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Black blue jeans

I climbed up to the shelf above the closet in my sewing room today to get some crap down from “the archives” (or rather the boxes of accumulated crap that represents the criminal evidence of my youth). I needed my old cassette tape collection for reasons.

Okay, by reasons, I mean that I felt like listening to poor quality recordings of shitty rock bands that engendered in me the first fizzings of adolescent hormonal nuttiness and a burning need to curl, fry, spray, and tease my hair into a tormented thatch which could easily have housed a moderate flock of guinea fowl. Don’t be fooled by this outer crust of “cool” bands ranked across the top of the box. Just below the surface lurks all of the Mötley Crüe, Poison, and AC/DC required to seriously dent a young girl’s understanding of romance, sex, and the place of leather bodices in fashion.

For my birthday this past year, my parents gave me this wonderful all-in-one stereo affair that contains a radio, record player, CD player, cassette player, and a jack for USB music devices. It’s a delightful little thing, about the size of a small microwave oven, and has been in regular use since Joseph was born. I regularly put on some old doo-whop music or Big Band and two-step the little chap around the front room. He seems to find it soothing. But today, I thought that it would be amusing to dig into the archives.

If you were to make a guess as to my schoolgirl appearance based on the contents of this box of cassettes, you’d be forgiven for assuming that I’d worn a whole lot of black mascara, skintight acid wash jeans, band tee-shirts, and my boyfriend’s motorcycle jacket. There’s an awful lot of cheesy, sexual-innuendo-laden buttrock in that box, is what I’m saying. I never was that cool, though. And I certainly lacked the levels of commitment necessary to transform myself into a badass rocker chick. I was vaguely aware that deep down, my musical tastes were substandard, even by early 1990s benchmarks, and that when pressed I’d be unable to stand up to the usual type of record-store-clerk musical obscurity pissing match. So, I didn’t wear my musical heart on my sleeve and looked like a generically dorky Midwestern schoolgirl.

All the same, the music that spoke to me mostly talked dirty:

I’ve lived a life largely unfettered by good taste and now that I’m well into my 30s, I am thoroughly unabashed about enjoying the dumb crap I enjoy. Buttrock, JPop, Sousa marches, noise, basically whatever foolishness crosses my ears and and sparks a little flurry in my depraved hippocampus. A lot of the music I love best certainly pre-dates the heyday of my own youth; hell, some of it outright pre-dates me. The bulk of Led Zeppelin’s back catalogue was wailed out well before 1977. AC/DC was well on their way to rock-n-roll world domination by the time I got a look-in. I just plain love big, noisy, simple rock. Slade, Nazareth, Black Sabbath, pretty much anything that caused parents distress in the 1970s has been causing me great joy since ever I was aware that I liked certain types of music better than others.

All this should be considered a guilty pleasure, I suppose, but I simply cannot muster up a whit of guilt over my sketchy but enthusiastic enjoyment of naff old guitar-driven party music. Soz, not sorry.

I finally heard the clue phone ringing and picked it up. Little chap is teething, of course.

Drooling? Check. Gnawing fingers? Check. Biting whilst nursing? Check. Slight rash around mouth? Check. Shitty mood? CHECK.

So, I’ve bought him some baby acetaminophen and a tube of baby Orajel, and we shall hope for the best.

When the light finally came on for me last night, I at least had a couple of those freezy teething rings to hand. I gave him one of them and he glommed on to it like it was the treasure of his heart for which he’d been waiting all of his life (five months). So, at least I know that freezy teething rings are on the Good list at the moment.

I feel like a total heel, because for the past three or four days, I’ve been wondering why Joseph has been in such a foul mood and has been so inconsolable, fussy, and shrieky. Poor little rat. I suppose he’s been feeling like hell for several days running and I was too clueless to figure it out. But he is five months old (just) and it’s not outside the average to be working on teething now.

It just started a bit earlier than I was expecting. I’ve been mentally adjusting my expectations to fit his six week prematurity, though in most things he’s been right where he would be expected to be chronologically anyway. So pretty regularly he’s been surprising me with perfectly normal developmental progress.


One of the features of the Holidailies project is that you can get daily writing prompts to keep your creative fires stoked throughout the month. This is quite an excellent service, but one of which I am unable to avail myself. Prompts tend to bring on heroic bouts of writer’s block for me. I trace it back to Fifth Grade and my general, ingrained stubborn-little-shit-ness.

