growth: my length in inches, circumference of head, and weight in pounds. I was a thriving toddler in good health.

As August blossomed I continued to have the same casual, occasional, and unembarrassed flatulence as always. And I began to combine a few basic words:instead of saying only "Goodbye!" I would say "Goodbye, dadda!" I knew more and more words, and many of the songs they sang with me at day care we sang at home: "Banana Phone,"
"Brush Your Teeth," "Itsy Bitsy Spider," "Down By the Bay," "Wheels on the Bus," and "Baby Beluga" were favorites. I would eagerly light up with a smile when one of these songs came on the iPod, just as I could eagerly throw a tantrum when my parents thwarted my will in some manner. I was volatile and capricious -- up and down, overjoyed and smiling one moment and deep in a rage the next. I was a toddler.

And I was still completely, totally into Elmo. Often "Elmo? Elmo?" in an expectant tone were the first words out of my mouth in the morning when I shook the sleep out of my eyes and fixed my vision on my parents. I was Elmo crazy.

There was still the problem of falling asleep. This was by far the most difficult and stressful time of the day. As reflected upon at length, I could scream for long periods of time in my crib in the dark before falling asleep. This was satisfactory for nobody in our family. So my father tried a new tactic: He simply laid me on the floor next to him outside of the crib and laid there with me until I fell asleep. This could take awhile; in fact, it could take up to an hour or more, and it almost never took less than twenty minutes. I would walk around in the dark while my dad patiently laid there on the floor next to my pillow and patted it now and again, gently reminding me it was time to lay down there and fall asleep. Not feeling trapped in my crib, I never cried and stormed like before. My dad was there and I was not alone and the whole environment was changed to one much less stressful. I would finally - of my own free will and volition - come lay on the pillow next to my dad. I would struggle to get comfortable for a few minutes. Then I would finally fall asleep. Invariably, I slept better for the rest of the night when my dad helped me to fall asleep. No longer would I wake up at the slightest noise outside my room. To my father it seemed I was more "settled" and "secure" when he kissed me to sleep at night. My mother was happy to let my father lay there for an hour if it resulted in quieter evenings.

It took a lot of his time but my dad was patient. And since my father did not see me for much of the day this approach to bedtime allowed for some precious time together. Once I finally came over and laid down ready to sleep, he would sniff my hair, kiss my forehead, say "night night Julia -- I love you so much!" This was a special way in which to help me make that difficult release from "awake" to "asleep." It soon became a ritual I expected each evening, and my father patiently allowed me to run around in the dark and to finally lay down and sleep when I was ready. One can run around and play in the dark for only so long, after all. My dad was patient. And "night night" time became less a time to dread and more a time to share together.

Yes, it has been a good summer. I had not really gotten sick, a Chicken Pox scare in early August notwithstanding. I had slept long and hard almost daily, as my parents were on vacation and would let me sleep until I was ready to get up. And it came to an end --

-- the school year started. I was brought to school earlier in the morning, as my parents returned to their new classes. It took me a few days to get used to waking up so early in the morning, as it did for my parents. I had that noticeably peeved and cranky "tired look" in the afternoons for a week or so, but by late August I was up earlier than my parents. I was ready to go when I got to La Petite Academy toddler room with Miss Amber and Miss Gina. But my debt to Ms. Theresa and Ms. Liz were huge:

My parents lived in dread of the next flu and cold season, not far away. They hoped it would go better than last year.

SEPTEMBER 2008

September saw my family in the full swing of the new academic year. And my maturation inexorably moved forward: my parents noticed small changes that heralded the approach of real language fluency.

For example, I could easily now point to "mamma" and "dadda" both in person and in pictures. I knew "Julia" was myself, and I had a sense of self. I could almost always identify "moon" or "baby" in any page in a book we were reading, and not only could I walk but I could even run for a few yards. Yet I had not a clue about traffic, and my parents stayed close to me lest I run out into the street. My parents were amazed to arrive at school and see the boys playing with blocks but me playing with dolls. I would take a doll and wrap it in a pretend diaper. I would try and feed it water from my sippy cup. I would pt it down for a nap, placing the baby on a pillow, putting a blanket over her, and patting its back. I would give kisses to the babies in the infant room with Miss Elizabeth and Miss Theresa. Yes, I was firmly imprinted with the female identification in comparison with my male peers, even as the teachers treated us all the same. My father watched me take on a matronly approach to my baby doll with curiosity and something approaching amazement.

