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!

This week we headed down to the dirty South (judging from Jude's explosive poops) to visit with Grandma Janet (great-grandma technically) and Grandpa Gene for one week. I appreciated the time away from the constant inundation of computers, cable, cell phones to relax and, oh yes, attempt to study for the GRE's.
Jude and my grandparents immediately bonded. Grandma, many a morning, could be found downstairs in the finished basement composing songs on the mini keyboard with Jude or reading aloud about a recalcitrant bull named Ferdinand.
As his neck muscles are now fully developed there's barely any risk for the infamous head-banging. When I informed Grandma of the tornicollis, she simply remarked, "Well, the Dumpling needed quite strong muscles to hold up such a large head."
A burly firefighter correctly installed the baby seat since Jude's legs had begun dangling precariously from the ends. Like Jack's magical beanstalk, Jude's growth knows no limits. Grandma also snuck bites of macerated banana into Jude's forever rooting mouth. Initially, he made a disgusted face, but still managed to get some down.
Two days ago I decided to take a study break and venture out from the woods and into civilization. Fredericksburg, with its ubiquitous historic brick buildings and trendy shops provided the ideal hiatus from antonyms, FOIL and square roots. Grandpa happily strolled Jude from store to store as Grandma and I searched for a dress for her to wear to my cousin's wedding. It was a sunshiny, blithe day until I headed into an Irish-American store.
Maybe it was my own fault for wearing a flowing blouse that buttons up around my chest, which protrudes mightily, or because I assumed my grandparents were behind me, stroller in tow.
The lady, like a sly Cheshire cat, smiled at me before asking if she could be of assistance. I answered that was all set, thank you. Somehow my response got muddled as other customers entered the shop, the door chime ringing loudly.
"I think there may be some things you like over here," She tells me, assuming I need help.
She takes me to a room of green baby bibs, blankets, and hats. A shirt read, "Give me a pint of milk!"
"Oh, these are adorable," I say, examining a pair of clover-laden socks.
Then it happened. A response only five months prior that would have brought a smile to my lips, but today a source of great embarrassment.
"So, when are you due?"
What would have been just a check on the sheet of stores I visited, this particular one will forever be tattooed in my memory. Proverbial neon lights flash through my mind like the "Applause" queue at an SNL performance.
Literally, I was so shocked I fell speechless. I mumbled something about four months, not wanting to make her feel guilty over the prickly awkwardness of the whole situation. Then, I ran out.
Outside, I found my Grandparents sitting peacefully in front of a row of pansies on a bench eating dripping ice-cream. Jude barely glanced up at me as he nibbled the furry musical lamb Grandpa bought him. I could barely catch my breath.
Do I really still look pregnant? Yes, I recognize I'm not svelte thin and off my original weight by about 20 lbs, but pregnant?
When I told my grandparents what happened Grandma consoled me by saying that the top I was wearing looked like a maternity top, regardless of who wore it.
Neurotically, for the rest of the afternoon, I studied my reflection in the windows like a narcissistic attention-monger. Would I think I looked pregnant if I saw me going down the street? Her words haunted me.
Once, in Thailand, I did it too. My brothers and I rented motorbikes from a friendly couple who gladly threw in a few Singhas from their refrigerator without so much as batting an eye. She was thin all around save for a protruding belly.
I asked her in Thai how many months and she laughed, "I no have baby!" At least the Thai are far less sensitive to such matters, but I was mortified nevertheless and apologized profusely for my error.
Since, I have recovered, but I have to admit that it is a first I am not pleased about.
Once I finish breastfeeding Jude a major diet will ensue. Yes, major. Until then daily walks will have to suffice.