Actually, scratch that. I trace it even further back, back to Second Grade, when I first learned the concept of “free time.” I’d got hold of the concept of reading in a big way at the tail end of my first grade year, and by second grade, it was second nature to me. In possession of this pivotal skill, I was able to read the instructions of my assignments and complete them at will, often finding myself at loose ends in the classroom. Being as I attended a one-room rural school, the teacher had her hands full teaching ALL of the grades, and informed me that when I had “free time,” I could quietly read a book from the library or write or draw until my classmate was ready to move on to the next task, too. Free time became my favorite thing very quickly. I could get stuck in to the newest Ramona book, could expand my paper dolls’ extensive wardrobes, or could write stories of my own. Free Time was the Best Time!

I regret to report that I of course became single minded in my pursuit of free time and was known to hustle carelessly through my schoolwork in order to eke out a bit more quality time with a library book or a packet of colored pencils. My handwriting was poor under the best of circumstances and positively shocking when I hurried. My long-suffering teacher would call me to her desk to translate my illegible scrawlings and take me to task for my sloppiness. I’d nod, apologise, swear to try harder, and then beetle back to my desk to get back to whatever I was doing.

And so, the stage is set. I was not a precocious child, nor was I especially motivated by grades, rewards, or accolade. I was frankly a lazy, stubborn little pill, and would get interested in one obsession or another and rarely would my interests and the interests of formal education cross. I loved stories and storytelling. My best friend Kerri and I would write scripts for plays for our Barbie dolls to “perform.” My sister and I would collaborate on comic strips. And on my own, I wrote what would now be called fanfiction. About the Pound Puppies cartoon show. I was eight. These things happen, right?

With that sort of focus, you’d think that Creative Writing would have been my favorite subject and as second nature as walking, but you’d fail to account for my basic bloody-mindedness. I just plain don’t like being told to be creative or instructed upon how to express my creativity. My fifth-grade teacher, a well-meaning but ineffectual woman called Mrs. Fish had this dreadful scheme for Creative Writing consisting of a recipe box full of index cards with dreary writing prompts on them. Each week on Monday, she’d pull a card and set us our Creative Writing assignment for the week, due on Friday. At a point during my blighted Fifth Grade year (the year in which I began to rebel at school, rather than just quietly fuck off) I simply quit doing my Creative Writing assignments. I couldn’t figure out anything useful to write about any of the prompts and I just couldn’t see the point. I already knew how to write; I always got good marks on my book reports and essays, and besides, I wrote plenty of stories and poems in my own time.

Of course, you can’t stop doing your schoolwork without it catching up to you, and oh, how spectacularly it did.

Those of you who have been little girls are very likely to have read the Little House books by Laura Ingalls-Wilder. In Little Town On The Prairie, there’s a subplot involving Almanzo Wilder’s sister Eliza Jane, who is working as the school teacher at Laura’s school. She’s a snotty woman who plays favorites and condescends to the children, and before long the student body begins to rebel with mischief, mockery, and rowdiness. The school superintendent ends up paying a visit and The Pigeons Come Home To Roost. Laura and her sisters end up getting a stern talking to by their parents, and they are given to understand that even if they don’t like their teacher, they have to behave and not cause a distraction so that everybody can get the full benefit of education.

Well, my school had a similar Come To Jesus moment. Our teacher, as I mentioned, was ineffectual, to say the least. She was fresh out of college; we were her first (and possibly last) school. She was seriously not cut out for teaching middle-schoolers, and that’s the group she was stuck with. It was not long before we all found ways to pester and try her, and in the horrible way it goes with children, the pranks and misbehavior steadily escalated. It all came to a head during one of the county superintendent’s periodic inspections wherein we were all essentially running riot under Mrs. Fish’s watch. I’d been sent to the board to copy over some spelling words I’d missed, and was deliberately mis-spelling them worse. Two of the boys were having a covert spitball war. The two Eighth Grade girls were openly poring over a Seventeen magazine. Mrs. Holt, he county superintendent, whipped out her clipboard and assuming a prunish expression, began taking notes, tutting, scowling, and looking every inch the ascended teacher herself. We knew there’d be trouble, and so tacitly decided to be hung for sheep as lambs and continued on as we’d begun.

