Best Advice Ever

If you are a mom (or like moms), go to dooce.com.

Excerpt:
"In preparation for the photo shoot someone from Glamour headquarters called to instruct me on what to wear, mentioning specifically that I should have at least three outfits on hand: a “yummy, chunky sweater,” or perhaps a “fresh, crisp button-down,” and definitely a “pressed pair of khakis.” Alas, all of my yummy sweaters were NEVER IN MY WARDROBE IN THE FIRST PLACE, and the last time I wore a crisp button-down was when I didn’t have to worry about another human being walking up to me for the individual purpose of wiping their chocolate milk mustache on my shoulder."

Worst Advice Ever

I am writing this post in hopes that some pregnant lady or lady-hoping-to-be-pregnant googles "pregnancy advice" and hits the jackpot here.

Worst advice ever? When you're pregnant, you can eat for two!

NO YOU CAN'T. NO YOU SHOULDN'T.

Tradition

I continue my tradition this year of purchasing one winter jacket per winter. I realize this is both selfish and consumeristic, but hey, I like jackets. At least I buy them on sale. This year, I bought a fitted, cream jacket from the Gap.

It is going to be difficult to keep this cream jacket clean, especially when every car in every parking lot is covered with filth. This is one of those grown-up, big girl purchases that defines whether or not I can be pristine and sophisticated in my adult life.

And I wish myself good luck.

Definitions

Wanigan: What a man says to a woman after a good romp...wanigan?
Cymry: A type of beer made by Martin Luther King, jr.
Zouave: A hand gesture made by someone who is ridiculously good-looking
Saturnalian: someone who participates in unrestrained, often licentious celebration

List

1. Wake up. Feed Tommy. Change diaper. Make John's lunch. Give Tommy a bath.
2. Go to gym. Run 30 minutes to nowhere. Climb 30 minutes to nowhere. Lift weights.
3. Drive home. Feed Tommy. Change diaper. Put Tommy down for a nap.
4. Get bored. Try unsuccessfully to take a nap. Make Christmas tree thank you cards out of Wells Fargo home mortgage folder and silver Christmas paper.
5. Eat lunch. Hear Tommy crying.
6. Feed Tommy. Change diaper.
7. Play with Tommy. Pick up toys he throws on floor. Again. Again. Again.
8. Put Tommy down for nap. Fiddle around.
9. Hear Tommy crying. Change Tommy's diaper. Feed him. Play with him.
10. Eat dinner. Do dishes. Get tired. Put Tommy down for the night.

Bleepity Bleep Blah

It's not profanity. It's boredom.

One Big Happy

When I was a kid, my mom...er...Santa hid wrapped presents in a large storage closet in the basement. My brother and I knew they were in there so instead of just scoping out the packages, we actually unwrapped them, checked out our loot, and then rewrapped the presents. Actually, I did the rewrapping because my brother, like all men, still doesn't know how to wrap.

I've told this story to John many times in an effort to make him understand why I don't like surprises, and he is still just baffled. I guess some people really like getting things they don't want, need, or expect, and they don't immediately look to see if a gift receipt is conveniently taped to the bottom.

In my family now, we pretty much just give money.

At any rate, if you're wondering how this came to be, note the following incident which occured this week:

My father, per usual, requested my assistance in finding a gift for my mom. We left for our father/daughter shopping adventure on Sunday and returned with the gift. My dad was waiting in the car to leave with mom immediately, so I snuck the present inside and set it down in an inconspicuous location as I said to my mom,
Dad's waiting in the car and you guys are supposed to go to Grandpa's RIGHT NOW.

In the 3.5 minutes it took my mom to leave the house, she discovered her hidden present. How do I know? She moved the package just enough that my purse, next to the package, slipped.

I accused her later and, since she can't lie, my detective work was confirmed.

So, now the gift to my mom, wrapped by me, bought by my dad, contents known to ALL...sits under the tree for Christmas.

Two Kids I Love

Wish List

Ok, you didn't really think all I wanted for Christmas was Tommy's 2 front teeth, did you? Oh, you did? How cute.

Today I was musing aloud to my mother, Why do we expect our husbands to buy us gifts, anyway? I have no trouble picking them out on my own. Then they could just wrap them. To which she replied, But they can't do that, either.

True.

My husband is welcome to spy on THIS WISH LIST.
Black. Small. Thank you.

All I Want For Christmas

is Tommy's two front teeth. They've started busting through and he is going to get even CUTER. IS IT POSSIBLE, PEOPLE?!

Perfume. Lipstick. Curlers.

