That's it - I'm Leaving the Band!

Yesterday, after nine very quick weeks, Max graduated from his DOC Band! It was our final visit to Cranial Technologies to take off Max's band for the very last time and get his last round of imaging for some before-and-after pictures. The photos below illustrate how his head has rounded out with the help of the band. Furthermore, it is clear from the photos that Max's torticollis (neck tilt due to muscle tightening on one side) is all but gone.

On our drive to the office, I thought about this being Max's final appointment with Cranial Technologies. We had taken him for weekly band adjustments for the past 9 weeks, but had been in contact with them since November. For a kid who is just about to turn 8 months old, that's a pretty good chunk of existence for us as a family of three. I looked back to the start of our journey, his journey.... noticing his flat spot for the first time at 6 weeks old ("Hey..that's weird...honey come look at this"), to finding out it had an actual name, to discovering the DOC Band intervention and beginning the process of "shaping up" his noggin. At the very beginning, I was upset. I was upset that he had this condition, albeit purely cosmetic; I felt badly for Max, having no idea at the time that he wouldn't even notice the band's existence; I was nervous of the reaction of others, seeing my little one sporting this oddly-shaped piece of plastic on his head. I remember being in the grocery store for our first outing after he started wearing the band... a very lovely woman approached us and started shmoozing with Max. "What big, beautiful blue eyes you have! Look at that smile. You sure are a happy little guy, aren't you!"

My translation: You are wearing a strange thing on your head, I am going to assume you have a mental and/or self-control problem and I'm going to avoid acknowledging this potentially awkward situation by commenting on everything below your forehead. Poor kid. Poor mom. Tsk tsk tsk.

It also didn't help that right about the time this interaction took place, Max proceeded to lick the grocery cart.

But it wasn't long before I got so used to Max in his band, he looked naked without it. Especially when he was really naked. Whoa, where'd he go?  I also found him to look adorable in it, like Toad from Super Mario Bros. When people would smile at Max and I as we strolled down the aisles at Costco, I no longer interpreted it as pity, and I looked forward to the conversation that would typically eventualize about him: his age, his weight, why yes, he is our first born, oh yeah it's just to correct some flattening in the back of his head. And the more people I talked to, the more it seemed like I was smack in  the middle of a game of Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon, if Kevin had plagiocephaly. Everyone I talked to either had a child or grandchild who wore a band, or knows someone who has. Right on!

If the me today could have sat down with the me three months ago, I would have taken myself by the shoulders, looked straight into my eyes, and told myself, "Do not worry. This is simple, this will fly by. Enjoy the process." And then we would split a piece of pie because I'd know we'd both love that.



My Little Toad

               

 

I did it, Ma!

Mom. You said "one photo".

 

 

Head shape, before and after DOC Band therapy

 



                           





Isn't lifting my baby enough?

The decision to start working out again post-delivery is a crossroads many mothers face. There are those who get right to it, so that within two weeks it appears as though pregnancy was never even on the menu (witches, I tell you), and then there's me:

(Max is one month old)
"...I can't start working out yet, I just had a C-section mere WEEKS ago! Shame on you! I will take a Fig Newton, though. Third shelf in the pantry."

(Max is three months old)
"...I can't start working out yet, I'm in over my head just trying to brush my teeth!!!"

(Max is five months old)
"...I can't start working out yet.......it's.....too cold outside, and.......he's.......teething.....? Ok and, and, Aquarius is in the fifth lunar house this month and that's bad luck. You don't want me to break my back, do you??? I didn't think so." (Eats a chip)


(Max is six months old)
"....I can't start working out yet....The gym is such a schlep. Hey maybe if we had a treadmill HERE IN THE HOUSE! Yes!....... Let's look into that. Sometime."

(Max is seven months old)
"Jesuswhathappenedtomybody?"

A little over a month ago, a mommy friend of mine told me about Stroller Strides, an exercise program for moms and their little ones that involves working out while pushing your kid in his stroller. I loved the idea of having Max by my side while I got my sweat on. Admittedly though, I envisioned a bunch of us new moms, trotting around with our ponytails swinging in unison, our grande iced skinny vanilla lattes resting perfectly in our stroller cup holders while analyzing the latest Bachelor Pad. It sounded a little cliche, a little sugary, but also another excuse to get the deuce out of my house with my kid. So I decided to join this 'Stroller Strides'.

Let me assure you: there is no strolling involved.