When the Superintendent’s report got back to our parents, emergency Parent-Teacher meetings were arranged. During my parents’ meeting with the teacher, it came out that I had a significant backlog of uncompleted Creative Writing assignments. This meeting, I hasten to add, took place just before our Christmas break. Guess what 10-year-old Michelle got to do for her Christmas holidays in 1987? Yes, something on the order of half a dozen stinky old stale Creative Writing assignments, as well as a choke-a-goat wad of remedial arithmetic problems, fragrantly printed in purple mimeograph ink.

Now, I’ve said today, and I’ve said in the past that I was not an exceptional child. I wasn’t. But I did have a stroke of some sort of diabolical genius while writing my catch-up assignments. It occurred to me that I didn’t have to take the work especially seriously; all I needed to do was turn in one page, front-and-back on the assigned topic. In essence, I realized I could take the piss out of the assignments, and a wee parodist was born. I can’t recall the bulk of what my essays contained. Only one stands out in my memory.

Another back-story digression is required. It’s generally understood that many little girls go through a “horsy” stage. Even if they never own a horse, never ride a horse, never meet a horse in the flesh, they get ideas about horses being rather fantastic. I was never an especially horsy girl, myself, but being a catholic reader, had read my fair share of horse stories. Being, as I said, a catholic reader, I’d read anything with printed words, up to and including some slightly-trashy romance novels one of my Mom’s friends had dropped off for Mom’s benefit. At some point, my loosely-hinged young brain drew a parallel between the glistening-coat-and-rippling-muscles purple prose of schoolgirl horse novels and the smouldering-eyes-and-rippling-muscles purple prose of the romance novels, and that twist of devilishness brought it out in me to write a two page horse story in the most turgid prose possible. Hooves pounded, manes tossed, eyes glinted, and muscles verily did ripple. It was as close to pornographic as could be written by a very backwards ten-year-old, but it would serve.

Didn’t I get an “A” on that stupid essay?! Least deserved grade I’ve ever earned, I’ll tell you that.

Mama said…

Today was a FFS day. A serious, no joking, double-barreled “Oh, for fuck’s sake” sort of day. Mostly because young Joseph has firmly and loudly refused to sleep. At. All. No naps, and now, here it is nearly 9:30 p.m. and he’s still grizzling away.

If someone offered to shoot me, right now, I’d be tempted to consider it.

I knew we’d have a few days like this when I went into this venture. I accept that once in a while, things are going to just plain be shrieky and sucky. It’s just the way these things go.

I suspect a low pressure cell is coming through. It’s been super nice lately, and it’s supposed to switch and get cold soon, and Joseph appears to have an internal barometer, though instead of mercury falling, it’s his good humor which takes a dive. He’s regularly a right little rip when the weather’s about to change, and if today is anything to go by, it’s about to get seriously unpleasant outside right soon.

Anyway, I need to put my hands to better use than typing and see if I can’t rock him down.

God, I am so crap at arts-n-crafts. I try not to be, but I am ultimately hamstrung by my unwillingness to buy supplies and my general hamfistedness. Thus I regularly am struck by some sort of artistic vision or seasonal hallucination and get Big Ideas about making something lovely, but what happens falls far, far short of the glorious images my mind had conjured.


Today, I was out walking Joseph up and down the alley in order to reset one of his spells of fractiousness. Most generally a little jaunt out into the fresh air sorts him out. While we were moseying down the alley, a clump of wild millet that I’d been admiring since midsummer caught my eye. I thought, “those seed heads would make a cool looking wreath, I bet.” And before I could remember how artistically incompetent I am, I’d gone and picked the lot of them. I proceeded to braid them into a wonky garland. It was there that I started to recognise the shortcomings in my planning. I thought I’d just kind of freehand form the garland into a ring and then decorate it, but the problem was that the garland is very lightweight and floppy. I’d wrapped it around my forearm, like you’d do an electrical cord. When I removed my arm, it collapsed itself into a fuzzy figure-eight. Eventually, I scavenged the inner section of a broken embroidery hoop and secured the garland to the hoop with hemp ties. It looked pretty naked, so I added in some of the millet leaves to bulk it out. Still looked kind of sad, so I started gathering fallen leaves and poking them in around the inside of the hoop, to cover the wood and ties. Better. It’s lopsided and a bit crap, but it’s about as good as I can reasonably be relied upon to produce.

Until we get the woodstove hooked up, it, along with the pumpkins I have yet to bake will serve as some sort of festive decor.

