Back to Me

One of the difficult things about just having ONE child* is that children are not fools: they covet your attention 100% of the time. At least, this is what I find with Tommy. He will NOT sit quietly and read books so I can fold the laundry. He will NOT play with trucks so I can take a shower. No, he must explore the dangerous laundry room by my side or peek his little head in through the shower curtain, leaning himself into a stream of water.

Mostly this attribute is exasperating, but sometimes it is endearing. Yesterday, for instance, Tommy sat on my lap while I was watching the 5 o'clock news and realized my attention wasn't on him.

And then he grabbed my chin and physically turned my head back toward him as if to say, I am the main attraction here, Mama.

*So, if you suffer from this persistent annoyance, like me, you could just have two children. For that reason. Haha. Or you could rent two cousins from down the block. They are also quite distracting.

Grandpa's Railing

Walkin'

Ode to Shel Silverstein

Family for sale,
Family for sale,
One certified, drama-ful family for sale.
You can't be too choosy,
You can't be too booze-y
to handle my lunatic family for sale!

Honey, I'm Home

We're finally in our new place.

It feels a little empty here in country suburbia. We have beautiful sunsets and lovely farmland and a bonified old-school downtown.

We have new paint and light fixtures, squishy carpet, and a dining room table I'm afraid to eat on.

We need some pictures on the walls, though. And maybe just that sense of "home" that takes time to build in a place. How many dinners or walks to the park? Or maybe we just need Eunice's window treatments.

1% Me

99% Dad.

Grown Up

I have been watching more than my share of daytime talk shows this week. What else are you supposed to do between constant eating, sleeping, and puking? Anyway, the Opera show today actually had a one-liner worth thinking about:

You're grown-up when you love someone else more than you love yourself.

How many people can really love others more than themselves? Can you only love one person that much, or can you be so mature that you even love your enemies that much?*

I know I wouldn't be so foolish as to believe I'd attained this maturity in any sort of high regard. Truly, I love my husband and son and parents and siblings that much, but how far the love goes...I don't know. Would I be or am I really there for others around me when they need comfort? Am I more worried about others' welfare than my own?

I don't know a lot of grown-up people my age, using this definition. There are a few, but there are a lot more who seem to be concerned about their own success, their own time, their own agendas. Sometimes I wish I could be more like that... It would be easier, less painful, I think.


*And if, like me, you wish more people understood that kind of love in relation to YOU...are you the opposite of mature? Or do you just need love?

Bonkers

Everyone is bonkers at this house. Me, being driven crazy. Mom, being driven crazy by me. Tommy, bonking his own head repeatedly into any hard object he can find.

Yes, you read that correctly.

My son chose this week, the week I want to show him off to a bunch of friends and also present him to John's coworkers and clients, to start Head Bonking Syndrome. If he is mad at me or just frustrated in general, he whacks his forehead fairly ceaselessly into the ground.

Incidentally, head bonking is not that rare amongst kids his age. Wouldn't you know that boys are 3-4 times as likely to do it than girls? We would never want to distort our complexion more than nature already has.

I guess I'm supposed to trust that Tommy won't hurt himself too badly, and I'm supposed to ignore his behavior as attention will be his desired result.

Good times. Maybe I should find some baby-scented cover-up for his gigantic bruise.

Bliss

It was a long day. Every day is that way when you're pregnant. I was so tired I stumbled to wash my face and pull my flannel pajamas onto my worn-out body.

There was just enough room in the moment for one perfect sentence.

Even in the dark, I can see you're beautiful.

How does he get it right?

The Great Jade Caper

Grandpa always is the kind of person who solves his own problems. Too little space in this house? Knock out a wall! Too few bathrooms? Install a hallway sink! Missing phone calls while you're on the porch swing? Answer a telephone-on-a-pole as you while the hours away. This is the mentality which still kept ahold Grandpa when, several years ago, the Great Jade disappeared.

It was a large plant, the kind it would take two or three or four men to carry. It was expensive, too: a jade that had multiplied and flourished through years of care by an expert gardener. It sat there on the busy street of buzzing traffic, protected by fencing but apparently not unseen by jealous neighbors.

And then it was gone. Grandpa awoke one morning to note that the jade had mystically disappeared. Who could carry that mammoth pot away in the dark of the night? As Grandpa stood on his front stoop marvelling the strength of the thieves, he noticed the jade had left a clue: a trickling path of dirt and leaves heading off the property!

That's all it took for the caper to unfold.

