It's a Pillow, It's a Pet - It's a Pillow Pet!

Ryan has always been very tactile – he’s fascinated by things that are scratchy, or smooth, or shiny, or fluffy. We have a very soft giraffe-print blanket that he loves to snuggle in and rub his face on. So it’s no surprise that he adored the two birthday presents he just got that are soft.

One is a stuffed beaver, which is not only soft but has the added advantage of a tail which doubles as a convenient carrying handle. And it’s just the right height so that when I set it on the table at the bottom of the stairs, it’s exactly at Ryan’s eye level when he marches past. Which means he generally comes to a screeching halt in front of it, stares in its eyes for a moment, then buries his face in its belly. And then marches on, only to do exactly the same thing on his next circle past. It’s good for cuddling in the playpen, too. It has chewable appendages. And it’s a good transportable size.

The second soft present he got is something I’m sure we’ve all seen on TV. Sing the jingle with me, everybody: “It’s a pillow…it’s a pet…it’s a Pillow Pet!” That’s right, Ryan got an official Pillow Puppy. In “Pet” form, he nuzzles it nose to nose and tries to tuck it under his arm like a football. But in “Pillow” form, he wrestles it like he’s in a Roman arena:

Not only does he nuzzle it with his face, he gives it the full-body nuzzle, he throws himself on it, he rolls over it and makes it roll over him. He immerses himself in it. He hugs it, bonks it, drools on it, sits on it, hugs it, and stares at it. (I haven’t decided yet if this means we’ll definitely have to get a dog when he’s older, or that we should under no circumstances get a dog when he’s older.)
 
But for now, he’s contented to roll around and wrestle with his Pillow Pet instead of a real pet. And considering that the bruises he accidentally causes when he rolls around and wrestles with me were beginning to get considerable (and painful), I’m happy to relinquish my Wrestlemania role to Puppy. Although whenever he needs a wrestling opponent who actually wrestles back, I suspect that Daddy (who carries noticeably more muscle and is considerably more bruise-resistant than Mummy) will still be happy to oblige. Which makes every one of us – THE WINNAAAAAAAAAH!!!!

Five Hundred Twenty-five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes

One year ago today, I woke up at 2am and thought, “Hm, November 2nd seems like a good day to have a baby.” I had awoken to the sensation of a tiny, pointy foot poking me in a place that no tiny foot should ever poke. I rushed to the bathroom and realized that my water had broken and that I was feeling my first contraction. I spent the next several hours lying awake in the dark, delighting in the feeling of impending motherhood, enjoying the last few hours of peace, knowing that my life as I knew it was about to change forever.

Eventually, Herb stirred and I whispered to him that today was the day. He woke up with a big grin on his face, then promptly scolded me for not waking him up right away. We both showered and dressed, then we called the doctor to give them a heads’ up. I did my best to follow the advice we had gotten at our birthing class to “labor at home as long as you can”, and walked around the house, pausing every now and then to cling to whatever random object was handy (wall, refrigerator, filing cabinet, husband) and breathe through the contraction. The contractions were quite short, but they were close enough together that we decided it was probably time to head for the hospital. Herb took one last photo of pregnant me, and as he tucked me into the car, I announced, “I want an epidural.”

We left the house at about 5:30, and as we drove along the Charles River, the full moon was still glowing low in the sky as the sun was coming up, and a lovely acoustic version of the song, “Hallelujah” came on the radio. Herb and I looked at each other and smiled, both feeling that this was the perfect moment of peace.

We arrived at the hospital and walked across the street. We almost made it across between contractions, but a big one hit just as we reached the sidewalk, and I remember clinging to the pole of the “Pedestrian Crossing” sign and laughing to myself as I wondered how many times that sign had served the same purpose. Most of the rest of the process of settling in to the hospital is a blur, although I do have a distinct recollection of Herb telling the nurse, “She wants an epidural.”

I remember being both surprised and relieved that placing the epidural was not painful, and hardly even uncomfortable. I remember being thankful for my soft, cuddly giraffe blanket over my legs. I remember being even more thankful for my soft, cuddly husband by my side. I remember being surprised when they told me it was already time to push, and I remember being surprised at how little time passed between that moment and hearing the doctor announce, “Congratulations, it’s a boy!” I remember watching the neonatologist look Ryan over carefully, and hearing him recite a litany of, “Five fingers, five fingers, five toes, five toes, two ears, two eyes, two nares, one mouth, two nipples…”. I remember concentrating very hard on looking at Ryan once I heard the doctors who were still loitering around my, ahem, undercarriage ask for sutures.

And most of all, I remember finally holding my son in my arms for the first time, with Herb’s arm around both of us, gazing intently with love at this beautiful, tiny, new life that had entered our lives.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that all that happened? I blinked once and my tiny, helpless baby is suddenly a big, grown-up boy, marching around the house, exploring everything he sees, figuring out how things work, learning new things every day, developing a sweet, stubborn personality all his own. Happy first birthday, Ryan!