The sunscreen quest

For the most part, I consider myself a relatively (note use of word "relatively") laid-back mom.

I mean, I don't let my little Tank juggle knives or anything, but if he tosses his favorite rubber giraffe or firefly-bug toy on to the carpet, I don't ALWAYS wash them off before giving them back to him -- even if I know they are going right back in his mouth.

The dog walks on the blanket right next to the baby? Eh...Baxter hasn't stepped on him yet. I am sure it will be fine.

Scott spits up on his shirt? Blot it off with a burp cloth, but it'll dry..no need to change him when I JUST PUT IT ON, right?

Those pajamas that fit last week too tight? He can probably wear them one more time before they go in the outgrown clothes box.


So I was sort of surprised when I started to obsess -- like really, really obsess -- about my baby and sunburns. You'd think I was preparing the kid for a field trip to the equator or something.

Maybe its because I live in Arizona, a state that averages more than 330 days of sunshine a year. Or maybe its because I know that my husband and I literally live in our swimming pool during the months of June, July and August.

Most likely its because my "Ginger, make sure you wear your sunscreen" broken-record-sounding mom, has -- in recent years -- had several painfully unpleasant bouts with skin cancer. And it stems from sunburns she suffered as a child and a teenager.

Now every mole I find on my skin is something to be taken seriously. Very seriously.

My obsession started innocently enough, with a simple post on Facebook querying friends about their sunscreen recommendations. Then I went into full-on research mode. The Environmental Working Group's listing of safe and effective baby sunscreens. Newspaper articles. Comments on BabyCenter.com. Customer reviews on Amazon.com.

In the end, I couldn't pick just one. In fact, I now own five different kinds of baby sunscreen. I have sunscreen in stick form and in powder form. I own organic sunscreen and sunscreen that comes in a bottle that changes color when exposed to UVA light.

Baby sunscreen takes many forms (California Baby brand not pictured.)

But it didn't end there.

No, my obsession took a new turn.


Hats.

Scott will wear one every day while he is outside. I'll make sure of it. And I have plenty to choose from, because he now owns four of them. Three are plaid in various colors. One is reversible. Two have chin straps to ensure they stay on more securely.

I have also decided that he will not just wear swim trunks. No, my son also has two matching rashguards to go with his uber-cute summer swimsuits (and no, I had no idea what a rashguard was until a few weeks ago). If you are wondering, its basically a shirt made of spandex and nylon that protects against the sun's ultraviolet rays.

It's very helpful in the summer, because it helps covers the little guy's torso, back, shoulders and arms without me having to slather him with sunscreen every 30 minutes.

The fully array of Scott's sun protection gear.

And yes: I am determined to protect his eyes too. Scott is also the proud owner of baby sunglasses, complete with a strap that wraps around his head so he can't pull them off.

For the record, he hates them.

How can I not do everything in my power to protect this perfect little face?

I haven't used any of my other products yet, so I can't say which sunscreens will come out on top and which will be abject failures. But the weather is turning, Spring Training and pool days are right around the corner, and I feel like we're ready.

Now, if you'll excuse me...Scott just threw his giraffe on the floor again.

Now take your medicine...or maybe just wear it instead

Scott hit, as my friend called it, a "yucky" milestone this week: his first ear infection.
I took him to the doctor after he spiked a fever Wednesday morning, shortly after suffering through another long, largely sleepless night.

His pediatrician took one look in his right ear and pronounced it "half-full of puss."

Um. Eww.

But truthfully, I was a bit relieved to get the diagnosis. Two and a half weeks is just too long for the little guy to have to put up with all the coughing and nasal congestion. 
And an ear infection can be cleared up with antibiotics, which means he might actually-- FINALLY -- start feeling better soon.

So when I left the pediatrician's office on Wednesday, I eagerly took the prescription to Fry's pharmacy. Scott was given amoxicillin, a drug I took with great regularity when I was a kid, having endured about 400 ear infections during my own childhood.

I felt like such a grown-up picking up that pink bottle of bubble-gum flavored goodness...thinking that it was kind of cool that I now get to give it to my own kid so HE can feel better. Then it occurred to me...how, exactly, does one give a five-month-old one and a quarter teaspoons of amoxicillin? 

There's no course on this in the "So you think you want to be a parent? Well, here's some stuff you should know" manual.

I asked the pharmacy for a syringe. They didn't have one, and instead handed me an enormous-spoon-like funnel. I looked at them like they were nuts. Really? You want me to shove this thing in my infant's mouth? They smiled at me dismissively and bid me good-bye.

That night, I gave Scott amoxicillin for the first time using a syringe I found with an as-yet unused bottle of baby Motrin. It didn't go too badly. He let a little of it dribble out the side of his mouth and made a face, but took his medicine like a good boy. I figured we were home free.