Grit, Grit, Grit

Dear Tommy,

This is the sound your 6 month old self makes as you grind your bottom 2 teeth into your newly-emerging top 2 teeth. The sound is horrific, but you jut out your chin while you're making it and you look so proud that I have to love you.

This has been a big month for our family. We finally buckled down and decided to teach you to sleep once and for all---and through some miracle, you decided to learn. Last Tuesday night, we put you down in the Pack N Play, ferberizing you while you cried in true desperation. After 2 hours, you zonked out and SLEPT THE WHOLE NIGHT THROUGH. And then you did it again the next night, and the next night, and the next. Even as I write, you are taking a 2 hour, predictable morning nap. What a God-sent gift. We may give you siblings, after all.

You continue to slurp whatever mushy food we put near you, wearing your appropriate "little stinker" bib and grabbing for the spoon because you need to be in control. You think you're oh-so-funny to drop 10 or 15 toys on the ground and, gee, won't mommy pick them up since your dimple is impossible to resist? You've discovered a love for vehement kicking in the bathtub, sending splashes over the rim and onto Mom. Whenever we take you out, people say what a good baby you are--- and I really have to agree.

We are still living with Grandma and Grandpa, so we all sleep together in the basement room. We did kick you out of the family bed, Tommy, and your Dad and I appreciate the space but still miss you in between us. This morning, you awoke at 5:30 AM so we pulled you in with us under the down comforter for a little snuggling.

I weighed you yesterday and you're about 17 pounds, just growing out of the 6-12 month clothes I bought at the start of the fall. I can tell any day now, you'll be sitting up without my hand at the small of your back, without a pillow to catch you.

You have this wide-eyed look for Daddy and me that so clearly says I love you. You don't need words to communicate, but they'll come soon.

I love you, my Thomas-ino.

Your, Mom

I Love It When

the coffee is lukewarm and I can sit and read Frank McCourt, musing about how quaint a phrase is "bladder near your eye" and truly believe my Dad is getting better and enjoy an easy Sunday morning because Tommy now is a champion napper and we went to Mass last night. I love it when my husband tells me he can't wait to make a little home with me and his perfect Saturday night is snuggling with me on the couch and don't I look beautiful. I love it when I answer the phone and Claudia is on the other end saying "I Caudia" in her proud, 2 year old style. The world is bright and I believe the best is yet to come. The best is yet to come.

Ferberizin'

For those of you who don't have children or haven't studied child sleep patterns, Richard Ferber is a pediatrics specialist who advocates that babies should learn to fall asleep on their own. He outlines a method of teaching them this habit by letting them cry it out, with Mom and Dad only checking in on the baby in period increments which grow longer as the days continue.

We are ferberizing Tommy.

So far, he has slept TWO FULL NIGHTS through, which is a blasted miracle considering how many times he "needed" to nurse each night prior. How long have I been losing sleep for nothing??!

It's (A) Nigh-Night Time

Tommy slept from 8:30 PM to 5:45 AM!!!!!

(He also cried from 6 PM to 8:30 PM. )

Goodbye Little Place

We are getting rid of our apartment. Our first, bonified spot together. Our family place. This home saw us from the honeymoon to the crib-in-the-kitchen stage. Alright, it wasn't that long of a transition.

I'm sad to say goodbye to it, though, no matter how difficult it is to cram Tommy's clothes and toys and amusement chairs into its 3 rooms. We have a lot of memories there---from signing a lease as seniors in college to sitting on new leather couches and staring with shock at 1) the bright green walls and then 2) the positive pregnancy test.

And then Tommy's first day home, in the bassinet. Who could forget the feeling of shock that we'd been entrusted with such responsibility?

Somehow, our lives changed in our little apartment, such that we would never be the same.

Tribute

You curl into me in your sleep-dream state, little toes pushing my tummy on the outside just where you once pushed them from the inside. Your eyes flutter, fighting the drug-induced coma. You are so sweetly drunk on nursing.

I never believed it could be so euphoric to be your mother. To lay in bed and genuinely not want to hurry putting you down for a nap. You're snuggled in me and I'm snuggled in you underneath the mounds of down covers.

My son, there was never more beauty in my life.

Little Angel

My nephew, Will, has developed this Look of late...it's hard to describe, but if you can, imagine a face so contorted with anger and hatred that a 3 year old boy is about to explode.

I see him make the face frequently, particularly when his little sister takes his Matchbox cars.

Apparently today, Will made the Look and immediately assaulted a boy twice his age at a McDonald's playland. The older boy ran away in fear and Will, when prompted, insisted that his assault was preempted by the boy's pushing.