I had moved on in Sesame Street terms, also. My fascination with Elmo had grown to include "Ernie." Instead of only asking for "Elmo, Elmo, Elmo..." it was also "Awnie, Awnie, Awnie." I had trouble with the "p," "g," and "r" sounds. When I tried to say "grandpa," it came out as "dum da."

It meant I could not say, "Please!" It came out sound like, "peas!" But I would say it over and over again when I wanted something, rubbing my chest in a circular fashion at the same time to "sign" this word. It was very cute but a bit pathetic to look up at my mommy and say over and over again, "Peas! Peas! Peas! Peas! Peas! Peas!" My parents could not resist my ministrations for too long. My dad was secretly pleased, as now he was happy that I could communicate to my teachers during the day what I wanted. A baby is almost helpless. But I could be loud and persistent if I were hungry or needed something.

If I were tired or not feeling well, I could be a giant pain in the neck. My parents wondered if the "terrible twos" had not arrived much earlier than expected, and they learned to ignore most of my tantrums. I would scream bloody murder over some tiny matter and then be completely over it four minutes later. If my parents gave me everything I wanted, there would be no end to it. I could be as domineering and demanding as the most spoiled Roman Emperor. "Who ran this family? The parents or the child?" The answer was not so clear.

I also began seriously to see my teeth start to come in for reals. I added two teeth up front in a matter of two weeks, and one could even detect the beginnings of molars in the back left section of my mouth; maybe this would explain the bitter late night crying that had plagued our house sporadically in late July and August. After getting tired of laying on the hard floor, my dad finally brought in a futon and got rid of my crib. I never slept in a crib again. Me and cribs never got along too well. It seemed if my dad gave me the freedom to approach sleep on my own terms, I would get there finally and sleep well. If he just stuck me in the crib, it began to look like jail. But that was only at home, and I slept in a crib fine while at school -- maybe my parents were just softies and I could manipulate them. But then I had graduated from sleeping on a crib in the infant room to sleeping on a small cot in the toddler room three months ago, so perhaps it was time to say "goodbye" to the crib. Still, my parents were surprised it happened this early.

But they would do whatever worked. They had become utterly pragmatic. The crib was out. I was sleeping in a regular bed at eighteen months.

I could also be a ball of mischief! What had i destroyed so far? Well, I had taken apart Daddy's expensive "hands-free" headset, pulling the microphone clear off the ear piece and ruining it. I had also bended back his glasses until one part clean snapped off. All he did was shake his head and grumble under his breath. I was too young to know any better.

OCTOBER 2008

October saw me make rapid gains in my ability to speak and relate. I was speaking in short sentences now and articulating much clearer than before. "Where ah you?" "Where didigo?" "Thank you!" and "You're welcome!" all became words I well knew. I would exclaim, "Oh, oh!" whenever I dropped or spilled something.

I could not quite run yet, but I could side-to-side lurch forward in a way that was much quicker than walking. I would point to the radio and say, "Dance!" and this meant "music" as much as dancing; but when my mom turned up the music and dance I would stomp up and down frenetically, too. This was my attempt at dancing. My mom would squeal with delight and joy when she saw me do this.

This was a good time for me. I had not been sick hardly at all this fall so far, much to my parent's relief, and I had had six or seven solid good months. I was well into the groove at La Petite Academy and was well loved and known there. My schedule was regular and I knew what to expect, and if I could have my temper tantrums (especially when tired) I was more often full of smiles. As opposed to the first year of life when so much was new and so little was settled or routine, the days fell into a happy and predictable rhythm.