Speaking of festive decor, I’m going to be making some attempt at Christmas decoration for the first time in my adult life. I’m sure I will be fighting a pitched but losing battle to keep the cats from destroying it, but I thought, “how sad would it be to have no Christmas Tree present in the photos from Joseph’s first Christmas.” And the answer was, “very sad, indeed.” So, there we go. Now, on to find a decent re-usable tree.

Shanks Pony

I’ve been doing a lot of walking since Joseph was born. While he was still in NICU, I would duck out for an hour or so daily and hoof around the Volker neighborhood to get fresh air, to keep my head about me, and to work off the hideous cankles that fluid retention had bestowed upon me.

Once Joseph was home and settled, we discovered that taking him for a short walk around the block or so was a surefire way to settle him down when he was fractious.

As he got big enough to safely carry in the Moby Wrap, our walks got longer. I could kill two birds with one stone and take Joseph out for his airing and Ruby out to walk off some of the naughties. She likes to run much better than she likes to walk, but she’ll take any sort of outing she can get. Walking is actually excellent manners training for her because she’s not allowed to go balls-out and just burn off her yayas. She has to use her little dog brain and be a co-operative member of the pack, and while it doesn’t physically wear her out like a good run will, it does give her a needed mental work out.

Whenever I’m out with Ruby on her leash and Joseph bunjied to me, we occasion little interest. Just a woman out walking her dog. Sometimes dog-lovers comment on how pretty Ruby is, because she is. And Joseph is like catnip for little old ladies. It’s the chubby pink cheeks and bright blue eyes. By no fault of his own, he really does look like a cherub on an old-fashioned Valentine card. So people talk to us as we’re out and about, but it’s basically just passing greetings.

However, when I’m out with Joseph alone, when we’re running errands, that’s when we seem to attract attention. Nobody walks in this city if they don’t have to. Running errands on foot is just not done. It is not part of the culture. So, when people see a woman with a baby, on foot, they seem to think that I’m somewhat stranded and stop to offer me a ride. Almost every time I’m out with Joseph and without Ruby, we get offered a lift. It is sweet that there are so many people out there prepared to be helpful and kind, but it’s also a bit of a bummer to know that so many people cannot wrap their heads around the notion of walking, not because you have to but because you like to.

I dress us appropriately for the weather, I bring along the diaper bag which would do a Scout proud for the levels of preparedness it provides. I keep the errands relatively short and usually lightweight. I’m strong and fit, and young Joseph is healthy and growing. We are in good order to be out and stepping.

Now it’s true that I’m very much looking forward to when Joseph is old enough to start riding in the Burley trailer. I love bicycling and I look forward to expanding our geographic range. I hope that one day Joseph enjoys riding bikes himself. But I also thoroughly enjoy the contemplative act of walking. I’m not a meditator, as I’ve surely mentioned before. It simply isn’t in me. But in other physical activities like mountain biking or indeed walking, I can get as close as I ever will. I get lost in the rhythm of my strides, enjoying the feeling of swinging along, getting the most efficiency out of the momentum of each step.

During the year I spent in England, I didn’t have a bicycle at my disposal, and I had places to go and things to do. So obviously, I walked. I walked a lot. Wore the heels off my boots and had to have them repaired. And it was while I was living in York that I discovered how much I enjoyed walking. I became extremely skillful in the art of crowd navigation, spotting gaps in the hordes of tourists and zipping through the meandering foot traffic with maximum efficiency. I’d go hoofing around town in my free time, sightseeing, stretching my legs, sloughing off the stress of grad school.

I do the same now, with Joseph, soothing him with the rhythm of my forced-march pace, discovering every street and alley of our neighborhood and environs. It’s refreshing, cathartic, therapeutic, and I credit walking (along with breastfeeding) for my timely return to my pre-pregnancy jeans size.

“Lo what fools we mortals be,” to slightly misquote Shakespeare for my own nefarious purposes. Knowing that I am, indeed, a poor player strutting and fretting my hour upon the stage, I have to wonder why am I wasting ‘precious’ brain power internally ranting about why I hate wooden salad bowls?

Because I do. I hate wooden salad bowls in every configuration, from the big old bowl from which the salad is meant to be served to the inadequate little shallow bowls from which it is meant to be eaten.

I hate the sound the salad tongs make as they scrape the serving bowl, and I hate the sound the fork makes as it judders along the sides and bottom of the eating bowl. It is almost as nauseating as the sound of styrofoam in cardboard.