Things I Didn't Know Were Possible:

Biting a hole through your own tongue. Yes, THROUGH. I could see the top of the hole and the bottom of the hole. And yes, it hurt.

My Fam

Hurray!

He's coming home! He's coming home!

And Then Someone I Didn't Know Took Pulls Off The Bottle of Wine

at our 5 year high school reunion. Ah, Edina High School.

John dropped me off last night at Kieran's for the big event. I dreaded it. I guess I, like Dan and Kate, figured everyone was there to judge and gossip and assess how well their peers had made out. Truthfully, I engaged in a bit of that myself and I imagine others did, too. But.

On the whole, it was a great time. I am not sure how accurately I can judge that...I rarely get out and was pretty obnoxiously drunk. I was glad to see that some really talented people who were underrated in high school were doing exceedingly well for themselves. S. E.

I was also glad to see that one particular ass was still an ass. And I may have told him so. At the very least.

I also took the opportunity to show off pictures of Tommy to everyone I talked to---and everyone I didn't---from high school. I'm not sure how it is possible that I, as a 24 year old, am the only person in our class with a child. Maybe I'm the only person in our class with a legitimate child. Everyone from Edina is busily persuing doctorates and medical or legal degrees. At least I have some good contacts.

When they're 35-40 and trying to get pregnant, I may smirk a little knowing that it's all easier in the younger days. I also feel pretty smug to see every one of Tommy's "firsts." I do hope, for their sake, that they realize the value of being present to watch your family grow.

A nanny just isn't a replacement for Mom.

I Want to be a Real Boy, Geppetto!

Who stole my little baby? Today Tommy gummed down Cheerios, slurped up carrots*, and watched the 10 o'clock news!

*Ok, so they were mushed up carrots that had more of a V8 consistency. My nose is growing already...

Christmastime is Here Again

Can't you just hear The Chipmunks singing that damn song in their eerily high-pitched, fast-forward voices? Sorry to be so crass, but I just spent half the day hanging lights outside only to discover I am straight out of National Lampoon's Christmas. Or whatever it's called.

I began last weekend with beautiful white lights---the old-fashioned kind, with big, delicate bulbs. John and I and hung them together on two trees and along the rooftop. We thought the lights would cheer up my mom and be a nice welcome home for my dad, once he's finally released from the hospital.

I should've stopped there. But no.

Over the week, as onlookers admired our lights, I turned into one of those compulsive (wanna-be) homeowners who just can't identify when to end. I concocted a plan for more lights, bigger and better lights, sections of white and colored lights. You get my bright idea.

Suffice to say, it wasn't so bright. The only lights working at the current moment are two connected stands of the marquee white lights lining the rooftop. There are at least 10 strands in the rest of the yard, strategically and effortfully hung in trees, on posts, through obstacles.

Merry freakin' Christmas.

5 Month Sweetheart

Dear Tommy,

I am in love with you. It's the 18th of November and I'm 4 days late for your 5 month birthday, but forgive me. I'm still your mother.

At this moment, you're sleeping behind me on Grandma's basement bed. Your arms are stretched out wide, as they always are in your deep sleep. Your tummy is exposed because Daddy put pajamas on you that are too small. I see your chest cavity seep in and out with each breath you take.

This month, it seems you have grown and learned more than any month before. I flipped the calendar and suddenly, you ate solid food, rolled over, and gazed at everything around you with curiousity and wisdom. You look more like your Dad all the time, and it's beautiful, Tommy. You have his big eyes, and even his cute expressions. You wear a striped cap for warmth and fashion and, just this week, began donning an adorable corduroy zip-up suit as the temperature dropped and you witnessed your first snowfall.

Despite the thrills of this month, it's been a challenge. We've been living at Grandma and Grandpa's house because Grandpa is sick in the hospital with leukemia. For a while, I was so scared that Grandpa would never get to see you spin around in the Exersaucer or spew pureed sweet potatoes all over your highchair. Leukemia is horrible, and we were so blessed yesterday to learn that Grandpa beat it. The chemo worked.

Every morning, you've given Grandma this incredible gift of giggling innocence. It helped her find joy and distraction. So thank you.

You're starting to wrestle around behind me, Tommy, and I know that means naptime is almost over. Your eyes will soon pop open, your mouth soon discover those toes you so love to nibble. We have a bit of trouble getting you to take long naps or sleep through the night (I think more teeth are on the way), but somehow, your dimple and your soft skin erase any difficulty. I love being your mom.

I love you.

