My child,
Happy birthday sweet boy. Today you are one year old. What a wonderful milestone for you. For me. I have so enjoyed watching you grow and learn and blossom from a tiny newborn, eyes closed, serene and fragile to a precocious toddler, eyes wide, curious and energetic.
Of the hundreds of photos I have documenting your firsts this year, my most special memories don't reside in a photo but in my heart. In our everyday moments. The moments we've spent learning from each other, exploring the world hand in hand, holding you for hours as you sleep, in the quiet of our 3 am's, in the giggles over breakfast and in the kisses before bedtime.
I cherish each one of these moments and every night before I sleep I pray I will be blessed with another day making memories with you.
I burst with pride as you explore your independence. And ache with sadness as I watch you slowly wander further into this world and away from my protective arms. Your awkward toddle will eventually turn into confident strides, your inflected babbling will eventually turn into articulate conversation, your tight grasp around my finger will eventually loosen and you'll discover this beautiful world waiting for you. But not today. Today you are still my little boy. Today you still need me to hug you after a tumble. You still need me to teach you the right words to say. You still need to hold my hand. And even after you've grown up and don't need me as much anymore, always know I'll be here for a hug after life's stumbles.
You've grown into such a sweet, smart, funny child. I love being your mother. It has given me more purpose than I knew I could have. If I do nothing else, this life will be full because of you.
Of course there have been hard days, cranky days, sick days, long days, tired days. But even in those days, just one gapped tooth grin, one whispered mama in the darkness, one hug with your chubby fingers round my neck is enough to fill my heart with joy. Enough to get me through a lifetime of hard days.
Today we celebrate you my child. We celebrate your year of life. And how you've irrevocably changed ours.
I pray you continue to grow healthy and happy. I pray as you grow, you will always feel our love and God's grace in your life. I pray you will cherish your everyday. Just as I cherish mine.
I love you my sunshine.
To the moon and back,
Mama
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Friday, November 2, 2012
A Tale of Two Car Trips
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
The whining started shortly after we pulled on the interstate commencing the first leg of our road trip towards our new home. Being a seasoned traveling mama, I was prepared. Snacks: check. Favorite nursery rhymes: check. An arsenal of toys in the front seat in case one gets dropped (or in The Kid's case hurled from the backseat towards my head): check. Bring it kid. Ba-ring. It.
I passed The Kid his snack cup. Crunching and babbling replaced the whining for all of 10 minutes.
I turned up his nursery rhymes cd and jammed out to itsy bitsy spider so hard I almost didn't hear the whining getting louder. Almost. The Kid has a pair of Stephen Tyler-esque lungs on him.
I passed back his favorite monkey. Monkey did a stage dive directly back into the front seat. I passed back his favorite board book. Squeals of delight filled the car. Yes, mama winning! Five minutes later Goodnight Moon smacked the back window. As my arsenal of toys dwindled, anxiety slowly washed over me. I glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes in a 3 hour drive, we're never gonna make it there with my sanity intact.
In desperation, I passed back my iPhone only to feel it slip between our hands at the last moment and hit the car floor with a deafening thud. Game over. Screaming commenced.
And continued through the towering city buildings and moonlit pine. It continued through the small college towns and over the hum of the busy highway. It continued after our lunch break and all the way to the driveway of my parents house.
He brought it. Nerves shot and dreading the second even longer half of the trip the next day, I headed directly to Walmart and bought a portable DVD player.
Second leg: sweet glorious silence for 3 1/2 hours. Quiet through the backwood roads and crisp cotton fields. Silence pass the lonesome houses dotting the country roads and as the air slowly turned salty as we made our way closer to the shimmering coast.
Only intermittent squeals of delight, sighs of a sleepy little head and The Man in The Yellow Hat broke through the quiet.
Portable DVD player inventor, you win at life.
The whining started shortly after we pulled on the interstate commencing the first leg of our road trip towards our new home. Being a seasoned traveling mama, I was prepared. Snacks: check. Favorite nursery rhymes: check. An arsenal of toys in the front seat in case one gets dropped (or in The Kid's case hurled from the backseat towards my head): check. Bring it kid. Ba-ring. It.
I passed The Kid his snack cup. Crunching and babbling replaced the whining for all of 10 minutes.
I turned up his nursery rhymes cd and jammed out to itsy bitsy spider so hard I almost didn't hear the whining getting louder. Almost. The Kid has a pair of Stephen Tyler-esque lungs on him.
I passed back his favorite monkey. Monkey did a stage dive directly back into the front seat. I passed back his favorite board book. Squeals of delight filled the car. Yes, mama winning! Five minutes later Goodnight Moon smacked the back window. As my arsenal of toys dwindled, anxiety slowly washed over me. I glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes in a 3 hour drive, we're never gonna make it there with my sanity intact.
In desperation, I passed back my iPhone only to feel it slip between our hands at the last moment and hit the car floor with a deafening thud. Game over. Screaming commenced.
And continued through the towering city buildings and moonlit pine. It continued through the small college towns and over the hum of the busy highway. It continued after our lunch break and all the way to the driveway of my parents house.
He brought it. Nerves shot and dreading the second even longer half of the trip the next day, I headed directly to Walmart and bought a portable DVD player.
Second leg: sweet glorious silence for 3 1/2 hours. Quiet through the backwood roads and crisp cotton fields. Silence pass the lonesome houses dotting the country roads and as the air slowly turned salty as we made our way closer to the shimmering coast.
Only intermittent squeals of delight, sighs of a sleepy little head and The Man in The Yellow Hat broke through the quiet.
Portable DVD player inventor, you win at life.
Monday, October 15, 2012
It's in the Box Marked Shanks
It's moving month. You know what that means! Relaxation and healthy home cooked meals every night!
I've got seven moves under my belt. You'd think I could do this with my eyes closed. You'd of course be wrong. I've been living somewhere between stress eating and manically packing for a couple weeks now. Two nights ago, the husband brought home candy bars and cokes for dinner. What? It seemed like a good food choice at the time. I've convinced myself packing 3 boxes is the equivalent to 3 miles on the treadmill. So I'm good there. Do not ruin that for me people. I will shank you. I have good shanking knife in one of these boxes around here. Somewhere. Where IS that box?
I've pretty much given up on marking boxes with useful information that may clue me to what it holds. Instead I have two boxes that are just marked baby shit and one that says husband's dumb crap he should've thrown away years ago in block letters and a smiley face. I think I'll make unpacking more interesting and have a couple boxes with a skull and crossbones marked dangerous explosives. Maybe one can have a stick figure guy turning into The Hulk and marked hazardous waste. Our moving guys should get a kick out of it.
My house looks like an alcoholic toddler lives here. Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo boxes are stacked amongst piles of The Kid's toys. How did he get so many toys? I keep finding them. Under the couch, in closets, between cushions. I think they're procreating at night. I suspect that squeaky giraffe is just a high priced escort. Slutty Sophie.
We still have a couple weeks left here, but my OCD requires me to have all the contents of my house packed neatly in boxes right now. I may have gone overboard. Maybe just a little. There's a chance I had to buy toilet paper today because I may have packed the last roll. And hand soap. And baby wipes. If the dog goes missing, I promise I'll voluntarily admit myself to the psych ward.
As obsessed as I am about needing to get everything in a box, my husband is as obsessed with bubble wrap. He bubble wraps the shit outta stuff. Seriously. He's a bubble wrapaholic. He makes late night runs to Home Depot saying he needs more packing tape. But I know. I know he's scoring more bubble wrap. The man needs help.
We're almost done though. Just two more weeks. We'll soon be sitting on our new balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, clinking our glasses and celebrating surviving our 8th move. And I betcha the $2 million I'm planning on winning in Vegas next summer that is the exact moment my husband will bring up his plans for the next move.
Where is that damn shank box?
I've got seven moves under my belt. You'd think I could do this with my eyes closed. You'd of course be wrong. I've been living somewhere between stress eating and manically packing for a couple weeks now. Two nights ago, the husband brought home candy bars and cokes for dinner. What? It seemed like a good food choice at the time. I've convinced myself packing 3 boxes is the equivalent to 3 miles on the treadmill. So I'm good there. Do not ruin that for me people. I will shank you. I have good shanking knife in one of these boxes around here. Somewhere. Where IS that box?
I've pretty much given up on marking boxes with useful information that may clue me to what it holds. Instead I have two boxes that are just marked baby shit and one that says husband's dumb crap he should've thrown away years ago in block letters and a smiley face. I think I'll make unpacking more interesting and have a couple boxes with a skull and crossbones marked dangerous explosives. Maybe one can have a stick figure guy turning into The Hulk and marked hazardous waste. Our moving guys should get a kick out of it.
My house looks like an alcoholic toddler lives here. Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo boxes are stacked amongst piles of The Kid's toys. How did he get so many toys? I keep finding them. Under the couch, in closets, between cushions. I think they're procreating at night. I suspect that squeaky giraffe is just a high priced escort. Slutty Sophie.
We still have a couple weeks left here, but my OCD requires me to have all the contents of my house packed neatly in boxes right now. I may have gone overboard. Maybe just a little. There's a chance I had to buy toilet paper today because I may have packed the last roll. And hand soap. And baby wipes. If the dog goes missing, I promise I'll voluntarily admit myself to the psych ward.
As obsessed as I am about needing to get everything in a box, my husband is as obsessed with bubble wrap. He bubble wraps the shit outta stuff. Seriously. He's a bubble wrapaholic. He makes late night runs to Home Depot saying he needs more packing tape. But I know. I know he's scoring more bubble wrap. The man needs help.
We're almost done though. Just two more weeks. We'll soon be sitting on our new balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, clinking our glasses and celebrating surviving our 8th move. And I betcha the $2 million I'm planning on winning in Vegas next summer that is the exact moment my husband will bring up his plans for the next move.
Where is that damn shank box?
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Save the Date! November 1: My Intervention
I've prayed for the end of a really bad day. Who hasn't? I might have even hoped a craptastic Monday would turn into a drink-in-excess-Friday. But I gotta say this is the first time I have ever been relieved to see an end of entire month.