In particular, my sleeping was going better. For some weeks now my father (for some reason) had taken over the bath time duties. He had also completely changed the sleeping patters and life was much easier now: bedtime was something I looked forward to. Gone were the scream fests with myself holding forth in standing position from my crib for forty straight minutes of howling. Now the ritual was unvarying: Mommy would take me from the bath and put me in pajamas and diapers, help me brush my teeth, and kiss me good night. Then Daddy would lay there next to me until, at length, I fell asleep on the futon. With the security of Daddy next to me patting my back and occasionally kissing me and saying, "Night night, Julia!" I was able to gradually fall asleep in safety and security. No more screaming. I did not fight sleeping any more and often would say, "Night night!" out loud and walk in to my room and lay down when I was tired. This was a far cry from the summer and the scream fests, the evenings full of tension when it came time to sleep. And the early moments in my life when night and day were unknown concepts to me ("Will I Ever Sleep Again?") were long gone. My parents breathed a deep sigh of relief.

But of course there was a cost. It could take as long as forty minutes for me to wind down and fall fast asleep.

And then of course on the last day of October I celebrated my second Halloween. I actually walked door-to-door and trick-or-treated. My parents dressed me in an unforgettable chicken costume:

NOVEMBER 2008

November saw me in a good place: I was happy in the toddler room at La Petite Academy with Ms. Becky watching over me, and Liz and Teresa just next door with the infants. Often in the late afternoon I would go over and have an extended visit with Liz while my parents arrived to pick me up. My schedule was stable and I knew what to expect; I was given plenty of attention and love; I was making rapid progress with my speech.

  • Sunday Morning: A video of a typical morning in early November on a weekend morning.(82.9 mb)

See what I mean? I was a most busy "waddler." For example, my mother might say to me: "Please go put this in the trash can and then come back." I would take the item, walk over and put in in the trash, and then return. I could understand plenty of commands, but whether I chose to acknowledge and obey them was another question.

My father believed in repetition as a godsend when it came to learning, especially at the earlier stages. Hence, he went on youtube and found a bunch of videos having to do with counting and memorizing the alphabet and made both an audio cd for his car and a video playlist for the iPod for me. He played those songs for me every single day in the car on the way to school and I head the alphabet and counting from one to twenty over and over again. He would sing the alphabet or count along with the singer, and when I had the energy I tried to join him. Other times I just watched him or looked out the window of the car. I could count from one to five, but I always missed "3" and "4." But daily I heard these words over and over again:

Over the next few months I would come to memorize these songs and, hence, the alphabet and basic counting. This is how my father taught himself Spanish: repetition, repetition, repetition! As Goethe had said about learning, "Never in haste, never at rest."

In fact, the video iPod had become a little bit of a problem. My father had spent months getting all sorts of cool educational videos on that thing for me to enjoy and learn from. But I would stare at that little screen for hours, if my parents let me; it got to the point where I became so fond of it I would throw a tantrum if my parents did not let me watch it upon demand.

My bedtime hour continued to be a success and a restful and happy time for me, albeit one with a price still for my dad. My parents had the following routine: daddy stressed out and took me to school in the morning; my mommy picked me up in the afternoon and fed me dinner; daddy gave me my bath and washed my hair; mommy dried me off afterwards, put my pajamas on, and then brushed my teeth; and finally daddy read me a few stories and then laid there in the dark until I fell asleep. This could take more than an hour sometimes, and my father patiently laid there in the dark until I was fast asleep and would not notice him leaving. If he tried to sneak out while I was still awake, I would snap to attention and say, "Daddy! Night night! Lay down!" I would sit up and pat the pillow next to me until my dad got back down next to me.

My mom said it was my dad's fault in spoiling me to the point where I could not go to sleep without him there. And every night I woke up around one or two, ran into my parent's bedroom, woke my father, and walked with him back to my futon where he would sleep the early hours of the night with me. It meant my dad spent large amounts of time helping me to sleep or get back to sleep at night. A certain kind of person would say he was making me "co-dependent" on him to sleep. And he was going months without really getting a good night's sleep himself.