Mom

Saladbration! (And Pasta)

Hit the Mac Shack, a favorite restaurant and former place of employment, last night to celebrate the fact that the chemo worked and Dad has Nuked the Luk. At least for now. Hopefully for good.

You'd think restaurant staff would continue to turn over, but instead, the crew here is a family, welcoming John and I in with open arms and Spanish I don't understand quite as well as I used to. I binged, of course. What's a saladbration without excessive cream sauce?

I have so many memories of being a waitress---singing opera standing on wooden chairs, borrowing gigantic bottles of cheap chianti from the islands, writing kids' names in bubble letters on the tables, salsa dancing---and almost as good as the dancing---anticipating salsa night with the entire staff.

I always recommend serving as a job for college students because the money is great and the atmosphere is social. Mostly, you get paid to flirt with coworkers and run around more than you would at the gym. The gossip is delicious. Ah, the Mac Shack. A trip down memory lane.

Tales of Obesity and Anti-Family People

A few weeks ago at church, John, Tommy and I were surrounded by kids. There were at least 10 babies near Tommy's age in the pews around us, and a family with 5 kids sat directly in front of us. I have watched this family from the pews for some time, as the mom was pregnant with her 5th baby while I was pregnant with Tommy. They had a little boy.

On this particular Sunday, this beautiful ma was a bit harried. Her boy was starving, and she was attempting to discreetly breastfeed him in the pew. He was not latching on, and my heart just ached as I thought, Been there. Babies innately know when you are trying to be discreet, and they choose these moments to make breastfeeding as difficult as possible. To top matters off, the next-to-youngest child, a daughter, grew in jealously of ma's attention towards baby. A tantrum erupted. Swiftly, with deft experience, Dad scooped up daughter and left the pew. Ma followed to continue indiscreet breastfeeding elsewhere.

Following their departure, an obnoxious woman behind me stated, If I'd wanted to hear screaming kids, I could have stayed at work.

Empathizing with this mother, I let myself turn around and snap, The Catholic Church is Pro-Family. In response, she harumphed. I must've spoken louder than I intended because after Mass, a guy who was several pews behind us gave me a thumbs up and said thanks, on behalf of all the parents in here.

After this event, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had overstepped my bounds by speaking out. It felt good, though. Still on my mind: where does this evil woman work? I pray it's not a daycare.

A similar situation ensued when I took Vinny the Volvo in yesterday, except that the female offender slammed a door shut to silence a child. And she was morbidly obese. * This time, I kept my mouth shut but couldn't help but think similiar thoughts.



*Obesity is most likely unrelated to the Anti-Family epidemic. And yes, I realize that this observation is hurtful and juvenile. So sue me.

Officially Elderly

Yesterday at church a group of young men and women made their way towards the altar, giving signed covenants to the priest to indicate their intent to be confirmed this spring. My, that was a wordy little sentence.

Anyway, the point is that one of these six foot tall 15 year olds was a kid I used to babysit across the street. Jeepers, he must have been 3 or 4 then. I remember tucking him in at night and him giving me big hugs. He had this skin issue so I also had to lather him with exzema (sp?) cream. Ok, too much information.

Fashionista Ma

You'd think I was talking about myself, but no, I wouldn't be so egotistical. At least overtly.

In fact, I refer to MY ma, who apparently was quite a fashionista in her day. This morning, I sported some textured tights which brought my mom back to her wild, single days. "I had a pair like that when I was your age," she said. "Textured tights were in style for about three years and I had a whole bunch of patterns and colors...about 20 pair."

I wish I had pictures of my mom's wardrobe. Frankly, I wish I had her wardrobe from back then! She frequently refers to her massive collection of matching shoes and purses. She spent all her cash on clothes as a working girl.

She also was dating another guy when she met my Dad. I love this story. My dad gave my mom a ride home from a meeting in college when they met, and, since he didn't have her number, he just stopped by a few nights later to say hello. While my mom had another guy over. My mom decided that my dad was more interesting and actually kicked out her initial date! Spunky, textured tight mama.

Carpe diem.

"We Don't Know What's Gonna Happen Next"

I hear you, sleep-talker husband.

Sweet Beatle Dance Party

One husband (23) + one wife (24) + one baby (4.5 mo.) + one nephew (3) + one niece (1.8) =
Sweet Beatle Dance Party in the family room.

Motor Mouth

Some people talk a mile a minute, and I encountered one of them today. This woman defined the term Motor Mouth, practically frothing with words of both the coherent and incoherent sort. If anyone in the room tried to get a word in edgewise, she'd revv up her engine and shift into high gear. I think my companion and I each spoke maybe 10 sentences in two hours while this woman chattered away.