Grandpa must've had a quickened step in his leather loafers that morning, chuckling to himself at the idiocy of whomever made away with his Great Jade. The trail of plant life led a block or two away to a few apartment units of questionable status. And when Grandpa looked up one, two, three floors, it was there. The Great Jade stood, a trophy upon a third floor balcony.

Grandpa shook his head and walked amusedly home.

"Well, let's just march up there and get the plant!" A neighbor said.

"Are you a fool?" Grandpa replied, "Whoever took that plant is stronger than you and me and we aren't gonna face him. I already called the police. That jade will be mine again."

And so it was. And so it was.

He Shall Eat Cake

Heaven Sent

Pool BW
Originally uploaded by xuarrac.

Simple Pleasures

Which Bolt of Fabric is Heaviest and How Fast Can I Hit Her and Run Out the Door?

Today Tommy and I were a little bored, so we took a trip to the local craft store. Despite the fact that I am a stay at home mom, I don't visit these stores with much frequency. "Crafty" these days seems to mean cutting heart-shaped sandwiches of PB&J for my niece and nephew. There were days* when I clung to a more expanded definition, and maybe someday, they will return.**

At any rate, Tommy and I found ourselves under immediate assault in the heavy-duty fabric aisle. Just as I was about to ponder which fabrics could potentially complement our chocolate brown couches, a petite grandmotherly woman came running and gushing in our direction. "Oh, he is seeeeeeew cute!" she drawled, carrying an armload of obnoxiously bright patterns. "And he is seeeeew smart! I can tell! I'm an early childhood educator! His eyes are so bright and his attention span is great and gush, gush, gush, gush, gush!"

As a mother of an insanely charming son, these encounters are not infrequent for me, but this particular lady was not actually a Baby Gusher: rather, she was a Personal Boaster using Baby Gushing as a tactic to capture her audience.

Throughout the 15 minutes we spent in the fabric section, I learned of:
- the ivy league schools this woman had paid for her children to attend
- the best memento possible to create with baby shoes
- her personal favorite craft for her grandkids (pillowcases)
- her twin sister
- her 1st grade class of 9 women who still get together annually and will be doing so very shortly
- the brightly colored pillowcases she is making for each of her 1st grade classmates
- her 3rd place finish in a marathon of 17,000 runners and
- her daughter's 1st place finish in a marathon of 10,000 runners in Atlanta

Whew. That was intense. And honestly, she told me much more.

The moral of the story? I'm all for small talking and hey, sometimes I'm even an initiator. But if you see a woman with a small baby in a craft store, she doesn't have time to listen to your life story. And please, don't be so bold as to assume that grandmotherly bragging rights apply to every aspect of your personal life. And also, know that those fabrics may blind pillowcase recipients instead of put them to sleep.



*when I was well-rested or procrastinating in college
**when I am well-rested again

One Year Less One Month

Dear Tommy,

I just can't believe it. 11 months old. The next letter I write to you will be on your first birthday! How did the time slip through our fingers? You're pointing, you're babbling, and you're cruising around.

My letter this month is a little delayed, as we've been staying with your cousins for a week so Aunt Sarah and Uncle Brian could go to Mexico. You've loved waking up to Will and Claudia, but truthfully, Tommy, I need my own Mexican vacation to recover from you three kids. You wore me out! Your cousins are so busy, and it seems I was cleaning, folding laundry, or scolding every second. Well, not every second. Dad did joke, though, that it seemed he'd hardly seen his wife all week---we'd both just turned into disciplinarians!

Now that it's nice outside, you love to discover new things around you. You point to the sky when airplanes zoom overhead, you squeal with delight at dogs who bark. You know where your hair is and where your ears are, but you can't seem to put your finger on the nose. Maybe next month, Tommy.

Normally, you sleep through the night now, but about a week ago, Daddy woke up to you crying around 3AM. "Mamamamama!" You screamed in your usual fashion. But as soon as Daddy came to the crib to pick you up, you switched your tune to, "Dadadada!!" Dad was so contented to hear you, for the first time, definitively call his name. It's those experiences that warm our hearts and make us want to snuggle you with a thousand snuggles.

I love you, my baby-in-a-towel.

Happy 11 Months!

Love, Mama

This One's For You

[Emerging from our bathroom...] When people talk about life's simple pleasures, they should really include among them having a good 'poo. There's nothing quite like it.

From the Mouth of a Potty-Trained Babe

She's scratching her tummy, so I ask, "Whacha up to, Claudia?"

"I'm buttoning myself," she replies, tapping her belly button as if to show I should have surmised this much.

