Toothy Ten Month Old
Friday, September 30, 2005
Mirror Mirror
Yesterday Kiernan turned ten months old. It has been three weeks since his heart surgery, so we took him to the pediatrician for his post-op checkup. (The doctor's visit described in the "Just a Staple" post was his follow-up with his cardiologist.) Aside from his weight being a bit low--it took awhile for his appetite to return after being in the hospital--he seems to be coming along swimmingly. The doctor was pleased to see him standing up and to hear that he is walking along holding on with only one of his hands. He was also pretty surprised to hear Kiernan say "Ma-ma" as we were preparing to leave the office.
This "Ma-ma" thing is tough to nail down though, or rather I should say the subject of his first word is tough to nail down. He's been saying variations of that word and of "da-da" for some time now, but because he just seems to say these things as part of his general babbling we haven't yet counted anything as his first word. Apparently he has to show some sort of discrimination or intent in order to get credit for saying all this stuff, which I think is kind of a drag. At some point he's gonna see the cool baby calendar Wendy keeps for him and he's gonna say, "Hey, wait a minute! You mean to say I've been talking all this time for nothing? What a waste."
So the visit went well, aside from the fact that we both cannot wait to find a different pediatrician (he's not a bad doctor, the fit just isn't right) we learned one valuable piece of information: we are raising quite a little narcissist. Given that neither his father nor his mother are people particularly concerned with their looks--ahem--I just don't understand how this could be happening. But it very clearly is.
Kiernan has been developing the ability to kiss over the last couple of months. This is another one of those things I never would have considered, going in, that you'd have to teach a kid. I mean higher level kissing, the way French people do, sure. I could see that as being something a person needs to learn, or at least develop as a skill. Thankfully, I won't be the one teaching Kiernan that; somebody his own age--hopefully--will be responsible for helping him muddle through that later on, say thirty years from now. But regular old kissing--kissing your mom goodnight or your European friends hello--is not innate as it turns out. I suppose that makes sense, I just never considered it.
So thanks to his mom he's learning to kiss. In point of fact, most of the stuff he's learned to do--the "eat" hand sign, clapping, waving--is thanks to his mom. She really is an excellent teacher, and even if her doctorate isn't officially in the kissing sciences, she's certainly done more than her fair share of field work. Her method in teaching the baby to kiss, then, has been to simply say the word, "Kiss!" every time she kisses him. That's it. (This is also, incidentally, the way she's taught me to become more organized. She just says, "List!" in the same bright and cheery tone as she leaves a sheet of honey-dos for me. It's helpful and, what can I say, a delight.)
The kissing thing is really pretty funny because while he got the basic concept quickly--basic concept being putting his mouth on somebody else's face, the logisitics are taking much longer--logistics being puckering his lips. Right now kissing for Kiernan is a very cute but strange open-mouthed affair. He just opens his mouth and plants it on your face in his slow and sweet baby way. We do have to teach him to pucker soon, though, because this slack-jawed thing is probably going to weird out any non-parents he tries it on.
At any rate, the examination table at his pediatrician's office is situated up against the wall, and there is a long narrow mirror--say a foot and a half high--mounted on the wall directly above it. While the doctor was making notes about the visit, Kiernan sat up on the table and noticed himself in the mirror. Seeing himself in the mirror generally makes him smile; it's also a good way to get him to forget why he is crying after he bumps his head. This time, however, he crawled across the table and planted a kiss on the mirror. And another. And another. It was hilarious. His doctor barely looked up from his notes, saying, "He's starting to figure out that it is him in the mirror; up until now he just saw it as a friendly face." So, great. My boy realizes the baby in the mirror is himself and he reacts by kissing himself over and over again. Good stuff.
Oh well, I suppose you have to learn to love yourself before you truly can love others.
This "Ma-ma" thing is tough to nail down though, or rather I should say the subject of his first word is tough to nail down. He's been saying variations of that word and of "da-da" for some time now, but because he just seems to say these things as part of his general babbling we haven't yet counted anything as his first word. Apparently he has to show some sort of discrimination or intent in order to get credit for saying all this stuff, which I think is kind of a drag. At some point he's gonna see the cool baby calendar Wendy keeps for him and he's gonna say, "Hey, wait a minute! You mean to say I've been talking all this time for nothing? What a waste."
So the visit went well, aside from the fact that we both cannot wait to find a different pediatrician (he's not a bad doctor, the fit just isn't right) we learned one valuable piece of information: we are raising quite a little narcissist. Given that neither his father nor his mother are people particularly concerned with their looks--ahem--I just don't understand how this could be happening. But it very clearly is.