What is it with people who believe their statements are more important than others? Hey, I may blog...but I'll also read yours. Or you don't have to read mine. Whatever.

At any rate, this Motor Mouth Mama's blubbering was exhaustipating. I'm enjoying the silence.

P.S. Tommy has entered a new phase! In the last 2 days, he has taken about 6 naps over 1.5 hours each....and several that were 2 hours plus. This is truly a miracle.

Rope Em In, Cowboy

Tommy acquired an adorable pair of PJs from Grandma Linda that picture mini cowboys. The only problem is that the snaps for this outfit are distanced quite liberally, and so at night, when Tommy is thrashing about in his usual state, he finds large holes in the legs and pops his stinky toes out of the footholds.

He just learned to suck them yesterday, by the way.

The toes, not the footholds.

Recnac Spelled Backward

My fam life has been turned upside down recently, as my father was just diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Last night, I kept waking up and those words just wouldn't leave my mind. Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Acute Myeloid...you get the picture.

The stuff they say about cancer being a roller coaster---it's true. There is sadness and disbelief and despair and laughter and learning and hope. Please let him make it. Please let him be Tommy's grandpa.

My dad left me a voicemail on my birthday this year. Out of character, he reminisced about the year I was born and how I was a great mother and how he couldn't believe I was 24. It's not out of character for my dad to be loving, but sentimental (he'll admit) is not his middle name. I saved the voicemail.

I think I am going to listen to it right now.

Get better, Dad.

Clean Slate

My sister-in-law gave me an address book for my birthday. It is a beautiful, leather-bound one that I desired and cherish. I am putting all my addresses in it this afternoon.

Despite the beauty of the book, there is a bittersweet feeling that comes with paging through your old directory of life. You think back on when people lived at all the crossed-out places. You remember friends who now have new last names. You wonder who you should just eliminate---after all, life changes.

But what if, after you eliminate she and he from the directory, you remember something important you wanted to say and you've no direction as to how to reach them?

Sigh. I'm closing one book, and opening another.

Little Sick, Tired Birthday Girl

The end of my last week as a 23 year old and the commencement of my first week as a 24 year old have been rough so far. I will list the challenges and the triumphs:

• Baby saw doctor for 4 month check-up.
• Doctor's intern told me no, babies don't get teeth this early. Take a look in HERE, little intern, and see exhibits A and B. My advanced babe.
• Babe acquired strange rash-inducing virus called roseola in combination with reaction to immunization shots AND thrush. Mom and Dad injected syringes of Tylenol and thrush meds into baby, who promptly screamed and refused to sleep 3.5 nights in a row.
• Mom turned 24 on no sleep, and sweet Daddy made delicious pizza reminiscent of one of our first dates. Dad brought home vino, and (accidentally!) a video bordering on porn. Suffice to say, we chose sleep.
• Mom acquired illness affecting muscles (ache!), throat (ouch!), and temperature. Illness still persists.
• Baby ate solid food (ok, semi-solid rice cereal) for 1st time...Doctor prompted this...full bellies equal full night's sleep. WE HOPE SO.

I hate to whine, but it's been rough, kids. Cherish your youth, because at 23.99, you just might have to grow up.

Hysterical III

If you have noticed a pattern to these entries, you're very perceptive. Tommy has so far fallen asleep several times alone in his crib, but at the moment he is again hysterical. Have I mentioned how painful this is? And how my neighbors are definitely calling child protective services by now?

Um, Officer...my son is in nap boot camp right now....he needs his sleep...

I wonder how long this is going to take.

Last night, John was not particularly supportive of the cry-til-he-sleeps plan. It IS really hard. And we do have neighbors in the apartment building. For a while, we just waited it out in the living room on the couch. Everyone feels so vulnerable...Tommy, because he's tired and thinks we've left him, and us, because when your baby cries you have only the desire to comfort. Can anything else really be a good idea?

Still Hysterical

Ok, Tommy is crying again. Being a parent is hard work. All I want to do is teach him how to fall asleep by himself. If only he'd believe me...Sleep is wonderful! Sleep is joyous!

Silence is joyous, too, by the way.

It is so hard not to go in there and just let him stay asleep in my arms. That's what he wants, I know. If I do that every time, though, then he'll never learn. Sigh.

I'm afraid the neighbors are going to call protective services pretty soon.

Hysterical

Tommy is crying in the bedroom. Sobbing. Heart-wrenching. Hyperventilating, even.