In fact, my dad had gotten to the point where he wore his watch all the time so he could see when to wake up in the morning and use the little light on his watch to see me my status in the pitch dark ("Is she asleep yet?" "Can I get up and have a few hours before I need to go to sleep?" or "Is it morning?" "Am I late for work?" "Can I get a half an hour of cuddling back with mommy before it's time to get up?") Never taking his watch off at night as was his habit meant that it began to rub the skin on his wrist raw. And my mom began to miss my father never there in the mornings in their bed.

But my dad, in the end, had no apologies. Last August going to sleep had been a nightmare. I would scream and cry myself into exhaustion, and I could cry a pretty long spell until I became exhausted. Bedtime was no fun and that hour of the day the house was tense. Now I had a long and warm bath with my daddy, and then when the lights finally went out I cuddled and was kissed until I finally let go and sleep took me. It had been months since I cried at bedtime. I had even begun to say, "I'm tired... night night!" to my parents when school had been particular long and hard and when I was ready to go down. When I woke up in the dark or had a bad dream, my father again was always there to soothe, cuddle, and kiss me back to sleep. I was literally surrounded by love most of the day.

My father had no apologies about this. Maybe if I had been a different kind of kid, it would have gone differently. But this is how it had turned out and my father did not want to mess with a winning formula.

And besides, my dad did not get to see me for most of the day. This offered a way where there could still be that intimacy and connection. My dad had got kind of used to being always tired and had adapted to a truncated sleep schedule, and it would not last forever.

And to be honest, after a few months he seemed to sleep with one ear open and was waiting at night for me to come running into his room ("pitter-patter," "pitter-patter" of little feet running; "Daddy? Daddy?" my voice questioned into the darkness eagerly and expectantly). Although he was so tired it physically hurt to be awake, he would get up and walk towards my room and I would run ahead of him and jump into bed. He curled up next to me and took me in his arms and we were both back asleep in seconds. We were both content at this. We missed each other.

So the days and nights passed with little change as November turned into December. I was eighteen months old.

DECEMBER 2008

December always means the Christmas holidays, family gatherings, travel down to Orange County, hotels and erratic sleeping schedules -- and getting sick. Thus it had been during my first December, and so it was the second. But my first holiday season I had fallen ill with pneumonia. This time I just had the common cold and flu.

  • Surprising Mommy at the Pool: A nice surprise for mommy on December 7th, 2009! (96.1 mb)
  • "ABCs" Singing the alphabet song, after a fashion, at nineteen months of age. (16.6 mb)

Unlike last year, my second year of life saw me so scared of Santa Claus I could not even bear to be held by him for a picture. I would make a funny face and say, "Scary...!" It was not only Santa; it was almost anyone in any sort of costume. When the Chuck E. Cheese mouse came by my classroom I was so scared I actually shook. At any rate, check me out at the annual Christmas Party at school:

What else?

My parents were amazed at my continuing tantrums. They rarely lasted more than a few minutes, but they could be histrionic and loud. My parents usually just ignored or tried to distract me on to something else. This was supposed to happen when I reached the "terrible twos" but it was in full force now. They hesitated to take me to a restaurant or the grocery store. It had been much easier when I was an infant and could not walk. Now I could run and run pretty fast. I might have a tantrum and throw myself on the ground. One parent by him or herself was stretched thin trying to pay for groceries and get out of the checkout line at the grocery store when I was on the verge of having a meltdown.

I was a bit like my mom: when I was good I was very good, but when I was bad I was plenty bad. Happily, I was mostly happy and often joyous. I was only "bad" usually when I was tired or not feeling well.

I had all my teeth, except for two sets of molars and my vampire fangs. Ironically, those "fangs" were the first teeth that came in for Cousin Maggie.

Mormor bought me a very cool rocking horse that made noises and moved its head from left to right when you rode it. I was so scared I could hardly even go near it. When it made noises I cried and jumped into my daddy's arms. Like with Santa Claus, I would say, "Scared!"

New Year's Eve we attended a party for Aunt Patty who had just gotten engaged. I sat there and watched the entire Japanese animation classic, "Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi" ("Spirited Away"). I did not miss a bit of it. I stared transfixed at the TV for two full hours.

