First off, for those of you who've read my Friday the 13th post, I wanted you to know that, fortunately, the night I describe in that post is *not* typical. We're actally, dare I say it, doing relatively well. Hava is a baby and she does wake at night. But compared to her brother, she's a champion sleeper. Chances are as soon as I write these words, she'll set about proving me wrong. But for the moment, I thought you'd want to know that most nights do not involve the extremes of crying, pooping children and barfing dogs that were described in my previous post!
Hava is doing well and is already up past her birth weight, which is a good sign she's thriving. Here are some more pictures we've taken over the last few days, along with some fun ones from our trip to Stinson Beach on the day before Hava was born. Someone told us that the sound of the ocean can stimulate labor. Guess they were right, since less than 24 hours after our trip, Ruth Ann was in labor!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Honeymoon Is Over
For about the first 64 hours after Hava's birth, we were able to keep alive our secret fantasy that baby #2 was going to be a different, easier experience. Hava indulged us -- she appeared to be calm, quiet and easy-going -- and we found ourselves thinking "hey, we paid our dues on baby #1, so it's only right that we get one of those easy, non-crying, "oh she's been sleeping through the night since she was six weeks old" babies.
That was the first 64 hours. But starting on Thursday night, Hava (with some help from Jonah and Ella) got to work throwing cold water on our fantasies. (Actually, it would be a little more accurate to say that she took a great big baby poop all over our fantasies... but I'm getting ahead of myself.)
Thursday night began with a slightly more agitated baby, who appeared to have no interest in sleep and a nearly insatiable appetite for nursing. Several hours in, Hava and Jonah started a routine where Hava would cry and agitate for more nursing, then as soon as she was settled, Jonah would cry out from his room and I'd stagger out of bed and go to calm him.
(I should digress for a minute: recently Jonah has started this thing where he stays laying down in his crib and cries softly until someone comes in his room, at which point he stops crying and goes back to sleep without the slightest bit of encouragement -- apparently he just wants to know that we're still around and thinking about him. This has been going on few a week or two, and I don't really have the heart to do anything other than indulge it given all the changes happening in Jonah's world at the moment.)
Anyway, after a few rounds of the Hava-Jonah chorus, we decided enough was enough and next time Jonah cried we weren't going to get him. After all, he calmed in seconds and clearly didn't need us, right? He had different plans, and kept it up for 20 minutes, at which point I relented and went in to see what was amiss.
Scene: Jonah's bedroom. Matt enters from stage left, hair and clothes askew from futile attempts at sleep. Jonah is sitting in his crib, legs dangling between the bars, looking wide awake.
"Jonah, it's two in the morning. It's time for sleeping."
"Find an alligator?" (I have no idea why he says this. We've never discussed alligators before. And certainly not at 2 in the morning.)
"Um, Jonah, can we look for the alligator in the morning?"
"OK."
Jonah promptly flops down on his mattress and goes back to sleep.
I returned to the bedroom and had barely closed my eyes when Ruth Ann woke me. "Hava pooped." Now that was an understatement. You non-parents probably want to stop reading now, but for the rest of you, let me tell you: if my first baby pooped like that, I never would have had a second. After cleaning the baby, the onesie the baby wore, the pants that were outside the onesie, the blanket wrapped around the onesie and pants, the towels that we grabbed to try to contain the whole mess, and miscellaneous other walls and surfaces that suffered collateral damage, we about as far from sleep as you can get.
We all climbed back in bed and just barely drifted off when Ella woke us with the unmistakable heaving sounds of a dog throwing up on the bedroom carpet. Like my third grade math teacher liked to say, "some days you get the elevator..."
Sometime around 4:30 a.m., after further antics and incessant nursing, Ruth Ann abandoned ship and headed to the living room couch, muttering something about her nipples falling off. Hava gave me a look and began to work into a cry. But then, perhaps sensing that she ought not push things too far on her second night home, she relented and let me get her in a decent swaddle and gently shush her to sleep. I got us both in bed, snuggled her against my chest, and we both drifted off for a merciful, maybe even blissful, three hour sleep.
All's well that ends well, or so I'm told. Seems like that applies here.
That was the first 64 hours. But starting on Thursday night, Hava (with some help from Jonah and Ella) got to work throwing cold water on our fantasies. (Actually, it would be a little more accurate to say that she took a great big baby poop all over our fantasies... but I'm getting ahead of myself.)
Thursday night began with a slightly more agitated baby, who appeared to have no interest in sleep and a nearly insatiable appetite for nursing. Several hours in, Hava and Jonah started a routine where Hava would cry and agitate for more nursing, then as soon as she was settled, Jonah would cry out from his room and I'd stagger out of bed and go to calm him.