The hour-long class typically consists of 70% cardio and 20% conditioning/strength training. Yes, I passed MAT110 - the remaining 10% is always reserved for wheezing and whining. But I never feel better than when Max and I are walking back to the car after having given it my all. We've been going three days a week, and I am very excited to report that I'm starting to notice the very beginning of what some might refer to as - in some cultures - perhaps in a mis-printed anatomy book - calf muscles. Also, I have more energy, which comes in mighty handy when our 3-4pm "witching hour" ensues and I'm skull-deep into the empty jar of instant coffee, licking the glass bottom for any remaining grounds.

It has also proven to be anything but ponytail-swinging, latte-swigging gossip sessions. I have met some wonderful women who share the bond of parenthood. We can talk all about solid foods and reaching milestones, or not. Surprisingly (and yes, I'll say it- refreshingly), Stroller Strides is hardly about the strollers; it's all about the strides. The babies, entertained by their sippy cups, fresh air, toys, and change of scenery, are pretty much the footnote of our workouts (though I'll admit, while running up six flights of parking garage stairs, I have silently begged Max to pull out a screaming fit and "need" me for three minutes). Most of us moms greet each other, maybe pop our heads into the strollers for a quick, "aww, don't you look cute today! Looks like you LOVE those crackers!", then resume the focus and discipline of an olympic athlete before the gun shot.

Ok, maybe that last part's in my head. Whatever gets you through, right?

Some of my favorite workout quotes:

 

 

Some thoughts.

Let me start by making this perfectly clear: I don't journal.

This is not so much a proclamation than a simple fact about my life. Don't get me wrong - I've tried. The countless diaries I own, housing 3, maybe 4 pages of attempted memoir followed by glaringly empty lines is proof positive that I do attempt to document my thoughts, activities, and emotions. But there is just no staying power, for reasons perhaps I will uncover within myself some day.

I do have one means of archiving: a "One Line A Day" memory book my mother gifted me with last spring (she knows my shortcomings all too well, given the book's title). I am comitted to jotting down simply one line every day - the Cliff's Notes version of the past 24 hours, if you will. There are five sections from top to bottom on each page, each saved for that particular date for five consecutive years. It's a neat idea, and something I can apparently manage to maintain. But true JOURNALING? The keeping of a DIARY? Nope. Can't do it.

But if I were to journal . . . .

If I were to journal, I would write about my son.

I would write about the past seven and a half months, and how the cliche of "how fast they grow up" grips me to my core; how it takes my breath away as I turn around and each time I do, he is exhibiting a new strength; a new side of his personality. How he looks like a kid. That I stop dead in my tracks as I witness myself writing things on my Baby Shopping List that I never anticipated him being ready for. Real foods. Larger clothes. I would write that he is about 5 minutes away from crawling, and our lives as we know it will again take another turn as he becomes - gulp -  mobile.

If I were to journal, I would be sure to include that over the past few months, I have noticed myself feeling a sense of pride in my abilities; especially to multi-task while being mindful of the moment. That I am experiencing an ever-increasing sense of confidence in this 'mothering' thing. Even in those moments where I am unsure...it is still under a general umbrella of "but hey... I think I know what I'm doing, here." And that's pretty cool.

I would joyfully jot down some of my very favorite things about him: the way he flails his arms and legs with something that can only be described as pure GLEE as I change him on the changing table; how, after he does something that makes me laugh, I notice the connections being made in his brain and that twinkle in his eye as he repeats it over and over so that I laugh more and more; seeing those 7 nubby teeth in his mouth every time he giggles; the way he looks after a bath, wrapped up in his lionhead-hooded towel, wet belly protruding from the terrycloth; the smell of his formula breath, stinky as it is, that is like a shot of endorphins through my system.

But more than any of that, if I were to journal, I would find myself writing about letting go. That the minute I eased up on my attempt to reign in and control things - his daily schedule, getting a certain number of ounces of food, length of naps, where to nap - was the minute he showed me what he needed; the minute he simply progressed beautifully and effortlessly, illustrating nature actively taking its course. I would write about looking at him playing in his exersaucer, sporting his car, train, and plane footie pajamas, and fully experiencing the enormous lump that forms in my throat as the tears of happiness well up in my eyes. Capture the moment like a snapshot in my heart as I feel it swell with love for this little boy of mine. How I am constantly looking forward to who he his becoming, while at the same time bidding the bittersweet goodbyes that speckle each day as he grows out of his babyhood, one cell at a time.


If I were to journal.

I love you, my Max.