September, or the month of in-laws as it will be forever referred to in the family history books, has come and gone. And believe me I will refer back to this moment in history for a long long long time. Just know that, husband. A long time.
It was a doozy. The Husband owes me something big and sparkly. I'd accept large, glass and full of liquor as well. Wrapped in a bow. Because anything wrapped in a bow says I'm sorry for being an ass.
I love my in-laws. I really do. Great people who would move mountains for my kid. It wouldn't have even been all that bad if life, in general, didn't give me the finger once or twice this month as well. September was like a hellacious version of the 12 days of Christmas.
On the first day of September, my true love gave to me 6 bickering in-laws, 5 to-tal meltdowns, 4 cutting teeth, 3 days of fever, 2 long flights and one freaking car accideeeeeeent.
I've drank more in the past month than in the entire year. Don't judge me. Wine kept me from banging my head against the wall repeatedly. Or banging my husband's head against the wall repeatedly.
So October has arrived. And guess what...we decided to move. Because apparently another month of stress is just the cure for this pounding, nauseating September hangover. Yay. Moving is my personal hell. I must have been a dirty hooker in a past life because somehow I got a husband who actually enjoys moving. So we move. We move a lot. And I drink. I drink a lot.
Packing has been an interesting experience this time around. Two days into packing and I've packed 5 boxes. That's progress, right? Sure, considering The Kid has unpacked 2 boxes, broken a picture frame, eaten a coffee table book and wrapped his head in bubble wrap. I'd say it's progress.
Wine glasses are being packed last. I'll see you in November for my intervention, y'all.
September, or the month of in-laws as it will be forever referred to in the family history books, has come and gone. And believe me I will refer back to this moment in history for a long long long time. Just know that, husband. A long time.
It was a doozy. The Husband owes me something big and sparkly. I'd accept large, glass and full of liquor as well. Wrapped in a bow. Because anything wrapped in a bow says I'm sorry for being an ass.
I love my in-laws. I really do. Great people who would move mountains for my kid. It wouldn't have even been all that bad if life, in general, didn't give me the finger once or twice this month as well. September was like a hellacious version of the 12 days of Christmas.
On the first day of September, my true love gave to me 6 bickering in-laws, 5 to-tal meltdowns, 4 cutting teeth, 3 days of fever, 2 long flights and one freaking car accideeeeeeent.
I've drank more in the past month than in the entire year. Don't judge me. Wine kept me from banging my head against the wall repeatedly. Or banging my husband's head against the wall repeatedly.
So October has arrived. And guess what...we decided to move. Because apparently another month of stress is just the cure for this pounding, nauseating September hangover. Yay. Moving is my personal hell. I must have been a dirty hooker in a past life because somehow I got a husband who actually enjoys moving. So we move. We move a lot. And I drink. I drink a lot.
Packing has been an interesting experience this time around. Two days into packing and I've packed 5 boxes. That's progress, right? Sure, considering The Kid has unpacked 2 boxes, broken a picture frame, eaten a coffee table book and wrapped his head in bubble wrap. I'd say it's progress.
Wine glasses are being packed last. I'll see you in November for my intervention, y'all.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
SuperMom vs Germy McSnotface
We just experienced The Kid's first illness. No biggie, you say. Oh lest you forget my friends? We're FTPs. First time parents.
I've been awake for 72 hours with one hand permanently attached to The Kid's forehead like my palm had freaky mom powers that could detect the slightest change in temperature. If I were a superhero this week, that would've been my super power. I lost my cool super powers like being able to produce free drinks using only my boobs long ago. Now I'm SuperMom: faster than projectile vomit, stronger than a baby trying to yank the thermometer out of his bumhole, able to leap piles of laundry in a single bound. Lamest.superhero.ever.
Our first reaction, of course, was to flip our shit, race to the closest hospital and demand expensive medical testing. Then hunt down the parents of the child who got The Kid sick and unleash fire upon their souls. After briefly being held hostage by batshit crazy, we decided to wait it out and take him to the doctor in the morning. We are still currently trying to track down Germy McSnotface's parents and sneeze directly into their eyeballs. Too much?
We did spend a small fortune at CVS stockpiling any bottle of anything that looked like it could remotely make our child feel better. They could have scribbled "magic juice" on a piece of paper, slapped it on a gallon of milk and I would have paid $20 for it.
Also, I think my pediatrician may break up with me. Which is devastating, particularly because we just started really getting to know each other. We were having a good time, ya know. Not getting too serious. Just seeing each other occasionally. Then I blew it. I think I scared her off. Calling her all the time. Begging for her to come live with me. Did you know your pediatrician can't come live with you? She said can't, but I'm pretty sure she just won't. There's the real problem with healthcare in this country. Lack of commitment.
Honestly, The Kid was pretty sick but he handled it like a trooper. He did score three whole nights of sleepovers and all night buffets. And kicked dad out of the big bed. And puked on dad's last remaining pillow on the couch. Baby winning.
In retrospect, I knew he'd be okay. And I know I have many more weird kid germ sick days in my future, but I can't help but want to protect him from everything that may cause him pain. I'd take a bullet for this little guy. I get it now. I know. Welcome to parenthood, genius. Sometimes this whole parenting thing has to punch me directly in the face for me to learn a lesson.
Oh sweet Jesus no. My husband just coughed. It can't be. Anything but this. Not the...man flu.
I quit.
I've been awake for 72 hours with one hand permanently attached to The Kid's forehead like my palm had freaky mom powers that could detect the slightest change in temperature. If I were a superhero this week, that would've been my super power. I lost my cool super powers like being able to produce free drinks using only my boobs long ago. Now I'm SuperMom: faster than projectile vomit, stronger than a baby trying to yank the thermometer out of his bumhole, able to leap piles of laundry in a single bound. Lamest.superhero.ever.
Our first reaction, of course, was to flip our shit, race to the closest hospital and demand expensive medical testing. Then hunt down the parents of the child who got The Kid sick and unleash fire upon their souls. After briefly being held hostage by batshit crazy, we decided to wait it out and take him to the doctor in the morning. We are still currently trying to track down Germy McSnotface's parents and sneeze directly into their eyeballs. Too much?
We did spend a small fortune at CVS stockpiling any bottle of anything that looked like it could remotely make our child feel better. They could have scribbled "magic juice" on a piece of paper, slapped it on a gallon of milk and I would have paid $20 for it.
Also, I think my pediatrician may break up with me. Which is devastating, particularly because we just started really getting to know each other. We were having a good time, ya know. Not getting too serious. Just seeing each other occasionally. Then I blew it. I think I scared her off. Calling her all the time. Begging for her to come live with me. Did you know your pediatrician can't come live with you? She said can't, but I'm pretty sure she just won't. There's the real problem with healthcare in this country. Lack of commitment.
Honestly, The Kid was pretty sick but he handled it like a trooper. He did score three whole nights of sleepovers and all night buffets. And kicked dad out of the big bed. And puked on dad's last remaining pillow on the couch. Baby winning.
In retrospect, I knew he'd be okay. And I know I have many more weird kid germ sick days in my future, but I can't help but want to protect him from everything that may cause him pain. I'd take a bullet for this little guy. I get it now. I know. Welcome to parenthood, genius. Sometimes this whole parenting thing has to punch me directly in the face for me to learn a lesson.
Oh sweet Jesus no. My husband just coughed. It can't be. Anything but this. Not the...man flu.
I quit.
Friday, September 21, 2012
A Day in the Life: Murdering Caterpillars, Fart Noises and Run DMC
So sometimes I'm not really sure what to do with this short chubby cute little guy that I have to care for on a daily basis.
My kiddo. He is precious, but I think he gets kind of creeped out when I lovingly stare at him for hours. Sometimes I think when he's 16, I'll sneak into his room and lovingly stare at him while he's sleeping just to freak him out. Then I'll scream his ear and wake him up for payback. Cause I'm the mama and I can.
And he's kinda over just lying there staring at the bird mobile on his bouncy chair. Oh those were the days! I tried to put him in it again last week and he threatened to call CPS on my ass.
I mean, we do the usual. Ya know, cover the basics...feed him, change him, bathe him, keep him from offing himself for the eleventh time in an hour.
Then we do some playtime. Or I try to convince him to play with the hundreds of dollars in toys in his toy bucket and he plays with the Tupperware top and the Venetian blinds instead.
Then we sing. Or I sing and he bangs his Tupperware top on the dog's head and tries to chew on the computer power cord. Again.
Then we go outside for a stroll around the park. Or I stroll and he screams from his stroller to be let out. Then eats 2 leaves, gets a rash from the grass, kills a caterpillar and tries to eat it, crawls into dog poo, climbs on the slide and gets knocked over by a toddler, cries, steals someone's sippy cup, practices velociraptor screams, get tired and cries again.
Then we do some learning. Or I teach him his ABCs, how to count his toes, have a Hebrew lesson, read him a book and he makes fart noises with his mouth. And tries to eat the book.
After The Kid's half-hearted attempt at a game of peek-a-boo this morning, I decided we needed a change. Now I don't have much experience in kid friendly activities to draw from, but do have a whole heck of a lot of down time shenanigans from college.
Dance party it is.
A whole lotta Beatles, a little 90s pop, a touch of Run DMC, Lynard Skynard and some Queen. Singing It's Tricky to my 9 month old: not my finest parenting moment. But it was fun. And my child's giggles filling the living room was music to my ears.
My kiddo. He is precious, but I think he gets kind of creeped out when I lovingly stare at him for hours. Sometimes I think when he's 16, I'll sneak into his room and lovingly stare at him while he's sleeping just to freak him out. Then I'll scream his ear and wake him up for payback. Cause I'm the mama and I can.
And he's kinda over just lying there staring at the bird mobile on his bouncy chair. Oh those were the days! I tried to put him in it again last week and he threatened to call CPS on my ass.
I mean, we do the usual. Ya know, cover the basics...feed him, change him, bathe him, keep him from offing himself for the eleventh time in an hour.