Kiernan has been developing the ability to kiss over the last couple of months. This is another one of those things I never would have considered, going in, that you'd have to teach a kid. I mean higher level kissing, the way French people do, sure. I could see that as being something a person needs to learn, or at least develop as a skill. Thankfully, I won't be the one teaching Kiernan that; somebody his own age--hopefully--will be responsible for helping him muddle through that later on, say thirty years from now. But regular old kissing--kissing your mom goodnight or your European friends hello--is not innate as it turns out. I suppose that makes sense, I just never considered it.
So thanks to his mom he's learning to kiss. In point of fact, most of the stuff he's learned to do--the "eat" hand sign, clapping, waving--is thanks to his mom. She really is an excellent teacher, and even if her doctorate isn't officially in the kissing sciences, she's certainly done more than her fair share of field work. Her method in teaching the baby to kiss, then, has been to simply say the word, "Kiss!" every time she kisses him. That's it. (This is also, incidentally, the way she's taught me to become more organized. She just says, "List!" in the same bright and cheery tone as she leaves a sheet of honey-dos for me. It's helpful and, what can I say, a delight.)
The kissing thing is really pretty funny because while he got the basic concept quickly--basic concept being putting his mouth on somebody else's face, the logisitics are taking much longer--logistics being puckering his lips. Right now kissing for Kiernan is a very cute but strange open-mouthed affair. He just opens his mouth and plants it on your face in his slow and sweet baby way. We do have to teach him to pucker soon, though, because this slack-jawed thing is probably going to weird out any non-parents he tries it on.
At any rate, the examination table at his pediatrician's office is situated up against the wall, and there is a long narrow mirror--say a foot and a half high--mounted on the wall directly above it. While the doctor was making notes about the visit, Kiernan sat up on the table and noticed himself in the mirror. Seeing himself in the mirror generally makes him smile; it's also a good way to get him to forget why he is crying after he bumps his head. This time, however, he crawled across the table and planted a kiss on the mirror. And another. And another. It was hilarious. His doctor barely looked up from his notes, saying, "He's starting to figure out that it is him in the mirror; up until now he just saw it as a friendly face." So, great. My boy realizes the baby in the mirror is himself and he reacts by kissing himself over and over again. Good stuff.
Oh well, I suppose you have to learn to love yourself before you truly can love others.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Counterpoint
Kiernan started pointing at things on Sunday. Wendy was playing with him in the afternoon when he started pointing up at the aforementioned mylar balloons that have taken up residence on our ceiling. While I realize this is not exactly an earthshattering development, it is pretty cool to us. See, he's got a couple of tricks now. He claps fairly well. He waves (mainly goodbye) with some frequency. He has learned a hand-sign for "eat" which he has been doing for a few months. And now he points at stuff.
The reason I think this is so cool is that it is such a clear and specific gesture. There is no doubt that what he is doing is pointing. When he first learned to clap, it was this mainly silent activity that really served to highlight that he is right-handed. He would hold his left hand in place in front of himself, and bring his right hand to meet it in kind of a flailing motion. Then we tried teaching him to wave and clapping went away for awhile, like he only had one slot available for new hand gestures in his memory bank. Waving, too, has a sort of flailing quality about it. He's gotten much better as the weeks have gone by, but it's not very consistent and it's not always easy to get him to do it. Clapping, incidentally, has since returned and is much improved. For one thing, you can hear the noise of clapping when he does it. For another, the kid will do it at the drop of a hat. If a group is watching him he goes nuts clapping. It's his fall back trick. His specialty. Luckily the waving is there otherwise we'd have a real one-trick pony on our hands.
The pointing, then, is the first gesture he's done that is an absolutely perfect imitation of the way an adult would point. Index finger extended. Thumb and other fingers curled under in a fist. We can't get him to point upon request yet, but when he does point it's clear he wants something, and I just find this delightful. I love that he's really starting to be able to communicate to us beyond the tools he had early on, like crying and smiling. I'm not always clear what he's saying. I know when he points at the balloons, he wants the balloons, but when he points at the cabinet door, does he want a cabinet door or a Pilsner glass behind it? Or is he just expressing, as the cat does at every opportunity, that any closed door is simply unacceptable? I haven't cracked the code yet, but at least he is trying to communicate.
I love that. Hopefully I'll catch up soon.