I was a little concerned that he hadn't been taking naps of the standard variety. I guess I wanted to believe he preferred short cat naps...twenty minutes here or there.

I just read this book on healthy sleep patterns, though, and it turns out these cat naps are NO GOOD. Kids need consecutive hours of sleep (2-3) in order to really get the good rest they need.

So, I am teaching my son the pattern of healthy sleep by letting him scream until he falls asleep.

It's very painful for all involved.

Throaty Concern

Banana bread scares me because it is so thick that it gets stuck in my throat and I think I will choke and die. The last time I made banana bread, I was pregnant and I swore I would not forget to drink a liquid (preferably milk) anytime I ate it.

I forgot today.

In other news, I was supposed to have a lunch date with a gal pal from the past this afternoon, but she never called. I suppose I could have called her, too...although I did leave the confirmation message yesterday and thought it was her due turn. This brings me to several points:

1.) Caller ID is the devil. Have you noticed how you (and anyone else) are rarely in the mood to answer a call at the given moment someone chooses to call you? You avoid the call, thinking you'll call them when you're more in the mood...and then you do return the call, only to get voicemail and realize s/he is now not in the mood for you. Does this seem healthy?

and

2.) I'd just rather not get into that right now.

Changed the Sheets Twice

So, I was feeling pretty proud of myself this morning. I positioned my unsuspecting infant atop a new blue sheet for a photo shoot, thinking the color would match his eyes nicely. Tommy doesn't smile when I take out the camera; he simply stares at me in wonderment or defiance, thinking Mom, what is that contraption and do you actually think you're the boss of me?

After a few minutes, I hear that familiar burbling sound which indicates Tommy is going to the bathroom. Great, I think. Pooping always puts my son in a good mood. Maybe he'll smile.

No such luck.

My son stares at me as usual, this time surely knowing what I don't: his diaper is unable to handle the massive diaherrea leaking onto my nice, blue sheet...Through to my nice, white sheet...Through the mattress.

Blue Cheese Pasta Salad

Just for kicks, and some great grub, combine:

1 box of rigatoni pasta, cooked
1/4 or 1/3 C mayo, to desired salad thickness
1.5 T sugar

Mix these first 3 ingredients, and then add:

1 container blue cheese (maybe 6 oz)
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cubed
1/2 C chopped walnuts*
1 bag Craisins


*If you're feeling particularly patient, you can carmelize the walnuts (before chopping them) for extra pizzazz.

Who are we?

Being a parent changes you, and it changes your spouse. Mostly, being a parent changes everything...and it CERTAINLY changes your relationship.

When I take a look back at the last three months, I can count on maybe four fingers the instances of couple time John and I have shared. Sigh. Sadly, we have wasted a few of those recent moments bickering about nothing as we were just exhaustipated from being parents.

I'll allow myself to indulge in nostalgia for a moment and tell you that prior to parenthood, we were that sappy couple you see experiencing romance at any given moment. Dancing together in the grocery store (freak dancing, not slow dancing, people), holding hands during car rides, and making googly eyes at Davanni's were not below us. We still do these things, of course, but we dance around the grocery store with Tommy (trying to prevent him from busting out with a siren cry from hunger), we grip each other's hands for support in the car (as Tommy's siren cry explodes through Vinny the Volvo---constantly), and we make googly eyes at Davanni's...at Tommy, because despite the siren cry, he is the most beautiful boy we have ever known.

I'm not entirely sure I can answer the query I've posed, but we are certainly different, John and I. Perhaps this weekend, with a Saturday night date and thanks to a free grandparent babysitting gig, we can rediscover our couplehood of past to keep our sanity in the present.

Jeepers Creepers

So, yesterday I was watching the news (shocking, I know) and learned of a convicted rapist who has been harassing women at a college near our apartment. Creepy!!! Apparently he approaches girls and starts discussing politics. Shortly into their conversation, he switches into explicit sexual language. Freaky. Why do we let these people out of jail??!!

Between this and the absurdly strange and disgusting sexual anecdote my mom shared with me yesterday (unrelated to her), I've had just about enough.

Naturally Offensive

An oxymoron, yes. Today I read Glamour magazine while eating a great salad and enjoying the weather at Kowalski's with my boy (yes, life as a stay at home mom is tough sometimes) when I came upon a slew of opinions about breastfeeding. The mag must have featured a story on this subject last month, and the opinions I read were in the editorial section.