Then we do some playtime. Or I try to convince him to play with the hundreds of dollars in toys in his toy bucket and he plays with the Tupperware top and the Venetian blinds instead.
Then we sing. Or I sing and he bangs his Tupperware top on the dog's head and tries to chew on the computer power cord. Again.
Then we go outside for a stroll around the park. Or I stroll and he screams from his stroller to be let out. Then eats 2 leaves, gets a rash from the grass, kills a caterpillar and tries to eat it, crawls into dog poo, climbs on the slide and gets knocked over by a toddler, cries, steals someone's sippy cup, practices velociraptor screams, get tired and cries again.
Then we do some learning. Or I teach him his ABCs, how to count his toes, have a Hebrew lesson, read him a book and he makes fart noises with his mouth. And tries to eat the book.
After The Kid's half-hearted attempt at a game of peek-a-boo this morning, I decided we needed a change. Now I don't have much experience in kid friendly activities to draw from, but do have a whole heck of a lot of down time shenanigans from college.
Dance party it is.
A whole lotta Beatles, a little 90s pop, a touch of Run DMC, Lynard Skynard and some Queen. Singing It's Tricky to my 9 month old: not my finest parenting moment. But it was fun. And my child's giggles filling the living room was music to my ears.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
The Liebster Award...kind of like an Oscar
Oh, thank you, thank you. No, please sit down. Okay, keep applauding. I'll just stand here and bask. I'll keep talking through the music drowning out my acceptance speech making it just really God awful awkward for everyone. Maybe I'll have a wardrobe malfunction accidently on purpose and you can see that ahem...these are in fact real. And bloody fantastic.
I'll invite my fellow nominees to the stage and graciously call them the real winners while secretly flipping them the bird in my head. Of course, I'll have to thank my mom and dad and The Big Guy Upstairs. I'll forget to thank my husband. But that's okay, he'll get really jealous of my new found success and fame then file for divorce in a month anyway.
Wait, that's for my Oscar...
This is my Liebster Award...gah. So many to keep up with.
My hilarious and brave friend (she's got 5 kids people...5! That she homeschools!) over at Diapers...or Wine presented me with this award. I'm so humbled by it since she is quite possibly in my top 3 of funniest people in the entire universe. Thank you for the honor.
Alrighty now to the Liebster Award acceptance speech.
11 quirky facts about yours truly:
1. I tell everyone I'm 5' tall. I'm a lying liar who lies.
2. No matter how many taco seasoning packets or bags of spinach we have, I think we don't have any and always buy more. We have 5 taco seasoning packets in the pantry right now. We rarely eat tacos.
3. I have an irrational phobia of frogs. Can.not.deal. God got it wrong when he made those spawns of the devil.
4. My wedding was during a category 2 hurricane. Cause I'm a badass mofo. I'm the Chuck Norris of brides.
5. I wreck my car...a lot. The only original piece of my last car was the driver's side door and the side mirrors. That's it. Of course it's never my fault. Last week, the garage door actually rammed my bumper. I swear.
6. I am a little OCD about time. I can't wake up unless the minute is divisible by 5. Sometimes my husband sets my alarm for 7:03 just to screw with me. I'm just a little crazy, ya'll. Not a lot crazy.
7. I played on soccer in Europe when I was 15. And when I say played soccer, I mean got drunk for the first time and the second time and the third time.
8. I keep Kosher even though I'm not Jewish. <----- Have fun with that one.
9. I've rarely taken off my wedding ring in the past 4 years. Mostly because I can't get the damn thing off. I'm for reals. That sucker is stuck good. I have a feeling the husband did that on purpose.
10. I'm a serial blogger along with being a serial hobbyist. I lived in Israel for a year recently and it was the best year of my life. Of course I had to blog about that too.(www.abrideinthedesert.blogspot.com is my now defunct blog if you are at all interested. You're not? Oh, okay then.)
11. I HATE moving, yet we've moved 7 times in 10 years. Getting ready for #8 as we speak.
I'll invite my fellow nominees to the stage and graciously call them the real winners while secretly flipping them the bird in my head. Of course, I'll have to thank my mom and dad and The Big Guy Upstairs. I'll forget to thank my husband. But that's okay, he'll get really jealous of my new found success and fame then file for divorce in a month anyway.
Wait, that's for my Oscar...
This is my Liebster Award...gah. So many to keep up with.
My hilarious and brave friend (she's got 5 kids people...5! That she homeschools!) over at Diapers...or Wine presented me with this award. I'm so humbled by it since she is quite possibly in my top 3 of funniest people in the entire universe. Thank you for the honor.
Alrighty now to the Liebster Award acceptance speech.
11 quirky facts about yours truly:
1. I tell everyone I'm 5' tall. I'm a lying liar who lies.
2. No matter how many taco seasoning packets or bags of spinach we have, I think we don't have any and always buy more. We have 5 taco seasoning packets in the pantry right now. We rarely eat tacos.
3. I have an irrational phobia of frogs. Can.not.deal. God got it wrong when he made those spawns of the devil.
4. My wedding was during a category 2 hurricane. Cause I'm a badass mofo. I'm the Chuck Norris of brides.
5. I wreck my car...a lot. The only original piece of my last car was the driver's side door and the side mirrors. That's it. Of course it's never my fault. Last week, the garage door actually rammed my bumper. I swear.
6. I am a little OCD about time. I can't wake up unless the minute is divisible by 5. Sometimes my husband sets my alarm for 7:03 just to screw with me. I'm just a little crazy, ya'll. Not a lot crazy.
7. I played on soccer in Europe when I was 15. And when I say played soccer, I mean got drunk for the first time and the second time and the third time.
8. I keep Kosher even though I'm not Jewish. <----- Have fun with that one.
9. I've rarely taken off my wedding ring in the past 4 years. Mostly because I can't get the damn thing off. I'm for reals. That sucker is stuck good. I have a feeling the husband did that on purpose.
10. I'm a serial blogger along with being a serial hobbyist. I lived in Israel for a year recently and it was the best year of my life. Of course I had to blog about that too.(www.abrideinthedesert.blogspot.com is my now defunct blog if you are at all interested. You're not? Oh, okay then.)
11. I HATE moving, yet we've moved 7 times in 10 years. Getting ready for #8 as we speak.
11 Questions I have to Answer:
1.) If you could be a celebrity for a day, who would it be?
I probably should say someone awesomely talented or insanely rich. But let's be honest here: Blake Lively, because she gets to schtoop Ryan Reynolds.
2.) Who would you rather have dinner with, Oprah, Jenny McCarthy, or Lady Gaga?
Oprah. So I could woo her with my winning personality and convince her to give me a couple mil. Plus I'd have to throat punch Jenny McCarthy and gouge out my own eardrums with a q-tip if I had to listen to Lady Gaga actually talk.
3.) Favorite movie?
Wall-E. I freakin' love that movie. Or Princess Bride. I freakin' love that movie, too. I'm a child, I know.
4.) Someone gives you a new, perfect home. Catch is, you have to leave EVERYTHING. Can't take one thing, not a picture, not a pillow. What do you do?
I wouldn't take it. Even though I complain about my piles of crap all over my house, I couldn't live without my beloved crap. Can I leave behind my husband's piles of crap instead and still take the house? That seems fair.
5.) The drink you could not live without?
Coffee, yep even over boxed wine. I'm a monster without my coffee. Makes me all sweaty palmed and sick just thinking I couldn't have coffee. But, I could quit anytime I wanted. Don't give me that side-eye...I could.
6.) What should you be doing with all the time you spend on Twitter or your blog?
Oh...laundry, eating, making homemade baby food, cooking gourmet meals for the hubby, finishing any of the gajillion projects I have, charity work, reading something intellectual, learning Hebrew, doing something to earn an income, earning my Master's Degree, brushing up on my presidential candidates to make an informed decision. Ya know, nothing of any value really.
7.) WORST movie you have ever-ever seen where you want your life back?
Probably Showgirls for obvious reasons, but V for Vendetta is pretty close. Not because its a bad movie, its actually pretty good, but because its my husband's favorite movies and I've seen it 42 times. Besides chocolate and sex, nothing is good after that many times. And sex is iffy.
8.) Most amazing thing that has ever happened to you?
Having my baby boy of course. Living abroad is second.
9.) What kind of wedding dress did you wear (or prom dress if wedding doesn't apply)?
It was a classic strapless, form fitting beautiful cream colored dress with scalloped lace edges. If I could still fit in it, I'd wear it around the house to vaccum and do the dishes. That would get me a one way ticket to the loony bin from the husband for sure.
10.) Fave song of all time?
You are my Sunshine. My mama sang it to me and I sing it to The Kid. He loves it.
11.) Partridge Family or Brady Bunch?
Patridge Family. The Brady Bunch creeps me out. I think there are some filthy Brady secrets behind those smiling faces and I don't like it one bit. Sickos.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
On this Episode of Intervention...
I've always wanted to have a super cool hobby. Something that I'm pretty good at, keeps me from staring at the ceiling fan like a loon and generally occupies what little time I have left in the 24 hours I'm not feeding, cleaning, teaching, caring, folding, making, driving, playing, cooking, changing, wiping, bathing and all those other present participles I do. So, in reality a hobby I can spend about 3 minutes on per day.
In my pursuit of finding this super cool hobby, I've been a bit of a hobby collector. Is that a hobby?
I'll admit it. I'm standing up today in front of you and saying: Hi my name is The Mama and I'm a serial hobbyist. Of all the serial things one could be, I think I chose the best one.
As all good addicts do, I'm totally blaming my parents. I think my hobbying problem started as a child. I was involved in a lot of after school activities. And I was awesome at all of them. No, seriously. I was like some Super Kid with unmatched abilities and talents flowing out my awesome ass. Ballet? Awesome. Gymnastics? Awesome. Soccer? Awesome. Choir? Awesome. Drama? Awesome.
Oh how the mighty hath fallen. I was once great you know. Now I'm that pathetic lady living out her days recounting stories to anyone in earshot about that game winning goal in the U-10 league soccer championship. Go Guppies! Ever since I've been trying to feel that feeling again. My 9-year-old self kicks my 30-year-old self's ass at everything.