Seen & Heard

My husband and I recently served on a panel for an Engaged Retreat. We sat and offered expertise on marriage based on our accumulated 19 months.

One of the anonymously submitted questions:

"Why is it wrong to watch porn together if you are both OK with it?"

We didn't have time to answer all the questions, and this one somehow slipped through the cracks. Any answers?

Hypo-optimac

(Noun) Grandma who breaks her glasses in an effort to gain attention from the optical staff

True Story

And we're running through the department store as she yells, "I'm pooping! I'm pooping!" and I yell, "Don't poop! Don't poop!" and then finally we're there in the bathroom and there's no accident and we're both so proud.

Talk about job satisfaction!

10 Months Old

Dear Tommy,

You're 10 months + 5 days old today, and to celebrate, I'm looking back at a picture of you from near-birth. You're snuggling up with Miss Kate, undoubtedly looking for a bit of nursing from the wrong Ma. This is a habit you've embraced throughout your infancy, although now you're a bit more overt----instead of just snuggling, you ferociously bite whomever holds you. It's a little alarming, my love.



Despite your sharp snappers, you're growing into such an loveable, alert, brilliant, and humorous young man. Each morning, you rise at 5:30 AM and I groan in exhaustion. Can't I just sleep in until 6, Tommy? I can't be mad, though: you climb into bed with me and lounge around until you decide it's time for your first daily ritual---climbing over our mound of pillows towards the blinds in the bedroom. The blinds give you such great joy, Tommy. You pull them forward and they SNAP back at the windowpane with a tremendous noise. You laugh and laugh and laugh. Sometimes I think this activity could last for hours, but it's time for breakfast.



Speaking of breakfast, you've really moved onto the Big Kid stuff lately. You usually either eat oatmeal or Cheerios with milk and bananas. Some of your other eating habits are not quite as mature: at dinner last night, you decided you didn't want to eat the tortilla we'd ripped up for you, so you steathily took the pieces and snuck your hand into your lap. We saw you dropping those pieces onto the floor, Tommy. We're onto you. You Love Milk. Anything dairy, actually. Lately, you are consumed by such great thirst that just seeing anyone POUR liquid into a glass transforms you into an insatiable roaring lion. Your curl your tiny fingers into fists and literally growl until a cup is brought to your lips. It's endearing.

Your attention span is growing such that a toy now occupies you for about 2 minutes at max. (Prior to this month, it was maybe 20 seconds.) You like to investigate the manufacturer tags on items.

You like to investigate everything.

You are mobile in a way I couldn't have believe until I saw it unfold. We construct impediments all over the house so you can't get into dangerous things, and you pull, push, or wiggle your way through any obstruction. In Grandma M's living room, we've used large tupperware bins to block off dangerous outlets and corners in the seating area. If I leave you in there for 60 seconds, you've discovered one TINY crevice big enough to scuttle 1/2 your body through. You wriggle yourself in there and are promptly stuck between couches til I return.

I can see that your mobility is about to explode into a new level even beyond this, though, as you have recently stood---first with my help, and now on your own. You smile that big, dimpled grin and your eyes just light up with pride.



It seems like the list could go on and on this month, my kiddo. In the springtime sunshine, we're constantly exploring new terrain. It's as if a new world has opened up for you this month....what is grass? What are leaves? Do they taste good? Can I eat your shoe? I know these are the burning questions in your mind.



Among your many talents, you're now clapping and waving and kissing and...well, now I'm just turning into a bragging mom. I love you, Tommy. I can't believe my love as a mom is growing faster than even you are.

Yours to the moon and back,
Mom

Nature or Nurture? My Son, the Coquette

At the tender age of about 4 months, Tommy started exhibiting Fear of Strangers. Initially, I was mortified. Sure, I want my kids to be who they are and everything like that, but I have to admit that I really want Tommy to be friendly and a great conversationalist with others. (Does that make me a bad mom?)

Anyway, as you might surmise, I feared Tommy's shyness doomed him to a fate of eternal shyness. To counter this, I'd tickle him when he met strangers, so he'd smile* and they'd think, "Wow, what an outgoing boy."

I'm not sure if it was nature or nurture, but Tommy the Introverted has been outed. That is, he's now an Extrovert. While shopping at an unnamed outlet mall today, I noted my son flirting with no less than 20 women. He's pretty coy about it, actually: he snuggles his chin and face into me as if to FEIGN shyness, but then he pops out his head with the most adorably flirtatious grin.

And the grin keeps coming.

Tommy is visibly upset when we are forced to move on to a new store, as it means diverting eye contact from his ladies.

I think I've created a monster.