Last Monday, Jude and I attended our first Bugs class at the Little Gym for babies 4-10 months. We arrived promptly at eleven, kicked our shoes off and sat down on a mat along with other bugs and buggets. The instructor looked like an over-exaggerated characture of Shirley Temple with her hair in tiny bouncing ringlets. I could sense an aura of neuroticism as she shifted disjointedly from activity to activity; music blasting, babies crawling, drooling, cooing and crying all over the place.
We clapped sticks together, counted to ten in Spanish then did shoulder exercises to “improve their dexterity.” I wondered how all this commotion would really benefit my son.
At one point she sprang up and demanded, “Now take your little bugs and flip them over your shins so they dangle upside down!” Already over-stimulated, my bug spewed regurgitated breast milk all over the mats when he was flipped and dangled.
Shirley Temple immediately snapped her fingers, indicating to the whitish fluid as a timid, pimply assistant cleaned up the mess with a bottle of greenish spray.
Luckily, I started talking to another woman who had a little boy named Austin just a few months older than Jude. I assumed she was his mother, so I was surprised to learn she was a nanny.
“Oh, more than half of us are just the nannies,” she told me, gesturing to the other women and their babies.
I was slightly disappointed, especially because I hoped to befriend some of the women who I assumed were young moms like myself.
One lady named Debi and I struck up a conversation and at the end we exchanged numbers. Her daughter, who wore a cute pink dress, is eight months old.
We confided in each other how the first three months were treacherous, but how after the fourth month mark life improves greatly. I have no idea what music she likes, whether she likes salty or sweet, whether she’s horrified with gas prices at $4.19/gallon, where she grew up or what college she attended. All that matters is that we both have babies. That’s enough to forge a bond these days.
Just as I was about to leave the facility, Shirley Temple approaches me.
“I was observing your son and I think his neck is misaligned. You may want to speak to your pediatrician,” she advises.
I’m ready to snap back that after observing her face, I think her features are all misaligned, but she scampers off to answer the ringing phone.
That day I study Jude’s head and neck. I do notice a slight slant when he’s looking forward, but I had always assumed that he took after me, with my head at the one o’clock position in pictures.
On Tuesday I brought Jude to the pediatrician, who is now eight months pregnant and swollen like a tick, for shots and to vent about the audacity of the Bugs instructor.
She places him on his tummy and calls to him in different parts of the room. He cranes his neck to follow her voice, smiling from ear to ear.
Her prognosis? He may have torticollis, which is when a baby’s neck muscles are not all equal in strength, resulting in the off-kilter noggin.
After a bit of googling, I learned that with physical therapy the condition can be remedied, plus it’s important for the baby to spend about half of his waking hours on his belly to strengthen the neck muscles.
I was horrified when I clicked on “images” and tiny shots popped up of babies wearing helmets specially crafted to their heads to help improve balance. Imagining Jude with one of those clunky things attached to his skull nearly brought me to tears.
Determined to ameliorate the problem, Matt and I now do “Scooby exercises” where Jude stays on his belly and we shake a rattle on one side then on the other once he’s cranked his head around. Either it’ll help him or contribute to a future tick disorder.
On the upside, yesterday was Mother’s Day. Previously a day that evoked lingering sadness for me, it now ranks as highly as birthdays. Thanks to Laurel, who emailed Matt to suggest the present, he gave me a beautiful locket necklace. Not one for corny jewelry presents, this is what I always wished for. On one side are Jude’s initials then the other has his date of birth. Inside is a picture of Jude on one side and the other is of my smiling mom when I was a baby.
With the present came a flower balloon and a card from “Jude” that enumerated all the reasons why he loves me such as, “I love you because you read books to me (I’m educated),” and “I love you MOST OF ALL because you nourish me with BIG BOOB.”
Throughout the day I received texts, phone calls and letters wishing me a happy mother’s day. For the first time in my life I truly comprehend the expressions, “Only a face a mother could love” and “Go home and thank your Mother.”
Maybe it’s just instinct, but I know that I’ll always do everything in my power to make sure Jude is a happy, well-adjusted person. Motherhood is definitely challenging because most of the time it’s a thankless job and only you are the sole judge of yourself. There’s no boss to please; it’s all up to you whether you leave your baby crying in a crib all day or sacrifice to provide him/her with the best opportunities and shower him with love. It’s not like you’ll get fired or receive a promotion either way.
I once read that if a mother were to be compensated yearly for the amount of work she must do if staying at home with the kids, she would be paid over $100,000 at minimum wage. We’re talking being paid the same rate as the burger flippers at McDonalds, and still the amount would come out to a staggering amount.
In fact, last night my neighbor confided in me that she quit her job teaching middle school math to take a nannying job in Greenwich for $80,000/year. She will be working 12 hour days, from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday so, hypothetically, if my math doesn’t fail me, at that rate if she would make around $200,000 a year as a full-time mom for this family.
I only bring this up because I believe that motherhood is so undervalued. Although I want to return to work, I know it’s in part because I don’t feel I have enough purpose in my life simply caring for Jude. I say I want to get back into the workforce, but I have a feeling that once back I’ll miss spending my days with Jude, sometimes wondering where the day went when all I did was breastfeed, change diapers, read books to him and make dinner.
As a mom, you’re on call 24/7, there’s no shutting off the cell phone or calling it a day to grab a beer at the bar. Yet there’s a sense of satisfaction and indescribably pride I experience watching Jude, so plump, jolly and delicious.
Tomorrow, to grandmother’s house we go!

