down on the farm with grandpa.

This morning, my dad and I took Ethan to a nearby park that is home to a farm filled with many adorable animals. We trekked on despite the looming threat of rain and once we arrived -- underneath sunny skies -- we realized that the pony rides only happen on the weekends and the petting farm was reserved today for a school field trip. Despite the hiccups, Ethan had a fabulous time exploring the perimeters of the farm with his grandpa.


Ethan looked on in delight and wonder as his grandpa pointed out the peacocks and watched them display their beautiful feathers. We encountered a group of horse riders who introduced Ethan to one of their horses: a beautiful brown and white boy named R.J. who loved pats on the nose, which Ethan loved giving him.

I always attributed my love for animals to my father, who tucked me into bed at night as a child reading me Ranger Rick magazines and flipping through nature guides of local shorebirds and native Florida wildlife. It's apparent that Ethan inherited that same burst of animal love. There is little I love more than watching the smile completely take over his face when he's around animals and wildlife. That's my boy.

baby food day.

Today was baby food day. That means earlier today, we walked up down the organic produce aisles at our favorite local health food store, carefully selecting fresh fruits and vegetables that would soon be turned into less appealing purees. The collection of empty food cubes on the counter are now gone; those same cubes are now filled and sitting contently in their respective freezer trays. We've sliced, chopped, baked, steamed and boiled, and now we are stocked up.

These days, Ethan is big into leafy greens. He loves kale, spinach and, mostly, collard greens. Quinoa and black beans also rank high on his list of favorites and I'm finding that it's hard to convince him that he still likes fruit at all save for bananas. He's growing tired of purees in general, assigning his favoritism to finger foods and chunks of steamed food not quite turned smooth. This is a good thing, his new love for self-feeding, as I'm guessing this was our last haul of baby food making before my Baby Bullet succumbs to it's impending slow and miserable death. It took every ounce of strength I had to not hurl the nearly overheated base against the wall after it decided it was too weak to even properly puree zucchini.

Baby food day is not pretty.


Sputtering baby food processors and splotches of pureed collared greens on your newest shirt aside, this weekend is flying by at a frightening pace. Ethan is on the go, go, go more than ever and it's all too clear that we almost have a one year old. I've been working on his invitations and making a birthday party to-do list but have been distracted by the sheer feeling of heartbreak each time I realize my newborn isn't actually such a newborn anymore. It's these little things that make me bite my lip, threaten the Baby Bullet under my breath and try to find the beauty in every moment of every day...even baby food day.

roar.

These past few days have been trying at best. I have officially ended this week with glass in my foot, bugs in my cereal, a bite of curdled yogurt, a broken vaccum cleaner and a beautiful new BOB Jogger in the garage. (Guess which one was actually a welcomed surprise?)

This same time each year, I compose some gloomy abreaction documenting my despair and loneliness as the wife of an accountant. Each year I acknowledge my own shameless (and yet still shameful) flair for melodrama and own up to the fact that I'm well aware life could very well be worse than it is. If there is something I hadn't considered while writing these woe is me lonely-wife entries, it is that one morning I would be holding back tears as I carried my 9 1/2 month old little boy out the door for our morning Stroller Strides class while he cried out dada! dada! dada! as tears poured down his cheeks, his arms outstretched towards my bedroom where his dada was getting ready for work. If there's another thing I didn't think about, it would be that the same 9 1/2 month old little boy would fight sleep until he couldn't possibly stand it anymore in hopes he could catch a glimpse of his daddy. (He never made it that far. Heck, I almost never made it that far.)

It's been difficult for both of us and, of course, difficult for my husband who is the one working insane, laborious hours and missing out on the good times with Ethan. And those good times? You better believe I've been working overtime at ensuring this kid is smiling up until the moment he goes to sleep. It's been exhausting and I've been eating popcorn for two out of three meals a day on the regular without even thinking twice about it, but it's one of those things you just have to trudge through.

On Thursday, I took Ethan to an outlet mall a half an hour away. The trip was supposed to be quick: in and out, easy peasy, grabbing some great deals (because my son is suddenly in 18 month clothing and has virtually no pants that fit) and heading home. Instead, we loitered for 4 1/2 hours and I don't think either one of us stopped laughing the entire time. We stopped at nearly every photobooth we passed, we picked him up some adorable t-shirts at the GAP Baby outlet for just two dollars a piece and we had a lunchdate at Rainforest Cafe. It was the best lunch date I could imagine having with just about anyone. (I mean, not all lunch dates would roaaaaaar! back at the tigers.) We were both in proverbial stitches as we laughed, laughed, laughed until the waitress brought the check.

We stopped into our final photobooth outside of the Rainforest Cafe and took one very, very sleepy last photograph before making the drive home, singing Regina Spektor the entire time until my backseat passenger was sound asleep.

And so the week fades into a very welcomed weekend. The exhaustion rings in my ears and stings at my eyes. There is a sweet little boy who is roaring back at the tigers in his dreams and I am watching both him and the clock in disbelief. The clock, as I can't believe it's only nine o'clock and him, because I cannot believe what a flawless, beautiful little person he is. I stand in awe of him. In awe at the way he roars back at the tigers, in awe of the way he rejuvenates my soul with shared smiles under the fort we've built (and failed at) with my comforter.

when it's not you, it's the rest of the world.