*Some might read this and misconstrue it as a manipulative effort to force personality traits upon my son. It was.

First Day Standing

First Day Standing 41106
Originally uploaded by xuarrac.

Public Bathrooms

I had to get a little distance from this topic before I could write about it. It's one of those.

Last week, the Gkids came over for a round o' fun, except that Claudia is on the post-potty training brink. I was suspicious about how much fun would be had, but my concerns were assuaged when Claudia announced immediately upon arriving, "I have to go pee on the potty!" Dutifully, I took Claudia upstairs and granted her some privacy so she could use the toilet and admire her Cinderella underwear.

Hours later, the novelty of Grandma's potty had worn off. I caught a whiff of something potently offensive, and naively assumed it was my own child. "I'm going to change Tommy's diaper," I told Claudia. "He's poopy."

"Poopy?" Claudia repeated. She seemed to be considering that as I walked away.

When I got to the changing station, I found Tommy wasn't in need of a diaper change, but---still way too naively---I assumed he'd just passed some gas. Moments later, Claudia was rushing towards me, pulling her pants and Cinderella underpants down in a state of complete panic. "Poop in the pants!! Poop in the pants!!! Aaaaaaaaahhh!"

Check that. I still don't think I have enough distance to make the 'ol remove-poop-from-the-pants-sterilize-the-bathroom-bathe-the-niece-while-anticipating-more-poop-in-the-bathtub-and-a-later-episode-of-seven-pee-puddles-in-the-bedroom entirely comical.

More better, though:

Yesterday, I was on the phone with my sister when she started in with a serious scolding. Scolding while on the phone is common in the mom club, so I didn't think too much of it until her tone was really rising, "William James!!! What are you doing!!!? Get back in here!!! Pull your pants up!!!"

Apparently, Will had decided it was too nice of a day to waste a second of sunshine. He'd taken a potty break on the front porch.

And It's Gonna Be Bright and Sunny Today!

Tommy has a toy remote control (how manly) that you can flip to the weather station. A man with an annoyingly high-pitched voice says, without fail, "And it's gonna be bright and sunny today!"

Yesterday, and today, it's true.

Except that Tommy and I are sick like dogs. I hate to be a whiner, but I am the youngest child. Isn't it officially spring? Doesn't that mean the cold and flu season is Over? When I signed up for the 2am shift, why didn't I consider the possibility that I might be coughing uncontrollably and dying for sleep-recovery of my own?

Poor Tommy. He's having the scary-high baby fevers and he rests his head heavily on my shoulder. That always indicates a problem, since he'd usually rather be scooting towards the nearest outlet. Or pulling Grandma's tablecloth off the table so the huge vase comes crashing down.*


*Grandchild in a Disaster Zone coming to theatres near you soon.

She-S-P

While shoe shopping recently, I spotted a clearance pair of serious spunk.

"I noticed those, too, except for one thing..." My friend replied. I nodded.

"Toe cleavage."

Ode to Vinnie

You were beautiful, Vinnie, shining in the sun, letting the sun shine in.
You were artful, Vinnie, a statue on Grand Avenue and at the LL Hotel.
You were comforting, Vinnie, a warming place for our freezing behinds.
You were glamorous, Vinnie, a glimmer of hope that even a Mom---this Mom---can be cool.

Vinnie the Volvo was sold yesterday to a handsome young Air Force man who has no kids. He is survived and replaced by the new auto in our lives. We finally accepted parenthood.

[Gasp.]

I'm a mini-van Mom.

Kid Behind Bars

My child has become a danger to himself and society. He's Trouble-Makin' Tommy, the boy who doesn't sleep at night and yet still musters up the charisma to give his Ma a devilish grin as the day starts. He's rarin' to go, crawling across the beds to play with the Venetian blinds and then explore the terrain until I save him from catapulting himself off the edge. Once he's down on the ground, he scoots towards live outlets, casting a smile in my direction. "No, Tommy, NO!"

Then it's onto the fan. Why not grab the fan, looming high above like a glorious conquest? "Tommy, NO!"

So we head upstairs. And he's off...zipping around the kitchen, he opens up the heavy metal drawer underneath the stove, clambering pots and pans into one another until til I pick him up. "No, Tommy! That's dangerous." He heads for another drawer as I slurp down my coffee. His fingers pull this once open and he strains to pull it out with all his weight. Except he doesn't quite have control, so his fingers soon are trapped in the shut drawer and he screams uncontrollably.

The poor kid.

