Today in the Mommyhood, Day 297ish

Today in the mommyhood, I unraveled the mystery of what’s inside a diaper… by accidentally running it through my washing machine. Go, mommy.

Mommyhood 1 – Mommy Su-Su 0

On a related topic, Aunt Brookie tells me the same thing can be accomplished by letting your child sit in a baby pool in nothing but a diaper for an extended period of time. I feel better. Thanks, A.B.

*Jon mentioned to me last night that “what’s inside a diaper” might be a little, ahem, unclear. I do not mean the contents of a diaper provided by my little man. I mean diaper filling, the crystalline stuff that can’t possibly be safe for human consumption and will likely not biodegrade until the end of time. Which is okay, since my washer is also from the dawn of time… they’ll live together in peace and happiness for all eternity. Oh hell, what am I talking about, anyway? Somebody get me a margarita.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone


Letter to Dane, Day 295ish (Part Possible TMI)

Dear Dane,

Hello, angel baby. It’s mommy again.

A few days ago, I wrote you this letter, but I’ve realized (of late) that I left something out. You see, you’re very cute. So cute people stop me on the street and tell me how cute you are (yes, I’m obnoxious. Sorry, it’s sort of genetic.) (Also, I blame my husband.). And since you’ve gotten two front teeth, you’re so cute that I often have to stop myself from staring at you and pinching your cheeks and saying obnoxiousmommy things like smoochywoo little baby and tushytushytushy. And yet. And yet.

Those teeth, you see, they’re cute. They’re cute when you’re smiling or chewing on your finger or biting on a teething ring or a piece of gladware or a pot handle. They’re even cute when you’re laughing and gooing and ahging and trying to take little bites out of my fingers when I’m rocking you at night. But you see, smushy, there is one time when they are not so cute. So please, yummiky bumpkins, sweet fuzzyheaded monkeyman, please, please, please: STOP. BITING. MOMMY. WHEN. YOU. ARE. NURSING. Or I may have to start telling all those people who think you’re so cute about how you once had to have the inside of your diaper gladwrapped so I could take a stool sample, and we both know how THAT would go (crazy looks, upturned sneers, possible calls to CPS).

Mmmmm, paint chips.

That is all, my lovey noggikins. That is all.



Really, Yo?

I’m going to complain again. It’s perfectly acceptable if you want to skip this post, because (a) I’ve got a really good life and not a whole lot of right to bitch about it and (b) everybody’s got their own THING and really, why do you need to listen to mine? and also (c) I have a whole different post about THINGS, but that is neither here nor there nor anywhere in my immediate future, because, didn’t I mention, I’m about to bitch again?

So Dane is nine and a half months old, which seems impossible, but there you are. Madness ensuing in our house on a daily basis. And despite the fact that he is, without question, the best thing that’s ever happened to me (yes, even better than the day I found my Marc Jacobs patent leather heels for $89) (yes, I said EIGHTY NINE SMACKS), I’ve had a roughly rough go of the post-partum business. I’m a worrier anyway, and my little tango with PPD included such hot numbers as MIND NUMBING ANXIETY and CONVULSIVE CRYING JAGS ON THE FLOOR OF MY CLOSET, and let’s not forget THE INABILITY TO LAY MY CHILD DOWN FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS OF HIS LIFE. Okay, that last one was likely not PPD-related, but it’s my party and I’m shoving it into the box all the same.

Shoe digressions aside, things started to settle out around seven months. This roughly coincided with my mom and my trusty Obi-One-Kenobi of the mommyhood, Aunt Brookie, helping me get Dane down for daily naps. And so he started napping and my hormones started to subside and all of the sudden, I was able to take a shower and put on makeup without having a panic attack that I was abandoning my baby. And do other stuff, too, like join a playgroup and go to the mall and hang out with my husband like a normal person. And then, bam, I got a sinus infection and Dane got an ear infection, and just as we got over that and had another week or two of normalcy, we went on vacation and Dane popped out not one but TWO giant front teeth and that blew the sleeping and the normalcy all to hell, and we’ve finally recovered from the teething (for now, yes, for now) and Monday morning I find myself in the doctor’s office for a completely unexpected and particularly uncomfortable medical procedure that involved needles and scalpels and the phrase you’ll feel a sting and then a burn, and I thought, really? Because (a) what he should have said was You’ll feel a sting and then a burn and then seven to ten days of pain followed by four to six weeks of discomfort and oh, by the way, just take an Advil, that should cheer you up and (b) COME ON, already.

