We would have to move away immediately and never look back.

Don’t worry, Mom, those stains will all come out with Zote; if I’d had a sliver of it in the diaper bag like I normally do, they would have been gone when I emerged from the restroom. And yeah, no changing table in the coffee shop, I guess they don’t hope for a lot of infant customers there. Now that Vibble can reach out and grab stuff and move around, the technique I’ve counted on so far with a cushion of paper towels under the waterproof mat (diaper for a pillow) is useless.

Since that post, yet another outfit took one for the team. We recently switched from Huggies to to SGs, and we like them better for so many reasons, but even they were no match for Vibb’s rocket launcher tonight. Poor kid wants to be on my lap so badly, but she had already been relegated to the bouncer, on account of the fact that she spent the afternoon teaching herself to SPIT and was spraying milky slime all over the keyboard. And now she’s in there naked. Stevel has promised to give her a bath when he awakes from an evening nap. A pressure-hose may be required.

Anyway, I need to be at my desk right now because Sarah-Novelist is introducing me to “So You Think You Can Dance” with strategic links to YouTube clips. Incidentally, she is weeping right now in her living room, watching these dancers.

I am reminded of two things: (1) the dance classes Cheri and I took as kids, which we were really only half-into, but into enough to keep going for a couple of years, and (2) the horrid routine to a version of “Cecelia” by a band called “X2″ that my friend Sarah Meny and I put together at her house in 7th grade. It was AWFUL. Thankfully, no one ever saw it. I know there was one part where a whistle blew in the song, and we pretended to blow whistles. My path NOT toward “So You Think You Can Dance” was laid out before me. Sigh.

* Warning: The following content may not be suitable for Jeremy Roush.

So I finished my editing project and met this morning with two members of the group who had written the book. And an hour into the meeting Violet dropped a diaper bomb that was completely uncontained. I looked down to see the mustard running out of the bottom of her pantleg. It was an awkward interruption to our discussion. What followed was an impromptu bath for Vibble in the restroom. She did a lot of rolling around on the nasty restroom floor, and I could not seem to keep her in my paper-towel nest. Lucky for Baby, I had a spare outfit in her size. Sadly, I was not so lucky and had to accept my new role as human-wad-of-toilet-paper.

So that’s my baby poop story. What’s yours?

This is my friend Emily, age 8. She lives in Penna. and is the daughter of my longest-time friend, Tracey. Emily is having her tonsils taken out today, and her mom is one nervous girl. Please send your positive energies in their direction.

When Steve first met Emily, at her house, he was with me, and she said to him, “Why are you so small?” He replied, “Look who’s talking.”

Also, if you’re feeling charitable, please go to this link and donate a few bucks to the fund for helping with medical costs for an acquaintance of ours from our Savannah days who was randomly shot at point-blank range by a stranger a few days ago: Why?

I did something today that I’m not that proud of. I sat my four-month old in front of the TV so I could get some things done. It’s even worse than it sounds. She wasn’t wearing any clothes, just a baby-blanket toga. See for yourself.

It was the No. 6 debut of a DVD called Baby Mozart, which was gifted to Violet by her grandma, and though I have never seen anything so inane, the kid loves it. She watched it repeatedly, giggling and gesturing toward the TV all the while. Thus, en route to No. 6 as of this afternoon: Baby Bach and Baby Beethoven.

Incidentally, if anyone with a video camera feels like getting rich, these things are $16 each and feature 30 minutes of footage primarily of toys, fruit, and a hand waving a sock puppet around. And were they available, I would immediately order Baby Petty, Baby Seger, and Baby Stones.

Violet’s initiation into TV-babysitting practices followed two days of her playing and sleeping next to me as I edited an exciting project about responsible land development. Here she is conked out by my laptop. It’s actually been a cozy work experience with this project, having my two girls (here’s my other girl) join me. And now that the evening has passed, and I’ve managed to bathe and even dress my child, it’s looking a little less like someone needs to call Family Welfare Services on me.

Meanwhile, Vibble seems perfectly happy with everything.

Violet went to her first movie today, WALL-E, on the Disney Studios lot in Burbank. She slept through all but the last five minutes, which she watched with mild interest. It’s a great movie. Go see it soon, and then you’ll know what I mean when I say to you, “Directive.”