To be fair, I never thought very much about breastfeeding prior to pregnancy. I guess I figured breastfeeding was natural, and I did consider that walking, talking kids were probably beyond the need for mom's milk. I was not breastfed as a baby, but my family seemed supportive of whatever I chose for my own baby. Formula seemed a viable option, and sometimes when I am up all night I do wish Dad could help out. For whatever reasons, I'm doing it, people.

Most of the opinions expressed in Glamour seemed in favor of breastfeeding (or, really, in favor of doing "whatever you want"---isn't that a tragic epidemic?); however, many felt that such encounters should occur only in one's own home. I guess I do understand how some people might be conflicted about women who "whip it out" to breastfeed in public...not everyone wants to see that. I can also empathize with the woman who was woefully exposed at Lake Harriet this summer, though: she had 2 other tots running around and was doing whatever she could to get that infant fed. Discretion was hardly at the forefront of her mind, nor should it have beens

The main point, in my mind, is not whether breastfeeding overexposes society to bare breasts (let's all agree that MTV has that covered...or uncovered) but rather that breastfeeding IS unarguably natural and (perhaps even more importantly) a woman who breastfeeds ONLY in her own home could never, ever leave her home. My kid, at least, eats constantly@

Can I endure imprisonment in my 1 bedroom apartment? No. Should I endure it?

Thankfully, I don't care enough about your opinion to change the way I'm getting nutrition to Tommy.

Abu Nader Deli

If you get the chance, this middle eastern deli on Como Avenue earns five stars for fabulous schwarmas. They are huge, gluttonous pitas dripping with cucumber sauce and overflowing with seasoned meat.

Best in the cities.

True Love

Our son has a font of earwax. Seriously. Funny how when it's your kid, you're not even grossed out at getting his earwax cleared out. In fact, it's kind of fascinating.

Car Ride

I'm sitting with my legs stretched up on the dash board when he looks at me with that look. He's awestruck, gazing as though I am the most adorable creature he has ever beheld. And then, to seal the deal:

"I hope all our daughters look exactly like you."

Sigh.

And Now for the Famous Cherry Love Bars

Bet you can't eat just one:

Crust
Mix 2 C flour, 1/2 C sugar, and 1 C softened butter like pie crust, using fork or pastry cutter. Press into greased 9x13'' pan. Bake at 350 for 10 min.

Layer 2
Beat 2 eggs and 1 egg yolk (save the white for later) with 1 and 1/2 C brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add 1/4 C flour, 1/2 t baking powder, 1/2 t salt, 1/2 C chopped maraschino cherries, drained, and 1/2 C chopped walnuts. Chop extra nuts for sprinkling.

Spread this on crust and bake 30 min at 350 OR UNTIL MIDDLE SETS. (Made sure the middle isn't runny. You will be sorry if this happens.)

Cool.

Frosting
Beat your remaining egg white with 2 T cherry juice, 1/4 C crisco and 2 C powdered sugar. Spread on bars and sprinkle with nuts.

YUM!

Frankenstein

Frankenstein is bigger than any human being.
He's 8 feet tall!
"What does he do?" we ask Luki.
He mostly strangles people.

Beautiful Son

He is sleeping and we lay in bed together. He is nestled into my side as I read The Time Traveler's Wife. I hear, feel his breath. He is beautiful. I pull the covers up enough to just cover his little chest. Every so often, I stop reading to poke him just a touch...his face contorts, or his tongue sticks out, and then he's back to sleep. It is amazing to spend a morning snuggled up with a baby who you created. He opens his eyes and peers into the world, and his face breaks into a wide smile when he sees me, his mother. Simply astounding. My son.

Ode to 21

Avoiding It

I'm avoiding the gym right now, only for a brief moment, to note that I spent a great deal of last night avoiding confrontation. What's my issue? I can't seem to let bygones be bygones.

I guess this entry it going to remain pretty vague, so maybe I'll just quit for the readers' benefit.

Argh.

Mmm...Yummy Fall

I was just thinking---if you were locked in a room and could only feel the air as it is today, would you guess the season?

Bob the Ellipse Man

Bob is an old man I see every morning at the YMCA. I'm not really sure his name is Bob, but I think I heard someone call him that once. At any rate, Bob pretty much owns the elliptical machine he uses at the Y. The man is on that thing any time I start working out---which varies pretty significantly based on Tommy's appetite---and he continues working it long after I'm done. I should mention I get a good hour of cardio in daily. I believe Bob, estimated to be roughly 75 years of age, may just work out 2-3 hours daily. He is out of control. Sweat pouring down his chest and back, gray hair slick with shine and exertion, smile strapped on his face as though his true joy in life is to be the Number One Member of the YMCA.