Since Ethan was born, I've only allowed him to be in Seventh Generation diapers. I've become shockingly immune to the looks of apparent disgust and the "what, do you think Pampers will kill him?" inquiries made just snide enough to let me know that the person saying this thinks I'm crazy. Just like I know the limits of my own embarrassingly sensitive skin, I knew the limits of Ethan's since the moment I first saw him. Which isn't to say that I didn't wish better for him but I just had a hunch that while he inherited his daddy's eyelashes and full lips, he inherited my weakling skin and faulty respiratory system. That hunch was totally justified, as my kid wore Huggies Overnights for the first time in his life with his maxi pad...and had a terrible allergic reaction.

I brought him to our pediatrician to have her check out the red bumps creeping up his tummy. She gave me a prescription for a cream which I immediately brought over to the closest Target pharmacy. Ethan and I stood at the pharmacy counter at five until seven o'clock. A woman in her 60's with clip-on bangs and blood red lip liner that ran all the way up under her nose played peek-a-boo with Ethan -- who looked on in utter fear -- while I fished for Ethan's newest insurance card in my overflowing wallet. Eventually, the pharmacist approached. "What an adorable baby, but unfortunately it's 7 and we've already closed." Her tone was a mixture of sympathetic and scared. I've no doubts she was used to many an angry customer nearly climbing the counter while screaming at her for something she couldn't control. I felt the tears well-up in my eyes as I patiently tried to explain to her that we were here before the clock said 7, that we just drove here from the pediatrician's office, that my son needed this before he went to bed and it was currently his bedtime as it was. "Oh, I understand, ma'am but -- oh, he just spit up. I guess it's not his day!" She proceeded to explain that it was my day because there was a Walgreens right nextdoor that had a drive-through window and so all I had to do was put Ethan in the car and drive on over. Clearly this woman didn't have children.

The pharmacist at Walgreens said they didn't carry this lotion, but they could have it next week. "Ma'am, is it okay if he waits until next week to have this?" I explained that, no, he had a rash and needed it now so I'd go elsewhere. "We'd hate to lose you as a customer. I can check with my manager to see if we can have it sooner, maybe four days," reassured the pharmacist. I was ready to hurl myself through my windshield.

I'll skip the rest of the horror story, but the short version is that I ended up at four different pharmacies before finding a CVS that carried the lotion prescribed. The pharmacist there told me that it could be ready in an hour but no sooner. "Is an hour from now okay? Ma'am, I can't hear you, your baby is screaming. Can you ask him to be quiet?"

salt.

Today was our first salt therapy session at this fantastic place called The Salt Suite in Delray Beach. Ethan's post-RSV rattle-wheeze still exists even when he isn't sick, mostly when he's extremely active or pretty excited. The more I read about salt therapy and the way it not only helps people with respiratory ailments like Ethan (or sinusitis like me) but also helps build one's immune system, the more I couldn't wait to try it. I spoke to Jessica, the owner of The Salt Suite, who helped alleviate any doubts or questions I had and scheduled Ethan's appointment right away. Going into the appointment, I wasn't sure what to expect. As the session first began, I still wasn't sure what to expect. Before long, though, Ethan's sinuses (and mine, too!) began to drain and continued to do so for most of the day. This is the first time in a long time where Ethan didn't go to sleep with even the slightest bit of wheeze or rattle after a before bedtime play session.

I know growing up, my mother's solution to nearly every sickness we ever got was to just go to the beach and breathe the salty air. When Ethan's respiratory system acts up, it's my natural instinct to bring him to the beach and let him breathe in the salty air, which has always been the best decongestant. Salt therapy was like the beach minus the carrying of a 24 pound wriggly baby, a cooler, a diaper bag and a blanket through the sand until you can't push on anymore and the men selling cabanas come help you carry your things to the shore before you sprain your ankle or have a nervous breakdown. Basically, it recreates the micro-climate of a salt cave as dry salt aerosol is sprayed throughout a room that is comprised of salt (both the walls and floor are made up of salt). It is a negative ion and antibacterial environment thanks to the salt, which means a lot to a child with a compromised immune system like Ethan. The salt travels to the deepest parts of your lungs and respiratory system with each deep breath you take. I could breathe easier about ten minutes into our 45 minute session.

Salt therapy is perfect for people with nearly any type of ailment (from allergies to a common cold to cystic fibrosis to eczema and more) and also generally helps with your stamina and immune system. It also helps alleviate stress and promotes relaxation -- which I can vouch for completely. Ethan, the baby who has hated car travel with every last fiber of his being since nearly birth, fell asleep in the car after about five minutes into our drive home. Once we got home, he slept for 3 1/2 hours (and I admit it, so did I). In addition to finally breathing better than I have been breathing for weeks, I feel totally relaxed and rejuvenated and I could tell that Ethan feels the same. Without his "rattlewheeze," he was able to play before bedtime until he was tired and easily fell asleep without any struggle. He is feeling good.

Though I didn't get to experience the "grown-up rooms" at The Salt Suite, I did get to take a peek. Is it bad I was almost looking forward to the next time my sinuses wanted to fail me so I could spend 45 minutes relaxing and breathing in the salty air in that gorgeous room?! The children's area, however, was still great. It was filled with toys, books and games for Ethan to play with in the salt. He also loved navigating the salt piles with the same determination he has when trying to navigate the sand at the beach without faceplanting. Which, you know, he did once -- and proceeded to intentionally eat a mouthful of salt. He learned his lesson. The salt went nowhere near his mouth for the rest of our time there!

South Florida locals, be sure to check out The Salt Suite at 3100 South Federal Highway in Delray Beach or reach them by phone at (561) 316-SALT. Let them know that Lindsay and Ethan from You Are The Roots referred you!