It’s been a week of firsts. Violet had her first taste of baby rice cereal, a mixture of ricey powder and milk. Her doctor had warned us she might find it “unfamiliar.” Indeed, with no expression on her face, she rejected it as a foreign substance. Day 2, same thing. We’ll see about day 3.

She continues to roll over onto her stomach and prop herself up on her elbows. She is usually quite pleased with this for about five minutes. Then she starts to fuss with increasing volume until she is flipped back over by a tall person. She also loves to be held up “standing,” although she’s quite a dreamer; her feet will have to be a lot less like little dinner rolls if she is ever going to use them for standing on. She also continues sucking on the same two fingers that Steve was known for sucking on when he was little. Every day she seems more and more like him in subtle and overt ways. (Her eyebrows and ears are really filling in.) The little Steveling.

Most characteristic of this stage with the kid are the sounds she makes. She takes great pleasure in the sensation of making noise with her mouth. There are many variations, but my favorite is, “Ooooooooh!” Overall, personality-wise, she is a baby who seems to enjoy just being alive most of the time. A smiley one.

My nose is still bleeding and crusting and bleeding again. Thank you all for your advice, I’ve tried a lot of it, and it’s helping. And yes, Cheri, I will stay away from the scary ER.

I’ll leave you with this lovely found poem from our restaurant menu today; may you learn from it and feel happy: The important thing …

My nose has been actively seeping blood for six days. The insides of my nasal passages seem to have left behind on the plane from Detroit any desire to be normal. I’ve tried some great products, thanks to friends’ advice, but nothing seems to be working. I’m losing pillowcases and shirts, not to mention every time I cough, a giant clot flies from my mouth. Gross, yes. Yes. And uncomfortable. Anyway, any ideas?

In fifth grade, the boys and girls were separated for an afternoon. While the boys went to Mrs. Stillman’s room to ask questions like, “What does ‘rubber’ mean?,” we girls gathered in Mrs. Leonard’s room to meet with the school nurse to watch Julie’s Story and hear the answers to questions like the one Michele Steve asked: “What happens if the string falls off?”

But in 2008, we need to add an important new chapter to this lesson: How to Properly Google a Man. No woman should go on a date without a thorough Google, as I learned too-late in Savannah after an unfortunately POST-date search-engine session revealed that the guy I’d gone out with that evening either (a) had two kids and a wife and wanted to move to Australia to become a golf pro, or (b) was weird enough to claim to have two kids and a wife on some golf bulletin board in order to get tips on how to move to Australia and become a golf pro. Either way, sketchy, no? (He had a very unusual name, and some of the details in the bulletin-board post confirmed it was indeed the very same guy.)

Anyway, I’ll be teaching Violet to do this as I coach her about being mindful of the image she presents of herself online (try not to mention your boobs or poop more than three times per blog entry, for example). After the obvious networking sites (MySpace, FaceBook, Classmates, etc.), it becomes all about keywords. Here’s how you do it:

[1] Remember to try alternate spellings of his name, including obvious nicknames (e.g. “Steve,” “Stephen,” “Steven,” “Stevie”).

[2] After this it becomes all about keywords. Try his name and the name of his company, or his name and his hobby (For example “Steve LaVietes” and “Rock Band” brings up a link to this).

[3] Skim relevant return articles thoroughly in search of additional keywords. If at the bottom of an article in his office newsletter about his latest game of basketball with the accounting dept. team there’s a quote in which he mentions that he had to skip post-game celebrations to feed his chihuahua, Google his name and “chihuahua.” Then Google his name and “accounting,” his name and the company name, etc.

[4] Don’t limit yourself to the first three returns. Skim the first 10-20 returns the search engine spits out. Never know.

[5] In the network sites, be thorough. Click on his friends (esp. the female ones), and read comments he has made to them.

[6] If anything sketchy pops, but you still want that date, you can always check your state’s sex offender registry. I mean, that’s what it’s there for, right?

It should be noted, and taught to our daughters, that Googling doesn’t cover everything. On the Internet we can be whoever we want to be, instead of who we really are. The thing is, though, the savvier you become at using the Internet to do little background checks, the likelier you are to find information about someone that doesn’t quite sync up with that MySpace page (e.g. On MySpace, he says he’s 16, but he is listed on the Board of Directors page for a major corporation … hmmmm).