The next morning, though, he was on to me. I approached him with the pink bottle and syringe and the kid went nuts, writhing and kicking and tossing in my arms. And I should mention, he's stronger than any five-month old has the right to be. The only way I could get him to take the stuff was by forcibly pinning his arms down with the weight of my entire left side, while shoving the medicine into his mouth with my right hand. This time, about half of it came back out.

And Scott, stubborn little devil that he is, has gotten smarter with each subsequent dose. This morning, he twisted and turned, I shoved the medicine in his mouth, and he sat there for a second like he was swallowing it. And then he promptly spit EVERY LAST DROP of it back out at me, letting it paint his pajamas a nice purplish-pink.

Scott, wearing his amoxicillin.

So now, we've moved on to a new approach. I measure out the amoxicillin in a dropper, and then pour a tiny bit of it at a time into a baby spoon that also has a bit of applesauce on it. I then insert spoon in his mouth and hold it there until I can see that he has swallowed it. The entire process takes about five minutes.

Our medicine-taking "tools."

It appears to be working. Scott isn't coughing as much and his congestion is starting to ease a bit. I just hope they put a little extra pink goodness in that bottle, because there's as much medicine on his clothes as there is in his tummy after each "dose" is administered.

P.S. On a completely un-related note, I have to show off Scott's first daycare project. With no offense to his daddy, this may be the best Valentine's Day card I've ever received!

The cover of my first Valentine's Day card from Scott.

The inside of the card, complete with poem, baby footprint and a smiling photo!

We will not succumb to the germs...we will take them to the zoo!

So I had always heard that once Scott entered daycare, he'd be sick. A lot.
What was not conveyed to me is the following: if the baby is sick, chances are mommy and daddy are also sick.
This is day 28 of my cold.
I don't know if its the same cold, the cousin or best friend of my original cold, or some other variation thereof. Nor do I care.
I just want it gone.
I have spent about $78 on boogie wipes, saline spray, vapor bath and the like for Scott. And I have spent an equal amount on cough drops and other illness coping supplies for my husband and I, who have by now, drunk our weight in DayQuil.

I've disinfected every surface of the house. Washed my hands a-bazillion times. Sucked on Zicam tablets and taken Cold-Eeze. Popped vitamins.

None of its working.

Jim and I still feel like death warmed over. Scott is still coughing and congested, and we are still attacking him 15 times a day in desperate attempts to get the gunk out of his nose so he can eat and rest more easily. He is rewarding our efforts by turning his head and coughing, open-mouthed, directly into our faces.

Sometimes he sneezes at dinnertime and sprays carrots or squash on me, along with the germs. That's uber-fun too.

And so the cycle continues.

But because we live in Phoenix, one of the few places where its 77 degrees on a Saturday in February, we decided this weekend that we would not succumb. We would rise above the germs. We had long planned an excursion to the Phoenix Zoo with our friends Don & Melissa.

(Side note: As they have two kids under the age of four, this get together had been cancelled about five times because someone in THEIR family was always sick. Even on this day, Don didn't make it. You guessed it: Disease. Melissa went it alone with Dylan and Ella.)

Jim and I got Scott dressed in a fun little springtime outfit, complete with hat, baby sunglasses and rubber giraffe and headed on down to the zoo.

Getting Scott all strapped in. He sits in his stroller like a big boy, for the first time.

All the cool kids wear shades, a hat and chew on a rubber giraffe. Don't you know that?

Scott had been there once before - at Christmas-time for Zoolights, but he slept the whole time. I can't say the animals made a much greater impression on him this time, but he was a trooper. He stayed awake for almost three hours, finally deciding he needed a little cat nap right before we hit the petting zoo.

It was a fun morning, but it wore the whole family out.

Mommy and baby needed a two hour nap in the afternoon. More pics from our big weekend excursion below:

Mommy and Scott ready for some zoo time!

With Melissa and Dylan

Taking a break with Daddy in the shade.

Too much Zoo. I need a nap.

The goats are interested in Scott. He could care less.

Five months old!

I can't believe my little guy is already five months old. Really? How did that happen?

I can't believe that he's also, apparently, already learned how to trick and manipulate mommy.

We have a whole bedtime routine here in the Rough household. We come home from daycare, eat our veggies and our oatmeal, have our bath, put on our pajamas, drink our bottle, listen to a bedtime story, and then go to bed. In our crib. Lights out. No exceptions.

Granted, when Jim and I first instituted the routine, there was a learning curve. Outright resistance is probably a better description. Scott was displeased that mommy and daddy were no longer rocking him to sleep or putting him to bed in his swing, and he let us know it. But after a week or so, he got the hang of things.