Tried ballet again. That lasted for 2 whole classes before I tore my calf muscle in the middle of a grand jete. Career ending injury. There was a disagreement between my head and body about my awesomeness. Body won.
I was mini-Martha Stewart for a half second while I was pregnant. I was craftin' the shit outta stuff. High on Modge Podge. Hot gluing hottie. Then I discovered Pinterest. That website broke my spirit. Well maybe it was partially Pinterest and partially my poor cutting skills. I've never been good at cutting in a straight line. Honest to God, check my report card. I actually failed cutting in kindergarten. It's my Achilles heel.
Thought I could take up drawing. Dreams of gallery openings flashed in my head. I have a hand. I have a fancy, ridiculously expensive charcoal pencil set and some paper. I can draw. Right? Wrong. Apparently drawing takes some talent and an "eye" for that crap...whatever that means.
I think I lost all my talent when I was 12. Maybe puberty hit and my talent just disappeared. Or went straight to my boobs.
You name it, I've tried it. Baking? Suck. Tennis? Suck. Kickboxing? Suck. Photography? Suck. Well, I'm still pretty convinced I could be the next Ansel Adams but my cheapo husband refuses to shell out the gajillions of dollars I need for a camera and won't let me turn our linen closet into a dark room. Something about the ever growing pile of useless hobbying tools in the garage.
I have convinced him to buy me a sewing machine so I can try my hand at quilting. I think that's just because he dreams of having a wife that will cook and sew for him instead of tell him to pick up pizza again and make sarcastic comments about him in her blog. Buuuut, he knew what he was marrying 6 years beforehand. Do not feel bad for him.
Jack of all trades? Addiction? ADHD? Maybe a bit of it all. Really there's not much I can do if I really did lose al my talent at age 12. I should just stick to what I know...blogging and drinking wine. On the bright side, if all that talent did go to my boobs-totally worth it for all the free drinks I've had. I may be talentless but I've had a damn good time.
In my pursuit of finding this super cool hobby, I've been a bit of a hobby collector. Is that a hobby?
I'll admit it. I'm standing up today in front of you and saying: Hi my name is The Mama and I'm a serial hobbyist. Of all the serial things one could be, I think I chose the best one.
As all good addicts do, I'm totally blaming my parents. I think my hobbying problem started as a child. I was involved in a lot of after school activities. And I was awesome at all of them. No, seriously. I was like some Super Kid with unmatched abilities and talents flowing out my awesome ass. Ballet? Awesome. Gymnastics? Awesome. Soccer? Awesome. Choir? Awesome. Drama? Awesome.
Oh how the mighty hath fallen. I was once great you know. Now I'm that pathetic lady living out her days recounting stories to anyone in earshot about that game winning goal in the U-10 league soccer championship. Go Guppies! Ever since I've been trying to feel that feeling again. My 9-year-old self kicks my 30-year-old self's ass at everything.
Tried ballet again. That lasted for 2 whole classes before I tore my calf muscle in the middle of a grand jete. Career ending injury. There was a disagreement between my head and body about my awesomeness. Body won.
I was mini-Martha Stewart for a half second while I was pregnant. I was craftin' the shit outta stuff. High on Modge Podge. Hot gluing hottie. Then I discovered Pinterest. That website broke my spirit. Well maybe it was partially Pinterest and partially my poor cutting skills. I've never been good at cutting in a straight line. Honest to God, check my report card. I actually failed cutting in kindergarten. It's my Achilles heel.
Thought I could take up drawing. Dreams of gallery openings flashed in my head. I have a hand. I have a fancy, ridiculously expensive charcoal pencil set and some paper. I can draw. Right? Wrong. Apparently drawing takes some talent and an "eye" for that crap...whatever that means.
I think I lost all my talent when I was 12. Maybe puberty hit and my talent just disappeared. Or went straight to my boobs.
You name it, I've tried it. Baking? Suck. Tennis? Suck. Kickboxing? Suck. Photography? Suck. Well, I'm still pretty convinced I could be the next Ansel Adams but my cheapo husband refuses to shell out the gajillions of dollars I need for a camera and won't let me turn our linen closet into a dark room. Something about the ever growing pile of useless hobbying tools in the garage.
I have convinced him to buy me a sewing machine so I can try my hand at quilting. I think that's just because he dreams of having a wife that will cook and sew for him instead of tell him to pick up pizza again and make sarcastic comments about him in her blog. Buuuut, he knew what he was marrying 6 years beforehand. Do not feel bad for him.
Jack of all trades? Addiction? ADHD? Maybe a bit of it all. Really there's not much I can do if I really did lose al my talent at age 12. I should just stick to what I know...blogging and drinking wine. On the bright side, if all that talent did go to my boobs-totally worth it for all the free drinks I've had. I may be talentless but I've had a damn good time.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Vacationing: Not for the Weak
We're ba-ack! Vacation, or a slightly more stressful week spent with in-laws sleeping on a pullout couch and sharing a bathroom with 4 other adults as I like to call it, was more or less as expected.
Although this vacation didn't leave me with that post-holiday refreshed and revived feeling, I did learn some important vacationing with The Kid lessons.
1. The stroller line at security and pre-boarding are reasons enough to have kids. Oh you've been waiting for 2 hours in this line? Haha. See ya suckas!
2. The Kid thinks vacation means "kicking daddy out of the big bed and getting an all night boob buffet" All week.
3. When your brother in law suggests you hike New England's tallest mountain with your 25 lb baby...overnight...laugh silently at his naiveté then let him carry the baby around the mall for 30 minutes. Bask in his repentance.
4. Fact: Maple syrup by the tablespoon is not a good breakfast alternative for an 8 month old. Somehow grandparents, even those who are medical professionals, do not believe this fact.
5. Even though your child has never woken up at 6:00 am before, inevitably he will wake up every single morning of vacation at 6:00 am. Bribery is not effective at this age. But eye gouging is effective at waking mommy up.
6. Airplane windows and elderly Russian women's fur coats can provide hours of entertainment on a plane. Side note: Elderly Russian women do not like sticky baby fingers and snotty baby faces on their fur coats.
7. Even though your child has never screamed in his car seat before, inevitably he will scream at the top of his lungs for 30 minutes straight while you are lost in the middle of nowhere on a damn mountain with zero phone service. Fun times.
8. Listen to your husband when he says you'll regret feeding the baby those refried beans at lunch. Just trust me on this one.
9. Don't play Monopoly with my husband. He's a fascist.
10. Personal space is a concept lost on 8 month olds. Peeing on your aunt the first time you meet her, reaching over to run your fingers through a stranger's long white beard, patting the back of a bald man's head and sticking your head through airplane seats to stare and velociraptor scream at the people behind us are all acceptable behavior to an 8 month old.
Although this vacation didn't leave me with that post-holiday refreshed and revived feeling, I did learn some important vacationing with The Kid lessons.
1. The stroller line at security and pre-boarding are reasons enough to have kids. Oh you've been waiting for 2 hours in this line? Haha. See ya suckas!
2. The Kid thinks vacation means "kicking daddy out of the big bed and getting an all night boob buffet" All week.
3. When your brother in law suggests you hike New England's tallest mountain with your 25 lb baby...overnight...laugh silently at his naiveté then let him carry the baby around the mall for 30 minutes. Bask in his repentance.
4. Fact: Maple syrup by the tablespoon is not a good breakfast alternative for an 8 month old. Somehow grandparents, even those who are medical professionals, do not believe this fact.
5. Even though your child has never woken up at 6:00 am before, inevitably he will wake up every single morning of vacation at 6:00 am. Bribery is not effective at this age. But eye gouging is effective at waking mommy up.
6. Airplane windows and elderly Russian women's fur coats can provide hours of entertainment on a plane. Side note: Elderly Russian women do not like sticky baby fingers and snotty baby faces on their fur coats.
7. Even though your child has never screamed in his car seat before, inevitably he will scream at the top of his lungs for 30 minutes straight while you are lost in the middle of nowhere on a damn mountain with zero phone service. Fun times.
8. Listen to your husband when he says you'll regret feeding the baby those refried beans at lunch. Just trust me on this one.
9. Don't play Monopoly with my husband. He's a fascist.
10. Personal space is a concept lost on 8 month olds. Peeing on your aunt the first time you meet her, reaching over to run your fingers through a stranger's long white beard, patting the back of a bald man's head and sticking your head through airplane seats to stare and velociraptor scream at the people behind us are all acceptable behavior to an 8 month old.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Polygamy and Me: A Love Story
Sometimes my husband says things that make me think he has a secret wife and he's confusing me with her.
Like the other night when we were sitting on the couch watching a particularly poignant episode of Family Guy. Well, it wasn't poignant per-say, I just wanted to be the first person ever in history to say poignant and Family Guy in the same sentence. Winning!
Husband: You should teach piano!
Me (very confused): I don't know how to play piano.
Husband: You could learn and then you could teach!
Me: I'm at a loss here hon. I just don't know how to respond so I'm gonna just watch the show again and pretend this conversation never happened mmkay?
The next day:
Me: What do you feel like having for dinner? I'm thinking I'll just throw a pizza in the oven.
Husband: Oooh, can you make homemade potstickers? Yeah, homemade potstickers would be amazing.
Me: What? When have I ever made homemade potstickers? When have I ever made homemade anything?
Husband: I think you could make homemade potstickers. God, those would be so good right now.
Me: No. We're having pizza. Ass.
See what I mean? Seriously this man is having a secret second life with a woman who is a apparently classically trained pianist and moonlights as a professional chef who specializes in Asian cuisine. I think I'm starting to like this woman.
In fact, I've grown quite fond of Trixie. That's what I decided her name is. Trixie. Kind of whorey. Cause you know, she did steal my husband. But she's the fun kind of whore. The kind you hate because she's sluttin' it up all over town, but she is a good time and funny as hell so you kinda have to like her. Plus she's my sister wife. And by God, I'm gonna make this marriage work.
We'd sit in the kitchen drinking wine, pouring over the TMZ website with Mob Wives blaring from the tv.
