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  • Who are you?

    When do we become who we are?  Are we ourselves from the time we're thrown out our mothers' wombs?  I know when I feel like myself - whatever that means.  When Axel grabs at my face, and then slips his thumb into his mouth, it seems like he knows that I'm separate from him - and if he knows other things and people aren't him, then does he, on some level, know that he is himself?   Oh, I think I'm giving myself a headache.   

     

    I'm watching Axel become a little person, and his emerging personality makes me wonder where all this person-ness comes from.  At just five and a half months old, he's got strong opinions - and he's not at all shy about expressing them.  No one in the same room - or house - as he is wonders where Axel stands on just one more bite of rice cereal (Horrible!) or silver cellphones (Genius!) or rattles (Fantastic!  Unless they hit you in the eye - then very, very bad!).  He's generally a pretty happy fellow, and he spends long chunks of time merrily chatting with track lights and the bushes we pass on walks.  Axel wants to be wherever the action's at - if we move into the kitchen and he's still in the living room on his mat, he lets us know he doesn't appreciate being left out.  His favorite form of punctuation is the exclamation point.  He's never still, unless he's just noticed something interesting - like our dog walking by, or a cute blonde in the grocery store.   Axel's a hundred pounds of excitement and energy in a thirteen pound package. 

     

     

    On Saturday, we went to brunch with friends who have a baby almost two months younger than Axel.  While Axel sat up in a high chair, contorting himself to stare up at the ceiling, then flapping his arms wildly, our friends' son was a calm, chubby angelic baby, just relaxing in his car seat, taking it all in.  You could imagine them in a few years - Axel as the crash test dummy of the pair, riding his trike at full speed off of a porch, while his friend hangs out and takes a more relaxed (and slightly less likely to cause scars) approach. 

     

    About halfway through the meal, Axel moaned and squawked loudly, demanding a change in the suddenly intolerable situation of being strapped in a chair, forced to stare at four adults eating omelets and pancakes.  Sean turned the high chair to the side, so that Axel faced the movement of the restaurant, and, feeding off of the energy of the mid-morning brunch crowd, he was again content.  Our friends' baby let out a few sweet grunts when he wanted to get out of the car seat - the baby equivalent of, "Hey, guys,  I'm a little sick of the car seat.  If you wouldn't mind, can you take me out for awhile?"  Anyone want to guess which boy is sleeping thorugh the night?  Yeah, that's right, not our hyper (yet adorable) babe.  My brother asked me why Axel's not sleeping more, since he's so active during the day.  Because the child runs on sunlight and milk, and doesn't need rest.  Really, I think the answer is that Axel gets so excited about the world - he can move his arms, together, on purpose!  There are daffodils sprouting in the neighbor's yard!  When he pushes a yellow button on his exersaucer, it talks to him! - that it's challenging to slow down.

     

    It's the never-ending nature versus nurture question.  How much of Axel is wrapped up in his DNA?  I don't think we could have taught him to be cheerful, though I'm sure that our happy responses to his smiles reinforce that part of his nature.   And, while I bounce my legs if I'm sitting for too long and feel really cranky if I don't get to exercise or walk around enough, I don't think I could have already taught Axel to be on the energetic-verging-to-hyper side.  Maybe we're all built with tendencies - like a leaning toward tea versus coffee, or emotional moderation on one end versus being more tempestuous on the other.  Perhaps environment can slide us a bit up and down various scales, but can it rewire us?  I'm not sure.   Axel's so much more of a person now than he was as a three-day-old warm lump of baby smells, but is that because he knows how to control his facial muscles and communicate his moods in ways I understand now, or has his character somehow become fleshed out by the act of living?  Probably both.  It feels like I've always known him, and known Axel as himself, with the personality he's showing now, though that can't be true, because, when he was a newborn, I couldn't see beyond the mewing, sleeping, swaddled baby to any nuances.  He will change more, as he grows, and my sense of him will, too, as I watch him develop. 

     


  • Multiple Personality Baby

    Yesterday, my father described Axel this way, "When he's laying down, he's you.  When he's sitting up, he's like your brother."  I realized he was right.  When I was a baby, I didn't stop talking.  I cooed and babbled every waking minute, sometimes singing at the top of my teensy lungs in the middle of church while my mom played the organ, trying to drown me out.  My older brother was the opposite: he quietly, seriously contemplated the mad, mad world whirling around him.  Even as a five-month-old, he supposedly gave strangers looks that could mean nothing but "You're a total dumbass."   

