Sunday, February 28, 2010

He sleeps now. Mostly.

Friday was a momentous day. My good friend graduated from flight attendant school so Oliver and I went over to her place to hang out with her and her fam. Oliver was being his usual social butterfly self when he decided to bite my hand and I thought...

OW! That hurts.

Wait... does that mean? Look! A Tooth!!

And there was much celebration. So much celebration, in fact, that we broke out the clown nose that we keep on hand for such occaisions. 

And I don't know what it is, but something about having that new tooth makes him look like a brand new baby. Makes him look older? Wiser? There's just something I can't put my finger on.

Whatever it is, it makes him sleep through the night so I'm liking it.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Yesterday was better.

Things that happened yesterday:

Started the morning with a rousing game of Magazine Awesome Extreme Go. See video.

I tried to juggle bath toys for Oliver's entertainment. A squeaky cow got away from me and hit him on the head. Gave him a little bruise, but he didn't cry. Just looked at me like WHY DID YOU DO THAT TO ME, MOM!???

I ate a banana, Oliver grabbed it, bit off a piece, chewed it, and swallowed it. He cried for more and was upset when I wouldn't give it to him.

Tried a new Moby Wrap hold.  Love that thing! I tried other carriers, but they paled in comparison and made my back want to crawl under the front porch to die.

Sold some stuff on Craigslist.

We tried to have an afternoon Jam Sesh, but it got ruined by the presence of a camera. It throws off his funk.

Learned that if you place a baby's feet together and blow between them, you can make a squeak not unlike the one caused by blowing over a blade of grass in your thumbs.

Played "You are My Sunshine" approx 900 times because it makes the baby laugh. Realized that the lyrics are not as happy as the title would make you believe. I didn't even know there were verses until yesterday.

Oliver learned how to splash in the bath tub. We rocked the ghetto fab laundry basket made baby bath seat. We should probably get a real seat one of these days, because he is too big for the little round one.

It was my mommy's birthday. (Love you, Mommy!)

Then, before bed, we played feet peek-a-boo.

It was a pretty good day.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Jared, making waffles.

My fiance is a disaster in the kitchen. I accept this. Usually, I think it is funny. So tonight, when he came home from a study group and announced that he was going to make waffles and bacon for dinner, I said sure.

Jared making dinner means one of two things:
1. Jared will attempt to make dinner, get in over his head halfway through and yell for me to help. And by help, I mean finish whatever he is doing.
2. Jared attempts to make dinner, gets in over his head halfway through and refuses to ask for help. Food comes out not resembling food. We order pizza or have sandwiches.

Either way, I have to be on hand to field any variety of questions. Tonight, with the waffles, I expected difficulties. But, honestly, I thought he could do it. You mix the mix, pour it in the iron, wait for the light and DONE! But I've been wrong before.

Jared: Can I over mix this batter? It doesn't look right. Its lumpy.
Me: Yes. You can over mix. Its supposed to be lumpy.
Jared, 5 minutes later: Are you sure this looks right?

How do I get the bacon grease out of the pan?

How do I clean off the waffle iron? Do I have to get off these dried on bits?

Do I have to use a paper towel? What if I just used a rag? Where is a rag? Do we have any?

How do I know when the bacon is done? THIS DOESN"T LOOK LIKE BACON!

I walk into the kitchen, and it is hazy with smoke. "Do you have the flame on full power?" Yes. "Oh... You might not want to. Your bacon fat is burning." What? Why not?! (This is a man thing, I think. To use optimum  highest possible heat AT ALL TIMES.) It is a good thing our smoke alarm broke last weekend.

He asked how to do the bacon, and I told him to cut it in half with the poultry shears so it will fit in the pan better. I came out, and yes, he had cut it in half... But he was only doign two half pieces at a time. AKA, one whole strip of bacon. Good thing he cut it in half. Don't want to crowd the pan.

Five minutes later, after I told him he can add more, I came back into the kitchen at his frantic cries for help to find that he has, indeed, added more bacon to the pan. Except for some reason he felt like he had to cut it into approx 1 in. pieces. It was literally like frying up bacon bits.

Then, as soon as I walked out of the kitchen I hear him exclaim, "How do you do this all the time!?!!"

And at that point I realized I should just have him watch Doobie and try to save wahts left of dinner.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

A poorly constructed metaphor about my baby and Bon Jovi.

We listen to a lot of music in this house. Pandora radio is always streaming over my iPod so that we can accomplish the most basic of tasks. The only way I can get any housework done is if I dance and flail wildly enough to entertain Doobie from across the room.

He has definite favorites - The Killers, Journey, and Ingrid Michelson get a lot of air time. Lately, though, he has been favoring Bon Jovi's song It's My Life. It's his theme song. I don't approve. I don't know how it sneaked its way into our mix but its stuck now.

"It's my life
It's now or never
I ain't gonna live forever
I just wanna live while I'm alive"

He takes this to mean that he should be busy "living" instead of sleeping. All the time. Sleep is for losers. Why sleep at night when you can wake up and yell every 3 hours?