I hate how the bowls never feel entirely clean after washing, and I hate how delicate they are, how if they stay a bit damp, they will warp and split.

Mostly, though I hate them from a functional standpoint. The bowls from which one is meant to eat are so shallow that the moment you try to fork up a bite of lettuce, the salad skids out the other side of the bowl. They’re clunky and chunky and only hold a piddling amount of salad in any event, and the ones I used to have were of a particularly irritating conical design that tipped over easily, so if you didn’t flip the salad out of the bowl while trying to spear a bite on your fork, you could easily tip the salad out of the bowl by an incautious angle of attack with your fork.

I have, in my adult life, divested myself of no fewer than three sets of wooden salad bowls. For some reason, especially in my much longer-haired youth, people seemed to think that I liked and needed wooden salad bowls. Apparently they seemed to “go” with the slightly hippie-ish appearance that hung about me. Fortunately, as I’ve gotten more and more boring to look at as I’ve aged, I no longer appear to be the sort of woman who likes, needs, and wants creepy wooden salad bowls.

Support System

A certain amount of frankly random fannying about on Tumblr led me to a French website posting about the oldest bra in the world. Further Googling turned up English language articles about said article, and it is a bra which dates to probably the late 12th or early 13th century, and very closely resembles a modern longline bra.

I did some extremely rudimentary sketching in pink to show where fabric is missing, and if you notice on the open edge under the arm, the back would have been closed by lacing – there are stitched eyelets:

It would be around another five hundred years before an undergarment like this was produced commercially and put into common use.

Brassieres for all figures
This is an ad from a 1950s knitting magazine offering bras “scientifically” designed for various figure types. The bra shown at the far left is a very similar shape to the medieval bra in the article linked above.

I actually own a couple of vintage bras, one probably from the 1930s, the other most definitely from the 1950s.
antiquebrafront antiquebraback
This bra probably dates to the late 1930s, if the provenance I have on it is correct. I’m given to understand that it belonged to a sister of one of my parents’ neighbors, a man who passed away about ten years ago? Clear as mud? Right. The woman who probably owned it left behind a selection of clothing from the 1920s through the 1940s when she moved out upon marriage. The 1920s dresses are those of a young teen girl and are quite small. The 1930s/40s dresses are those of a slightly-built young woman. This bra, which barely fit on my dummy when it was set on the smallest setting would best fit someone whose bust was about a 30A. As you can see, the band is a delicate crocheted netting and the straps are actually satin cord. The cups are made of handkerchief linen and cotton lace inserts.

This little beauty is a genuine Maidenform bra. As in “I dreamed I ____ in my Maidenform Bra
I got it new-old-stock with tags. It was something that my Grandmother had bought at some point in the 1950s, but never ended up using. I’ve worn it a few times when I felt the need for a conical bosom:

It doesn’t show up as well as one might like, on account of the bodice of this dress being cut fairly loosely, but suffice it to say that this bra does a fantastic job of creating that iconic 1950s Dagmar bosom.

I can’t wear it right now on account of my colossal lactating rack, but it’s kind of a cool thing to have in the wardrobe just for reasons.

Unexpected beauty

I was goofing around on Flickr earlier this evening and came across three Daguerreotype photographs from the mid-1850s (probably, judging by the hairstyles and dresses) of women breastfeeding their babies. I thought that these three photos were quite beautiful as a tender moment was committed to a sheet of tin with the top technology of the day.

This sweet-faced woman seems to have been doing a stellar job at feeding her child. You’d go a long way to find a more bonny baby that that one. I am also finding this photograph interesting from a fashion history standpoint. I notice that the collar and ribbon are separate from the bodice of her dress and were left fastened.

This aristocratic-looking woman holds a burp cloth at the ready as her baby enthusiastically feeds. You can see that he or she was batting his or her right hand as the picture was taken. Post-processing the photographer daubed bits of gold leaf on to highlight the woman’s ring and earrings. You can see how the structure of her garments dictates her figure to an extent. The corset stops directly below the breasts, making them seem especially prominent. Once again, the woman’s collar remains fastened separate from the dress bodice. I knew these collars were separate from the dress, but I’d always assumed they were attached via pins or buttons. I didn’t realise that they were just tied around the base of the neck like a choker necklace.