Sitting next to me, my dad thought it was just about the stupidest movie he had ever seen. And it was long. I stayed awake all the way until midnight to finish it.

At least I didn't have pneumonia like New Year's Eve last year.

JANUARY 2009

A new year!

By half-way through January I was putting four and five word sentences together. I listened to those same alphabet and counting songs over and over again. But by January I pretty much had them memorized. In the bath I would sing the alphabet with daddy. I had become a huge fan of the Sesame Street "Count," and my dad would pretend to count like that grandiose gentleman with the bats flying around him and I would copy him.

That is a lot of what I did: copying. My parents would ask me a question and I would repeat the last word they said, even when I had no idea what it was (which was most of the time). I mimicked my parents often. I would sit there and copy how they ate. This is how I was learning. I would point at the toilet and say, "Pee pee." I would jump at my father when he picked me up from school and say, "Home" and point to the exit. My teachers were ready to transfer me early to the two year old's room at school.

I could very much be a little dictator. "Sit down, Daddy!" I would say and pat the bed next to me when I wanted him to sit and read me a book. "No! No!" I could protest. "I hungry!" "I tired!" I had discovered my independence and would communicate forcibly with my parents, even if that did not mean I got my way. I still loved Elmo. I still enjoyed my evening ritual of reading a book with daddy and lying next to him silently until I fell asleep.

Some nights in January this took more than an hour. There is no making forcing a toddler who is not ready to go to sleep; she will go when she is ready, and not a second before. There were evenings in January where I would climb all over my dad in the darkness and climb up and off my futon. I would lie there and babble or sing to myself in my semi-intelligible language. My dad had had also gotten so much into the ritual that he would totally space out and think of his lesson plans for the week or whatever. But I have to hand this to him: he always waited me out. If even it took a long time, he waited until I was good and asleep until he left.

We never did find out what would have happened if he had just lost his cool and stormed out, leaving me to try and go to sleep alone. He was pretty sure I would have screamed bloody murder. Daddy here was the way it always worked. I trusted in routine. My parents were always there when I cried. The world was a predictable place. I felt safe and was loved. I knew this.

And January continued this streak of good health in our family. I had some sickness in December, but that had been pretty much it for this school year. This was much improved from my first year. I reckon my immune system had matured and improved much from early infancy. My parents received fewer of those dreaded phone calls in their classrooms: "Come pick up your daughter RIGHT NOW, she just vomited." Then my parents would panic and start the debate: are you or am I taking off work tomorrow to watch Julia? I was much more healthy.

My mom was almost never sick and this was unchanged. But my dad had been sick all the time my first year, and he had been in almost constant "crisis mode." This year was much better. He had relaxed and matured into the role of "father" and felt more like himself. He had a blanket in his classroom and often was asleep on the couch there only moments after his last class ended at 3:00 p.m. He would be so tired he would be in pain during his last class, and then he would kick out his students and be on that couch asleep four minutes after they were gone. A little sleep goes a long way for an exhausted parent.

My parents had adapted to the demands of parenthood, more or less. They were actively engaged in a long-term discussion about trying for a second child. They appeared to be close to reaching consensus. They were both excited about the prospect of pregnancy and a second child, but they also dreaded a repeat of those early months when nobody got any sleep and everything was so precarious. My mother also dreaded the physical changes and the cost to her body of another pregnancy and delivery. It was not a small thing.

FEBRUARY 2009

February started off with a wonderful visit from Grandpa. I was now old enough to know and remember him, and Grandpa was thrilled to have a visit where recognized and warmed up to him. He ever read --

On Friday February 6th we got from La Petite Academy the official notice claiming that on March 16, 2009 Julia would be moved to the two-year old room. This was an external reminder that Julia was getting older and would officially enter the "terrible twos." Mommy and Daddy thought this had happened some five months ago, but it had gotten worse.They hesitated now to take me to restaurants, not wanting a tantrum or mess to disturb the other patrons. I was as I had been: when I was good I was very good, but when bad I am very bad. At the verge of turning two I was only "more so" than before.