He used to be so good at sleeping at night. We would put him down at 10:30 or maybe 11 and he would sleep until 8AM. It was glorious. I had plenty of energy to play with him all day long because I got to rest up for quite some time without him.

But ever since he's been rolling, we've had to stop the swaddle and our house has turned into an all night rave. Want to know who is always up and partying at 3AM? We are. The tinny crappy classical is pumping and we're trying to rock him to sleep. The second we put him back down he turns his crib into a one man mosh pit.

We're fighting a losing battle. No matter what we've done we can't get him to sleep. The doctor said we can now put him down on his tummy because he flips within 5 minutes of us putting him down anyway. When he flips, he moves too far to the side and gets his arms stuck. He screams when he can't get his arms out. We disentangle him and he is fine for a little while. We thought that adding the  Breathable Baby Bumper would stop him frmo getting his arm stuck and maybe let us sleep at night but...

We were wrong. I think he hates the bumpers because he can't see out. The bumpers look nice and they were a snap to put up, but Oliver just isn't having any of this. He would take a scuffed up face over not being able to see.

In fact,Privacy Information I think his hatred for the bumpers is what made him do this yesterday:

It is mildly terrifying because he isn't good at balancing. In fact, moments after I took that picture he got so excited that he let go and fell straight back. He doesn't have the fear of falling yet so he doesn't try to catch himself with his arms or drop to his knees... He just dead man trust-falls straight back and his skull thumps on the mattress.

I asked Oliver why he feels like he has to do this, and all he could do was quote this stupid Bon Jovi lyric:

"You better stand tall
When they're calling you out
Don't bend, don't break
Baby, don't back down"

What can I say? I guess it is his life. And it is now or never.  I foresee a few trips to the ER in this kid's life. Curse you, Bon Jovi.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

What, this isn't how normal people spend their Saturdays?

This weekend I attended my nieces' and nephews' talent show. If you weren't there, you were missing out.

Before the show we treated ourselves to the school's hamburger and brat dinner. It was a throwback to my old days in prison grade school. We had to stand in line like cattle and select the safest looking foods. I opted for a brat, which by no stretch of the imagination could be likened to a charred length of rope in taste, texture, and appearance. Further down the line we were assaulted by limp lettuce, vats of congealed baked beans, and buckets of corn stewing in their whitish corn juices.  To be truthful, the corn and the beans were okay, but anything served industrially loses its appeal rather quickly.

The desserts appeared to have been homemade by the parents so at least that part was good.  I may or may not have eaten two cupcakes. And a double chocolate chip cookie.

After dinner, the tables were rearranged to make show for Talent Show 2010, Down on The Farm Edition. Notable acts included: 4th grader dueling trombones, a performing dog that could not only sit but also lie down, and prepubescent girls dancing to The Black Eyed Peas' hit song Boom Boom Pow. (The last I found slightly disturbing as they were dancing to lyrics of being "beasts when you turn them on" and all that.)

Some of the acts were painful train wrecks to behold, but I give props to the kids for getting up there in the first place. When I was in grade school I was terrified to get out and do anything in front of people, much less perform in a talent show. To go onstage and play an awkward, halting, seemingly 10 minute long version of "Ode to Joy" on the bells earns my respect.

Of course, my nieces and nephews were great. That goes without saying. They played piano, sang in the choirs, and showed us sign language.

After the show we all went back to a hotel for some games and super fun time. In case you're looking for a review of the Quality Inn of Winona, Minnesota, here it is:

The backdoor entrances were deathtraps of ice. They were not salted or sanded at all. The outside card scanner only worked with some of our room keys. Our first room left much to be desired. The knobs on the bathroom heater were broken off. The bathtub faucet constantly dripped, and the grout work was disgusting. There was a mysterious brown stain on the white shower curtains. The room sported a large picture window overlooking the indoor pool area. In the center of that picture window was a wall unit air conditioner, which, when turned on, spewed chlorine air into the room. Even with the unit off, the sounds and smells of the pool still wafted in because the edges of the unit were not sealed except for a few haphazard pieces of tape. Having a hard time believing that? The photo doesn't even do it justice:

 I started to get a headache from all of the chlorine stink and humidity in the room so my brother kindly traded his room with us and we were afforded a view of the parking lot instead. It was a welcomed improvement, but our second room still was not too good either. I checked the other reviews and they all had similar complaints. I thought it was especially entertaining that one reviewer mentioned that the front desk staff tried to sell him pot. Welcome to Winona, smoke a joint in your room?

I missed out on most of the games and fun because I stayed in our room with Oliver while he slept thrashed around and moaned like a zombie. He woke up every two hours throughout the night so I've been unbelievably tired today. He still hates being unswaddled, and when we added in a hotel room and took away his cozy crib and mobile he was very perturbed. I hooked up my iPod and played a loop of classical music for him which seemed to help him some, but I think that made me go a little bit more nuts to be honest.

He better get used to hotels, though, because we'll be heading back to that area to visit my sister's new baby and to hopefully catch up with the long lost friend I spoke about in this post. I'm excited to get together because we've been chatting on Facebook and she's just as awesome as I remember her being.

