Yesterday, there was no post because my body hadn’t quite figured out the time zone difference yet. You see, I’m in California.
We got up at 3:15 am Eastern time — that’s just a smidge after midnight Pacific time — and got ourselves together, woke up Sage (not a very nice thing to do to a nine-month-old), and headed off to the airport. Two flights later, we were in Los Angeles.
We’re here for my cousin’s wedding, which will be on Sunday. Yesterday was mostly about trying to figure out when to sleep and when to eat and other things that come along with suddenly gaining three additional hours in your day. Sage actually did pretty well, considering; she slept through most of the first flight, and we kept her reasonably calm during the second flight. However, we did learn that plane rides can apparently lead to gastric issues. The worst diaper I ever dealt with? Yesterday.
Today, we went to the L.A. Farmer’s Market. I now have a new appreciation for the joke that the series “24,” which was supposed to be shown in real time (disregarding commercials, I guess?), should have been called “36” to accommodate for the amount of time it would have taken Jack Bauer to cross the L.A. basin.
We had a great time there, although Sage did express her overtiredness a few times. However, she perked right up when she had the chance to try some fruit bits. In the past two days, we’ve offered her a number of things that we weren’t sure she’d like, being very careful to only give very small pieces. So far, she has liked watermelon, honeydew, cantaloupe, buttermilk cake donut, parmesan basil breadstick, and dill pickle. (She didn’t even flinch at the dill pickle.)
She has also had her first time in a swimming pool. This was far more traumatic for Daddy than it was for Sage. I’m terrified of drowning; it’s my worst fear, even managing to beat out tiny insects. (I don’t mind the big ones. If you can track ’em, you can kill ’em. But tiny ones, like those incredibly small ants that you can’t really squish because they fit between the stupid treads of your stupid shoes? Those give me the screaming heebie-jeebies. But I digress.) I’ve long said that if anyone is stupid enough to push me into a pool as a prank, they had better pray that I drown — because if I don’t, I will be coming for them and I will want blood. So putting my feet into the pool while Ann took Sage in was a bit rough for me; God forbid something suddenly happen to Ann, I wouldn’t be able to save either one of them, and the thought of that just makes me sick. On the other hand, as I kept reminding myself while I watched them (and took a few photos), I don’t want Sage to be scared of the water, so I’m glad she got some of this experience. (Heck, I don’t want to be scared of the water, but unfortunately no matter what I do or who tries to help, I can’t get past it. And I’m sure THAT will be the takeaway some of you get from this post, and you’ll post responses about how you’ll help me or how you got over it — please don’t. You’ll be wasting your time. While I’d love to be able to swim, if only so I could try to get on Wipeout, it’s not happening.)
Today, though, was a bigger milestone for me than I think it was for Sage, despite her first taste experiences and her first time in the pool. And I didn’t have to do anything to experience it.
Today was the first time that I was absolutely rock-solid sure that when Sage said the syllables “dadda” — that she knew that it meant me. Up until now, she has used it indiscriminately, saying it when playing or looking at various objects, and so on. Today, she very specifically said it when turning to me and trying to get my attention.
Today, I am positive, Sage called me Dada.