And if this official notification were not enough evidence for my parents, then there was this: on Saturday morning February 7th I pointed at the toilet and pulled down at my pants. My mom took off my pants, pulled off my diaper, sat me on the toilet, and I deposited what I called a "poo poo" in the toilet. So I had started the toilet training process by myself without being prompted by parents or teachers! Completely taken by surprise, my parents that afternoon went out and bought me a toilet chair to practice in.

  • Elmo Goes Potty: The inspiration for Julia in this time of change. (65.4 mb)
  • Potty Time: Gettin' down to business just like my hero, Elmo!

I also took this copying phenomenon to absurd lengths. For example, in watching my father use the bathroom I too tried to pee standing up in my practice toilet. The results were underwhelming. And, perhaps copying what the cheerleading I got at school, I would walk into the bathroom when my parents were using it and encourage: "Real hard! Real hard... big one!" My parents never in a thousand years envisioned such a scene with their child when they contemplated parenthood. How strange (and funny!) it was!

I had also become even more vociferous in communicating what I wanted or didn't want. If my father started singing the alphabet I might raise my hand up and say: "Stop! Stop!" or "No, Daddy!" There were time that, if my parents had let me, I could have been as bossy and commanding as the most dominating Roman imperialist. I was on the very very edge of the "terrible twos." I had my moments of "rain man" weirdness: I would not eat anything that was not completely smooth and bland, wanted only "this" or "that" sippy cup, always insisted my father close the door completely shut before I could go to sleep, etc. My father wondered if this was a normal stage of "anal retentive" behavior, or if I were going to be one of those girls who had to have everything "just so" -- those types whose rooms are pink and immaculate, even as little girls.

On the other hand, I was more loving and more endearing in a directly personal way than ever before. I would run wildly towards my mother and father when I first saw them as they arrived to take me home. It was clear to my dad that I would want to be held and let to put my head on his should and rest because I wanted to be comforted. I asked for hugs and gave kisses. I would even say, "I wuv you!" If I could have greater tantrums, I could also express more affection. If I could express anger and pique, almost the next moment would be the opposite: almost desperately putting my arms in the air towards my parents and demanding to be hugged, comforted, and loved. The anger and the affection went together.

CONCLUSION AFTER TWO YEARS OF PARENTING

Yes, my parents were often just plain exhausted in devoting the necessary time to raising me. Their clothes began to look a little ragged, and they weren't exactly spending tons of time on themselves. My dad's eyes had a permanent tinge of red around them; he grew accustomed to being permanently exhausted; he struggled to stay in contact with his friends. On those odd weekend days (or when I was ill and home from school) when my father took care of me all day, he was just about done by five in the afternoon. "If I were a stay-at-home dad, I think I might just go crazy after one week!" he reflected in equal parts exhaustion and equal parts frustration. His heart went out to those who did this. He was more than a little amazed at how they did it.

On the other hand, he fully recognized that soon enough I would not want to spend my free time with my parents. I would want to be with my friends, like most teenagers. Maybe this was a function of my father being a bit on the older side: he could see the big picture, and have the maturity to use time well. Put down that book or step away from the computer when little Julia approached, as she always did, and wanted to be held - and be read to - and to engage. Just spend huge gobs of time with Julia now to give her that safe, healthy, and loving base. The pressure would not always be as crushing as it was now, and she would grow up only too quickly. To be a parent meant this: children first. This was what mommy and daddy's life was all about for the present.

So it was they felt a strong sense of accomplishment when I finally turned two years of age. Almost for the first time, my father looked back and thought: "24 months! Wow! The time is beginning to add up!" They were no longer rank rookie parents. My dad, in particular, saw huge growth in his parenting skills. His grandfather had never changed a diaper in his life, and his father had done a distinct minority of baby duties with him; but in perhaps a sign of societal change over parenting roles, my dad had done pretty darn close to 50% of of the parenting work with on a daily basis. And from this work he came to know me well: he could tell when I was tired, if I were falling sick, my moods and piques -- and the price for such knowledge was time, commitment, and effort. There were no short cuts. If his wife (or a paid nanny) had done all the work, he would not know.