As crazy as this weekend was, it was a fun adventure and it will give me something to laugh about tomorrow. That is, after I get some sleep.

P.S. This is what happens when you let Oliver put the pacifier in his mouth by himself.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Lent, and why I hate it.

Lent is here. Roll out the fish fry signs all around the Midwest. Cue the McFishNasty sandwich commercials. I hate Lent.

Before any of you lay into me... I get the point of Lent. Really, I do.

Except that I'm not Catholic, and I don't care. So I will be eating steak. Please don't give me any flack about it because you're not going to change my mind. It is fine and dandy that y'all do that thing you do, just don't expect me to join you. And at the very least, you can look at it this way:

Somebody's gotta keep the beef industry afloat. That person will be me.

So yes, Holier Than Thou Perkins Patron, I am going to enjoy my burger. I am sorry if I offended you. And I'm certain that you will be getting plus 10,000,000 heaven super bonus brownie fun time points for mouthing a prayer at me. Thats exactly how things work, I'm sure.

SO! Now that I've admonished that woman from Lent 2008, I can continue with my updates. I feel much better.

Non swaddling is really not flying in our household. There has been much wailing and gnashing of teeth. (How is that for Lenten suffering, Perkins Woman!?!?!!)

He just won't sleep very well at night without being wrapped up. He falls asleep and stays asleep for a few hours but he is constantly waking himself up at night with his unstoppable flailing of limbs. Sometimes he does go back to sleep on his own, but it still disrupts my sleep and makes me grumpy. I wish I could turn off the part of my brain saying, "What!?! A single mew coming over the baby monitor?! WAKE UP FROM YOUR DEEP SLUMBER RIGHT NOW!"

I do get a decent amount of sleep, but it is interrupted and fretful. It doesn't help that Oliver is grumpy the next day, either. I've been swaddling him for naps. That way, I can leave him on the bed next to me and watch to make sure he's not on his tummy. I wish we had one of the gurney board things they strapped him to when he had his EEG. He couldn't roll over AND he could be swaddled. Luxurious.

Yesterday I managed to make it to the SPHC meeting, but it wasn't easy. Oliver was sleeping and I had to wake him up to get ready to go. Obstacle one. I changed Oliver, fed him, and changed him before I got ready to go myself. As soon as I had everything together and was getting him strapped in to his carseat, cue explosive poop. Obstacle two. After I re-changed Oliver, I got him back into the carseat, out into the car. But then I had to clear the snow off of my car. Obstacle three. Then I made it there but there was no parking in sight. Obstacle four. I finally found a spot and dropped my change holder under my car. I had to fish it out of the nasty slush. Obstacle five.

The good news, is:
1. I did not quit even though it was hard to get him out the door. It was tempting to go back to sleep.
2. The meeting was worth it. People were totally nice there.
3. There was Snickers salad.

All in all, I'll take that as a win. Now if I could only shake this low iron tiredness/weakness, I'd be all set for today. I think I'm going to attempt more cupcakes later this afternoon. So far, my decorating skills suck but at least they still taste good.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Running on empty.

Last night was another night of thrashing in the non swaddled world. Oliver has been so cranky lately that I'm going crazy. He was so agitated and angry this afternoon that I had to bust out the swaddle again. Within 30 seconds of swaddling him, he stopped crying and fell asleep. He has been sleeping for 2 hours now. He must be tired from not sleeping last night, too.

While he was napping, I tried to get on top of some of my school stuff. It is very hard to think about going back to school in the fall. Part of the reason I'm worried about it is just because I don't want to leave him. I know he'll be in good hands with my parents, but I still feel like nobody will/can do as good of a job as I can do.

Honestly, somewhere in my head, I know they are completely capable of giving him the same level of care that I can. It will be different for him, though, and it is hard for me to recognize that different doesn't always mean worse. It'll be good for him to get used to different people and different things but... there is just so much that I've learned about him that seems to invaluable when I'm caring for him.

I know all of his sleepy signals. I know so many little tricks to keep him happy. I'm an expert at tucking the blanket around him in his swing so that he doesn't get cold. When all else fails, I'm always able to comfort him with breastfeeding, and nobody else can do that. Letting somebody else learn their own tricks and techniques for his care will be hard for me.

And as hard as leaving him will be, just going back to classes is an even scarier thought to me. The few times I've been back, I've felt out of place. I feel like people are looking at me when I'm carrying Oliver. I feel like people will take me for a professor's wife, a babysitter, something - but not a student. I didn't think it would feel so hard to be a "nontraditional" student. I feel like I already had to try hard enough to find study buddies, and now I have just one more thing to overcome. I'm just not that good at meeting people.

In order to find people that can relate, I'm going to my first Student Parent Help Center meeting tomorrow afternoon. The few times I've actually made it in to the center, I've felt very welcomed. The students in the computer lab were very kind. The advisers were unbelievably strong advocates. They helped me sort through the health insurance disaster I had before Oliver was born. They've pointed me in the direction of so many good resources. They're currently helping me to rectify some issues that came up regarding my student status and my transfer between colleges.