Our husband walks by and smirks at our reality tv addiction. "Oh you gals!" he chuckles.
She'd whip me up some kung pao chicken before putting the baby to sleep by playing the lullaby she composed just for him. And she'd take the night shift.
Oh yeah, this could work.
Like the other night when we were sitting on the couch watching a particularly poignant episode of Family Guy. Well, it wasn't poignant per-say, I just wanted to be the first person ever in history to say poignant and Family Guy in the same sentence. Winning!
Husband: You should teach piano!
Me (very confused): I don't know how to play piano.
Husband: You could learn and then you could teach!
Me: I'm at a loss here hon. I just don't know how to respond so I'm gonna just watch the show again and pretend this conversation never happened mmkay?
The next day:
Me: What do you feel like having for dinner? I'm thinking I'll just throw a pizza in the oven.
Husband: Oooh, can you make homemade potstickers? Yeah, homemade potstickers would be amazing.
Me: What? When have I ever made homemade potstickers? When have I ever made homemade anything?
Husband: I think you could make homemade potstickers. God, those would be so good right now.
Me: No. We're having pizza. Ass.
See what I mean? Seriously this man is having a secret second life with a woman who is a apparently classically trained pianist and moonlights as a professional chef who specializes in Asian cuisine. I think I'm starting to like this woman.
In fact, I've grown quite fond of Trixie. That's what I decided her name is. Trixie. Kind of whorey. Cause you know, she did steal my husband. But she's the fun kind of whore. The kind you hate because she's sluttin' it up all over town, but she is a good time and funny as hell so you kinda have to like her. Plus she's my sister wife. And by God, I'm gonna make this marriage work.
We'd sit in the kitchen drinking wine, pouring over the TMZ website with Mob Wives blaring from the tv.
Our husband walks by and smirks at our reality tv addiction. "Oh you gals!" he chuckles.
She'd whip me up some kung pao chicken before putting the baby to sleep by playing the lullaby she composed just for him. And she'd take the night shift.
Oh yeah, this could work.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Cry Me a River
I cried twice today. Once was just a couple stray tears that we're wiped away and then forgotten.
The other time was the ugly cry. You know, the twisty faced, can't-catch-my-breath, oh Lawd Jesus kind of cry.
I was watching videos of The Kid from when he was younger. And when I say younger, I mean about 3 and a half seconds prior to today since he is all of 8 months old. Oh my, getting teary. Not.gonna.cry.again.
I really have never been so upset over my little boy growing up, but for some reason those videos of his cute little newborn squawks were heart wrenching today. Dear Old Dad gave me a hug and the "you are sweet in a crazy lady way" look.
My second cry was after a brief visit to this website:
www.shitmykidsruined.com
And yes this was the ugly cry. Not 100% certain if the crying was out of fear for my belongings, walls, carpets, and pets or because I was laughing so hard I couldn't breath. Maybe a little of both.
Yesterday The Kid ripped a cord cover off the wall taking half the lovely ecru shade of paint with it. He turned around, waving the cord cover over his head in victory and looked me directly in the eye. It was as if he were saying "This is my town now lady so get ready for the shit show". An easy enough fix sure but in my heart of hearts I know this is just the beginning.
My future is full of crayon covered walls, Vaseline covered dog and a robust insurance policy on our home.
It's not like The Kid's destructive nature doesn't come naturally. His father did almost burn down his kitchen as a child and his mother is still quite adept at shrinking sweaters in the laundry and crashing cars into garage doors. And let us not forget about big sister, The Dog. The Dog has a post doctorate in destroying. From carpets to a couple of couches, from crockpots to passports. This dog has destroyed it all. More than once probably.
On the bright side, at least we have experience cleaning up the aftermath.
The other time was the ugly cry. You know, the twisty faced, can't-catch-my-breath, oh Lawd Jesus kind of cry.
I was watching videos of The Kid from when he was younger. And when I say younger, I mean about 3 and a half seconds prior to today since he is all of 8 months old. Oh my, getting teary. Not.gonna.cry.again.
I really have never been so upset over my little boy growing up, but for some reason those videos of his cute little newborn squawks were heart wrenching today. Dear Old Dad gave me a hug and the "you are sweet in a crazy lady way" look.
My second cry was after a brief visit to this website:
www.shitmykidsruined.com
And yes this was the ugly cry. Not 100% certain if the crying was out of fear for my belongings, walls, carpets, and pets or because I was laughing so hard I couldn't breath. Maybe a little of both.
Yesterday The Kid ripped a cord cover off the wall taking half the lovely ecru shade of paint with it. He turned around, waving the cord cover over his head in victory and looked me directly in the eye. It was as if he were saying "This is my town now lady so get ready for the shit show". An easy enough fix sure but in my heart of hearts I know this is just the beginning.
My future is full of crayon covered walls, Vaseline covered dog and a robust insurance policy on our home.
It's not like The Kid's destructive nature doesn't come naturally. His father did almost burn down his kitchen as a child and his mother is still quite adept at shrinking sweaters in the laundry and crashing cars into garage doors. And let us not forget about big sister, The Dog. The Dog has a post doctorate in destroying. From carpets to a couple of couches, from crockpots to passports. This dog has destroyed it all. More than once probably.
On the bright side, at least we have experience cleaning up the aftermath.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
The Mall: Hell's Waiting Room
I went shopping with The Kid today. I remember when shopping was a relaxing experience. I used to go to the mall and shop. For fun.
Not so much anymore. Now I go to torture myself. I go if I feel I need to repent for my transgressions. If I make it out of the mall alive, sanity intact more or less, then I don't have to go to church for 5 Sundays. It's the equivalent of 20 Hail Marys and 35 Our Fathers. I think. I'm guesstimating.
I had 3 stores to go to today. That's one more than I usually go to and 2 more than The Kid can handle.
Store 1: Baby into carseat, stroller in trunk, diaper bag, phone, purse, let's go. Baby out of carseat, into stroller, let's go.
We got through 3 racks of sweaters before The Kid was so over being in the stroller. We were at level 10 whining. I proceed to carry him, push the stroller, browse through 2 more racks of jeans and head off to the dressing room. I get one leg into a pair of jeans when he decides to make a break for it under the dressing room door. I tried to coax him back with promises of his favorite toy, my iPhone.
Oh, look kiddo, mommy's phone! You want mommy's phone? Come get it, come on you know you want mommy's phone! Come on, buddy, please don't make mommy have to walk out of here half naked.
It worked. Thank god. Running out of the dressing room with one pant leg on is not my idea of fun. Funny? Yes. Fun? No.
I decide not to risk trying on the 3 sweaters. So if you see me in a lovely chartreuse sweater a size too small for me, for you own sake, don't mention it.
Baby out of stroller, baby into carseat, stroller in trunk. Diaper bag, phone, purse. Let's go.
Store 2: The Kid fell asleep on the way there in the car. I know better. We sat in the parking lot 45 minutes while he finished his nap. I had no clue a tiny boy less than 2 feet tall and nonverbal could rule over me like the benevolent dictator that he is. Baby out of carseat. Baby into stroller. Let's go. Crap, they don't carry the umbrella stroller I'm looking for. Baby out of stroller, baby into carseat, stroller in trunk. Diaper bag, phone, purse, Let's go.
Store 3: Of course The Kid is hungry. We pull in the parking lot and he eats. Baby out of carseat, into stroller. Let's go. I get one aisle of browsing clothes before he gets baby ants in his pants. He proceeds to throw all his toys and my purse half a dozen times and take off his socks. And throw them. Whining commences. I take him out of the stroller. Five handfuls of hair, 3 head butts and 2 eye gouges later, I put him down. He grabs the closest thing to him and pulls down a rack of shirts. Then rips off a tag and tries to eat it. Between apologies and picking up shirts, I pay for a couple of sweaters and decide to head out of there. If you see my child in the cutest blue sweater with an adorable baby bear on it two sizes too small for him, for your own sake, don't mention it.
Baby out of stroller, into carseat, stroller in trunk. Diaper bag, phone. Let's go. Thank god.
Finally we get home, mission accomplished, sanity intact, we're still alive, victory! I can even see the relief in The Kid's baby blue eyes.
I unload our treasures from the trunk and fish out my purse from the front seat. Wait. Where's my purse?
Not so much anymore. Now I go to torture myself. I go if I feel I need to repent for my transgressions. If I make it out of the mall alive, sanity intact more or less, then I don't have to go to church for 5 Sundays. It's the equivalent of 20 Hail Marys and 35 Our Fathers. I think. I'm guesstimating.
I had 3 stores to go to today. That's one more than I usually go to and 2 more than The Kid can handle.
Store 1: Baby into carseat, stroller in trunk, diaper bag, phone, purse, let's go. Baby out of carseat, into stroller, let's go.
We got through 3 racks of sweaters before The Kid was so over being in the stroller. We were at level 10 whining. I proceed to carry him, push the stroller, browse through 2 more racks of jeans and head off to the dressing room. I get one leg into a pair of jeans when he decides to make a break for it under the dressing room door. I tried to coax him back with promises of his favorite toy, my iPhone.
Oh, look kiddo, mommy's phone! You want mommy's phone? Come get it, come on you know you want mommy's phone! Come on, buddy, please don't make mommy have to walk out of here half naked.
It worked. Thank god. Running out of the dressing room with one pant leg on is not my idea of fun. Funny? Yes. Fun? No.
I decide not to risk trying on the 3 sweaters. So if you see me in a lovely chartreuse sweater a size too small for me, for you own sake, don't mention it.
Baby out of stroller, baby into carseat, stroller in trunk. Diaper bag, phone, purse. Let's go.
Store 2: The Kid fell asleep on the way there in the car. I know better. We sat in the parking lot 45 minutes while he finished his nap. I had no clue a tiny boy less than 2 feet tall and nonverbal could rule over me like the benevolent dictator that he is. Baby out of carseat. Baby into stroller. Let's go. Crap, they don't carry the umbrella stroller I'm looking for. Baby out of stroller, baby into carseat, stroller in trunk. Diaper bag, phone, purse, Let's go.
