Six months just around the corner and I’m starting to feel like pieces of my own life are once again in my control- dually a daunting and exhilarating concept. Even cuter and more animated than I had ever anticipated, Jude’s antics fill the day with much amusement.
Just a few days ago, I was bolstered up in bed using my computer, Jude to my right resembling a Michelangelo cherub in sleepland. A furry object rubbed across my arm and I, assuming it was a stuffed animal, ignored it. Again, five minutes later something rubbed against me. This time I looked down to meet Jude’s thousand-watt grinning face. He had woken, shuffled across the bed and rubbed his head against my arm to obtain my attention, an antic perhaps adopted from Pedro.
Another morning, after playing with Faux Scoob, the puppet Matt found for him with a tuff of blond hair and blue-button eyes that eerily resembles Jude, I was running around, dressing for the day.
I glanced over at the baby as I struggled to shimmy into a pair of jeans only to notice Jude sucking away on the puppet’s fake passifier while resting his head against Faux Scooby’s chest! A Kodak moment for sure.
A friend of ours advised us three weeks ago that if Jude wants solids he will let us know it. Just days later, as though on cue, Jude began lunging toward all edible objects, swiping at them if given the chance and shoving them into his opened mouth.
The next evening, I pureed a pear on the otherwise protein-shake dominated blender, added a little water and rice cereal with a plump baby on the box, and stirred. Remembering how messy feeding a baby could be from my babysitting days, Matt and I dunked Jude in his blue bubble bath where he promptly picked up a green plastic duck and began nursing on it, as though anticipating what was to come.
Much to my delight, Jude immediately took to the food, although I found it amusing watching him learn how to eat, a concept that never occurred to me that one had to learn. Instead of sucking, he quickly discovered that clamping his mouth on the baby spoon would allow much more food to enter his mouth and subsequentially fill his bottomless belly. Now, Jude associates bath with food so after the ritual of peeing in the water he pumps his arms in anticipation of dinner.
As a result of the introduction of solids, Jude sleeps much more through the night, only waking when disturbed, but otherwise he’ll be out from 7 p.m. until 6 a.m. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself after he’s in bed, now that I’m so unaccustomed to having any alone time.
With summer in high gear, Matt and I are now able to take advantage of eating outdoors for early dinners, as opposed to gorging ourselves in hopes Jude wouldn’t erupt into a torrent of cries in the depressing winter months. Everything about summer feels wonderful, particularly with a baby like Jude.

Lessons Learned While Traveling for Ten Days with Baby
1) When destination is in another time zone, anticipate the loss of at least three days and don’t anticipate getting baby back on his routine until you’re home.
2) A stroller is essential, especially if you don’t want to break your back carrying baby in the bjorn all over the place.
3) Bring nail clippers. Just because you’re on vacation, it doesn’t mean his little finger and toe nails are.
4) Always, always bring spare sets of clothes on the airplane. For whatever reason, explosive, volcanic poops seem to strike just as you’re waiting to board. Be prepared.
5) A pebble inside an empty water bottle. A change purse. Crinkly magazine paper. All of the above can be improvised as substitute toys, especially when a meltdown is eminent.

For Grandma June’s 80th birthday bash, Jude flew across country to the smoke-filled casinos of Vegas and swam in swimming pools filled with drunken adults drifting about on blue floats. Somehow it felt incongruous to be visiting my pious Grandma and celebrating with family amid the vices of Sin City. With sex shops unabashedly advertising their services in bloodshot neon on the sides of the road along with building-size boards luring get-rich-quick wanna-be’s with the allures of playing poker while being served free drinks by women clad in thongs, fish-net stockings and high-heeled shoes, there was plenty of opportunity to entertain any whim.
Personally, I took note of the gas prices ($3.75 was the lowest around) and the inexpensive food, as compared to the East Coast. Otherwise, we focused on spending time with the rest of the family, many people I hadn’t seen in 18 years, not since the last family reunion when many of the now new parents were just kids themselves.
I found myself in the company of my older cousins, with their toddlers, and not my cousins closer in age who downed shots of cheap liquor and gambled for most of the trip. Pre-Jude, I reflected, I would have still been a part of that cohort, but now I have a lot more in common with other new moms.
Matt and I left Jude in the care of Grandma one evening to investigate the strip, specifically to walk on a crowded pirate ship and ride a rollercoaster in a casino. All of which occurred on zero sleep since the time difference did not sit well with Jude, compounded by birthday events that interfered with his napping times.
By the time we reached the inviting, sunny oasis of San Francisco both Matt and I were on the brink of exhaustion. While admiring Bonsai in the Golden Gate Park one afternoon, I experienced an overwhelming urge to lie out on the enticing grass. Unbeknownst to me, several hours passed before Matt and Jude returned after having lunch together and doing some shopping.
We were fortunate enough to stay with my friend Alex’s family while she was away. With three kids under the age of eleven, we were enveloped into the folds of their day and enjoyed a relaxing stay in the pinnacle of hippiness in the Haight-Ashbury area.
Despite tumultuous nights, days were dedicated to venturing out in the city. Jude cried then surrendered at Alcatraz (we took many cute pictures of him behind bars…I only hope it isn’t a prelude for things to come!), visited with Aunt Meg in Union Square and hung out at the beach on the last day before checking out Union Street.
The thin, ornately decorated Victorian townhouses with opaque bay windows immediately won me over, not to mention the whole laid-back attitude and the triad of having city, ocean and mountains as one. With Thai restaurants galore as the cherry on top, I could easily see us raising Jude in San Francisco…
After screaming fits at night, we would place Jude between Matt and myself as so to prevent Jude from toppling right off the bed. In the middle of the night, I often awoke to Jude head-butting my chest as he managed to shimmy his way over to me in a gimp-like way since he hasn’t quite mastered the crawl yet. I ended up sleeping with my back to him, otherwise my boobs would be constantly violated.
Once at the Stanford Park hotel, Jude and I luxuriated in long baths together and he giggled when I blew bubbles and never once protested to having his head dunked. In spite of many activities (visiting Google then hearing Oprah speak at Stanford’s graduation ceremony) and interaction with many people (in addition to 10 members of the Daniels family, Jude also met my two cousins and saw Grandma Shirley and Ray), Jude laughed and played most of the day. I shudder thinking back to the early months when he cried inexplicably and never smiled.
One morning I woke up to Jude lying on his back, thrusting his pelvis upwards as though a puppet connected by a marionette’s string. The pelvic thrusting continued for about half an hour before he turned to Matt’s arm and began sucking furiously. After farting noises ensued, Jude laughed loudly. Matt and I exchanged knowing glances: he’s definitely our son.
Luckily, the flight back was much shorter and no bachelor parties were taking place (on the way to Vegas, the plane was delayed an additional 45 minutes because drunk guys kept getting up to pee before take-off). Now, I’m looking forward to getting Jude back on his schedule and catching up on lost sleep!