Isn’t this terrifying?

Please, girlfriends, if you have anything to add to this lesson, post comments. (Please, Dad, keep it to under nine paragraphs.)

The trip was great. Violet is a dream on a plane at this age. When not asleep, she is grinning at the passengers around us until everyone is in love with her. She’s quite adaptable to eating and having her diaper changed on planes, on the floor in an airport terminal, anywhere. She sleeps soundly in the Baby Bjorn for hours. She did have some fussiness this weekend, but my sense was that she was pretty affected by changes in time and routine this trip. Jet Lag for Baby. She had trouble falling asleep a few times when she was clearly exhausted. But she’s recovering just fine here today.

I’m so happy I got to see my grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Enjoyable visiting, couldn’t get enough. My grandparents look wonderful and are making progress on the final paring-down of all the stuff they’ve accumulated over the years to make their move into their retirement community in Florida complete. My cousin Elyse talked to me about how things are going with college and her boyfriend of four years. She’s content, enjoying her independence and future possibilities. Olivia is a graceful, intelligent, and observant beauty. Audrey Hepburn, minus any ambition to be noticed. Lillian is instant buddies with anyone who wants to GO OUTSIDE, for any reason. She entertains herself reading otherwise, and she, too, is intelligent and beautiful. Seth was off at Basketball Camp, so, regrettably, I missed seeing him. But we had a large group for Father’s Day, and I soaked in my family and enjoyed the small-town walkability of Howell. It was more than enough to balance the uncomfortable flights.

But enough about me, here are some photos!

Today I had my sixth doctor’s visit, including that fun day at the ER . This time, I think we’re getting somewhere. My doctor feels fairly certain it’s a case of inflammation in the connecting tissues around my coccyx bone. Basically, arthritis. Treatment involves anti-inflammatories for two weeks and hot baths twice a day. I asked if a heating pad would do the trick, and the doctor said, “Why? Are you too lazy to take a bath?” So there’s just no getting out of it, I must take my baths, DOCTOR’S ORDERS.

The kicker is that this coccyx-bone inflammation? It’s not common with my stats. Specifically, the doctor said he hasn’t seen someone my age, with the size baby I had (small), and with the short delivery time (about 20 minutes), have this issue. My sister said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’re just not really built to have babies, after all.” No. But to make milk? YES. Without getting into details, I’m quite the surprising success at that.

If the anti-inflammatories don’t work, an X-ray would be called for, but he is very, very sure it’s not a fracture and that I’ll be just fine in two weeks. Which would be GREAT. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it more than a few hundred times, but I am in PAIN.

Oh, and if you haven’t seen “Napoleon Dynamite,” you probably don’t get that title. Also, your life is just a little less rich with laughter than it could be.

And now Vibb and I are off to Michigan. AKA the Mitten State … and if you’ve never seen a field of ripe mittens, you haven’t lived!

We got back yesterday from three days in San Francisco. Violet’s first (and second) plane ride was a success. She was a dream. Really, there were only two things that affected us in any negative way with having her along:

[1] Carrying luggage and gear for a baby on a trip is sort of like that scene in “Spaceballs” where the guys are hauling the princess’ luggage across the desert.

[2] Violet dropped a massive diaper-bomb while we were on a walk, miles from our hotel. We managed to change it, employing teamwork and agreeing that her little outfit had taken one for the team and could not be salvaged. So Violet got a carefully orchestrated diaper change, wipe-down, and new outfit on a park bench. She was fairly agreeable.

The highlight of the trip was our hotel room, which ended up having a spectacular view of Union Square, the city beyond, and beyond that, the bay. The weather was gorgeous. We enjoyed a dinner the first night at the Cheesecake Factory, a restaurant I typically avoid because of its long lines and so-so dinner fare, but the SF one overlooks Union Square (and it was time for more Godiva cheesecake, it was JUST TIME).

We did a little shopping, a lot of walking, some hotel room hanging out and napping. I’m recharged, and just in time to turn around and fly to Michigan on the red-eye tonight with Violet … because once you’ve done Baby’s First Trip, you’re like, Baby’s SECOND TRIP, let’s get on that ASAP.

OK, here are Photos from the LaVietes Family Vacation to San Francisco 2008. Click on “View Slide Show.”