It's gotten to the point where I can not leave Tommy for a split second without worrying that he'll find The Most Dangerous Item in the household. Whether he's stuffing Kleenex wads into his mouth or grabbing Grandma's glass frame of Claudia precariously---yet artfully---displayed on the lowest shelf, this kid is a danger.

And now he's behind bars.

Tales of Sobriety and Inebrity...mostly the latter

You're just not even respetive to that! You're not even respetive! Respetive, respetive, respetive!

Game

A fun game when you're bored is to go to the bathroom and count ants while you sit on the toilet.

Bonus points if you can still count them when your bathroom has a distracting floor pattern offering ant-camouflodge.

Slithering Ants

There is a laundry shoot at our house which conveniently allows us to collect dirty clothes in a closet in the laundry room. My mom and I do laundry endlessly---maybe 3 or 4 loads a day---but despite our efforts, the problem still persists.

Ants.

Disgusting ants.

I don't know how she can live in a house which presents this problem year after year. "It's every spring," she says, spraying toxic ANT AND ROACH KILLER on a pool of slithering friends. The smell, not to mention the sight, nauseates me.

Thank goodness for brand, spankin'-new suburban homes.

2 Year Old Flirts Flawlessly

Claudia: Don?
John: Yes?
Claudia: Do you wear pants?
[Pause.]
John: Yes...
Claudia: I do, too!

Old People Routine

Do denominations other than Catholicism have daily services? If not, I suggest you become Catholic before getting old. Hey, I guess I suggest it anyway, but the reason I'd like to point out right now is that Old People Need a Routine.

I'm not saying this to be disrespectful. In fact, I'm old in a lot of ways myself.

I've been going to daily Mass lately because it's Lent, and I'm too ill-disciplined to give something up for 40 days. Instead, I tote Tommy along and parade him in front of the old people who are always at daily Mass. I believe that a little bit of their daily Mass commitment stems from its familiarity and social opportunity, although I also believe that a great many of these folk are devout & faithful.

Why are so many more people devout & faithful at the end instead of the beginning? Are they just filling their days? Am I just filling mine?

Things She's Taught Me

1. Be patient.
2. Forgive.
3. Trust your instincts with your kids' safety.
4. When in doubt, bake.
5. Don't judge others.
6. Think of others before yourself.
7. Value family.

Globo de Nieve

The snow is thick, rich like icing.
Glistening underneath a rare winter sun.
Perhaps so beautiful because it's fleeting.
Perhaps because here, inside, I'm protected.
The tree bent down low to meet the ground yesterday,
But he shook the snow and released its weight.

9 Months In, 9 Months Out

Dear Tommy,

As my kind friend Miss Kate pointed out over the weekend, you've officially doubled your age. When we put our fabulous math skills together, we calculated that this won't occur again until you are 3 years old. Or 18 months old. Or something like that. Whatever. It's a momentous accomplishment, son.

As I write, you are muttering softly next to me in the bedroom. It's time for bed, and you're not really happy about it. I know you're tired, though. You've rested your head heavily upon the mattress, indicating that the day has exhausted you. You played hard in the bath, and you worked hard figuring out how to flick the lightswitch on and off. You're just getting over a high fever. They always happen over the weekend when we need to take you into Urgent Care to get things checked out.



The last month has been a big one, kiddo. It seems they always are. You're finally realizing that things have a NAME. Like Helen Keller and the water scene. I think this started out with a trick you've been doing...when we ask you to do your trick, you clasp your hands together and hold your hands in an "O" over your head. You look pretty darn proud of yourself.



At any rate, things have progressed since the O took shape. A week ago, you started to take extreme interest in Grandma's mantle clock. Then, one day, the word just came out: "clock." You repeated it several times. Clock. Clock. Clock.

Tick tock.

That day, it all came together. "Mama, mama," you pleaded as you crawled towards me across the rug. I knew you meant what you were saying. Later that night, you reiterated your understanding of the word by screaming, "Maaaamaa! Maaaama!" when you were supposed to be sleeping. I love you, Tommy, but night-night is night-night and I'm not getting out of bed just because you know my name.



I make exceptions for sickness.

It's not only been a big month for you...it's been a big one for our whole family. Last week, Dad and I finally took the plunge and signed a purchase agreement for Our First Home. Well, the first one not underneath the Barreller. And not within the confines of your grandparents' home. There's one bedroom for you, and one for us, and one for your toys or whoever comes to visit.

It's about 6 blocks from your cousins, and Will is planning to bike over as soon as we move in.