Dear Jude,
You’re still not sleeping through the night. Someone needs to coin a term for new parents who are sleep deprived and completely forgetful…something that justifies the condition along the lines of, “Sorry I’m so absent-minded, I recently had a lobotomy!”
Yesterday, at my Rowayton new mom’s group located at a trendy coffee bar in SONO (I managed to dress myself and Jude in time although I did accidentally put two different socks on him. None of the other moms batted an eye), I voiced discontent over the whole sleeping at night debacle.
“It would be one thing if he just got up once or twice, but his sleep patterns are so inconsistent,” I whined, as I downed two expressos to the pulsating music.
The seasoned mom of two, my savior Suzy from Canada, nodded her head thoughtfully before asking, “What’s his nap schedule?”
“Schedule?”
“That’s the problem.”
For the next hour, I listened dutifully as though she were Moses dictating the Ten Commandments on how to get your baby to sleep through the night. On the back of my coffee card, I scrawled down the acronym “EASY”, which stands for “eat, activity, sleep, you.”
Personally, I like the “you” and I underlined it a few times for extra emphasis.
“Babies need routine and structure. Without it, they never know when to sleep, eat or wake up. It’s also important to put him down awake so he learns how to soothe himself to sleep.”
Clearly, she doesn’t realize I have an exceptionally irascible child, I thought to myself.
Later that morning, around noon, I put Jude down for his first of three “scheduled naps.” The smile quickly faded as his face turned red upon realizing Mommy was not going to play anymore. I stood at the corner of his bedroom just under the red lettering “JUDE”, physically restraining myself from picking him up. After ten minutes I reminding myself that babies can’t die from exercising their lungs as he shrieked in utter defiance: thrusting his fists upwards as though protesting the outrageous gas prices and arching his back. Then, his eyes rolled back, fists fell as he nodded off to sleep.
For the rest of the day I religiously followed my newfound routine, even going so far as to clean off the dry-erase board filled with doodles and phone numbers to make way for Jude’s schedule and EASY.
Personally, I feel an enormous sense of relief establishing a schedule because it allows me to carve up the day in a predictable manner rather than just crossing my fingers, hoping he won’t be irritable or hungry if we go out.
On the downside, since his bedtime is now at 6:30, it means that many days Matt won’t be able to tuck Jude into bed, nor will he be around to take over bath time so I can have a break. It also means saying “no” to spontaneous weekend get-away’s since its important to stay consistent with the routine.
With Jude strapped to me like a mini-spiderman in the Baby Bjorn at the grocery store, I’ve slowly been inducted into the society of womanhood/motherhood. Mothers of all ages approach me, asking Jude’s age and always complimenting his radiant blue eyes. Next, I, a complete stranger, am suddenly privy to their most personal birth experiences/sleep issues/post-partum depression episodes as they always divulge a few stories.
I hear more about other women’s vaginas than those depicted in Georgia O'Keefe's "flower" paintings as no details are spared about episiotomies, tearing and other issues resulting from childbirth.
In the produce aisle, as I debated over whether to buy an eggplant or carrots for dinner, an elderly woman with purplish lipstick confessed, “I was never able to fully regain control of my urethra after the birth of my daughter.” OK, carrots it is.
A year or so ago I would have been alarmed and somewhat horrified, but I suppose after your body has served as a vessel to produce and give way to a life, such personal matters are no longer embarrassing or very private.

Oh, and on a lighter note, the top five best and most “challenging” (hellish) things about being a stay-at-home-mom of an infant:

1. Hanging out with Jude when he’s smiling, laughing and cooing. (+ +)
Hanging out with Jude when he’s irritated, hungry and just downright cranky. (-)
2. There’s no such thing as a Monday slump. (+)
At the same time, there’s no Friday and Saturday night booze-fests, nor is there an opportunity to catch-up on lost sleep on Sunday….Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday..etc. (- - -)
3. Never having to worry about what I wear or having to squeeze into uncomfortable high-heels, meeting deadlines, having a boss to brownose. (+ +)
Worrying that I’ll never get my body back in time for bathing suit season. (-)
4. On beautiful days, being able to get outside whenever I want to enjoy the weather. (+ +)
On crappy days, being stuck inside all day with a crying baby and cursing myself for living on the east coast. (- - -)
5. Showing Jude off and essentially getting free clothes/knit blankets/vacations from family far away who desperately want to see him and friends who don't have kids of their own with money to burn. (+ + +)
Trying to coordinate schedules, having to break plans, making new plans and attempting to balance friends/family who want to see him even though he’s cranky or we’re tired. (-)

