Little diva in training

I mean, seriously. Is there anything cuter than a cowgirl?

Launching: Honkytonk Diva Designs

Now that I've let my blog lay fallow for so long, it pains me to use it purely for personal marketing purposes. Well, a little.

I'm launching a little leather-tooling business on the side. It's fun. I have been so jazzed to use my creativity for something other than putting words on a page. And crafting, I believe, fills "the well" that you need so you can produce other art. So I think leather work will improve my writing.

COMING SOON: Check out HonkyTonkDiva.com, or catch me at the Jackson Hole People's market on Wednesday, July 20. Pictures of actual leather items to come soon, I promise.

On hold

It's been almost exactly a year since I updated the old blog... I'm too busy. I have other stuff going on. I'm on Facebook. Excuses, excuses.

Kid is growing like a proverbial weed, talking up a storm. She'll be 2.5 in June.

Still working, still writing. It's been a while since I worked up a sweat or sweated over my unfinished novel.

What have you been up to?

Marathon giving to baby

I wish I'd known about this in time to "gear up" for this marathon giving. It's kinda emotionally exhausting.

From AskDrSears.com
The time between the ages of fourteen and eighteen months is very hard for mothers. The high-energy toddler wants to do everything, but he still needs mother involved “big time.” Mothers of one-year-olds need to gear up for this marathon spurt of giving, because the tendency is to think “Ah, now he’s one – I’ll be able to ease off.” You will eventually, but not yet. Hang in there through age eighteen months, then be alert for signs that your toddler is trying to make space between you. Some mothers might tend to hover and smother and continue to hang on, but remember, the one-and-a-half-to-two-year-old needs to become his own person. You will see these efforts more and more. At first you won’t believe your eyes. Your toddler will do what he sees you doing. She will tend doll babies, get out pots and pans, want to play at the sink, dig in the dirt with spoons. You name it – the possibilities are endless. She’ll want you to pretend with her a bit. It’s fun to be a dog or a lion, but she really only needs you to get her started. Pretend tea parties or picnics where you gobble up everything she hands you don’t require much involvement from you.

Walking the warm weather

After months of pulling up on kitchen chairs and cruising along the coffee table’s edge, Desi took her first steps at 11 months.
She practiced walking back and forth across the living room or in stores. She worked on her up-and-down stairs techniques. But because it’s been winter here, socks or shoes have been a requirement, and she hasn’t done much dirt.
At PB & J Child Care Center, where she started March 1, her caregivers were surprised that our 14-month-old walked OK on the carpet but didn’t want to try the uneven surface outdoors.
It’s not that we want to raise her in a bubble. Walking on ice, snow, slush and slopes is tough for able-bodied adults. Desi’s outdoor time was spent largely in a stroller or backpack, on a sled or in arms. In her three-month walking career, mountain valley surfaces haven’t been optimal. So we plotted a camping trip to warmer climes for the last week of March. Our plan was influenced by a few factors: warmth, distance, cost and play surfaces.
I’ll be the first to admit we adults didn’t accomplish much during our eight-day trip. We slept, drove, ate, biked and walked. But Desi’s walking was pretty amazing. In Beatty, Nev., on the eastern edge of Death Valley National Park, she held Scott’s hand and walked up and down the gravel RV park. She’d trip and almost fall to her knees before he’d catch her and haul her back up.
In Lone Pine, Calif., she made laps, unassisted, on a circuit between the Airstream steps, picnic table, step stool and camp chairs along Diaz Lake.
She started saying “walkie” and sticking out a hand when she wanted to walk with one of us. Sometimes she wants to walk with both of us at the same time and kicks her knees up high in a not-so-subtle hint for us to swing her between us.
Other times, she squirms to get down and shakes her head vigorously when we try to hold her hand. More than once, she shook her head so hard, it threw her off balance and she landed on her derriere.
It was at the Panamint Springs Resort in Death Valley that her proprioceptors seemed to kick in. Something about the roughest gravel campground in the Lower 48 made her pick up her feet high enough and set them down precisely enough to get fluid at this new sport.
When she fell, she sat in the rocks and examined them. “I meant to do that. Hmm, these rocks are fascinating.” Scott tried to show her how to throw one, but her release point needs work. It kept falling behind her.
We sat under the Airstream’s awning for a couple of days as temperatures soared to 80 degrees and watched Desi’s skills develop. By the time we zipped over to Zion National Park, she was walking all over the place, even negotiating a loose-bark playground surface without many falls and giggling like a maniac over the slide. In the Zion visitor center, she acquired “Baby Coyote,” a puppet two-thirds her own size, who has become a walking pal. It’s a good thing he’s roughly dirt-colored, because he drags on the ground much of the time.
By the time day care resumes after spring break, Desi should be an old hand at recess. Or should I say old foot?
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Features editor Johanna Love is convin ced that outdoor walking will be easier on her wallet than grocery store strolling. She writes every other week on her experiences with parenting.

