Safety is not the only concern with a baby on the move. . .

Many of the things I assumed before becoming a mother are out the window: Once they sleep through the night it just stays that way, being tired makes sleep easier, and my house is clean. This last assumption was shattered the other night as I placed Zoe on the carpet I just vacuumed and watched her roll onto the linoleum/wood (linolawood) floor in our entry way that I just swept. I thought I had done a pretty thorough job until I noticed Zoe under the desk in the entry way with a giant Sadie dust bunny on her leg. Zoe just looked at me and grinned. Yeah, I get it kid; that area "maybe" doesn't get the attention it deserves. Hard to tell when you yourself are not routinely laying under the desk in the entryway. Her unique vantage point also allows her to see under the sofa where she finds all kinds of goodies. Great. Ok, leaves and twigs belong outside not in your livingroom; check. Dog food belongs in the dog food bowl, not strewn about the house like a buffet at a dog cocktail party; gotcha. The only analogy I have for the situation is when you were in elementary school and on "dentist day" you had to chew on those weird red tablets. You're eight years old and you know what's coming. You brush your teeth like no one has ever brushed before. You get the back ones, you get the front ones (mostly the front ones because any indiscretion there would be most obvious). You're determined that the magic red chewables, designed solely to illuminate your bad oral hygiene habits, will not get the better of you this time. You eat one, look in the mirror, and see the reflection of someone who looks as if they just got punched in the mouth and is now bleeding profusely. Foiled again. Zoe is now our red chewable tooth pill. I'm not sure what the solution is because it seems that just when you are supposed to have the cleaning skills of Martha Stewart, you have the least amount of time. So I simply look around the house that seven and a half months ago I would've thought clean and sigh. Then I remember the poetic words I once heard uttered by a very wise man (my husband): God made dirt. . . .dirt don't hurt.

A Father's Day Tale. . .

I was quite nervous to become a mother. I had spent the last two months of pregnancy pouring over parenting books as if the authors themselves were going to come to my house and, in a round table-like fashion, fire questions at me on such topics as sleep scheduling, formula preparation and benefits of tummy time. I wanted to get this parenting thing down not only for Zoe, but also because I knew that as the mother I would get all the credit if she managed to avoid growing up to be, say, an ax-wielding serial killer, but if serial killing was in her future, I would get most of the blame. . . it's always the mother.

After she was born, my obsession about doing everything "by the book" kicked into full gear. It wasn't that I thought Mike wouldn't be a great dad, I did. It's just that he hadn't put in the time; where were his notes in the margin of The Baby Whisperer? Where were his parenting websites booked marked? I decided early on that there needed to be a plan, a schedule, a right way to do things and I had Dr. Spock to back me up.

That changed a couple weeks ago. I had taken Zoe to the park as I normally did. I had spread out a blanket and she sat up on her own and played, the Bumbo long since retired. I caught a glimpse of the swings at the playground, you know, the rubber ones that safely encase a child not yet ready for the ones without sides. As I strolled towards them I noticed the sign, "This playground is intended for children 2-5 years of age." Ok, Zoe was just over six months old and the sign said "no". Just looking at the swing with my infant in tow made me feel like I was ripping off the the tag on the mattress. What would my books say? Should I call the pediatrician on this one?

I moved forward making sure I was alone and could avoid the judgemental glares of the other mothers as they wondered how I could so blatantly disregard the sign, obviously putting my daughter in harm's way. I placed Zoe in the swing, she nervously teetered, then I promptly tore her away vowing never again to break the rules, to deviate from the milestone schedule set up by people much smarter than myself.

Two days later, I came home from work only to have Mike (who knew nothing of the great swing trauma) show me some photos of his day with Zoe. There she was in the swing, and well, swinging. Zoe was grinning from ear to ear, flying in the only way she could. As I looked through the pictures I started imagining the scene: Mike placing her in the swing, Zoe nervously teetering, and him allowing her to take a risk, knowing he would be there to catch her if she fell.

It was then I realized that in raising Zoe, there are different ways, better ways. . . her father's ways.

Zoe is incredibly lucky.

Happy Father's Day to all dad's, especially my own, who had a different way, one that lead to some fine results.

Almost seven months old

I swear, every adult needs to learn the fine art of appreciating the small things in the way a seven-month-old does. Zoe is absolutely fascinated by the likes of blades of grass, the remote control, and travel packets of wipes. That's right, for all of you out there who paid good money for big-ticket toys, welcome to the world of our very creative daughter who finds fun in the mundane. That's not to say the toy piano and Leap Frog don't find their way into the mix; it's just that, in her mother's opinion anyway, she has a highly developed sense of imagination. I'm sure I'm not biased and that she really is quite advanced.

I have nixed the food list in favor of her favorite things which seems to be a more interesting topic. She is on to blends such as apple/blueberry and squash/corn and frankly I can't keep up. She now has two bottom teeth, that are unfortunately difficult to photograph, so soon we hope to take the leap in the virtual parenting right of passage, Cheerios.

We took our first trip to a Savannah Sand Gnats game which was great. Zoe was donning her Boston Red Sox gear as tribute to the best team in baseball. And, in addition to swings, she also sits in restaurant high chairs and in the front of shopping carts. Yes, she really is as great as she seems.