Oliver received exceptional Christmas gifts from an anonymous donor through the Help Center's Adopt a Family program. They offer a free meal, free printing, free computer lab... so many wonderful things. It would be stupid for me not to take advantage of all this, so I made sure to set my alarm for the group meeting tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to do my best just to put my anxiety aside, relax, and meet some people like me. It would be nice not to be "the only one" anymore.

I've sent in all of my appropriate forms. I'm just waiting to hear from my college so that my transition back to classes next fall will be a smooth one. As terrifying as it is to go back, it is important to me that I do and I want to do it right.

I'm knocking one more thing off of my New Year's Resolution to-do list. Wish me luck.

Monday, February 15, 2010

The Fall of the Swaddle Empire.

Swaddling? It's my best friend. It makes Doobie sleep like a baby. Or, actually, like a rock. Like a baby rock, maybe.

But as all good things do, it is coming to an end and I am losing my mind. We've had to stop swaddling him because he rolls over onto his tummy in his crib and can't flip back over. I wouldn't worry about him being on his stomach, except that since his arms are tucked in he can't use them to roll over again if he needs a breath of fresh air. You know, all that Back to Sleep mumbo jumbo about rebreathing, etc. (More info here if you don't know what I'm talking about.)

The only solution I can see is to stop swaddling him, and that is turning out to be horrifying. He doesn't sleep well, and he is constantly waking himself up. He is crabbier during the day. A few times I've woken up to find his little arms stuck through the crib slats and his face mashed up against the bars. For a couple of hours this morning he had two bar shaped red marks on his forehead as a little reminder of all the baby vs. crib action that went down last night. It sounded so rough over the monitor that I bet it would sell on Pay Per View.

And I will confess: I can deal with poop. I can deal with being bitten and scratched. I can even handle a good amount of crying but so help me Lord if I do not get enough sleep. Things get ugly. I get stupid.

I put a box of macaroni in the oven, once. Frequently I look away from Oliver for a moment and find that I am shoving a pacifier into his eye, or holding him semi upside down, putting his pants on backwards and inside out. I have gotten up to prepare a bottle for him a few times before I've realized that I usually breastfeed him. I've gotten the mail with no pants on.

There is a direct correlation between hours of sleep and my intelligence.

Something had better change quick because this bear market is killing my economy.

Valentine's Day Extravaganza

Valentine's Day 2010:

Waffles, sausage, applesauce & OJ for breakfast.
Played with Doobie. See photo of extreme pillow fun play:

Made cupcakes. They didn't turn out too pretty but I am practicing.

Made Tshirts for Jackson & Micah, and Jared made one for himself. The flash sorta ruined it but, Jared's:

Jackson's & Micah's shirts that I made:Then we were silly together at 3AM. Note my creativity cap:

The next day Doobie helped me clean up.
The End.

Thursday, February 11, 2010



Wow. You guys are so lucky. I bet you're beside yourselves with joy. I bet a couple of you even wet yourselves.

Reasons that prove Jared and I are destined to be together:

We got into an argument over which materials were better insulators.

We compete in mini marshmallow catching challenges. My batting average? 9/10 marshmallows caught. He'll never beat that.

Yesterday, at Cub Foods, each time we bought a Price Cut item we made each other yell, "PRICE CUT!" while doing a karate chop.

When I brought him a salad with a chopped up boiled egg and tiny ham bits, he was excited.

He says, "Why don't you do something relaxing. I'll watch The Doob so you can do some glittering"

He may or may not have choreographed a dance for Doobie.

I can get him pens for Christmas and he is legitimately pleased.

He can beat me at Scrabble. (Which, although many are able, I find it a necessary trait of a life partner nonetheless.)

While attempting to make frozen pizza, he needs to come ask for my expert opinion.

He likes Lady Gaga but is too embarrassed to admit it.


I like him. Like, like him like him.

But don't tell anyone.

Getting Married.

Today was Martha's wedding special. It was a big scary. Because... well... weddings! Favors! Boutonnieres! That is some serious stuff, man. I'm actually considering making some wedding stuff myself. Because I can.

A wedding seems like a pretty big to-do when you consider that, aside from the official documentation, it won't change anything between Jared and I. So I made a list of things that will change once we're married:

1. He would get my stuff if I died. I think.
2. I will have his last name.
3. My kitchen will be better stocked. Imagine the possibilities of our wedding registry. A slow cooker! A bread maker! Knives!
4. We could use the same Costco membership. That is, if we had one.
5. People who send us mail could just put a Mr. & Mrs. LastName on the envelope. Instead of our two separate names.
6. I could call him my husband. So that when I get mad at some comical mistake he commits, I can yell "HUS-BAAAND!" like on a crappy sitcom.
7. Were I to become a teacher, I would be a "Mrs." somebody.
8. Jared would be next-of-kin, so in case I am ever in a major car wreck he could tell the doc that he may as well just do the breast implants at the same time. (Before you say anything, I am KIDDING!)
9. We would get joint housing when we are elderly and decrepit.
10. We get tax credits.

Know which one I am most excited about? The new kitchen. Call me hedonistic, but I love me some kitchen appliances.

We have created a monster.

We've created a monster. A high five monster.