Store 3: Of course The Kid is hungry. We pull in the parking lot and he eats. Baby out of carseat, into stroller. Let's go. I get one aisle of browsing clothes before he gets baby ants in his pants. He proceeds to throw all his toys and my purse half a dozen times and take off his socks. And throw them. Whining commences. I take him out of the stroller. Five handfuls of hair, 3 head butts and 2 eye gouges later, I put him down. He grabs the closest thing to him and pulls down a rack of shirts. Then rips off a tag and tries to eat it. Between apologies and picking up shirts, I pay for a couple of sweaters and decide to head out of there. If you see my child in the cutest blue sweater with an adorable baby bear on it two sizes too small for him, for your own sake, don't mention it.
Baby out of stroller, into carseat, stroller in trunk. Diaper bag, phone. Let's go. Thank god.
Finally we get home, mission accomplished, sanity intact, we're still alive, victory! I can even see the relief in The Kid's baby blue eyes.
I unload our treasures from the trunk and fish out my purse from the front seat. Wait. Where's my purse?
Friday, August 10, 2012
An open letter from your child
Dear Mommy,
Sometimes I hear you complain about your "new" body and it confuses me.
When I'm playing on the bathroom floor in the morning, I see you scrunch up your face in the mirror after you get out of the shower. And I hear your soft sighs when you try on that old pair of jeans again.
I hear you say you want your old body back, the one you had before me. I've never seen your before me body, but can't imagine it was any more wonderful than the one you have now.
I like your arms, mommy. They are so strong and lift me high over your head. It's so much fun and makes me giggle every time. I'm your Super Baby, right mama? They pick me up when I'm upset and bring me up close to your heart, where all the sad and the bad go away in an instant.
And I like your tummy, mommy. It's such a great place to snuggle into and believe me it was the best home ever before I came to stay with you and daddy. You took such good care of me in there and I grew healthy and strong. I'm such a big boy, that's what daddy says. Your tummy was warm and snuggly and comforting just like it is now.
And your hips? I like those too mommy. I think they are the perfect place for my little baby bottom. I like being close to you, wrapping my tiny hands around the back of your arms and holding on so tight. We can look out on the big world together this way. It's a beautiful view, don't you think mama?
And your breasts were made for me mommy. They give me the best nourishment in the whole world, the perfect food just for me. They give comfort and security when I'm sick and scared and tired. The first time I looked in your eyes I was nursing and I haven't stopped staring into them since.
I know sometimes you leave me to go to the gym and that's okay. When you're gone, daddy lets me do all kinds of cool things that mamas don't. And I want you to be healthy and happy so you can be my mommy for a long time.
But remember that number on the scale doesn't reflect how many times you kiss my head and make my world okay again. It doesn't count the times your tickles make me laugh so hard tears roll down my face. It doesn't say how much my heart soars when you come pick me up out of my crib in the morning so I can spend all day with you again.
And that number doesn't tell you how beautiful I think you are mommy.
Please be kind to yourself today. I love you.
Always,
Your child
Sometimes I hear you complain about your "new" body and it confuses me.
When I'm playing on the bathroom floor in the morning, I see you scrunch up your face in the mirror after you get out of the shower. And I hear your soft sighs when you try on that old pair of jeans again.
I hear you say you want your old body back, the one you had before me. I've never seen your before me body, but can't imagine it was any more wonderful than the one you have now.
I like your arms, mommy. They are so strong and lift me high over your head. It's so much fun and makes me giggle every time. I'm your Super Baby, right mama? They pick me up when I'm upset and bring me up close to your heart, where all the sad and the bad go away in an instant.
And I like your tummy, mommy. It's such a great place to snuggle into and believe me it was the best home ever before I came to stay with you and daddy. You took such good care of me in there and I grew healthy and strong. I'm such a big boy, that's what daddy says. Your tummy was warm and snuggly and comforting just like it is now.
And your hips? I like those too mommy. I think they are the perfect place for my little baby bottom. I like being close to you, wrapping my tiny hands around the back of your arms and holding on so tight. We can look out on the big world together this way. It's a beautiful view, don't you think mama?
And your breasts were made for me mommy. They give me the best nourishment in the whole world, the perfect food just for me. They give comfort and security when I'm sick and scared and tired. The first time I looked in your eyes I was nursing and I haven't stopped staring into them since.
I know sometimes you leave me to go to the gym and that's okay. When you're gone, daddy lets me do all kinds of cool things that mamas don't. And I want you to be healthy and happy so you can be my mommy for a long time.
But remember that number on the scale doesn't reflect how many times you kiss my head and make my world okay again. It doesn't count the times your tickles make me laugh so hard tears roll down my face. It doesn't say how much my heart soars when you come pick me up out of my crib in the morning so I can spend all day with you again.
And that number doesn't tell you how beautiful I think you are mommy.
Please be kind to yourself today. I love you.
Always,
Your child
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Flying Babies and Flying Pickles
We've traveled with The Kid on a few occasions. He's been to the beach and his grandparents' homes a few times. At first, it was easy. Notice the "at first". That's called foreshadowing folks. We'll get there.
Our first trip was to my parents house and it was smooth sailing. The Kid slept peacefully in his carseat, we arrived, we visited, we ate, we drank, we were merry. He even slept 6 hours straight at night for the first time ever. I was thrilled.
I didn't understand why parents complained about traveling with kids. I said the same thing about going out to eat with him. He slept the whole time. The loud background buzz of the restaurant lulled my sweet angel child to sleep. Passersby would coo at the rosy cheeked sleeping cherub, then wink at us in admiration of our awesomeness. Waitresses would comment how "lucky" we were to have such a good child. We beamed. We ARE awesome parents we said. Such naturals.
"No, you are just such a good mother," my husband gushed. "Aw, honey, I can't take all the credit, you are the best dad," I said. Other parents are just weak we agreed.
Then it happened. I'm not sure what "it" is. But it happened.
My sleeping child awoke. He now must be entertained at all times. He now loves to imitate velociraptors in the middle of a restaurant. And gnaw on tables and bounce in his high chair and throw sippy cups and grab at forks and eat menus and rub food in his hair.
"Pick. Up. His. Damn. Sippy. Cup, " I say through clenched teeth. "Can you finish your meal so you can hold him so I can shove this burger down my throat and we can get the hell outta here, please?"
"He just threw advocado on their table. No, no, don't look. Maybe they won't notice, " my husband whispers.
I wouldn't call what passersby do now as winking...more like wincing. Maybe in pity. Maybe in annoyance. I can't tell. I'm too busy trying to stop my kid from grabbing the pickle off my plate and chucking it at the old lady at the next table. Don't worry, we clean up our messes and leave the waitresses huge tips. They could pay off their college loans with the guilt tips we leave.
And for the car trips? Now he screams in the back seat or when he does sleep the whole trip, he's awake most of the night.
We've tried traveling in the morning...then he's awake most of the night. We've tried traveling during the afternoon...then he's awake most of the night. We've tried traveling at night...then he's awake most of the night. Are you seeing a pattern here?
Our last "vacation" not only included a 6 hour drive and a time change, but darling son also decided to throw teething in the mix just for the fun of it. He refused to sleep in his pack n' play. He refused to go to bed before midnight. He demanded to wake up at 6 am every morning. The Kid's dad slept on the couch for 5 nights and when I say "couch" I mean loveseat with a lump in the middle. And when I say "slept" I mean napped between shooting pains in his lumbar. Vacationing has taken on an entirely new definition.
In 3 weeks we fly 4 hours to New Hampshire. Tips and prayers for sanity always appreciated.
Snakes on a plane my ass. Babies on a plane...I'll have nightmares about this one for weeks.
Our first trip was to my parents house and it was smooth sailing. The Kid slept peacefully in his carseat, we arrived, we visited, we ate, we drank, we were merry. He even slept 6 hours straight at night for the first time ever. I was thrilled.
I didn't understand why parents complained about traveling with kids. I said the same thing about going out to eat with him. He slept the whole time. The loud background buzz of the restaurant lulled my sweet angel child to sleep. Passersby would coo at the rosy cheeked sleeping cherub, then wink at us in admiration of our awesomeness. Waitresses would comment how "lucky" we were to have such a good child. We beamed. We ARE awesome parents we said. Such naturals.
"No, you are just such a good mother," my husband gushed. "Aw, honey, I can't take all the credit, you are the best dad," I said. Other parents are just weak we agreed.
Then it happened. I'm not sure what "it" is. But it happened.
My sleeping child awoke. He now must be entertained at all times. He now loves to imitate velociraptors in the middle of a restaurant. And gnaw on tables and bounce in his high chair and throw sippy cups and grab at forks and eat menus and rub food in his hair.
"Pick. Up. His. Damn. Sippy. Cup, " I say through clenched teeth. "Can you finish your meal so you can hold him so I can shove this burger down my throat and we can get the hell outta here, please?"
"He just threw advocado on their table. No, no, don't look. Maybe they won't notice, " my husband whispers.
I wouldn't call what passersby do now as winking...more like wincing. Maybe in pity. Maybe in annoyance. I can't tell. I'm too busy trying to stop my kid from grabbing the pickle off my plate and chucking it at the old lady at the next table. Don't worry, we clean up our messes and leave the waitresses huge tips. They could pay off their college loans with the guilt tips we leave.
And for the car trips? Now he screams in the back seat or when he does sleep the whole trip, he's awake most of the night.
We've tried traveling in the morning...then he's awake most of the night. We've tried traveling during the afternoon...then he's awake most of the night. We've tried traveling at night...then he's awake most of the night. Are you seeing a pattern here?
Our last "vacation" not only included a 6 hour drive and a time change, but darling son also decided to throw teething in the mix just for the fun of it. He refused to sleep in his pack n' play. He refused to go to bed before midnight. He demanded to wake up at 6 am every morning. The Kid's dad slept on the couch for 5 nights and when I say "couch" I mean loveseat with a lump in the middle. And when I say "slept" I mean napped between shooting pains in his lumbar. Vacationing has taken on an entirely new definition.
