A visit to the doctor

Emily is 22 pounds, and healthy. She got a shot, which she didn't like so much, but when we got home she slept 3 hours and seemed like a much more developed baby when she woke up. She seems on the verge of saying actual words and of walking. I hope these two don't happen at the same time--I see her walking along shouting out demands. We're still having some trouble with the solid food--she insists on trying to feed herself, and she can't, but we figure that she's not going to starve.

I can hear cheerleading camp nearby. It's an annual rite here, and I'm not as annoyed by it as I used to be.

New Developments

Emily has a new toy area, seen above, that she is enjoying very much. Yesterday she spent about half-an-hour there, alone, flipping through her books and talking to her stuffed animals while I had lunch. Her talking is interesting--she points at things and says either "Bah" or "Gee." We're not at all sure what the difference is.

Back to the Kitchen

So yesterday I'm walking with another dad (we go to Starbucks once a week or so), and the maintenance workers in our complex, seeing us, say, "Giving mom a break. Good for you!" Neither of us said anything; the other dad, who is also doing most of the childcare this summer, was outraged, but as I told J, I was honestly relieved that they didn't see me as a wussy man who is doing childcare while his wife brings home the bacon. But of course the assumption that they made is not surprising; what kind of weird world do I live in now? Never in my wildest dreams did I expect that the 1970s would be some kind of progressive pinnacle, and from there, we would go backwards. In theory, I mean, obviously--few dads stayed home in the 70s either, but still, it was seen as a desirable goal. Now it's not even part of our thinking. If Emily isn't wearing pink, people assume that she's a boy--no matter if she's wearing some sort of equally "girly" color. Or even clothes with flowers on them. If it ain't pink, it ain't a girl. Apparently my generation is rebelling against the unisex clothes we wore growing up.

Strange Voices

Emily's voice has changed, literally overnight. She woke up yesterday talking in a very different way--it's hard to describe how, but it's a more grownup version of baby talk. She's really into her dolls now, and talks to them at length about something or another.

I complained to J, who complained to a list she's on, of the door-slamming, and it's produced a flood of complaints about noise in Family Student Housing, including one woman whose neighbors wash dishes and vacuum, frequently, at 3 am. So we don't have it quite so bad. It's hard to understand the mentality of someone who, in a shoddily built apartment complex, believes that it's ok to vacuum at 3 am.

The photo is of Emily in her new outfit.

Don't buy toys

Emily's favorite new thing to play with is the salad spinner. She carefully takes it apart and then scrapes the bowl across the floor (yikes...). The cabinet it's in is now baby-proofed, so she crawls up to it and yanks on the door, over and over, until I open it. She also loves to play with the remote controls, and her daddy's old cellphone. Her actual toys? She likes some of them, sometimes, but on the whole, is indifferent.

I did a good deed today on my walk with Emily: I found a wallet on the sidewalk and turned it in to the Sheriff's Office at the mall. Not that I was tempted to keep it (for the simple reason that I hope if I lost my wallet, someone would do the same for me), and besides, I'm far too cowardly to go on a shopping spree with someone's credit cards--I assume I'd get caught right away. I was afraid that the officer would ask for my name, and I didn't want to give it, because it's just embarrassing for the other person, who would probably feel some need to do something nice in return. Anyway, he didn't, so it won't be a problem.

Fun day

Yesterday we took Emily to a wedding (Michael and Rachel)--she wore a new dress. The wedding was lovely, and we had a lot of fun.

Today is back to earth in a hurry. Family Student Housing is plagued by door-slammers. You know, people who think that the door must be slammed with incredible force to close. Or in other words, people who have no manners, which is pretty much the norm here in the Land of Solipsism (as I was typing this, another door just slammed). Anyway, the door-slammers wake up Emily when she's trying to nap--seriously, that's how hard they slam their doors. One of them is our downstairs neighbor, so it's not surprising that this one wakes Emily up, but there are two across the courtyard who consistently wake her. Idiots. One of them is 8 months pregnant; I have fantasies of standing outside their door after the baby born and pounding a drum or something, so that they can see what it's like.

If we left this place tomorrow, it wouldn't be soon enough.