Jared and I were like: Hey! How cute! Let's teach our baby to high five people! How great that will be! C'mon, a high fiving baby!? Genius.

Except no, it was not a genius move. Because although this child has the motor development to high five people, he does not yet have the appropriate mental development to understand when and where high fiving is appropriate. Thus, he is frequently doing things like...

A high five in the face. A nice and firm one.
A high five to the messy diaper. Right in the poop.
A high five to your drinking glass. While you are drinking.
A high five to my boob. With a clawing pinch to finish it off.
A high five to the high chair. For some reason it doesn't react.

And just in case you can't picture it, baby high fives look a lot like baby hitting. In fact, I might venture to say that there is no difference.

So each day of breastfeeding begins to look more and more like a match with Mike Tyson. My boob is Evander Holyfield. During diaper changes, an apron and goggles must be worn to protect from possible poop splatter. You must drink only if you are thirsty enough that you don't mind wearing some on your shirt.

The only experience that remains unchanged is sitting in the high chair. Because the high chair doesn't much seem to mind being high fived in the face. It's one tough S.O.B.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

In which I completely confess our loserdom.

As I'm sure you're aware, Valentine's Day is this weekend. We've got a babysitter set up so now Jared and I are trying to decide what to do. And I've got to say, most of the options we've considered have been PRETTY LAME.

We started out with some mighty grand plans. We could make dinner in. We could go out to eat. We could catch a movie. We could do both!

And then we started to get a little more realistic about what we want. We could get a redbox movie and watch it - without the baby! OR WAIT! We could stay at home and take a nap - without the baby!

Yeah. Those are honestly the two most appealing options. But, on principle alone, we must go out. I'm forcing us.

Today was spent contemplating how we will get out of our apartment. We're snowed in. We even got all ready to go and buckled into the car until I looked at the driveway and said... There is no way. Little car can't get out of that.

Bless Jared's little Florida heart, but he expected the ol' gal to be able to drive over a mountain of snow. That went up to my calf. That had a crusted ridge peak whipped up by the wind. That had surprise! fun chunks of snow-plowed ice inside. Yeah. Right. He might have spent a few years here, but he is by no means a Minnesotan.

I made him shovel it so that he might realize the adverserial qualities that a bank of snow might possess. That'll learn him!

Other than that, today has been pretty boring. I made tons of mashed potatoes for the freezer. I unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher. Boring. You don't even want to hear the rest of my day becasue it probably involves scratching my butt and picking lint out of my belly button. (Which is, post baby, quite cavernous. Gross.)

So I leave you with this little tale which centers around... you guessed it! Poop! What kind of post would it be if I didn't at least mention poop?

Once upon a time this afternoon, tired of being on my feet, I fell back onto bed and got ready to watch some TV. I made my nest of pillows per usual and settled in with the clicker for some mindless fun. And just as I was starting to relax, I sniffed my pillow and thought:

It smells like poop in here. I have changed so many diapers that the house just always smells like poop.

And then I turned off my brain and watched the last 20 minutes of Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader. Just as the show was ending, Doobie was starting to wake up. So I stretched, rolled over, and took my few Deep Breaths Of Pre-Doobie Freedom. (Which, I hear, is a documented relaxation technique.) And there was that dreaded poop smell again, wafting up from the 7th circle of hell.

This is foul. Horrible. My house needs to be fumigated for this poop stench.

And then I suddenly realized. Crap. There must be poop in here somewhere.

And I opened my eyes and LO AND BEHOLD THERE WAS A POOP SMEAR ON MY PILLOW. Where my face was.

And my first thought was not: Ew ew ew! There was poop on my face!!

No. My first thought was... Damn. That is my favorite pillow case. Now I need to do laundry.

My life has come to a point where I would rather have poop on my face than to have more laundry to do. Don't you envy me?

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Storm of baking shall ensue.

I got it in my head this morning that I was going to make cupcakes. And I would have, too, except that we are out of muffin liners and in this weather it seems like the grocery store is approx 90 miles away. So I'll have to do it later.

There isn't much better than cupcakes in my book. I'm excited for when Oliver will have birthday parties and I can make cute cupcakes for his little friends. Not only that, I'd get to hang up streamers. And balloons. AND PINATAS! I love a good pinata. Man. I need to find excuses to throw more parties.

I'm excited today because my replacement part for my food processor came so we can have smoothies this afternoon with lunch. Yay, smoothies! Like ice cream but healthy! Except not like ice cream because if I want dessert, let's face it... Smoothie does not = ice cream.

Oliver decided that the apartment is incredibly boring on Tuesdays, so he was kind of grumpy. Today consisted of me thinking up crazy things to entertain him for 2 minute stretches of time. Things I tried include but are not limited to:

1. Looking through Everyday Food magazine together.
2. Giving him a wooden spoon to hit himself with.
3. Singing the Bumblebee Tuna jingle.
4. Drawing eyeballs on my hand to create a puppet.
5. Giving him a cup with a centimeter of water in it.
6. Driving a train up and down his legs.
7. Sniffing his feet and proclaiming, "Stinky!"

Number 5 really was the biggest winner. What can you do with a cup of water, you ask?