Ladybug Bed Hog rules nest

My 60-pound mixed-breed dog has nothing on my 22-pound baby when it comes to occupying prime real estate in bed.
Although I try to start out sleeping 18 inches from the edge of the mattress, by 6:30 a.m. I’m perilously close to landing on the floor.
Our sleeping space is ruled by an angel-faced bed hog in ladybug pajamas.
She takes advantage of any rollover, readjustment or nighttime feeding, scootching closer and closer. Much of the time, she lies on her right side, legs at a 90-degree angle, feet braced against me. If an earthquake strikes in the middle of the night, she’ll keep her balance. Sometimes she kneads my back with her toes. Occasionally she turns completely sideways so she can touch both parents at once. Or she flops around onto her hands and knees and starts sleep-crawling, head-butting me awake.
I haven’t been getting my beauty sleep lately. Can you tell? Wait, don’t answer that.
Prepregnancy, I would have said that sleeping was one of my talents.
Living in an industrial part of Memphis, Tenn., as a child, I learned early to tune out trains and traffic. During summers on my grandfather’s farm, there were chirping crickets, lowing cows and crowing roosters to ignore.
By my freshman year of college, I could sleep right through the clanging clamor of a brass Big Ben alarm clock without hearing a thing. My roommate hated me. After late nights slinging catfish fillets at a family restaurant and driving two hours to type out colorful yet technically lame reviews of junior college basketball games for a nearby daily newspaper, I rarely got enough sleep. I snored through so many classes, I had to get rid of Big Ben and find a clock that didn’t turn itself off. And I quit signing up for early classes.
Thankfully, I stumbled into a career that allows me to not own an alarm clock. I used to get up when I woke up. Imagine that: listening to your body.
In the old days, I’d sleep for a solid six, seven and a half or nine hours. Nine hours is optimal for me, especially if I’m exercising much; that’s plenty of time for my body to recover from a long hike or bike.
Pregnancy produced a host of sleep problems: big belly limited body position options; uterus pressure on bladder required several nighttime bathroom visits; everything swelled, including nasal membranes, which led to snoring on my part and loud complaining from the husband. Folks say the crappy sleep of pregnancy prepares you for the crappy sleep of motherhood. I concur.
These days, I’m lucky if I get three hours of uninterrupted slumber. Ladybug Bed Hog yells at me, demanding a midnight snack. And one at 3, 5 and 6 a.m. Or she poops and needs a fresh diaper.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Until 5 months of age, Desi slept in her bassinet next to our bed. Then we moved her to a crib in the room next door. That lasted for almost six months, when she wormed her way back into our bed. And there she has stayed.
Variously called co-sleeping, bed-sharing or simply sleeping in the family bed, this arrangement is common in most of the world, but oft-frowned-upon in America. There’s a raging debate about it among parents, pediatricians and buttinskies.
Co-sleeping is one of the core tenets of attachment parenting, a style of child rearing that also espouses breast-feeding as long as the child wants and comforting baby rather than letting him cry. Proponents say bed-sharing promotes breast-feeding and helps children feel secure. Some studies have shown that a mother acts like a pacemaker, keeping baby’s breathing even and calm. Makes sense.
It also probably helps parents feel secure. For anxiety-prone mommies like me, it’s nice to be able to reach over, feel baby’s chest moving and know she’s still breathing. I can even multitask, sometimes drifting back to sleep and feeding the baby at the same time.
Our pediatrician accepts it. Books I’ve read say it’s OK so long as the parents aren’t drunk or stoned and might roll over and crush the baby.
Pfft. I’m a little more worried about breaking my own face when Ladybug Bed Hog pushes me onto the floor.
Having a baby in bed means it takes roughly 11 hours – going to bed at 9 and not getting up until 8 – for me to get nine hours of sleep. More often than I’d like, I have to stay up late getting my act together. Then it takes a while for my brain to calm down enough to snooze, so I get closer to seven hours of shuteye.
As the nights tick by, and she’s almost 15 months old, I do seem a bit more rested. Or maybe I’m just getting used to getting by on less sleep. Coffee shops are getting a disproportionate slice of my disposable income.
And there isn’t much sweeter in the world than the face of a happy, sleeping child.
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Features editor Johanna Love is looking forward to spring break and the excellent sleep she always gets in her vintage Airstream. Find her musings on parenting in this space every other week.

Adventures in toddler food

A week after my baby’s birth, feeding her was easy.