In addition to being the fittest old man at the Y, Bob knows every single member who walks into the fitness center. He particularly knows the hot young women, whom I am sure find his smile, and stamina endearing.

If I am so fit and such a flirt at 75, then I'll be doing pretty damn good.

Well, here I am with the Boop. Life's been a little crazy learning to be a Mom, and maybe that's why I've neglected the blog. Although I guess I started neglecting it quite some time before Tommy was born.

I'm not sure exactly what I want to write about at this moment. It's one of those Sundays where I'd like to do something, but I'm too lazy to think of something fun enough and actually do it.

Whelp, that's it. More later.

The Sun is UP

It's a good day. Could be that I have only 14 hours left of this job (but who's counting)? Could be that my shiny Volvo is fixed. Could be that the high is 47 degrees today. The list goes on and on.

I have more energy now than I have for a while. I'm planning to clean the apartment tonight, as we have a slew of guests coming in on Saturday to break the number-of-people-sleeping-in-a-one-bedroom-apartment record. Actually, I'm pretty sure we won't break the record. That's probably retained by some college folks sleeping/passing out on top of each other after a crazy party...

Sigh. The party days. Oh, how a preggo longs for a good glass of wine to go with her cheese.

Tonight I'm baking the infamous Cherry Love Bars. These bars are outta this world fabuloso; perhaps I should post the recipe. I actually googled the recipe just to see if it existed in cyberspace. Nada. Hmm. Maybe I should sell it on Ebay.

I'm reading WHITE TEETH by Zadie Smith for book club right now. Not sure entirely what I think about it, but it's gripping. Much more theme going on than in our last book club choice, which is promising.

Gotta split. Just finished my can of Coke and thecaffeineiskickingin.

Tales of a Dying Volvo

Vinny is dying. Well, he sounds like he's dying. The driver's side front wheel screeches and whines in a manner unfit for driving with the windows down. Thankfully, it is winter in Minnesota and neither I nor those on the road around me are loco enough for such chaos.

Vinny is at the shop right now, and I'm hoping this screeching can be repaired with minimum labor and minimum parts. What a waste of a bonus.

Additionally, I am tired this morning. My head keeps slipping down and snapping back up like it used to in 8th grade geometry class. Only 3 more days, including today, of this place.

Wahoo! Wahoo!

Mmmmm

It is the feeling that one moment could never surpass this one.

The belief, the knowledge, that you have undeservedly attained what everyone seeks.

~~~~

And So.

Maybe I have found the blog at a time in my life when it is needed. Then again, maybe I have found the blog at a time in my life when a change of career AND A NAP are needed. Not in that order.

Later on, I am starting a job teaching ESL at my mom's school. I feel good about that. It must be a more productive use of time than creating TPS reports. Don't get me wrong. Publishing is an ok business. I guess I'd just rather be doing the writing than doing the willy-nilly pre-manufacturing work.

Burble. I'm not sure how to explain the feel when the baby moves. I guess it does sort of feel like indigestion, but not completely. It's extended, for one thing, and for another, it's still different. It's burbly, if that helps.

I made it through the morning, but there are still 3.5 hours til I can feasibly bust outta here. Yesterday I left early and I have been waiting for bossman to reprimand me. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he didn't notice. I doubt that, though. People always seem to notice what you don't want them to notice.

Like acne. Ugh. I hate to waste words on such a disgusting topic, but seriously, people: must we pregnant women just get all the fun? I thought that the dry-me-out, bleaching agent had worked, and maybe it did, because after I didn't use it for one week, presto! change-o! I am back to horrifying teenage girl with a love for cover-up.

John got a Bloomberg. He sent me a clip of the screen today, so I could know what he looks at from 9 to 5. He says he doesn't know what I do. I don't talk about it much. Who wants to hear about boredom? Anyway, this chapter is almost over.

Maybe I should do my TPS reports in Bloomberg. That would be more fun.

Almost Done Here!

Almost Done Here!

Got a Blog

I just got a blog, but I didn't know what it was until the holiday, when I asked my brother. A blog is a good thing for someone like me, someone who works at a job where there is no work and it seems that they should release me now, at 8:36 A.M. Why can't they pay me for nothing? Wait, they are. Why can't they pay me for nothing while I'm sitting at home?

Yesterday we had an ultrasound and the baby is growing, growing, growing. In two weeks s/he has seemingly doubled in size. Amazing. My stomach, too, in case you wondered. Yesterday I consumed a large quantity of ice cream (not unusual to me, pregnancy aside). I thought my tummy was full of just that, but indeed, it is full of baby.

Full of baby.