You're basically eating whatever's in front of you, although you've decided that Rice Cereal is now beneath your vast palate's standard. Daddy fed you a chocolate chip cookie today, along with cooked carrots, pot roast, and pureed potatoes. You love cheese, and today you gobbled it up atop scrambled eggs.



I wish I could freeze some moments, Tommy, in the way some people freeze cookies or leftovers for later. I wish I could pull out a tiny Tommy to hold and remember---in a physical sense---as these months and years go by. Yesterday, I walked by a picture of you from this summer, and I can't believe how much you've changed. You were so small and pudgy. Now you're long and thin and strong. And smart.

I could go on and on about who you are, Tommy, because you really are...already...coming into your own. It will be amazing to see how that progresses each day that stretches before us.

I love you.

Your,
Mama

P.S. Ask me later about how I accidentally spliced your little finger while cutting your nails. I'm sorry, Tommy. It was horrifying. And then you were SockHand.

My Big Boy

Dear Thomas,

The other day, you woke up from a nap and were still sleepy as I held you in my arms. You rested your little head on my shoulder and your long skinny body stretch down past my torso. You feet wiggled below. I can not believe how much you're growing. Sometimes Daddy calls you "Tom" now. It makes me flinch for a second, but when I look at you, I realize you are becoming a big boy.







Our calendar is full of your "firsts" from the last month. It began at the end of January when you suddenly balanced yourself and sat up, and continued until you were scooting backwards and then finally creeping forwards in an army-crawl style toward objects you covet. You love your shrimp swimming lessons at the YMCA, and definitely take your new kicking skills with you into the bath at home. A few weeks ago, we went on an overnight to a hotel with your Grandma and Grandpa C and you showed off your talent.


I know you love me, mostly because your anxiety at my departure is so desperately evident all the time. I try to leave the room to fold the laundry, and your lip quivers as though I've announced my intent to travel around the globe. Most of the time, I try to sneak away so you don't notice...but you're onto me, Tommy. I know that if we make eye contact as I leave the room, I'm in for it.

You're getting pretty good at smushing Cheerios in between your front teeth, and slowly you've started eating other big kid foods, like cheese and yogurt and lunch meat. You are starting to notice when my plate has something different than yours...and you've also noticed that I seem to be drinking a lot of Diet Pop out of fun cans. I'm sure it will be no time before you're asking for a sip.

You've had your share of sickness this winter, between the RSV and frequent colds. This keeps you from the Y, where you love to mostly watch other kids. I think you like the distraction and chaos since things at home are a little more quiet. Daddy and I asked you if you want another kid in the family, and you seem pretty into it. So are we.

Now, if we could only find a home to house this family...

It won't be long.

I love you.

Mom

Can you be spiritual and successful?

Can I justify my $10 million lakeside home?

Ultimate.

This one is just for you----VVMS note style.

-Kemosabi

Mercedes

You know who you are. Give me the recipe for those Tootsie Roll Jello Shots. Who won't give a good recipe away to admirers? Share the wealth.

Insights by my Husband

Him: You know that moment---the one just before you fall asleep?

Me: It's beautiful, isn't it?

Him: I'll bet...

Me: He's gonna wake up.

Him: Yeah.

(Mutual sighs.)

A Blog Chain Letter?

Kate got me.

Four jobs I've had:
1. Harassee at Dick Blick Arts Materials (e.g. "Can I paint you naked?" "Uh, no. I'm 16 and you're a creepy old bald man who works with me and...I quit.")
2. Gap Employee
3. Opera-Singing hostess at Macaroni Grill
4. Event coordinator of a rock concert

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. Beauty & the Beast
2. Zoolander (I never thought I'd write that.)
3. What About Bob
4. Office Space


Four places I've lived:
1. Granada, Spain
2. St. Paul, MN
3. Richfield, MN
4. The Bubble


Four TV shows I love:
1. Grey's Anatomy
2. Felicity
3. The Biggest Loser
4. Law & Order


Four places I've vacationed:
1. Marbella, Spain
2. Las Vegas
3. Eau Claire (just this weekend!)
4. Disneyworld/land


Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Chicken cacciatore
2. Anything with blue cheese
3. Raspberries
4. Ice Cream


Four sites I visit daily: (Three of these make me laugh so hard I could pee.)
1. dooce.com
2. Babycenter
3. Calorie Counter for my weight loss project
4. Site of the Crazy One


Four places I would rather be right now:
1. At a Spa
2. On the Beach
3. Target
4. Hospital...oddly.

People I am tagging:
1. Wombat Queen
2. Jess
3. Ash

Homelessness

On the whole, living with my parents isn't a bad thing. It's actually pretty good. There's always someone to chatter away at, even if they're not listening. There are two---count 'em---fridges stocked to the brim at most times. There is usually a free baby-sitter.