The reason I think this is so cool is that it is such a clear and specific gesture. There is no doubt that what he is doing is pointing. When he first learned to clap, it was this mainly silent activity that really served to highlight that he is right-handed. He would hold his left hand in place in front of himself, and bring his right hand to meet it in kind of a flailing motion. Then we tried teaching him to wave and clapping went away for awhile, like he only had one slot available for new hand gestures in his memory bank. Waving, too, has a sort of flailing quality about it. He's gotten much better as the weeks have gone by, but it's not very consistent and it's not always easy to get him to do it. Clapping, incidentally, has since returned and is much improved. For one thing, you can hear the noise of clapping when he does it. For another, the kid will do it at the drop of a hat. If a group is watching him he goes nuts clapping. It's his fall back trick. His specialty. Luckily the waving is there otherwise we'd have a real one-trick pony on our hands.
The pointing, then, is the first gesture he's done that is an absolutely perfect imitation of the way an adult would point. Index finger extended. Thumb and other fingers curled under in a fist. We can't get him to point upon request yet, but when he does point it's clear he wants something, and I just find this delightful. I love that he's really starting to be able to communicate to us beyond the tools he had early on, like crying and smiling. I'm not always clear what he's saying. I know when he points at the balloons, he wants the balloons, but when he points at the cabinet door, does he want a cabinet door or a Pilsner glass behind it? Or is he just expressing, as the cat does at every opportunity, that any closed door is simply unacceptable? I haven't cracked the code yet, but at least he is trying to communicate.
I love that. Hopefully I'll catch up soon.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Balloonolith
I thought I should follow up the "Just a Staple" post I just put up with one a bit more breezy, even if it is apropos of nothing.
Kiernan received an enormous balloon bouquet from two of Wendy's colleagues, Lisa and Pokey. The thing was just massive, stretching from floor to ceiling. Within a day I had to start dismantling it because we were nervous he would start using his new teeth on the lower balloons. So I clipped the ribbons and let the various balloons migrate upward. After a couple days the latex balloons dropped and I had to spirit them away and liberate them of their air--don't fret, it was all very humane--but the mylar balloons have remained on the ceiling.
There are three mylar balloons. Each one says "Get Well" in festive lettering and trails a short piece of ribbon. Kiernan loves them. I pull them down to him and he just goes, "Oooh! Oooh!" He grabs the ribbon, yanks it up and down, then releases it and watches the balloon make its way back to the ceiling. I've been using this game as a reflex exercise for myself, kind of the child monitoring version of "wax-on, wax-off." Kiernan releases the balloon and I try to snag the ribbon before the thing can rise out of reach. Keep in mind I'm spending most of my waking hours these days crawling around the floor while singing "The Count to Ten Song" (which is inexplicably set to the tune of "La Cucaracha").
"One-two-three-four-five,
Six-seven-eight-nine,
Join with me and count to ten.
One-two-three-four-five,
Six-seven-eight-nine,
Ten oh Yes oh Yes we can,
One-through-ten."
I need all the stimulation I can get.
Anyway, a weird thing happened. One of the mylar balloons has a little loop at the end of its ribbon. Since he likes playing with them so much, I looped this ribbon around one of his stuffed animals--a tiny red bird--so that he could play with the balloon to his heart's content. It sits there now, within reach. And is totally ignored. Kiernan will sit on the floor going, "Oooh! Oooh!" to the remaining two balloons on the ceiling until I bring them down to him, at which time he will immediately release them. But if I try to call his attention the balloon that is within constant reach, he couldn't care less.
I guess it really is less about the balloons than it is about the hunt. This leads me to all kinds of questions. Would a little girl react the same way? Actually...I think I'll stop this post now before I get into trouble.
Just a Staple
The appointment with Kiernan's cardiologist on Thursday went very well. His EKG was normal, his oxygen saturation was a good high number, and the doctor was very pleased with all that he heard in listening to Kiernan's heart and lungs. He was also happy with how active the little guy is, as Kiernan was standing up on the examination table when the doctor came in the room, flapping his arms and dancing in his inimitable way (Kiernan...not the doctor).
We really lucked out with this doctor, Kiernan's pediatric cardiologist, who, for the sake of brevity, I'll just refer to as "Dr. Ferry" as I proceed. He really is one of the best doctors I've ever been around. He is smart and confident without ever seeming condescending, giving us as parents due attention while making a point of establishing a rapport with our son (something our actual pediatrician doesn't seem able, or willing, to do). He never gives us the feeling that we are wasting his time, no matter how many questions we ask (regardless of how inane they are). And the best thing is that Kiernan really likes the guy. This is important because Dr. Ferry will be a part of his life for many years to come; even though his heart is repaired, Kiernan will still need regular checkups to determine that all remains well.