Now, I turn out the light and he's usually asleep within 5 to 10 minutes at the most, usually with a whimper or two or none at all.

That's what made last night so unusual. I put him to bed, and he kicked and thrashed and made noises for about 25 minutes. Didn't fall asleep. Then he appeared to drift off. Suddenly, as I was making dinner, I heard a screech. A screech followed by loud wailing. I looked on our TV monitor (great baby shower gift!) and saw that Scott was yanking on the collar of his pajamas like they were too tight. Then he started coughing.

I immediately went in his room. Flipped on the light. Looked down at the crib, and was greeted with...a huge smile. A smile that was followed by a giggle. Yes, a giggle. My son actually laughed at me. He put his hands to his face, kicked his feet happily and squealed. Nary a tear in sight. It was as if he was saying, "Wow. Mommy, you aren't very bright. I can't believe that actually worked. But since you are here, can we play?"

I am guessing that won't be the last time my son pulls one over on me.

Now, for this month's photo shoot...every month we take pictures of Scott next to a big stuffed teddy bear I got at my baby shower. At the end of the year, I hope it will help us chronicle how he's grown.

Here's this month's winning photo:

I am five months old today!!!

And some outtakes from our photo shoot:

Seriously? We're doing this again? I am not a performing monkey you know.

Smile for the camera? Whatever, mom.

What is this brown furry thing anyway? Can I eat him?

The human garbage disposal

I grew up in a family of girls.
It wasn't until high school that I witnessed the awe-inspiring spectacle that was a teenage boy at the dinner table.
Now I am beginning to wonder if that tendency starts...early. Like say, five months.

Scott's always been a healthy milk drinker. He was regularly drinking six ounces every three to 3.5 hours when we decided to start him on solid food.
And now, I am truly amazed by how much my little Tank can pack away. I worry that I am overfeeding him. But he knows when he's hungry, and he has no problem turning his head away when he's had enough, so I try not to stress too much.

Hand over the bowl mommy. I'll show you how big boys eat.

Enough of that little baby spoon already! I am going in with both hands!

Jim is taking it more in stride. Maybe that's because he grew up in a house with three boys. He tells me how his parents could never keep food in the refrigerator. He and his brothers would come home and descend on that poor appliance like a herd of locusts, snatching up whatever they could get their hands on. A gallon of milk? Check. Turkey leg? Yum. Half a jar of peanut butter? Why not?

One day he sat on the couch and watched on his brother consume the better part of a bag of chips and an entire jar of salsa. In one sitting.

I must have the same look on my face as I feed my little guy dinner. I look at the daycare sheet and calculate. Milk for breakfast. A container of applesauce as a mid-morning snack. Milk for lunch. Half a container of sweet potatoes. More milk. And then here we are at dinner. Half a container of squash, two tablespoons of oatmeal -- mixed with two teaspoons of pears -- and more milk before bed.

Dinner. Yum.

Maybe its just a growth spurt. Or maybe I have a life-long healthy eater on my hands. I can already see the day I come home and discover that my refrigerator, well-stocked in the morning, is now a picked-over wasteland.

I'll dispatch Jim to Costco - and tell him to buy a couple jumbo sized bags of chips.

Mohawk, meet Mullet

I admit it.
I gloated.
Quietly.
But I did.
Scott was born with a full head of blond hair. And it was, as we soon discovered, beautifully curly. It was so distinctive, it made him look like a little man. Everyone commented on it, and as a proud mommy, I gloated.
My son was unique. No cue ball, bald baby here. My kid was special - and I had the pics that proved it.

(As a side note: I kind of figured I had the right to show off my son's one-of-a-kind tresses...after all, I endured a good six months of horrific heartburn while I was pregnant.
I had always heard that "heartburn=kids with lots of hair" was an old wives tale -- until I read that researchers at Johns Hopkins had conducted a study and found that pregnant women who had significant amounts of heartburn did frequently end up with children with tons of hair.
It was certainly true in my case: by my six month, I had been on two different kinds of prescription antacids, was popping Tums hourly, and downing about a gallon of milk a week. But I digress.)

My mom and my pediatrician were among those who told me not to get too attached to my son's wavy locks.
"He'll lose it," they warned me. "All babies do."

Scott at 11 days old, with his full head of hair.

His curls sprang back right after every bath.

But one month went by. Then two. And if anything, his hair seemed to be getting fuller and longer.

By the time Scott was three months old, I was on the verge of asking people if they knew of any infant barbers. And then it happened.