Tomorrow morning we’re flying up to San Francisco for two nights in a nice hotel, just the three of us. We need some us-time, and Steve and I have always enjoyed walking around that town. And eating lots and lots of chocolate!

To appease you while we are gone, here is a shot of Violet doing her new trick: “Look, I can grab my OWN FOOT!”

New photos are up!

I’m traveling soon on your airline, because you alone had a direct flight to Detroit at a time that worked for me, and I’m bringing an infant. Most airlines want to know in advance about this sort of carry-on item. I assume you do, too.

But perhaps you don’t. I tried for three days to reach you via the phone number posted on your Web site. I tried every menu option but was always disconnected.

Undaunted, I decided to send a message through your Web site’s Contact page … to, as it were, “e-mail” you. Apparently, however, this option is much like the ole’ nickel-glued-to-the-ground trick. The drop-down menu for something called “Location” contains no options, and clicking on “Send” earns me a pop-up explaining that no, I may not send without choosing a Location.

Oh, Spirit Airlines, you can play hard to get, but I will persevere. As I persisted in tracking you down, I encountered tale after tale of woe on the Internet. You have been a bad, bad airline, it seems, and many broken-hearted ex-passengers in your wake have been compelled to blog of their anger. Despite all of these stories about what an awful airline you are, I persisted in tracking you down, plugging away with my searches until I located YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS, whereupon I SENT YOU A LETTER. It may be 2008, but perhaps you are an old-fashioned airline. I can respect that. And you are worth 42 cents in my book. Maybe not much more, but FORTY-TWO CENTS, YES.

So, again, please hear my heartfelt, feelingy feelings, which are these: I feel I must let you know I am traveling with an infant.

Looking forward to flying your unfriendly skies very soon,
Kristan LaVietes

Vibble rolled over last night, from her back onto her, well, stomach? She had her arms under her and her legs all drawn up, so it was more like on her knees and elbows … and face. She wasn’t upset about it, and just kept trying to move herself into a more comfortable setup for a while until we helped her out. Then we put her on a big blanket on the floor, and while she didn’t manage to do it again, it was clear she was trying, repeatedly rocking herself up onto her side and straining.

She’s also perfected her inchworm technique, scooting with her knees and rear. Yesterday afternoon I put her under her play-gym on the floor and took a two-minute shower. When I got out, she was three feet from the play-gym and SO PLEASED with herself. She inchworms in her bassinet now, and in the morning she is usually scrunched down at the bottom of it with her knees bent up against the footboard.

I can’t believe it’s already time to start childproofing. And that the days of sticking her somewhere to do my thing while she smilingly coos to herself and STAYS PUT are over. But I can hardly wait for her little brain to connect the possibilities of the movements with things she sees and wants to get to. So far, it looks like these will include the TV, me, Stevel, and mirrors. She has zero interest in the cats so far. But oh man, wait until she learns to remove her own clothes. It’s really a good thing we live in a warm climate here.

Stevel has been for a walk with Vibble. Laundry’s going, cats are settling in for their daily 12-hour naps.

I’m not feeling any better, really. Since the ER doctors ruled out anything of concern, I’m just taking Ibuprofen for the pain and waiting for whatever it is to run its course. I think it must the thing where the nursing hormones upset the uterus. I’m also losing a remarkable amount of hair right now, which I’ve heard can happen because of hormones related to pregnancy and early motherhood. Bottom line, self-diagnosis-wise, is that this whole baby-having hormones thing has, from the start, been toxic for me. No more having babies.

Cheri’s visit was such fun, and now that I don’t have it to look forward to anymore, I feel a little bit sunk. But there’s a lot of great stuff coming up very soon, and I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, a message from Cheri today reports that Dani, on her way into the big old city of Pittsburgh for a plastic surgeon follow-up appointment, announced her astonishment at the traffic—”So many cars, like, 22 of them!” Oh yes, she is so ready to come to L.A. one day.

And now, your daily Vibble.

Today I went back to the doctor’s office about my mysterious illness—the one with the baseball bat and the tailbone hammer. It just wasn’t getting better.