Stick your fingers in it. Bite it. Yell at it. Shake some of the water out of it. Dump it down your face while you try to drink it. Grab your wet clothes and attempt to suck the water out of them. Cry when you realize that your wet shirt is colder than it is cool. Make your mom change you into a new outfit. Grab onto your wet clothes so your mom can't get them off. Pee on your mom while you are distracting her. Laugh.

And now, for the first time since 9:00 AM, he is sleeping. And I am just now getting to my breakfast.

For as little as I eat, you'd think I'd have wasted away by now.

Monday, February 8, 2010

So much awesome it is mindblowing.

Source: Reuters photo credit You Sung-Ho

Oliver and I visited my friend Jessica's family last night. I sort of watched the Superbowl while my baby was passed around. He was having a good time flirting with everyone, smiling and talking. They asked, "Is he always like this?"

And I said yes.

Because I had already forgotten that he was screaming for the last 10 minutes of the car ride there. And I had forgotten about the day earlier that week when the only thing he wanted was to drink out of my cup or pinch my boobs or rip out my hair. I forget all of these things when he is sleeping on my lap or letting me cuddle him while I read my email.

And honestly, even when I remember his "bad" moments they're pretty funny. He is baby and he does no wrong. A baby rips off his father's glasses and shoves them into his runny baby poop? That's comedic gold. That one could've been America's Funniest Video's grand prize winner. (Yes, my baby is even funnier than a dog chasing a donut on a stick, the winner of last week's grand prize.) Naughty or nice, everything he does is funny, adorable, endearing - assuming you have the proper perspective.

The older he gets, the more fun it is to be around him and the more I like him. He is only 4 months old and he has already gone through so many stages. Allow me to illustrate:

Stage 1: Paperweight. Baby does not move. Baby mostly looks nice and sits there.

Stage 2. Paperweight with eyesight. Baby still does not move but may be able to see the book you're reading to him. Maybe.

Stage 3: Sea anemone. Baby flails arms about with little to no control, much like a sea anemone's tentacles would wave in the ocean's current. Also, baby is mute. Like an anemone. Ever seen a talking anemone? I didn't think so.

Stage 4: Sea anemone with neck control. See above, only imagine that the anemone has a neck and can control it sometimes. Sort of.

Stage 5: Smiling sea anemone with neck control . See stages four and five, and also imagine that said anemone sports a gummy open mouthed smile.

I'll just be honest and say I was stretching it with stages four and five so you can imagine your own stages six and seven here before I jump to:

Stage 8: Awkward puppy. Baby sort of controls arms and legs in a coordinated manner. Sees food and opens mouth to beg. Tongue lolls out and drools. Bites sticks. Chews everything. Pees on your floor. Poops on your floor. Gets excited when people come over. Dislikes taking baths. Enjoys cuddling. Barks at the UPS man.

And can you imagine that pretty soon my baby will even surpass trained chimpanzee level?! He will be able to wear a bow tie and other such nonsense, walk on two legs, get into mischief and maybe even star in a B children's movie! Titillating!

And so it is with great pride that I announce the unveiling of SuperAwesomeBlogTime 2.0 to accommodate the burgeoning amounts of awesome we've got going on up in here.

Back in The Olden Days of LessAwesomeBlogTime 1.0, you had to manually dig through the archives if you wanted to reminisce with a favorite post from the past. Not anymore! You are now able to search through my blog posts with the new google bar on the left.

But wait, there's more! Never be caught without the latest blog updates! Keep track of the latest goings on and be alerted when there are new posts by clicking the "follow" button. You know you want to.

And now that I've thoroughly blown your minds with this awesome, I am going to enjoy a shower. Without the baby.

P.S. Yes, that is a chimpanzee. Playing golf. Yes, one day Oliver can top even that primate. Makes me so proud.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

More embarrassing than a traditional belly flop.

I just got back from celebrating Christa's birthday and I am tired and I am going to bed...
...but I can't get this out of my head so I am going to post it no matter how corny it sounds.

My boobs, once so glorious, have done a belly flop.

As in, they flop on my belly.

Also as in, they flop with my belly.

Either way you look at it, it isn't good. They never used to do that before.

That is all.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Wherefore is Lloyd so stupid.

After reading Is Your Mama A Llama about 300 times, I am still perplexed by the ending.

Throughout the whole story, Lloyd the llama is asking different baby animals if their mamas are llamas. Turns out, as surprising as it sounds, they aren't. And everyone's answer rhymes.
And every baby animal is too kind to point out that Lloyd must be a little slow because there is no way that one could mistake a bat, swan, cow, seal or kangaroo for his own species, the llama.

Also, where is Lloyd that he just happens to run into a bat, swan, cow, seal and kangaroo all in the course of one day?

Then Lloyd finally asks another llama and she reprimands him for being an idiot. Sort of. In the most kind hearted, love-your-neighbor way she possibly could.

But anyway... This is what she says, which does still rhyme but really throws off the whole cadence of the book:

"Our mamas belong to the same herd, and you -- know all about llamas 'cause you are one too!"