Since we returned from visiting family on the west coast, spring has infiltrated the desolate winter darkness in Connecticut! Barren trees stooped over lifelessly have undergone a complete rejuvination as they now bear flower buds bursting with color. All the birds have returned and crimson-breasted cardinals flutter about as the bees explore the newly immerging tulips Pedro likes to lick as though decadent, icing glazed cupcakes. Jude and I go on daily walks in the running stroller that will help me shed 20 lbs, taking in the scenery and beauty around us.
Likewise, Jude has undergone even more changes as his personality shines through now that he’s no longer in the arduous “fetal stage” (first three months). His manual dexterity improves daily: Jude has the ability to steady his arms and grab at objects as long as they’re directly in front of him. Recently, one morning I was shocked when Big Boob popped out of his mouth only to have Jude use his hands to put her back in.
About a week ago I purchased a square cloth mat covered in red and white cartoonish animals in a zainy band: pandas playing flutes, zebras strumming guitars, etc. Springing from the corners are semi-circle bands extending from one end to the other, intersecting at the top (two in total). The black and red theme continues with stripes. Extending from the bands are a variety of oddly shaped critters such as a cosmic strawberry with four tentacles extending from its body and a mirror/puffy head in one. There’s even a butterfly with crinkly wings and a heart-shaped guitar.
It’s an apparatus created for the amusement of stoners and babies alike. Jude pumps his portly legs and flutters his arms like a bird when I put him down under it. Yesterday, he grasped the strawberry and attempted to shove it into his mouth, luckily without success.
Another great part about this stage is that he can hold his head up pretty well, which makes me much less nervous about having other people handle him. Previously, each time his head wasn’t properly supported, I’d think to myself, “There goes a few thousand brain cells!” as I envisioned his spongy cranium bounce against his skull.
For me, perhaps since the pregnancy was an “oops!”, I was scared essentially through the whole process, particularly regarding the part where he’d have to exit somehow. It’s interesting viewing the process from the opposite end, learning of Matt and my cousin’s pregnancies. A part of me wants to call them daily to assuage any worries and hold their hands as they choose which prenatal pills to buy. It’s such a natural reaction but during my pregnancy at times I was puzzled over why so many women wanted to give me advice that I thought I could just as easily read from my books. Now I realize more than just providing advice, they wanted to be sources of comfort.
One thing I’ve learned recently is that as the baby evolves and grows so should the way you interact with him. I think that I failed to realize how much Jude has changed when it came to sleeping at night.
Whenever I heard the littlest peep out of him, I’d pick him up from the bassinet and feed him. Don’t get me wrong- he loves to eat, but as a result he would scream every few hours as I inadvertently conditioned him to do so. Last night I told Matt I didn’t think I could cope with another day subsisting on only three or four hours of sleep (in much more explicit terms). He said he was going to try to rock the baby back to sleep and that I should go to bed in the other room. My initial instinct was that of worrying Jude would starve, but Matt was steadfast.
From 9 pm until 3 am, I slept (let the record show that’s the longest consecutive sleep I’ve had in 3.5 months). As I entered Jude’s teddy-bear laden room, Matt was awake, but Jude was sleeping soundly. He woke up in the night, Matt told me, but Jude went right back to sleep when his bassinet was rocked vigorously.
Giddy, I laid in bed, partially high from my six-hour slumber, for two hours, listening to the signs and grunts emitted from the bassinet as the birds chirped outside the window. Mother doesn’t always know right…

Jude's 3 month milestone kicked off with both weight gain and loss of hair. I thought such occurrences were slightly premature and my first instinct was to check if Rogaine makes products for babies, but my pediatrician (and Grandma Sus) reassured me it's quite normal for little ones to shed their birth hairs to make way for thicker locks.
Although he's far from sleeping through the night (sigh), at least Jude's nap times are a bit more predicable, allowing me some alone time without tip-toeing around, fretting that I'll inadvertently wake him from a ten-minute cat nap. While some sources recommend letting Jude "cry it out" by three months, I honestly can't see myself or Matt doing that anytime soon.
At three months, Jude's drooling has spiraled out of control; he's surpassed Pedro salivating over wild chickens. Part of the problem, I've discovered, is that bumpy ridges have over-run Jude's previously slippery smooth gums. In other words, he's starting to teethe. Not to say he'll pop a pearly white anytime in the near future, but it certainly is a beginning. Often, I'll apply pressure to his gums in the midst of a crying fit and he'll settle down considerably.
It's really cute how he's discovered his thumb and enjoys sucking it, although he hasn't mastered curling his fingers into a fist. Instead, mid-suck he'll panic as his fanned-out fingers cover his nose like octopus tentacles cutting off all oxygen.
I adore Jude's infectious laugh. He'll cackle to himself, bringing his chubby arms to his chest as he then releases a loud giggle in response to bright colors or, most frequently, when Matt coos, "You da most beautiful scooby in all da world!"
Speaking of his father, Jude looks more and more like Matt as time goes by. First it was his eye-color and "crying face", and now I have trouble discerning any "Pralle" in him! Indeed, at times it infuriates me since I was the one who got fat being pregnant and who popped him out. At least Matt is a handsome guy...