“brrrrrr brrrrr brrrrr!” I smile coyly at the other library patrons before explaining to no one in particular, “He likes doing this new thing with his mouth….” Otherwise, I worry that people will assume the rude whoopee-cushion noises are coming from Jude’s other, highly gaseous end.
Aside from noises, Jude has “discovered” his feet. Often, I’ll be holding him as he struggles to face downwards, enraptured by the very existence of his swinging appendages, marveling, “My loyal friends! You follow me to the ends of the Earth and back!” In the mornings, when I retrieve Jude from his pack ‘n play, he’s on his back like, foot and sometimes feet in mouth. Literally.
Since learning he has complete control of his hands and fingers, Jude enjoys latching onto objects, particularly my hair, with a superman grip before shrieking like a deranged scientist. After the rooster cry, he quiets and suctions to my chin, nose or forehead. It’s endearing in a scary sort of way, especially when he refuses to release my tuff of hair.
At Jude’s five month milestone, the family room is a Scooby-playpen filled with fun bouncy machines, the cosmic strawberry playmat, his vibrating chair and an exersaucer that reminds me of a spaceship switchboard. All of his new toys are due to the convenience of craigslist, where I barter and buy toys just months old then sell them back. I honestly don’t know what people did before such an invention and I doubt Jude would have much of anything since I can’t justify dropping hundreds of dollars on a new toy that will last him just a few months.
Lately, I’ve been debating whether to look for a full-time job again, or even a part-time occupation. The extra cash would be helpful and it would give me a bit of time to myself, and yet I don’t want to miss anything concerning Jude as he’s changing so quickly.
At the read-aloud on Thursday mornings at the library, the room is filled with light-skinned children, all accompanied by a nannies straight out of a United Colors of Benneton advertisement. I hear many of them beckoning the kids back to their seats in syrupy Jamaican accents when they toddle off.
After read-aloud last week, I struck up a conversation with a girl my age named Ana from Venezuela. Five days a week Ana nannies for a two-year-old girl with strawberry blond hair pulled back by barrettes, wearing a complimentary Lily Pultzer red jumper. Ana admired Jude then asked how many days I nanny.
“He’s actually my son,” I reply.
“Oh! He’s eyes are so blue!” She says, bending over for a closer look as Jude’s eyes peer out from under his octopus hat.
Yes, he looks nothing like me with shiny emerald eyes and light hair. Whoever said dark eyes and hair were dominant?
We continue talking, me asking about Venezuela and in the midst of conversation, Ana proclaims, “I think it much better you stay home with Jues. Mad-son don’t even know her mommy is her mommy. She think I am her mommy!”
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Jude and no longer about her father’s liquor business back home.
“I first one to see Mad-son walking and now she talking to me. She know Spanish and her mommy only see her Saturday and Sunday and sometime Mommy and Daddy busy on Saturday so I stay for six days!”
“Peoples around here, they crazy. They got so much money, but no time with they kids. They kids grown up by other people!”
I nod, thinking of all the youngsters and their nannies I encounter on my walks, women from South America, the islands, Europe and even Asia, hired to care for other people’s kids. These are not children placed in daycare by necessity. These are the offspring of the .001% of Americans who can afford full-time help, designer clothes for babies and vacation homes overlooking the Sound.
After the conversation, I reflect on my anxiety concerning a career and decide that a few more months at home would probably be best for Jude. Certainly, as I’ve heard before, nobody will love your baby the way you do.
Happy five months, Pumpkin!