I was giving Scott a bath, and I noticed some patches on either side of his head. Distinctive still, but now because they seemed to be bald. No hair really, just a bit of thin blonde fuzz. And then another one appeared on the back of his skull. And then they started growing together.

Baby pattern baldness is marching across my son's head.

Now, on the cusp of five months, it's clear: my son is developing baby pattern baldness. The top of Scott's head has stayed blonde and curly, and the nape of his neck has hair that is long and straight, but there's a whole band of empty-ness developing in-between.

My father summed it up best when he said: "He's growing a mohawk and a mullet at the same time."

Unique indeed. But I am still a proud mama. And I still (not-so-quietly) gloat that he's the cutest little boy ever. And certainly the only one I know that can pull off two completely different hairstyles at once.

My husband's Mini-Me

When Scott was born, I had a hard time telling which one of us he looked like. My folks thought he looked a lot like me - but with blonder hair. I was fairly convinced that he had my nose and Jim's eyes.

But as our son has gotten older, any ambiguity has faded. Scott looks like his daddy. A LOT like his daddy. In fact, with each passing day, I think he's turning more and more into a pint-size replica of his father.

Scott at just about five months. There's no doubt: he is his father's son.

Scott's daddy. I am guessing about ten months. See any resemblance?

Scott has his daddy's eyes, and his mouth and his smile. They've even got some of the same, wavy blonde hair with red highlights.

But Mommy's genes? Not seeing so much.

Me at 3.5 months. Scott has my nose, but other physical resemblances are starting to fade with each day.

Of course, there are things I would hope my son would eventually inherit from me - my love of reading and writing, for example. (That and spelling are not exactly Jim's forte.)

But as long as Scott is taking after his father, there's a whole list of things that I am also counting on Jim passing along to him. These include: his common sense, his goofy sense of humor, his ability to not get upset about the little things, his math skills (not mom's strong suit), his tendency to problem solve (also not high on mom's list)...and of course, his eyesight. Jim STILL doesn't need to use glasses or contact, whereas I've been saddled with both since the age of six.

Is this what my little guy will look like in a couple of years? Pretty cute, huh???

Each day, Scott's personality becomes more and more developed, and its fascinating to watch him grow and take in the world around him. In the end, I am hoping he takes the best of both of us, and melds it into something that is uniquely him. He's such an amazing little person already. I can't wait to see what he does tomorrow.

Toys Are Us

I used to pride myself on having a pretty tidy house. Granted, I've never had an abode as stylish and coordinated as my sister (her place looks like an interior designer finished it out for a photo shoot for Better Homes and Gardens)...but still...my apartments and homes were always nice, and clean and cozy with all knick-knacks in their appropriate place.

No more.
My home currently looks like the local Babies R Us is using it as a big storage unit.

I always had a sneaking suspicion that the baby and his "stuff" would slowly take over Casa Rough...more so, I think, than my husband, who looked at me like I was crazy when, while I was pregnant, suggested that we might eventually need to turn the guest room into a play room.

"Why do we need that?" he asked. "He'll have his room to play in."

I sometimes wonder if Jim still feels that way. As I do a walk-through of our decent-sized home, I take quick stock. The baby's nursery is filled with baby things...as it should be.

But there is a colorful green and yellow bouncy chair in the office, a pak n play in our bedroom, a plastic whale bathtub and Elmo towels in the guest bathroom, a high chair and a Bumbo seat in the dining room, bottle parts all over the kitchen, and two diaper bags, a carseat, baby laundry and a box full of too- small-infant clothes sitting on the barstools in the "man" room (that's what I call the open space where Jim keeps his very large pool table.)

And that brings me to the family room.

Our coffee table is currently serving as a shelving unit for a quilt that matches Scott's crib bedding, three pacifiers, a fuzzy toy and a soft book. There's a jumperoo next to the couch, a second quilt on the end table and a big red, black, white and green play mat, complete with a half dozen toys, sitting smack dab in the middle of the floor. Oh, and did I mention the Fisher Price television, the Baby Einstein DVDs and the age appropriate stuffed animals that have also taken up residence nearby?

Scott is starting to feel better, which means its time to break out his bevy of toys.

In short, Scott, in less than five months on this earth, has managed to completely take over every square inch of this house. Christmas didn't help. The kid got enough toys in the span of 48 hours to outfit three daycare centers.

Some of the toys Scott got for Christmas. His stuff is taking over our house.

For a while, I would dutifully pick up all his baby gear at the end of each day, folding burp cloths and receiving blankets in neat little stacks, returning toys to the enormous toy bin in Scott's nursery. But it's losing battle, and I am officially throwing up the white flag.

Scott: the house is all yours. We'll build you a storage unit to hold all the "stuff" you'll undoubtedly get for your first birthday.