(I should digress for a minute: recently Jonah has started this thing where he stays laying down in his crib and cries softly until someone comes in his room, at which point he stops crying and goes back to sleep without the slightest bit of encouragement -- apparently he just wants to know that we're still around and thinking about him. This has been going on few a week or two, and I don't really have the heart to do anything other than indulge it given all the changes happening in Jonah's world at the moment.)
Anyway, after a few rounds of the Hava-Jonah chorus, we decided enough was enough and next time Jonah cried we weren't going to get him. After all, he calmed in seconds and clearly didn't need us, right? He had different plans, and kept it up for 20 minutes, at which point I relented and went in to see what was amiss.
Scene: Jonah's bedroom. Matt enters from stage left, hair and clothes askew from futile attempts at sleep. Jonah is sitting in his crib, legs dangling between the bars, looking wide awake.
"Jonah, it's two in the morning. It's time for sleeping."
"Find an alligator?" (I have no idea why he says this. We've never discussed alligators before. And certainly not at 2 in the morning.)
"Um, Jonah, can we look for the alligator in the morning?"
"OK."
Jonah promptly flops down on his mattress and goes back to sleep.
I returned to the bedroom and had barely closed my eyes when Ruth Ann woke me. "Hava pooped." Now that was an understatement. You non-parents probably want to stop reading now, but for the rest of you, let me tell you: if my first baby pooped like that, I never would have had a second. After cleaning the baby, the onesie the baby wore, the pants that were outside the onesie, the blanket wrapped around the onesie and pants, the towels that we grabbed to try to contain the whole mess, and miscellaneous other walls and surfaces that suffered collateral damage, we about as far from sleep as you can get.
We all climbed back in bed and just barely drifted off when Ella woke us with the unmistakable heaving sounds of a dog throwing up on the bedroom carpet. Like my third grade math teacher liked to say, "some days you get the elevator..."
Sometime around 4:30 a.m., after further antics and incessant nursing, Ruth Ann abandoned ship and headed to the living room couch, muttering something about her nipples falling off. Hava gave me a look and began to work into a cry. But then, perhaps sensing that she ought not push things too far on her second night home, she relented and let me get her in a decent swaddle and gently shush her to sleep. I got us both in bed, snuggled her against my chest, and we both drifted off for a merciful, maybe even blissful, three hour sleep.
All's well that ends well, or so I'm told. Seems like that applies here.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Baby Hava Arrives!
We are happy to report that we can finally stop answering the phone with "no baby yet."
Yes, Hava Dov Rossiter (aka "baby #2") finally arrived on Monday night! It was few days after her official due date -- apparently she was operating on Jewish standard time -- but she was all the more welcome for it. We're back at home now, recovering and adjusting to life as a family of four.
We'll work on getting more pictures together -- lots are on other people's cameras -- but for now here's what we've got (click on photo to link to rest of album):
A little about her name: Hava is derived from the Hebrew word for "life" (think "L'chayim!") and also lets her carry an "H" in memory of Ruth Ann's father, Hershey. Dov is kind of fun and multi-faceted. It was part of Hershey's Hebrew name (Zvi Dov). In English (think "Dove") it gives her an animal name that echoes her brother's (Jonah Baer). And the parallel works even better in Hebrew, since Dov is in fact the Hebrew word for "bear." And like her brother, Hava carries the Rossiter surname in honor of Matt's family.
Yes, Hava Dov Rossiter (aka "baby #2") finally arrived on Monday night! It was few days after her official due date -- apparently she was operating on Jewish standard time -- but she was all the more welcome for it. We're back at home now, recovering and adjusting to life as a family of four.
We'll work on getting more pictures together -- lots are on other people's cameras -- but for now here's what we've got (click on photo to link to rest of album):
 |
| Baby Hava! |
A little about her name: Hava is derived from the Hebrew word for "life" (think "L'chayim!") and also lets her carry an "H" in memory of Ruth Ann's father, Hershey. Dov is kind of fun and multi-faceted. It was part of Hershey's Hebrew name (Zvi Dov). In English (think "Dove") it gives her an animal name that echoes her brother's (Jonah Baer). And the parallel works even better in Hebrew, since Dov is in fact the Hebrew word for "bear." And like her brother, Hava carries the Rossiter surname in honor of Matt's family.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Reflections, While We're Waiting...
As we count down the days to baby #2's due date (we're now down to one day left, and still no sign of her...) there is a opportunity to reflect on the changes we've been through over the last two years and the changes that will soon come. In fact, I recently spent a few hours (and then a few more hours, and then a few more...but that's another story) organizing all the videos of Jonah that we've taken, which prompted some reflections.
One thing that stands out to me -- and I'm sure will stand out all the more when baby #2 arrives to provide a point of contrast -- is just how much Jonah has grown up over these two short years. Two years ago, he was just a cute but helpless little grub. Today, he's tripled in weight (think about that!), doubled in size, learned to talk, walk and run, and generally just grown into being a little person.
