fabulous day on lakeshore with baby (minimal whining)

The whining is all me. I am sick. Sick, I tell you. Not in the head. But as in head cold. Sneeeeeeeezy, runnnnnnny nose, waaaaaaaatery eyes. It’s miseeeeerrrrrabbbble. Seriously. And my face is raw, sandpapered raw from tissues/toilet paper/napkins, the range of any old things that I am wont to use to wipe my nose. I hate that smarmy feeling those lotion-impregnated tissues leave on my face, and I’m definitely the worse off for it.

Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Adams?

Fine, thank you. Fabulous, really.

The boy awoke at 5:30 a.m. (after already being up and receiving a bottle from daddy at 4). No matter. Into the bed with us for a nurse and wriggle session until 6.

Back down around 7:30 for a nap. Out the door soon after 8:30 a.m., into the BOB, down the street to my neighborhood retail strip for the beloved Peet’s jasmine lime cooler and a fresh cheese roll from Arizmendi (me), and a ride in the swings (him).

We met a mom and her two kids, and her younger daughter, 6-months, shared the swing with Jonah — they sit back to back in those bucket swings which have four leg holes — this works well for babies because otherwise you have to stuff a sweatshirt or something behind them or just hope they don’t fall backwards while you push.

When that stopped being exciting, we took a nursing break on a bench. The mom came up to us and said something to the effect of “Hurry, hurry, Story Time!” So we followed her to the tiny branch library next to the park, into a room brimming with wee ones and their moms/caregivers (it could have benefitted from an open window on such a warm day, I’m just saying).

A woman sat at the front of the room with wolf and sheep puppets and led us through songs and read us stories. Digby the sheep dog. Mary had a little lamb. A book about sheep that go to a restaurant. If you’re happy and you know it. A couple of the ditties involved jumping and/or booty-wiggling.

Jonah kept brushing his hand against the round, tanned arm of the mom sitting next to us. He was just fascinated with her arm. She didn’t mind.

Half an hour later we were back out on the street. Jonah zonked out in the stroller within a block. I shopped at Trader Joe’s.

I sometimes think I had a baby just so I could have a stroller to walk groceries home in. Could have just taken the shortcut and swiped a grocery cart? But then, no suspension. I guess I have seen some homeless people pushing their belongings in strollers. Sorry, this post just took a depressing turn. Back to the story…

Wheeled the boy up Lakeshore to the “other” park. The one that doesn’t have swings, and sits on a median strip of sorts, bordered by giant redwood trees. You have to see it to believe it.

Me and all the nannies and moms and toddlers again.

After Jonah woke from his 45-minute (woo hoo!) nap, I discovered that his brown hat was missing.

A digression about my obsession with Jonah’s hats:

This brown hat is from the Gap. It completes most fetchingly his many outfits which contain some or a lot of brown. It fits perfectly (not easy for baby hats). When we were at the antiques and collectibles fair a few weeks back, a totally tattooed and fabulous hipster dad who was pushing the same black-and-tan BOB as I stopped to compliment me/us on our cool strollers and when he peeked under the canopy and spied my boy so fashionably situated in the cranial region he pronounced admiringly, “Nice lid!”

There’s a second story about how hard I worked to get the right-size red-and-plaid reversible bucket hat for the boy (also Gap, sorry — I hate being so corporate, but their baby clothes are pretty awesome and there’s one in our neighborhood). The 6-12 was too small. I had to call another store, charge-ship it, and they sent me a pink plaid one, uhhhh… nope? — which I returned, and then charge-shipped another. It took WEEKS. Totally worth it.

So I was devastated to discover the brown lid missing.

Rushed back down the length of Lakeshore. Wondering if I should call Scott immediately and get him to go online at Gap.com ASAP to see if by any stretch one could order another (the styles change so quickly!). Back to the good (swings) park, and there it was! Under the breastfeeding bench. Phew!!!

A man there tells me, “People keep asking me if that is my hat.” He’s clearly relieved that the true owner has arrived to take the pressure off him.

And then, we go on the swings again, because we’re there, and why not? And then we run into a friend and her mom and her 2-year-old. Which just makes you feel good about living in a neighborhood, you know?

And then we’re hungry but the three-generations friend has to get home for her daughter’s nap so we go on our own to the Lakeshore Cafe where I enjoy a fluffy tuna melt (hold the tomato — why ON EARTH would one put tomato in a tuna melt???) and the boy SCARFS DOWN a jar of sweet potato baby food and then POLISHES off the half-an-avocado the waitress brings. So nice to see him eat so heartily.

And then, as we’re walking home, on the last block of the retail strip, we pass the Gymboree where a newborns-type class is just letting out and we end up walking almost all the way home with a woman who is nearly my age and her daughter, en-Bugaboo, who is about a month or so younger than Jonah. We swap sleep stories.

“How is the sleep thing going for you?” I ask her — which I think is a nice, non-incendiary way of bringing up the subject. It can go so very many ways for people.

Our experiences are pretty similar, it turns out. And then she tells me about how she is weaning her daughter from the breast because her doctor says she has to if she wants to get pregnant by the end of the year, and she wants to get pregnant by the end of the year.

“I’m not getting any younger,” she says.

I think she might-could partially wean, and get her period back, but I don’t tell her so. Because I don’t really know her situation and especially if there were any fertility issues the first time around, surely she wouldn’t want to take the risk.

She peels off at her street and we head home. Only three hours to kill until Scott gets home from work. Sometimes it seems impossible. How will I entertain Jonah for so long? I try to get him to nap again, when he shows the tiredness signs. Crying ensues. Not in the mood for letting him go on like that too long, I surrender and we play, and practice sort-of crawling, mostly on the floor and some on the bed, with various toys and the kitchen spoon he’s appropriated. He gets all wound up and manic, and I let him. Too sick/tired/weak to argue. He’s happy, at least.

At 6 p.m. he falls asleep on the boob. We put him down in the crib. He wakes up an hour later. Hey, where’d that boob go? Scott soothes him a bit, and then Jonah fusses back to sleep.

And while I typed this post, Scott cooked dinner. Woo hoo!