The last photograph of the three is of a woman nursing a toddler. Some odd manipulation has been done to the Daguerreotype which resulted in loss of detail in the child’s dress and half of the woman’s collar. I’m guessing that it had been prepared for hand tinting and that the pigments once used to highlight the image have somehow been lost.

These photographs are the property of Harvard University, part of their women’s history resources. I am curious about these photos. I wonder why they were taken. This is not a common or typical genre of mother-and-child photographic portraiture from the era. They’re all roughly contemporary. Judging by the women’s clothing, they were probably taken within a year of each other, at most. The last woman has a fairly unfashionable hairstyle, but her dress is up-to-date for the mid-1850s. The dropped shoulder line, front-fastening, gathered or pleated front bodice, the tucked trim on the sleeves, and the very full skirts supported only by petticoats are quite typical of the time.

Because I was curious to the brim, I went ahead and used their “ask-a-librarian” form to see if anyone could provide provenance or context for these images. I will share, if I get a response.

It’s funny, but I have never thought of breastfeeding in context of beauty. I have long considered it practical and also very sweet, as it’s built in snuggle time. The level of contentment that radiates from a nursing baby is also hard to top. When you’re living with a very small infant who cannot express any nuances of feeling and is either content or distressed, that contentment is what you strive for and treasure.

Myself, when I’m breastfeeding, I’m all sweaty and sometimes leaking and generally feel like a hot sticky mess. Maybe it might look tender and endearing in the right context, but it’s hard to be very lovely in August in Kansas City. Perhaps since I’ve been spending so much time feeling sweaty and gross while tending to my baby that’s why I am taking such a liking to these elegant, studio-posed photographs of nursing women from a hundred and sixty years ago. Sometimes an idealised image can be satisfying and reassuring.

Movin’ on up

Today, I went through Joseph’s dresser and weeded out all the Newborn bodysuits and phased in the 0-3 month garb. He’s two days shy of two months old, but adjusted for his prematurity he’d be approximately three weeks.

Joel and I tried to measure him this morning – he’s probably 20″ long, maybe. He’s so fidgety that it is hard to tell.
Joel rigged up a weighing contraption using a Snugli-type carrying pouch and a fishing scale and discovered that Joseph probably weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of seven and three quarters pounds. So, just about the right size for an average newborn. But he’s got a really long torso, and his shoulders were coming out the neckholes of all of his Newborn sized tops. The 0-3 stuff is the right length, though he’s got an awful lot of lateral space in there.

We’ve got his two months checkup on Friday, so I am curious to see how close Joel’s and my home-made measuring came to what they can work out in the clinic, with proper equipment.

I know it’s traditional to feel a bit melancholy when your baby outgrows his clothes, all “oh, they grow so fast,” but because he was born prematurely, each time we have to size up his wardrobe, I feel great relief and no small portion of joy. I’m grateful and exceedingly happy that he’s coming along so well, that he’s growing steadily and filling in. He’s looking so much more robust every day, and I’m so glad that he’s so strong and healthy.


I know it’s completely irrational but when my water broke a month and a half early, I had this feeling of comprehensive guilt, that already before he was even born, I was failing him. That I was already screwing things up for him by not carrying to term. I wondered, as you do, what I’d done wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have kept working so long at the grocery store where I was on my feet for seven hour shifts (my last day at the grocery was one week before I went into labor!). Maybe I shouldn’t have been scraping wallpaper at the little house in 97°F heat.  Maybe I’d gotten too dehydrated.  Maybe I’d pushed myself too hard.  Maybe something stupid I did years ago, some injury or another had made me unsuitable for proper gestation.

Now, I know all this is foolishness and I quizzed the doctors at the hospital extensively, and they said to the best of what they could tell from all the tests they ran on me, Joseph, and the placenta, they couldn’t tell why he’d come early.  As best anyone could determine, there was no blame to assign.  So, as Joseph has been growing and thriving, I feel a lot better about his prospects.  He’s coming along nicely as a breastfed baby; he has a phenomenal appetite and a good latch.  He behaves as is appropriate for an infant of his age, perking up for familiar voices and raising and rotating his head during tummy time.  He even, once in a while, rolls himself over, which is quite an outlier achievement, about which I am simply unreasonably pleased:

The day may come when I feel wistful about him outgrowing his clothes and moving on in milestones, but at the moment, each milestone passed and each onesie outgrown is a relief and a triumph.

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