     

    When Axel's flailing about on the floor, he talks away, smacking his lips and exclaiming over the existence of the dog, his fuzzy giraffe toy, his hands, his ability to thwap his socked feet against the floor, carrying on long conversations with me about the joys of spit-up and dangling butterfly mobiles.  Inclined at any angle greater than 90 degrees - lounging in his bouncy chair or his swing, for example - and he keeps on talking.   He babbles and grins and shamelessly flirts with strangers in the grocery store from his car seat perched atop the cart while I fill a bag with apples. 

     

    Sit him upright in your arms or prop him up in a chair, though, and he's suddenly stoic and silent.  He quietly investigates the adults talking to him - many of whom he seems to believe are so close to going violently off their rockers that the less he responds, the safer he'll be.  He gives the room a wide-eyed, discerning once-over and seems to be wondering what the hell is going on here.  Just by changing Axel's position, I can make his whole attitude toward the world flip.

     

    Let me show you what I mean:

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Maybe it's because he's still pretty new to this whole sitting thing - it requires intense concentration to the degree that Axel can't spare any extra effort on a grin or a screech.  Maybe the world looks more dangerous and more confusing straight on, without the happy floor-view ambience of track lighting and textured ceilings.  Maybe lying down is just much more comfortable and, therefore, more conducive to conversations.  Maybe it's pure coincidence and he just wants to be left alone to think whenever he's sitting up.  Who knows?  It's just another one of those crazy baby things. 

     

     

     

     


  • Gene Genie

    I've got to say that I think we're giving this baby some pretty good genes.  Now, in the looks department, the baby hasn't won the gene lottery like Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, but I don't think our baby's  parents are half bad.  My man is regularly called cute by the little old ladies in nursing homes who he meets on medical calls, and, while my perfect version of myself would be a few inches taller and a bit thinner, I like my naturally-colored strawberry blonde hair and my eyes.  Exhibit A (in which we have jet lag and still look respectable, I think):

     

     

    Sure, I've got a mess of allergies and there's some history of mental illness in my family (but, with one out of four Americans depressed in their lifetime, I think that's probably true of every family), and Sean's side has history of heart disease and diabetes.   That said, if I could conjure up a genie and use a few wishes, there are things I'd like to pass on to this baby, and things I'd rather came from my husband.  I'm not talking about the rare and not-so-rare diseases we'd all rather avoid.  I'm thinking about shallow things and character traits, like noses and impatience. 

     

    From me:

     

    My mother's nose.  Not my nose - it's a little too big, but it's still smaller than my husband's, and I can't picture his schnoze or my dad's, for that matter, on a baby. 

     

    My eyes.  They're big and I like them.  My husband's are light blue and are not too shabby either, actually, so I think the kid will be fine either way. 

     

    My reading and eating speed.  I read quickly, and remember what I've read.  I also eat relatively quickly, and then tap my fingers while I wait for others to finish.  I get this from my father.  We both think that, as soon as we're done and others at the table are almost done, it's time to get the check so that, once even the slow people are done eating, we'll have paid and can get up and leave the table.  I hate to sit and stare at dirty dishes and half-eaten food.  I know it's not exactly polite and Ms. Manners would scold me if she knew.  My husband is neither a fast reader nor a speedy eater - though, to be perfectly honest, he eats about twice as much as I do, so it might cause him severe indegestion if he were to finish eating that quantity at the same time I finish eating.  But still, I hope the kid takes after me.  If I end up with a bunch of children who are slow eaters, I will have to forgoe nightly family dinners so that I don't go insane while waiting for them all to finish eating.  Or, I'll just become one of those mothers who constantly jumps up from the table during dinner to grab a better serving spoon or start the dishes. 

     

    My sneezes.  When I sneeze, it's usually just once or twice and it's quiet.  Sean has a minimum of three huge, explosive sneezes that make your ears ring if you're sitting next to him.  I know he can't help it; his mother has the same kind of sneeze.  It would be nice for our baby to avoid that.

     

    From my husband:

     

    His athletic skills.  He's a much faster runner than I am, and he's great at any snow sport.  I'm not so terrible at either, but I'm always just trying to keep up with him on a snowboard or when running.  I pedal a bicycle like a first grader, and he's a whiz on a bike.  Sure, I've run a few marathons and I can ski and swim better than he can and I can do my fair share of pushups, but he can do pushups with me on his back.  Maybe he's just showing off.  Still, it would be nice to know that our kid won't be picked last in gym.

     

    His prowress in the kitchen.  The man can make anything. 