That was at 11:30. That doctor decided I should get a CAT scan, in case something was wrong in some vital organ, namely a reproductive one I don’t ever care to use again (i.e. my uterus). Since it’s SUNDAY, the only place to get a CAT scan is the ER. Here’s how I passed the ensuing NINE HOURS in the ER today:

- Listening to the same poor old woman ask for a glass of water—yes, for all nine hours (she wasn’t allowed to, because of certain tests she had to have)
- Joking with my sister about the doctors’ finding Violet’s twin—a little knot of hair and bone with a face—in the CAT scan
- Noting what a dump the ER is in so many respects
- Using the bathroom once and then eventually having to pee again but holding it (see above)
- Feeding a smuggled-in Violet while wearing a hospital gown … ah, memories
- Counting my blessings, like the one about how I was not having contractions, and the one about how there was no blood gushing out of my mouth
- Holding onto and caressing my cell phone like it was a security blanket
- Eating nothing except the two granola bars Steve smuggled in for me … what’s with our hospital trying to STARVE ME???
- Resisting the urge to push buttons on machines with which I was left completely unsupervised for hours at a time
- Listening to a crazed drunk man having an exchange with the nurses about signing himself out, a decision the nurses forbade
- Listening to another man get scolded for trying to sneak out to have a cigarette as nurses were waiting for his Dilantin levels to stabilize
- Watching my first nurse prove her ineptitude several times in ways I don’t really want to talk about here … All I’ll say is, she repeated this phrase: “It was the wrong anatomy” enough times to take me beyond Mission: Decode into Mission: Escape With My Life.
- Watching the security guards chase out two twenty-something guys and tell them not to come back again … one of them was wearing a Penn State hat, which I wanted to snatch off with the indignant explanation that he was shaming the Lion
- Missing Violet
- Feeling mad that my visit with my sister has been all about my being ill, again
- Eventually finding out nothing is wrong with me. Nothing. At all.
- Wishing TO GOD I had thought of the old warning to always wear nice underwear in case you get in a car accident or, say, end up in an ass-bearing gown in the ER … Of all days to be laundry-down to the old red pants!

We went to the Farmers Market this morning. It was chilly, so we had to dress Vibb in her hobo clothes.

Classic Hobo Look

Your Hobo Look Bores Me

Right now, these are the sounds coming from the kitchen—See if you can guess what’s happening:

“It’s not dried.”
“Oh my God.”
“Uh! It’s pretty bad.”
“Holy fuck.”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
“Nope, not done.”
“Uh!”
[gag]
“A lot of pinch action.”

Did you guess that Stevel was cleaning Linus’ ass? Congratulations if yes! Once again, as so many times before, a sniff-vestigation revealed that the source of a mysterious and horrifying odor was indeed Linus’ ass. The one he doesn’t clean for himself. That one. Stevel says, “It must be embarrassing, having your roommate clean your ass for you.” But I’m not convinced Linus feels embarrassment like other cats.

Just before this ass-cleaning, I had brought Stevel a clean shirt, because Violet threw up on his shirt … and on his face. It was an astounding amount of vomit, and did I mention it was on his face? Since there wasn’t time for a photo, I made you this diagram.

We had a great luncheon with friends today in Old Town Pasadena. Cheri, Violet, and I met up with Sarah-Architect, Sarah-Novelist, Christina, Rachel, and Erin at Sushi Roku and then did some shopping and had some dessert at Leonidas Chocolates. Delicious food and a wonderful gathering.

I only wish I hadn’t been feeling so poorly. I’m stricken with the third round of the same mysterious ailment since Violet was born … something determined not to be a yeast infection, possibly (but then again probably not) a bladder infection, maybe the result of nursing hormones causing swelling in various vital organs, but really an unknown thing. Basically, it feels like someone took a baseball bat and whammed me across my lower abdomen and pelvic bone, while that someone’s accomplice aimed a hammer at my tailbone and let fly. The doctor suggested a CAT scan, so if it doesn’t go away with antibiotics, I guess I’ll do that. Meanwhile, I’ll just continue taking Ibuprofen and keeping the entire Internet updated about my very personal illness. Sound good?

It’s been rainy here, and that’s so weird for this area, this time of year, that I can only assume Abigail caused it by sending Vibble this darling, knit cardigan along with the wish for cool enough weather for her to get to wear it. I should have made it known that there’s no need for cool WEATHER in order for Violet to get to wear warm, cozy things. Our A/C cranks most industriously into Violet’s room, so she can always use warmies to wear when we’re hangin’ out in her digs.