That is exactly what the book says. Now I am no literary genius, but I don't get why there is that hyphen there. It just... ruins it for me. I can't figure out how I am supposed to read it. I stumble every time I come to that arrogant dash because, what? Am I supposed to pause there? Contemplate the complex story line? Give my brain some time to catch up? I DON'T GET IT! It is like reading Shakespeare in middle school all over again - too much darn work for a story written by some ponce that you don't care much about anyway.


That is what I was thinking as Jared was reading Llamas to Doobie before bed. My exact train of thought. Convoluted, yes. But it is true.

And then I thought about dreaded middle school some more. (Worst time of my life.) Which lead to thinking about dreaded high school. (Second worse time of my life.) Which lead to thinking about all of the people from high school that I more or less do not miss at all.

I made poor decisions in high school. I was mean to people that, although I still don't care much for them, didn't deserve it. The people that I most ridiculed were probably the best people in those halls. The problem was, though, that the admirable qualities they possessed are what got them teased the most.

I can't name names, but a certain religious fellow was a constant target in my book just because.. well. He was pretty lame and religious. A complete rule follower. Quite polite and boring. An off coloured joke said anywhere in the room would cause him immediate and obvious discomfort. He frequented the confessional by choice. He attended adoration because he actually wanted to sit in the chapel and talk to God, not because he wanted to get out of class. (Like certain other people I know. Namely, me. My friends. Everyone else.)

And now when I think about him... Yes. He was boring. Yes, it was ridiculous that he covered his mouth with his hand while he was chewing, so as not to even risk showing the person across from him the half chewed contents of his craw. Yes, his choice of attire was on the prude/nerd side. But he was nice to EVERYONE. He truly believed in his religion and was a good example of said religion's values. And not only that, he shared it with everyone. He never changed who he was despite how much he was teased and bullied, which I find to be deserving of utmost respect. I would never be friends with him or go out of my way to see him but, yes, I see now that he is a good person.

Then, when I look back at the people I did admire.... They were frauds. They were stupid but they made themselves look cool. They pretended to be Catholic in class but outside of those halls they were the worst partiers, liars, and bullies. I don't know why I thought some of them were so cool, when really they had no personality at all. Every personality they had was fake. They could school people in religion but in their other lives they were getting abortions and giving blowjobs at football games. The hypocrisy of it all is quite comical now.

Even my "friends" largely disappoint me now when I look back. They were simply people I hung out with so I wouldn't have to sit at lunch alone. My only real friends went to public school - something that alienated me right off the bat my freshman year. I graduated and haven't seen any of them, and I don't even think about them anymore. There were two people in that school that I think I really liked. One doesn't live too far away, and I could call her up but with all the time that has passed... I just don't want to anymore.

There is another girl that I really, truly thought was going to be a good friend for the rest of my life. She was a transfer student and we became friends on her first day. We both liked similar things, and we had the best times ever just being stupid together. We used to do meal delivery together and grab lunch at the co-op. We had our free study times in the library together where we would talk, ignore our homework, and read the lamest, most outdated books in the library that we could find. We used to hang out after school and feed the pigeons before she had to go back to her hometown.

She was really cool. And she was nice. We shared membership in the plus sized feet club. We liked similar music. We even did a huge art project together that was probably the coolest thing I'd ever done. I thought that there was finally somebody in that school like me that I could be real friends with.

And we were, for a while. We were good friends for what seemed like a long time. But then she started hanging out with people "cooler" than I. It would have been fine except for the fact that her new friends could be very mean to me. They hurt my feelings, so I let her have her other friends separate from me. Then when I didn't want to be made fun of anymore and I stopped wanting to hang out with her and her "new" friends.. Well, I guess she just forgot me. That hurt my feelings so much, and when I think about it I still feel sad.

And she is the only one that I miss. I know where she goes to school and we've exchanged a few words via facebook, but I doubt we'll ever be good friends again. I've heard rumors that she's into hard core drugs. Rumors that she is a slut and a party bimbo but I don't know if those are true. Its hard to imagine, but I guess anything is possible.

And why am I telling you this, dear reader? I don't know. I guess I just wanted to. Just because.

Because I've never admitted to missing her, and I've never told her how I felt.

And maybe because somewhere I hope she reads this and knows that I think she was and maybe still is an awesome person.

At the very least, this post furthers my secret New Year's Resolution.

2010 is going to be one hell of a ride.

Babies aren't just for decoration anymore.

In our house, we use our baby as a source of entertainment. He is a cross between a dog and a puppet. If we're going to be paying for his diapers, I mean.. the least he can do is entertain us, right?

DOG: We teach him tricks. (Cute! LOOK! He gives high fives now! And he can roll over!)

PUPPET: We use him as prop comedy. (So I says to the guy, hey! That's my Corona!) Everything is funnier coming from a baby.

DOG: We pet his belly. (Who's a good boy! You're a good boy! What a good boy you are, Doobie!)

PUPPET: We create choreographed line dances to make him dance out. (And stomp your foot now grapevine, baby, GRAPEVINE!)

DOG: You just drooled on the couch. (Wipe his drool back onto him)

PUPPET: Say goodbye to Daddy! (Wave his arm for him)

DOG: Get the toy! You can do it! Get it! (Put toys just out of his reach during tummy time.)