     

    His calm, level-headedness in a crisis.  Yeah, that's pretty important in a firefighter or emergency responder.  It's nice not to worry that he's going to panic the minute I go in to labor.  I like knowing that, when something goes wrong, he can quickly and quietly respond, with a minimum of fuss.  I know that no baby or toddler will exhibit that quality, but it would be nice for the kid to grow in to that kind of presence of mind in emergencies.

     

    His lankiness.  He's a little taller than average, and he has these nice, long, thin limbs.  I'm built more like a curvy fireplug.  Some people like that, I suppose, but I've always wanted to be elegant and graceful with long legs. 

     

    From both of us:

     

    We are both a tad bit competitive.  I have been known to challenge coworkers to push-up contests if I think they're implying that I'm weak.  And I still think I could beat 90% of them in a push-up contest, even with this big old pregnant belly in my way.  Sean and I get a little rabid at trivia night at bars.   We probably get more in to racing go-karts than is healthy.  If the kid doesn't have a competitive bone in his/her body, I'm worried about how much his parents might scar him/her.

     

    From neither of us:

     

    Our abnormally large foreheads.  My forehead is huge.  My husband's is a bit big, probably because his hair is starting to receed, but it's hard to say, since he keeps his head almost bald.  I swear my forehead is the same size as the rest of my face from my browline down.  We're like mini-coneheads.  I don't think the baby has any chance to avoid becoming a conehead, too. 

     

    There are lots of other things I could list - my ability to do well on standardized tests, our shared sense of humor and love of books, my hair, my husband's strong stomach - but, I guess, when it comes down to it, if I really had access to the genie, we'd probably skip the whole list and simply wish for our baby to be healthy and happy. 

     

     


  • Que Sera, Sera

    As the baby kicks more, I feel like it's a real, live little person, with developing thoughts all its own - maybe not much more than "Hey!  That's my hand." and "What the hell is that slimy thick cord sticking out of my gut?" but thoughts just the same.  And, as it feels less like an "it" and more like an extremely close family member I've never met, I find myself thinking more and more about what and who this baby will be.

     

    This weekend, my mom gave me my baby book, including in it letters she'd written on my first, second, and third birthdays about my developing personality, favorite things, and growth.  Here are a few of the highlights:

     

    Age One:

     

    "You were born easy-going and good natured."  Hopefully, people still think of me that way, at least most of the time.

     

    "Your hair keeps growing, but only in the back."  Luckily, my hair grows all over my head now.  For a time, my folks called me Ben Franklin, due to the large hair-free spot in the middle of my noggin.  I think the pink bow was supposed to distract from the bald spot.

     

     

    "You really show your feelings, and usually they are happy ones."  Twenty-nine years later, I'm still incredibly transparent.

     

    Age Two:

     

    The bullheaded streak starts to show: "You are very particular about which glass youd rink out of, and ask for the "blue" one, meaning any other color than the first one I showed you."

     

    "You are definitley an Oz, our nickname for you.  We loved the name Astrid...the name of one of my college roommates, who was very lively.  She smiled and laughed a lot and did crazy things, and she also had some very strong opinions.  And you are much like her in those ways."  Did the name feed the personality, I wonder?

     

     

    Age Three:

     

    Big embarrassing moment (thanks, Mom!): "You seem to be more conscious of gender than your brother was...who has a penis and who doesn't and what size it is.  So you have caused a lot of laughs over your ratings of the sizes of all of our friends' boy babies' anatomies."  Luckily, I have outgrown public commentary related to the penis.

     

     

    And so, as I read through my mom's detailed notes in my baby book, I wonder, will this baby be easygoing and cheerful, or will it be serious and contemplative, or fussy and full of baby angst?  Will he/she, regardless of gender, love to ride bikes as much as his/her daddy does, and tumbling down muddy hills at high speeds?  Talk a bit too much about private parts?  Will he/she devour books - perhaps literally gumming them to pieces at first?  Have an enormous head and a small body (my head was in the 85th percentile for size, while my body was stuck in the 5th percentile for height and weight). I think more about our baby-to-be's personality and likes and dislikes than hair or eye color.  Given its parents, I'll be shocked if the babe doesn't have something of a stubborn streak.  The the rest, for now, will remain a mystery.

     



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About the Blogger

Oz Spies

Oz Spies in Denver

Oz Spies lives in Denver, Colorado with her husband, a firefighter; their son, Axel; and a slightly obese dog and cat. She has a MFA in Creative Writing from Colorado State University.

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