After each examination, Dr. Ferry asks us to meet with him in his office to discuss Kiernan's condition. This time he said how great Kiernan looked then threw the x-rays up on a little lightboard behind his desk. He pointed out Kiernan's heart, saying that it looked good, and that his lungs looked clear. When I asked about the weird random image in the side view x-ray, he put that x-ray up there immediatly and allayed my fears (it was a staple that was probably used to clamp off a bleeder, which is normal).
Another cool thing that happened was that the doctor told us we could stop the medications we've been giving Kiernan twice a day. Kiernan has generally been excellent about taking meds. He really is quite remarkable about it, opening his mouth when we have to give him a dropper of his daily vitamin, or Tylenol, or whatever. When the nurse who was prepping him for his surgery--before he was taken away from us--gave him an anti-anxiety medication he opened right up for it as polite as could be. "I wish my whole day would go like this," she said, delighted.
After the surgery, though, we were having to do it so much that he understandably started to balk. He was taking two meds each morning--one to make his heart stronger called Digoxyn, and a powerful diuretic called Lasix to ensure that no fluid was collecting in his lungs--as well as his daily multivitamin and whatever Tylenol he might need to get through the day and night. Poor guy was just sick of having to deal with it. So it's great that the doctor had us cut both out because he's looking so good. At first Dr. Ferry just told us to cut the heart medicine, but by the end of the appointment he just decided to cut the Lasix too. "I don't want him on these strong medications any longer than he has to be." Even though we were relieved, cutting out both medications like that did make Kiernan's mom and me a little nervous. We asked what we should be on the lookout for, warning-sign wise. Dr. Ferry rattled off a list of symptoms that would be of concern, capping off the list by saying, in his almost nonchalant way, "But none of that will happen. He's fine." He says stuff like that in such a way that it immediately puts us at ease. If I ever have another kid I'm considering naming him--or her--Dr. Ferry.
Not that we're considering having another kid, though. Gammy. Nana. I'm looking at you. Step off of the chair and sit back down, both of you. Seriously. Sheesh.
Anyway, we'll be seeing Dr. Ferry in another month or so, but just to be safe he's having us call him in two weeks to let him know how Kiernan is doing. As I write this on Saturday he is doing very well, though, and as a bonus from cutting out the meds his appetite seems to be returning. Which is great to see.
Too bad there's no medication to keep him from wanting to learn to walk for another few weeks.
We really lucked out with this doctor, Kiernan's pediatric cardiologist, who, for the sake of brevity, I'll just refer to as "Dr. Ferry" as I proceed. He really is one of the best doctors I've ever been around. He is smart and confident without ever seeming condescending, giving us as parents due attention while making a point of establishing a rapport with our son (something our actual pediatrician doesn't seem able, or willing, to do). He never gives us the feeling that we are wasting his time, no matter how many questions we ask (regardless of how inane they are). And the best thing is that Kiernan really likes the guy. This is important because Dr. Ferry will be a part of his life for many years to come; even though his heart is repaired, Kiernan will still need regular checkups to determine that all remains well.
After each examination, Dr. Ferry asks us to meet with him in his office to discuss Kiernan's condition. This time he said how great Kiernan looked then threw the x-rays up on a little lightboard behind his desk. He pointed out Kiernan's heart, saying that it looked good, and that his lungs looked clear. When I asked about the weird random image in the side view x-ray, he put that x-ray up there immediatly and allayed my fears (it was a staple that was probably used to clamp off a bleeder, which is normal).
Another cool thing that happened was that the doctor told us we could stop the medications we've been giving Kiernan twice a day. Kiernan has generally been excellent about taking meds. He really is quite remarkable about it, opening his mouth when we have to give him a dropper of his daily vitamin, or Tylenol, or whatever. When the nurse who was prepping him for his surgery--before he was taken away from us--gave him an anti-anxiety medication he opened right up for it as polite as could be. "I wish my whole day would go like this," she said, delighted.
After the surgery, though, we were having to do it so much that he understandably started to balk. He was taking two meds each morning--one to make his heart stronger called Digoxyn, and a powerful diuretic called Lasix to ensure that no fluid was collecting in his lungs--as well as his daily multivitamin and whatever Tylenol he might need to get through the day and night. Poor guy was just sick of having to deal with it. So it's great that the doctor had us cut both out because he's looking so good. At first Dr. Ferry just told us to cut the heart medicine, but by the end of the appointment he just decided to cut the Lasix too. "I don't want him on these strong medications any longer than he has to be." Even though we were relieved, cutting out both medications like that did make Kiernan's mom and me a little nervous. We asked what we should be on the lookout for, warning-sign wise. Dr. Ferry rattled off a list of symptoms that would be of concern, capping off the list by saying, in his almost nonchalant way, "But none of that will happen. He's fine." He says stuff like that in such a way that it immediately puts us at ease. If I ever have another kid I'm considering naming him--or her--Dr. Ferry.