But homelessness starts to get to you. Or me, as it is.

I long for the the day I can again fold my laundry my way, eat my groceries that I bought because I like boneless skinless chicken breast and I don't like potatoes. Or potatos.

And then, I'm sure, when that day comes and I live on the other side of the world, I'll miss this place as I did before. But then, we'll have that wonderful relationship of Mom-and-Daughter-who-Live-Separately-Loving-and-Missing-Each-Other-More-For-That-Fact.

Incidentally

There's nothing like ending a good 'ol fam weekend with a tour of your local brewery. Samples included.

No Pants Nephew...and Niece

The really funny thing is that he's done this before. There was that time on Halloween when he answered the door in his birthday suit and handed out candy to the neighbor kids without batting an eye. And they didn't bat theirs, either. They just grabbed as much candy as they could and took off.

And then tonight, I walked into the room where Claudia and Will were supposed to be sleeping to find that games and socks and pillows were strewn about in tornadic, post-bedtime silliness. And Claudia and Will were not peacefully slumbering, but rather nakedly staring at me, wide-eyed and wondering whether I'd scream or laugh. I sort of grunted.

And then, while Will went downstairs to find Go Dog Go, whom he couldn't sleep without, I asked Claudia where her pjs were. I don't know, she said. Willy took them.

Shrinking Poster

Sorry for my long absence. I haven't been motivated to post lately. I have, however, found motivation in another area---weight loss! It scares me to post this, because putting my weight loss plan on the internet does give me a certain level of accountability.

My plan is to count calories and eat 1500/day. We'll see how it goes. I'm actually a geek who enjoys tracking calorie consumption in an Excel spreadsheet. If you didn't know how much I loved statistics class, perhaps you wouldn't have guessed. ;)

At any rate, the goal here is to get rid of the rest of this stubborn baby weight. It hasn't gone anywhere and I've been exercising 4-5 times/week for the past 6 months. Ridiculousness. (Ok, I shouldn't exaggerate. It has gone down somewhat but not enough in that amount of time). Anyway, the moral of the story is that I need to cut back on my eating and continue the exercising if I'm going to get anywhere. The other moral of the story is here.

So, wish me luck, blog readers. I'll be keeping ya posted.

Us

Little Swimmer (And Bob the Ellyptical, Part II)

I'm Shy*

My nephew Will (also seen here) has passed the terrible twos and is looking towards the frightening fours. Yesterday, he wanted to watch the Weepuls or the Willies or some dancing kid video and my sister told him that he couldn't. Will was not happy.

Sarah left the house to get the mail across the street and then she returned to find the door locked. "I'm shy, I'm sad," Will said from inside the house. And then he proceeded to sit down and watch the video for 20 minutes, while Sarah raged outside, outsmarted by her toddler. Claudia dragged her little blue chair over to the door and tried to unlock it, but she's only 2 and couldn't figure it out.

After a goodly amount of time and after I'd already hit the road with a spare key to rescue my sister, Will finally unlocked the door.


*And by shy he means whatever he wants to mean.

Can I schedule my brain surgery appointment now?

I'm a married woman, but I still have to admit that Patrick. Dempsey. is. hot. It's the kind of hot that makes you write a sentence with periods in the middle, so that readers understand the intensity of the situation.

I've informed my husband of this.

Last night, while watching Grey's Anatomy, John sought his revenge. "Ay Carumba!!" Izzy the hot underwear model stepped onscreen. She is pretty hot, I agreed later in bed. But I think Meredith is prettier.

"Meredith is pretty," John noted. "But she's more of what I'd describe as cute. Izzy is certifiably hot."

I buy that. Like in the way George is cute and McDreamy is hot.

If only next Sunday wasn't so far away...

Sarah's Chicken Enchiladas

I get a lot of requests for this recipe, so I thought I'd post it. It came from my sister and has become one of my stand-bys. It's easy to make and I like to freeze it for a fast dinner at-the-ready. Oh, by the way...I am changing my name to Suzy Homemaker after that last sentence.

ingredients:
-1 small pack boneless, skinless chicken breasts, baked and cubed* (or shredded)
-1 med. container sour cream or sour lean
-2 cans cream of chicken soup
-1 bunch of green onions, chopped (or substitute white onions, sauteed in butter)
-1 can of chopped green chiles (or substitue can of jalapenos--depends on spice preference)
-2.5 C shredded cheddar cheese
-12 fajita size flour tortillas (the small ones)