One of the more notable ways I've experienced this growth has been in the time I spend putting Jonah to bed. I've been fortunate that more often than not I am able to make it home in time to help put Jonah to bed (albeit sometimes at the price of some late nights on the computer at home). Even when he was nursing, we'd do a hand-off where I'd read and Ruth Ann would nurse him to sleep. More recently, the bed time has usually been a daddy thing from end to end.
Being there consistently at bedtime has provided a really basic and interesting way of measuring change. It's simple: I do the same thing at the same time each night. From one night to the next it's hard to notice much difference. But as the nights pile up, one atop another, it's clear that things are shifting. I know what you're saying: "Such is life. What's the big deal?" But -- if we except out the nights when I'm tired and hungry and just want to get the kid to bed so I can get on to whatever's next on life's endless to-do list -- I'd say that the nightly routine of putting Jonah to bed has provided one of those rare experiences (rare for me, anyway) to brush against the profundity that lies underneath the rituals of everyday life.
I'm getting long-winded, I know, but here's a little narrative of how it's gone: When I started out putting Jonah to bed, I'd often have him swaddled in a blanket and laid out across the length of my forearm (imagine that he was no longer than my forearm!) I'd shush him and shake him (gently!) and sing a tuneless version of 'Hush Little Baby.' More recently bedtime evolved into reading a few books, and then turning off the light and rolling him up onto my chest, facing in. He'd snuggle into my chest, place his head on my shoulder, and often fall asleep while I was holding him (again, usually after the aforementioned tuneless singing). As time passed and Jonah grew, he no longer fit so snugly against me -- his little feet would spill out over the edges of my lap and his arms would swing out into space. I'd have to slouch low and lean way back in the chair to create a surface large enough for Jonah to lie against. And eventually he could no longer get comfortable enough in my lap to fall asleep. Sometime he still snuggles against me, melting my heart every time. A lot of the time now, he asks me to sing and then sings right along -- oddly, and thankfully given my limited repertoire, it's almost always 'Hush Little Baby,' which he and I sing together, neither caring that our voices are out of tune. I like to think that's because we're in tune in the ways it really matters.
Since you've read all this way, you might as well enjoy one of those videos I was talking about a while back. It's an oldie -- from summer 2007, I'd guess -- but makes Ruth Ann laugh every time.
One thing that stands out to me -- and I'm sure will stand out all the more when baby #2 arrives to provide a point of contrast -- is just how much Jonah has grown up over these two short years. Two years ago, he was just a cute but helpless little grub. Today, he's tripled in weight (think about that!), doubled in size, learned to talk, walk and run, and generally just grown into being a little person.
One of the more notable ways I've experienced this growth has been in the time I spend putting Jonah to bed. I've been fortunate that more often than not I am able to make it home in time to help put Jonah to bed (albeit sometimes at the price of some late nights on the computer at home). Even when he was nursing, we'd do a hand-off where I'd read and Ruth Ann would nurse him to sleep. More recently, the bed time has usually been a daddy thing from end to end.
Being there consistently at bedtime has provided a really basic and interesting way of measuring change. It's simple: I do the same thing at the same time each night. From one night to the next it's hard to notice much difference. But as the nights pile up, one atop another, it's clear that things are shifting. I know what you're saying: "Such is life. What's the big deal?" But -- if we except out the nights when I'm tired and hungry and just want to get the kid to bed so I can get on to whatever's next on life's endless to-do list -- I'd say that the nightly routine of putting Jonah to bed has provided one of those rare experiences (rare for me, anyway) to brush against the profundity that lies underneath the rituals of everyday life.
I'm getting long-winded, I know, but here's a little narrative of how it's gone: When I started out putting Jonah to bed, I'd often have him swaddled in a blanket and laid out across the length of my forearm (imagine that he was no longer than my forearm!) I'd shush him and shake him (gently!) and sing a tuneless version of 'Hush Little Baby.' More recently bedtime evolved into reading a few books, and then turning off the light and rolling him up onto my chest, facing in. He'd snuggle into my chest, place his head on my shoulder, and often fall asleep while I was holding him (again, usually after the aforementioned tuneless singing). As time passed and Jonah grew, he no longer fit so snugly against me -- his little feet would spill out over the edges of my lap and his arms would swing out into space. I'd have to slouch low and lean way back in the chair to create a surface large enough for Jonah to lie against. And eventually he could no longer get comfortable enough in my lap to fall asleep. Sometime he still snuggles against me, melting my heart every time. A lot of the time now, he asks me to sing and then sings right along -- oddly, and thankfully given my limited repertoire, it's almost always 'Hush Little Baby,' which he and I sing together, neither caring that our voices are out of tune. I like to think that's because we're in tune in the ways it really matters.
Since you've read all this way, you might as well enjoy one of those videos I was talking about a while back. It's an oldie -- from summer 2007, I'd guess -- but makes Ruth Ann laugh every time.
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