Not that we're considering having another kid, though. Gammy. Nana. I'm looking at you. Step off of the chair and sit back down, both of you. Seriously. Sheesh.
Anyway, we'll be seeing Dr. Ferry in another month or so, but just to be safe he's having us call him in two weeks to let him know how Kiernan is doing. As I write this on Saturday he is doing very well, though, and as a bonus from cutting out the meds his appetite seems to be returning. Which is great to see.
Too bad there's no medication to keep him from wanting to learn to walk for another few weeks.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Rainy Days and X-rays
Well, it almost rained. Seems a bit absurd to refer to what happened today in our part of Southern California as rain, given how this hurricane season is treating the southeast of the country, but I'll take what I can get.
And so will Kiernan's mom. Any weather change is welcome as it gives her a chance to try out some new piece of cute clothing. Today he got to experience a raincoat and a hood, which was a good thing since the next time it rains around here the coat probably won't fit him. Anything that has a number lower than 12 (as in, 12 months) on it he has grown out of, and that includes most things that are supposedly for 9-12 month olds. He's a big kid, exceedingly healthy, and except for the six inch scar running a vertical line down his chest, you'd never known that he just had a heart defect repaired.
Tuesday was Post-Op Day 12. Some highlights from the day include going to get a post-op x-ray that we will take to Kiernan's cardiologist for his appointment on Thursday, a sign language class in the living room, and what may have been Kiernan's first steps (although this is under dispute). The kid was getting close to walking before the surgery; I was certain that the surgery and the recovery period to follow would set him back a couple months. At least a few weeks. Boy was I ever wrong. We were discharged from the hospital on Post-Op Day 3, and by that evening Kiernan was back to pulling himself up to standing and cruising around the room by holding onto the furniture. Since that day he has only gotten stronger, more bold, and more insistent that he doesn't want help in moving around, all of which have combined to turn his parents into basket cases. His body just isn't ready yet for the kind of banging around that comes with learning to walk. They said at the hospital that as he healed he wouldn't do anything to hurt himself. Unfortunately, they didn't tell him that.
The x-ray thing went fine, incidentally. It was good for him to get out of the house for a bit. Kiernan is an extremely social baby, which he gets from his mom, and having to be cooped up in the house for all this time is beginning to make him stir crazy. As he heals we really can't take him in public much; his immune system just can't take contact with a lot of people yet. Not getting the chance to charm every person he passes in the grocery store is tough on the little guy, so even the few people at the x-ray place made a big difference.
We got to take the x-rays with us, too. As soon as we got home we held them up to the light and examined them, seeing at long last the wires the folks at the hospital told us were inside his chest, holding his sternum back together as the bones heal. These wires will always be there. In the x-ray they look kind of like the wire you get when you strip the paper off of those cheap twist-ties from the produce section of the grocery store. Five separate loops, each about the size of a dime in a row down his chest.
The other thing you can see in the x-ray is how his teeth are coming in, which is unexpected and kind of cool, or at least we thought it was cool until two this morning when he woke up screaming because so many of them are cutting through at the same time. Anyone who believes in Intelligent Design obviously never sat up all night with a baby who was teething.
Finally, in the side view of the x-ray is the only thing that causes me some measure of concern. As I said, you can see the wires holding his sternum together quite clearly in the shots. They show up in the midst of the shadowy image like glow sticks. For some reason, in the side view x-ray, you can see one distinct line, like a straight piece of wire maybe a couple of centimeters long, all by itself in the center of his chest. I'm sure there is a logical explanation for it, but for us laymen, looking at this picture of the inside of our son's body, it is disconcerting to see such an anomaly. I suppose we'll find out what it is at our appointment on Thursday.
In the meantime, it's back to chasing around this baby who is far too close to becoming a toddler.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
The Creeping Kid
Ten days from now, my son Kiernan will be ten months old. It is high time I found a way to let his family and friends know about his day to day world. Hence…this.
I will post pictures and stories from the Adventures of Kiernan as often as possible, keeping you folks up to date while trying to fold in the goings on of the first ten months. In this way I hope to include you all in the life of my son in a more immediate way. I hate the phone (which explains the almost absurd infrequency of my phone calls); I have only sporadic time for e-mails (Kiernan has his own ideas of how a keyboard should be used); and, while I love writing them, I am woefully behind in my letter writing (I hid my good pens from the boy…and, as it turns out, from myself).
So, welcome. Hope you enjoy the ride as I (and my lovely wife) seek to raise our own little Calvin.
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