Constant, but easy. Insert Tab A into Slot B at least 10 times per day for 30 minutes at a time. For more than three months, feeding the baby was my full-time job.

Fourteen months later, she requires less time to eat, but figuring out what to feed her is the trick. What she liked one day she refuses the next: tight lips, vigorous shaking of the head from side to side.

Conversely, it’s impossible to convey in print the enthusiasm my child radiates when she sees a food she wants.

“Mmmm!” she says, simultaneously thrusting a hand out toward the banana, frozen blueberries or teething biscuit.

Fruit and whole grains, no problem. Frozen squash chunks, peas, carrots? Bring ’em on.

Although we avoided cow’s milk until 11 months because of allergy worries, she loves it now. Cheese? Yes, please.

Blended-up food in a jar? That’s for babies. That’s so last year. Head shake.

Protein has been the tough thing to talk her into. She’ll eat eggs – scrambled, fried, boiled, in a quiche – but not much else.

I bought her some pricey processed meat sticks marketed for babies. She loved them. I read the ingredients. They were basically just hot dogs. So I started buying her turkey dogs or all-beef hot dogs. She loved them. Since then, it’s been brought to my attention that hot dogs are junk food. Oh. I began searching for hot-dog-like foods.

Expensive organic chicken-apple sausage? Head shake. Tofu dog? Head shake. Plain ol’ chicken breast cut into strips? Head shake.

Registered dietitian Therese Metherell says hot dogs may be cheap and easy, but they’re not a good choice for a toddler.

“It’s not any different than giving her candy,” she said. “Nutritionally, it’s just junk.”

So what to try? Deli turkey, canned tuna. Tuna has the added benefit of fatty acids that are good for brain development.

In a 20-minute phone call that admittedly annoyed my coworkers, Therese revamped my daughter’s diet plan. She recommends the California Cuisine Food Pyramid rather than the U.S. Department of Agriculture one from decades ago.

Our pediatrician suggested whole milk for Desi, so for the past couple months, my husband and I have been drinking it, too, although I know it’s not good for my cholesterol. Therese says the whole-milk prescription for toddlers is outdated.

In summer 2008, the American Academy of Pediatrics revised its recommendations: Children 2 and older should drink skim or 1 percent milk. For those age 1 to 2 who are either overweight or have a family history of obesity, high cholesterol or heart disease, the use of low-fat milk “would be appropriate.”

But how can her brain develop without fat? Avocado, nut butters (we’ve avoided peanuts so far because of allergy concerns, but I’ll research almond or cashew butter) or veggies cooked in canola or olive oils. Omega-3 eggs have good fat.

“The whole idea is to get the fat in, and not saturated fat,” Metherell said. “She doesn’t really need cheese or anything.”

But she loves cheese.

“Then use low-fat cheese or goat cheese.”

Is all this really necessary? I mean, she’s a year old.

“We know now that vascular changes, raising of blood cholesterol can affect heart disease risk in infancy,” Therese said. “She should be on a heart-healthy eating plan.”

Wow. That gives me a lot to think about.

“You have the upper hand here, because she can’t go to the grocery store yet,” Therese says. “She can’t go to McDonald’s with her friends.”

At least we’re careful about not letting her have too much sugar. I had been buying mandarin orange fruit cups sweetened with Splenda. Then I discovered that Splenda isn’t a good idea for kids. It hasn’t been proven safe for them, and artificial sweeteners are, well, artificially sweet. Hypersweet. So now I’m getting whole mandarin oranges (thank goodness it’s the season), which are a hit. I plan to peel and freeze a bunch of the sections for when we don’t have fresh ones on hand, it’s not the season, or she just wants to gnaw on something frozen because of teething pain.

That’s a Therese trick, too. She prepares a bunch of food at a time and freezes it. She doesn’t call them leftovers, she calls them “planned-overs.”

On her first birthday, Desi got her first taste of pure, unadulterated sugar. We got her a slice of banana cake from the grocery deli, covered in frosting. She couldn’t stop giggling, with an amazed look on her face. “Hee hee hee.” This is for me? “Hee hee hee.” Really? Awesome.

But that was a special occasion. She doesn’t get ice cream, cake, juice or high-sugar cookies every day. The longer we can keep up the low-sugar habit, the less she’ll crave it, I hope.

On a hang-out-with-Daddy day recently, Desi got a Kit Kat. Luckily, my husband stopped by my office after having given her only a quarter of the package. That little chocolate-covered wafer packed more than 5 grams of sugar. Sheesh. No wonder she was hyper.

The good thing about being careful what we feed Desi? She’s interested in anything we’re eating, so it gives us incentive to eat healthier things.

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Johanna is psyched to try recipes from The Toddler Bistro, a book just for babes.