In 3 weeks we fly 4 hours to New Hampshire. Tips and prayers for sanity always appreciated.
Snakes on a plane my ass. Babies on a plane...I'll have nightmares about this one for weeks.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
My Husband Escaped From the Circus
As a mom, I spend most of my day trying to entertain and/or redirect my child’s attention from whatever it was that caused a complete and total meltdown.
Be it the dropped sippy cup that suddenly meant the world to him as soon as it hit the floor for the 20th time. Ohmygodohmygod where’d it go, just give it back. I promise I’ll never throw it again. Hey, thanks ma…I threw it again.
Or the dog who won’t look in his direction despite his repeated howler monkey squeals of love and affection. DOOOOOOOG, look at me,look at me, look at me! Dog, dog, dog,…she looked at me!!! She’s not looking at me.
Or maybe because I took away my shoe after he licked it. Again. Mommy I love you so much I lick your shoe. I licked it again Mommy. Mommy, I licked it.
Whatever it is, I’ve found pretty weird ways to redirect his cute little ADHD riddled baby brain for 3.5 seconds beyond the usual go-to singing,toys and brain rotting television. I know, gasp…I’m such a bad parent. You know what Judgey McMommy-Terrorist, I eat breakfast without grubby, smelly, slimy hands in my oatmeal thanks to the masterminds behind Super Why. I like my oatmeal sans-spit up covered hands and am campaigning to get Super Why nominated for an Oscar in every single category. Start writing your acceptance speech Princess Presto.
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| Move over Meryl Streep. There's a new bitch in town. |
The ceiling fan. The Kid loves the ceiling fan. Laughs hysterically at it. At first, I was slightly worried he was a few tacos short a fiesta, but luckily Dr. Google saved me from nights of worry that my kid was a bona fide head case. Ceiling fans are the Will Ferrell of the baby world. Anchorman Will Ferrell not crap Bewitched Will Ferrell. Seriously. What the eff Will? Stick to your roots bro. More cowbell, less Nicole Kidman.
Daddy’s juggling. I’ve known this man for 10 years and had no idea he could juggle. The Kid sat for 15 minutes memorized by dad juggling his toys. Why have I just learned of this talent? What is he trying to hide? To do: learn how to juggle, google husband’s name with “escaped from the circus”.
Sneezing. The Kid thinks sneezes are comedic genius. That or he is evil and is laughing at me for having seasonal allergies. Laugh it up kid, hay fever is certainly not funny and allergies are hereditary...won’t be so funny then bud.
Telling him he stinks. You know that quintessential mom moment that women dream about--smelling the tops of their babies heads? Yeah, that lasts for about a month. Then they stink. The Kid smells like a mix of sour milk and a locker full of jock straps by bath time. Sour milk I get. Jock straps? That one baffles me. Why does my inmobile, non-shoe wearing baby have feet that smell like an NFL locker room after halftime? I grab his stinky little feet and say pee-yeew you stink. And he loves it. This makes me extremely nervous when he is an even smellier teenager.
I’m wondering how much longer I have these gems in my arsenal. How sad the day my sneezes no longer sends The Kid into pee-his-diaper hysterics. Ahh..they grow up so fast.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Momfessions: I hang my head in shame
So we are relatively new to this parenting thing. I mean we've got all of 7 and a half months under our belts and the first three are a complete sleepless blur. I think somewhere in those first three months we decided it wasn't necessary for one of us to be awake every single second during the next 18 years of The Kid's life. But damn skippy if The Kid's dad didn't try. Poor guy. He nearly had a nervous breakdown day 2 in the hospital trying to stay awake all.the.time. So we decided to sleep. A little.
Before that decision, I'm not really sure what happened during those 3 months. I just remember staring at The Kid for 5 hours a day in disbelief that the nurses let me leave with him...to care for...by myself. I remember having a boob in his mouth for 16 hours a day and wondering what it was like outside the four walls of my house for the other 3 hours.
Not in a grandiose, deep kind of way. More like, I hope the zombie apocalypse hasn't started yet cause I would be screwed, kind of way. I wouldn't have even known if we were the last of the human race. Man, that would have sucked.
Lack of sleep does strange things to one's psyche.
Having kids makes you weird. Your life becomes a series of moments where you question your sanity and intelligence. I kind of feel bad for The Kid for getting stuck with morons for parents. But that's what he got and he has to live with it. You, on the other hand, get to enjoy our stupidities without the consequence of a lifetime of therapy.
I showed you mine, now show me yours. What are your best momfessions?
Before that decision, I'm not really sure what happened during those 3 months. I just remember staring at The Kid for 5 hours a day in disbelief that the nurses let me leave with him...to care for...by myself. I remember having a boob in his mouth for 16 hours a day and wondering what it was like outside the four walls of my house for the other 3 hours.
Not in a grandiose, deep kind of way. More like, I hope the zombie apocalypse hasn't started yet cause I would be screwed, kind of way. I wouldn't have even known if we were the last of the human race. Man, that would have sucked.
Lack of sleep does strange things to one's psyche.
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| Not a zombie. Me 3 months postpartum. Sleeeeeeep! |
Having kids makes you weird. Your life becomes a series of moments where you question your sanity and intelligence. I kind of feel bad for The Kid for getting stuck with morons for parents. But that's what he got and he has to live with it. You, on the other hand, get to enjoy our stupidities without the consequence of a lifetime of therapy.
- The Kid's dad stole a box of latex gloves from the hospital and used them during every single diaper change for the first 3 weeks. I have photographic evidence of this.
- Last week, The Kid's dad asked why he smelled like baked goods while he held him. I had no idea what he was talking about until I changed his diaper. Apparently The Kid's poopy diapers smell like baked goods to his dad. Cute or sign of a stroke?
- The Kid got a cold and for 72 hours I was either crying or checking his breathing every 15 minutes. I wouldn't recommend only sleeping in 15 minute intervals for 3 days-.
- Sometimes I let the dog lick his face clean after meals. So sue me.
- The Kid's dad had a slight obsession with those rubber snot suckers. He kept asking for them at the hospital. At one point we had 7. Nurses were making bets on how many we'd leave with.
- The Kid's dad asked the nurse about their return policy during the hospital tour. She was not amused.
- I have yet to develop a baby appropriate filter. Sometimes jackass is the only thing you come up with when teaching him things that start with J.
- Us Weekly is a not a good substitution for a bedtime book. The Kid was devastated by the TomKat split. Took hours of reassurance to get him to bed that night.
- I have a strict spit up shirt change policy. Less than 3, not worth it unless there is greater than a 60% chance will see someone I know.
- The Kid was soaked one morning when I picked him up out of his crib. I discovered his dad had only fastened one side of his diaper during a middle of the night diaper change. The other half was still folded under.
NappingResting your eyes in a parking lot when you get to the grocery store because you dread waking up Sir Cranks a Lot.
- Answering the door with the nursing bra unclipped is a great way to ensure the Jehovah Witness ladies won't come back to your house.
- I took my car in to the dealership to get the broken air conditioner fixed since it was onlyblowing out hot air and check my check engine light. Tech looked at it for 5 minutes and came back to tell me I had the heater on and forgot to screw on the gas top. He took pity on me and didn't charge me.
I showed you mine, now show me yours. What are your best momfessions?
Saturday, August 4, 2012
50 Shades of No Way
Not getting pulled in to this one. Nope. No way. No how. Before you inundate my inbox with hate mail and pleas to join your little club, you 50 Shades of freaks, hear me out.
A) Your Instagrammed vignette filtered photo of your handcuff Harlequin casually on purpose set on your nightstand does not make you badass. It does not make you seem mysterious and sexy. It makes you look like a sheep. Baaaa.
and B) Iread tortured myself through the first pages. Ms. E.L. James needs to quit Thesarus.com cold turkey. She's got serious synonym issues.
Oh, lest we forget C) She's an idiot. Bless her heart, but she is. Point: “My inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils.” What.the.eff.
and lemme add D) It's good ol' Twi-hard fan fiction folks. You heard it right. You bet your ever lovin' life she originally wrote and posted this under the handle SnowQueens IceDragon. Honest to god.
Not to mention E) It's hard to read while rolling your eyes.
So there. Now you know why I refuse to be part of this gang of sexually pent up 50 freaks. I can't trust you. I don't know if one day we'll be hanging out, picking out bath towels at Bed, Bath and Beyond and then suddenly you're all like, "Have you read 50 Shades of Grey?"and then the next thing I know...I'm stuck in a slightly dirty version of a terrible romance novel speaking in British phrases, repeating adjectives, misusing words and lost in a bad plot. Oh yes please, said no one ever.
A) Your Instagrammed vignette filtered photo of your handcuff Harlequin casually on purpose set on your nightstand does not make you badass. It does not make you seem mysterious and sexy. It makes you look like a sheep. Baaaa.
and B) I
Oh, lest we forget C) She's an idiot. Bless her heart, but she is. Point: “My inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils.” What.the.eff.
and lemme add D) It's good ol' Twi-hard fan fiction folks. You heard it right. You bet your ever lovin' life she originally wrote and posted this under the handle SnowQueens IceDragon. Honest to god.
Not to mention E) It's hard to read while rolling your eyes.
So there. Now you know why I refuse to be part of this gang of sexually pent up 50 freaks. I can't trust you. I don't know if one day we'll be hanging out, picking out bath towels at Bed, Bath and Beyond and then suddenly you're all like, "Have you read 50 Shades of Grey?"and then the next thing I know...I'm stuck in a slightly dirty version of a terrible romance novel speaking in British phrases, repeating adjectives, misusing words and lost in a bad plot. Oh yes please, said no one ever.
Friday, August 3, 2012
The Mommy Olympics
Today I caught myself daydreaming of standing on the Olympicpodium, shiny gold medal twinkling round my neck, stumbling over the words ofStar Spangled Banner on national TV. There would be endorsements from Nike and interviews on Good MorningAmerica to follow of course. Ryan Lochte would fall in love with me, no doubt. Ohand I’d have to go on Dancing With the Stars too, maybe record an album.