1. Preheat oven to 350. Combine cream of chicken soup, chopped green chiles, sour lean, and chopped green onions.
2. Spread one tortilla with about one nice dollop of this mixture. Then put a line of about 1/4 C chicken in the center of the tortilla. Then sprinkle some cheese all over the tortilla.
3. Wrap the tortilla, folding in each side so it forms an enchilada-type rectangle. Put the enchilada in a large glass baking dish with the seam side down.
4. Repeat steps 2-3 until you use up all the chicken and tortillas.
5. Spread the remaining sauce on top of all the enchiladas. Sprinkle the top with remaining cheese, or add more if desired.
6. Bake for about 35 minutes at 350 degrees. Eat.

Embarrassing

When you realize that huge mark across the bottom of your bathtub isn't finish that has worn away with time. No, no. In fact, it is soap scum* that you bathed in for over a year.


*And, FYI, can be removed with BAM! but not Lysol.

Minnesota's Littlest Packer Fan

Dear Tommy,

Tomorrow is your 7 month mark and, as always, I look back bewildered at how fast you've grown and how quickly the time has slipped away. Although, honest mother that I am, I do have to admit that this particular week has CREPT by. You've been sick with RSV and it is horrible. We took you to the emergency room on Tuesday night, where they finally diagnosed your fever and deep, painful cough. Finally today you turned a corner and the fever broke. You had me scared, housebound, and awake a lot this week.

Despite the sickness, you've had a big month. You started eating little cereal bits, grasping your thumb and pointer finger together (the "pincer" move) to pick each one up pointedly, cautiously. It took a bit for you to figure out how to get something so small into your mouth, but once you did, there was no going back. You use your top and bottom chompers to split the pieces apart, and then mostly gum them to smitherines.

You're getting stronger all the time. The bath is a wave pool now; you slosh your arms and feet in spasms, giggling and gurgling as the current splashes onto Dad and me. You still love your Exer-Saucer, and seem to finally really be using it for exercise---spinning around, jumping intently, shaking things up a bit. You also finally realized that you can CONTROL things. On the Exersaucer, you hit the monkey head button to produce sound. You do the same to your turtle toy, bending his neck so the funky music will start.

You LOVE watching other kids, especially your cousins. Will and Claudia like to play with you by bringing you toys or picking up the toys you've thrown on the ground beneath your highchair. Your eyes light up, and if you're really into the fun, you emit a crazy, quacky Donald Duck-type laugh. It's bizarre, really.

You love to nurse but your attention isn't held by Mama alone anymore. When you're eating, any little noise can distract you. You're slowly moving more towards real food, though I know for now you need our special time together.

Whenever I go out (the occasions are rare as a new mom), my heart practically bursts at the opportunity to talk about you, Tommy. I am so proud of your accomplishments already...just being you is amazing. I know it always will be.

I love you.

Mom

Really Sick Valedictorian

Well, Tommy isn't a valedictorian yet but it's only a matter of time. Tommy's horrid cough turned out to be R.S.V. and valedictorian was the only V noun that seemed to apply.

Infected

Tommy is sick. He has a horrid cough and a fever, and is so congested that he can't sleep more than 45 minutes at most. This makes for horrible nights and a Mommy who can't spell on her Blog. Plus, I was bored anyway and now I'm cooped up and bored.

The poor bug's nose is crusted beyond recognition when he wakes up in the morning. If I try to remove the crustation, he launches himself in a direction opposite me and the Kleenex. He may be young, but he's smart enough to escape tissue when he sees it. That's my kid.

Baby-sitter Need Sun-Sat 4:30 AM - 6 AM

I've given up. Tommy persists waking up, gurgling, and rattling his little teddy bear every morning at 4:30 AM. Putting him to bed later doesn't change his wake-up time, so now I'm just being realistic.

Any takers? He is adorable if you can overlook the fact that you're awake and the sun won't rise for hours.

Surburbia Sellout?

It is my first post of the New Year and I am here to report that we may be selling out to suburbia. I won't comment on any precise location, but you know what I mean...blocks and blocks of homes that look identical except for that one couple who painted their door red.

How does this happen? How does a city-loving, apartment dwelling couple go suburban? They walk into a townhome and realize that there are CLOSETS THE SIZE OF AN APARTMENT. AND JACUZZI BATHTUBS. AND 3 BR, 2.5 BA BRAND, SPANKIN' NEW OPPORTUNITIES for $50,000 less than similiar, near-the-city, old accomodations.

We haven't sold out yet, but it's looking good and soon.

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.