PUPPET: This solo is all you, Oliver! GO! (Make baby's arms play intense air guitar.)

Some people may consider this immature parenting.

But me? I say that wasting his baby grapevine skills would be a crying shame.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Yeah. Dinner sucked.

After what seemed like a forever long day, Oliver is asleep. And so I took spent bit of time reading in silence. Jared took some time studying. It was nice and peaceful and good and then I thought:

Wow. I'm hungry. Dinner tonight must have been pretty crappy.

And then I went back to reading whatever I was reading. It isn't an unusual thought. Frequently dinner is thrown together and meager sized, leaving me to have a second dinner later in the evening. But then my tummy grumbled again, and I thought...

What was dinner anyway? Must have been terrible.

And then I realized that dinner was especially forgetworthy tonight because THERE WAS NO DINNER.

This is my problem these days. I forget to eat. Frequently I am so busy doing nothing and everything that I just forget to eat. I don't realize how starving I am until I am sitting down and nursing, and by that time I can't do anything about it because I am committed to nursing him for another 20 minutes lest I create the latest and greatest screamfest. And then I get up and I forget all about it again because it is probably time to _____. (Fill in the blank.)

Usually I can almost probably maybe always at least be sure to eat dinner because Jared comes home and starts rummaging before I can say something stupid like, "Don't ruin your appetite. Wait for dinner."

Why do I even say that? Its not like I have dinner just ready to fall out of the oven onto our plates, garnished and all. Its not like I've even started it. Or planned it, for that matter. I have no idea why his snacking bothers me except that I was frequently told wait until dinner as a small child. Pre-baby I used to ban Jared from eating before dinner because.. well, if I am making something YOU ARE EATING IT AND YOU WILL LIKE IT AND BEG FOR SECONDS. (Not really, but something like that.) I guess its just habit.

BUT anyway. Jared's rummaging is usually a cue for me to make dinner. So what happened tonight? Jared was busy. We were eating handfuls of dried fruit to get us through today. Jared has a test, I had grumpy face baby who was inexplicably clingy today... Dinner just never got made.

I'll be damned if I didn't vacuum the rug and clear off the table and clean the sink and load, run, and unload the dishwasher. But did I sit down and eat anything? No. Eating doesn't make me feel like I've accomplished anything. And when I get a free moment I don't want to eat, because believe it or not I can do something extreme like shower! Open the mail! Clip my toenails! Monitor the size of my I'm-sure-I-probably-have-skin-cancer-regardless-of-what-the-doctor-says back mole! Without the baby!

So now it is 10:45 and we're both starving and considering what to make for dinner. I just went to the grocery store on Monday yet we have no dinner options. I picked up little to no junk food ready-to-eat items. I didn't plan out my meals this week so every idea I've come up with has been thwarted by the lack of a key ingredient.

Yes, my cupboards are restocked with some of the things we were lacking and I was able to have my cup of hot cocoa with whipped cream this morning but for the $150 that I (read: my father) dropped on groceries there is not a single full dinner to be had.

Bring on spaghetti. For the 20th time this year.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Hello Sunshine.

Every morning Oliver wakes up starving. He yells over the monitor that he is hungry. Jared gets up and brings him to me. Oliver eats his breakfast at the Breastaurant. I watch the morning news and weather. Jared is asleep and Oliver and I are practically asleep. No one says anything, we just go about our business in silence.

Oliver finishes breakfast and I swaddle him up to go back to sleep. Sometime during Oliver's morning sleep, Jared gets up and gets ready in the dark. I might tell him where his shirt is, remind him to take his lunch, but usually we say goodbye to each other and nothing else.

Then I roll over and try to go back to sleep. Sometimes I can do it, but more often than not I lie in bed dozing and thinking about what I want to do that day. I stretch out and enjoy the whole bed, and I hoard all five of the pillows. It is nice.

But no matter how long I've had to laze around in bed, it never seems like enough when I hear Oliver's first squawks. When he wakes up for the second time in the morning, he doesn't yell to be fed. He makes polite noises. He talks to his mobile, to the walls... whatever it is he is so interested in.

I can lie in bed for the first 10 or so minutes of his morning talk time, until finally his squawking sounds urgent and desperate enough to make me put my feet down on the cold floor and walk in to get him.

And as soon as I open the door he sees me and his whole face lights up. He smiles and hyperventilates and wriggles around as best he can in his wrap because he. is. so. happy.

Mommy! Its been so long since I've seen you last! How great of you to stop by and free me from this baby prison! I thought you'd never come back, but here you are! I just can't contain myself!

I unwrap his arms and immediately they fly up above his head and he gives me a nice long streeettttch while he smiles up at me. I scoop him out of the crib and plop him down on the changing table, where he tells me all about his night, grabbing his feet and chewing his fingers.

He is always happy. It is always a new day for him. Outside can be cloudy and gloomy or sunshiny and bright; he is always smiling. Always so glad to see me. It makes me feel like the best person in the world.

Good Morning, Doobie.

What a good reason to wake up.