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| Who eats Wheaties anymore? |
God, I am sobusy. I need a personal assistant. I’llhire Michael Phelps. But if I hire Michael Phelps, he’ll fall inlove with me too. Then him and RyanLochte will have to have a swim off for my love. That’ll cause all sorts ofdrama. Probably even more interviews and my personal assistant is training 8hours a day vying for my heart. I don’tneed that, so no go on Michael Phelps.
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| Michael is the jealous type. |
“Waaaaaaaah”. The Kid’scrying jolts me out of my daydream. I run across the room, hurdling the dog, in6 flat to pick up his sippy cup he dropped for the millionth time during breakfast.He’s still not happy. I sing “itsy bitsy spider” again in a funnyvoice, wash the last dish, yogurt from his face, my hands, face and shirt anddead lift my 20lb baby to my hip. We play on the mat, perfecting our floorroutine. The race to the dog hascommenced and The Kid is winning. I scoophim up before he crosses the finish line, balance him on one hip, the laundrybasket on the other and take the stairs two at a time. His screaming in my ear drowns out the last remnantsof the cheering crowds in my daydream.
I sit for a marathon nursing session, blocking kicking feet and pinching fingers withone hand, lobbing perfectly thrown baby toys directly in the toy chest with theother. I change his diaper again,wrestling a rolling baby 8 times in one change. After chasing a squirmy, wet baby around the Olympic sized bathtub,singing itsy bitsy again, teaching him how to count his toes-in English andHebrew, two more nursing sessions, another diaper change, a marathon walk withthe dog, dress him and me in our training gear, dive underneath the backseat to find his favoritetoy, lift him into the car and go to the gym where I spend an hour riding abike in spin class.
I lift him twenty times over my head just to hear him giggleone more time, we go back and forth rocking and bouncing down to a nap then gracefullytiptoe away to eat a sandwich before he wakes up and we start all over again. Do that before noon Nadia Comaneci.
Kamikaze Baby Ninja
I’ve been dreading this. I knew it was coming. They all warned me and I saw it with my own eyes. Their kids were morphing into these strange little beings. I saw it and I was scared. My friends, once just sleep deprived parents, were now wide-eyed, paranoid zombies. Skittish at the slightest movement.
It was like a slow motion train barreling toward you. Get out of the way, you yell. But you can’t get out of the way. No, you can’t. Don’t waste your precious energy. Or the faux caffeine and sugar induced high you call energy. You’re going to need it. Just stand there and let it hit you. Choo choooo.
I watched as my own sweet child mutated into a kamikaze baby ninja. That’s right. I’m now the mother of a kamikaze baby ninja and this is a warning for all you other parents. It will happen to you too.
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| Don't let that face fool you, he'll run your ass over. |
It begins when your once floppy headed, immobile baby discovers how to move.
My kamikaze baby ninja emerged at lightning speed. Sure the belly crawl was cute. Yeah, it started off all innocent. Rolling across the floor to get where he wanted. For all of 2 weeks it was damn right aww inducing adorable and then the genius figured out how to coordinate these movements to get where he wanted. And my life changed forever.
I am the mother of a kamikaze baby ninja.
For some reason, when a baby becomes mobile he begins trying to off himself in creative ways. Call it a developmental milestone, call it mere curiosity. I call it shit my pants terrifying.
First, he started rolling himself over on his stomach at night. Besides the gajillions of pediatricians, experts, websites and other mommy terrorists who convinced me if my child slept on his stomach ever in his whole entire life, I was the worst mother on the planet and he was going to suffocate himself--my little kamikaze baby ninja decided to sleep face down. He buried his cute little button nose right down in that mattress and stopped my heart each time I turned on the video monitor to check on him.
After a dozen or so nights of creeping in his room, turning his head ever so slightly, inevitably waking him up, dealing with a pissed off screaming child convinced the world as he knew it was ending, rocking, nursing, more rocking, a little bouncing, some pleading and finally getting him to go back sleep only to find him 30 minutes later face down in the mattress, I gave up. My kid was sending me a clear message: Quit messing with me woman!-I wake you up-you don't wake kamikaze baby ninja! Dire consequences await you! My punishment is 7 more months of frequent night wakings of his choosing. I don't think the punishment fits the crime, but my pleas fall on cute tiny deaf ears.
After a dozen or so nights of creeping in his room, turning his head ever so slightly, inevitably waking him up, dealing with a pissed off screaming child convinced the world as he knew it was ending, rocking, nursing, more rocking, a little bouncing, some pleading and finally getting him to go back sleep only to find him 30 minutes later face down in the mattress, I gave up. My kid was sending me a clear message: Quit messing with me woman!-I wake you up-you don't wake kamikaze baby ninja! Dire consequences await you! My punishment is 7 more months of frequent night wakings of his choosing. I don't think the punishment fits the crime, but my pleas fall on cute tiny deaf ears.
Lesson one: never wake a kamikaze baby ninja.
Second, he started to crawl. He can now get where he wants, when he wants. The days of going to the bathroom for two minutes and coming back to find my child exactly where I put him has officially ended. Sad. Remember those public service announcements in the 80s? “Its 10pm, do you know where your children are?” Judgmental much? Well, a kamikaze baby ninja mom’s version is “It’s 2.3 seconds later, do you know where your child is?”. He's probably under your kitchen sink tasting the Old English.
Today I got back from the bathroom and he was gone. It was just a pee too! Cue the mini heart attack. I hear the distinctive rumbling of a kamikaze baby ninja getting into things he shouldn’t. I followed the sound until I found him. He'd crawled across the room, climbed on the bottom of the end table, knocked off the books and was trying to chew on the computer power cord. My kamikaze ninja has a fascination with chewing on power cords and the unique knack of finding a well hidden one.It’s a special kind of fun for me.
Lesson two: I will never pee in peace again. And whoever invented baby leashes was a genius and had a kamikaze baby ninja child for sure.
Third, the launching of oneself off of and into furniture, floors and any other hard surface is kamikaze baby ninja 101. They are experts at it. Black eyes are the proudly worn medals of honor for kamikaze baby ninjas. If you see one, please don't call CPS on his mother. Buy her a bottle or two or six of wine.
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| Put it in mommy's sippy cup. |
Lesson three: Take bets on when he'll get his first set of stitches and put half immediately into a health savings account. Then invest the other half in stockpiling Franzia.
Fourth, the finding of and subsequent eating of any object at tiny baby arms length is a full time job of a kamikaze baby ninja. iPhones, toes (mine or his), sticky unknown substances on the floor, dog food, bugs (dead or alive), dog hair, the bottom of daddy's shoes, invisible poisons naked to the adult eye. Minute amounts of anything inedible and dangerous is the primary diet of kamikaze ninja babies. I assume they naturally develop pica at this stage.
My kamikaze baby ninja has a particular palate for clumps of dog hair. Digging out wads of dog hair out of a baby's mouth and hands takes a new level of patience. The dog hair somehow actually multiply as you pull it out, I kid you not. Try it.
My kamikaze baby ninja has a particular palate for clumps of dog hair. Digging out wads of dog hair out of a baby's mouth and hands takes a new level of patience. The dog hair somehow actually multiply as you pull it out, I kid you not. Try it.
Lesson four: Poison control’s number is 1-800-222-1222.
And thus, such is my new life as a parent of a kamikaze baby ninja and I invite you to witness my adventures and point and laugh at me freely.
A Boy and His Dog
The Kid’s dear old dadand I had dreams of The Kid and dog frolicking through fields of sunflowers,best of friends, rolling around together as happy as can be. A boy and his dog. The great cliche of every Disney version of how a childhood should be. Lassie and Timmy. Scooby and Shaggy. Snoopy and Charlie Brown. Stewie and Brian.
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| Okay, maybe less Stewie and Brian, more Timmy and Lassie. |
Screw you Walt. You, my good sir, did not take intoaccount our dog is the canine version of a crotchety old lady. You know the one sitting on the front porchall day, yelling at the neighbor kids to keep off her lawn in between naps andincessant complaining about her arthritic hip. And she’s embarrassingly kind of racist.
That’s our dog. While the dog/kid relationship has grownsince the first days home from the hospital, she’s not completely terrified of himanymore, but still not his biggest fan. I can’t really blame her. She wasthe only child for nearly 9 years before he came along, those jerky grabbyflying baby fists kind of scare me too and he does smell weird most of the day.Needless to say mobility has thrown a wrench into any type of blossomingrelationship dear old dad and I had envisioned. He can now get to her wherever, whenever and she is not amused.
Poor kid. He adores her.Capital A, adores her. Would trade inmama lady for a day of fur yanking and ear pulling kind of adores her. Hespends a good majority of his morning playtime yelling at her from the confinesof his exersaucer to get some sort of acknowledgement. When she (un)graciously decides to throw thekid a bone (no pun intended) and look in his general direction, he squeals indelight with gratitude. I wish I could get that type of appreciation out of The Kid. I provide him with his every want and need and all I get is poopy diapers andbitten nipples.
Once in a while, I do thinkthey join forces to conspire against me. One day lastweek, the two of them thought it would be funny to have a poop off. Who can land a nice steamer directly on mom’s floor the most in thecourse of an hour? Dog won 2 to 1.
That being said, the doggenerally tries to avoid contact with The Kid and at best ignores his existence most of the day. That is until The Kidis put in his high chair. Then suddenly,they are best friends. She’s all, “hey buddy, hey pal…remember me…your oldfriend, The Dog? We’re BFFs right kiddo? You want me to make you a friendship bracelet? You want the other half of this heart shapedbest friend locket? I love you.”
The Kid, of course, eatsthis up. He willingly hands over themajority of yogurt melts. He revels inher sole attention. He seems heartbrokenwhen she turns her nose to his offers of fruit slices and quickly doles out hisfavorite puffs to apologize for the gaffe. Dog takes her fill and moves on right after mealtime. No obligatory cuddling, no awkward phone calls later, sheeven pretends she doesn’t know him when they see each other in the living room. Dog has all the control in this relationshipand she knows it. Heartless bitch.
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