But you know what the worst part is? I’m effectively complaining about LIFE. That’s what this is: just normal everyday life with a baby. And then I look in on him sleeping or watch him stand up or snuggle him up in my arms and I realize I’m so unbelievably very incredibly stupidly lucky. Don’t get me wrong: I have a pretty decent reason to complain about my little ditty with the doctor on Monday (sparing you the details, it’s pretty sucky), but on the flip side, our mellow mushroom sat through the whole thing in his stroller, nary a peep other than an interested gagaGA? every so often, and then we came home and ate Whole Foods cookies provided by my husband and crawled around the living room floor and in general made fools of ourselves, after which Jon took the baby while I took a nap. So life, you know what? Since you gave me this:

Uh, Mommy… Could you get a babysitter next time?

I forgive you.

Letter to Dane, 288

Dear Dane,

Hello, angel baby. It’s Mommy.

I have a lot of goofy names for you (Sir Yumminess, Mr. Fuzzyhead, Monkey, Mowgli), but angel baby is the one I use the most. I don’t call you angel baby because I think you’re perfect (although, let’s face it, you are), or because I want to annoy the other 99% of mommies who also think their babies are angels (although I sometimes do). I call you angel baby because even though I’m kind of sarcastic and sometimes the mean girl and usually in a grumpy mood (especially, God knows, with your father), and in general not all that good at religion, you make me believe. That may sound trite and cliche, but thus is the power of you.

When we first brought you home, I was afraid I would break you, and for weeks I wouldn’t set you down because I was afraid you would feel lonely or abandoned. Thinking of you feeling that way made me feel like I couldn’t breathe. You slept on my chest for the fourth and fifth months of your life because I couldn’t stomach the thought of you crying, and when I did finally give in and let you cry, the sound of it made me vomit. To this day I think that might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I was in stage three labor with you for three hours.

I’m the kind of mommy that worries a lot, and although you’re getting big now, I still worry that you aren’t eating enough, or the right things, or sleeping enough, or that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m trying to stop the anxiety so I don’t pass it on to you, but if you catch me staring at you from the side of your crib or standing behind you in the playroom, please remember it’s only because I want to be perfect, and not because I expect you to be.

You’re fully mobile now, and although you’re still my mellow mushroom you’re fierce, too. You don’t want to lay on my chest anymore, or even let me feed you. Today you spit avocado and peas on your tray and then grinned at me, and I couldn’t even be annoyed because that grin was a combination of how I feel on my best day and the reason I fell in love with your father. You don’t want to snuggle at night anymore, at least with me (…curse you, Puppy), but sometimes when I get you in the morning or up from a nap, you still lay your head in the hollow of my shoulder. I wish I could hold every one of those moments in my heart and in my memory, but already all the things I thought I would remember forever have started to slip away.

There’s no real reason for me to write this letter to you today, except that today is a day like any other day, and that means I got to spend it with you. That means it’s a day better than any other day I had before you were here, and it’s a day in which I get to look forward to spending the rest of my life, God willing, with you in it. You are my love, you are my believe, you are my tiny little smushyface baby and I will always be with you no matter where or how far you go. All you have to do is say the word, little man, and I’ll be there.



ps… This post didn’t start out this way, but it sort of ended up as a PYHO linky to Shell at Things I Can’t Say. Love that place.

Mo Bility, Mo Problems

This month, Dane learned how to crawl. And then to pull up. And then cruise. And then I had another margarita because WASN’T HE JUST BORN, PEOPLE?

Anyway. Lessons from the early rumble with mobility:

1. The universal truth every mommy learns from crawling is: my floor is disgusting. DISGUSTING. If we were playing Family Feud, this would be the first answer on the board and worth 98.97 points or something ridiculous (and I would be wearing checked gingham, but only because I inexplicably confuse Family Feud with that show about the hillbillies moving to L.A.). Still. DISGUSTING.

1a. Also, what happened to Family Feud? I really kind of liked that show. And glass Coke bottles, too, and Garbage Pail Kids and Circle K. Where did those go?

2. Karma hates me, this time because the more I try to break any of Dane’s falls, the more likely he will fall harder, faster and in some more dangerous configuration, thus hurting himself worse than if I’d only let well enough alone.

3. There is no hiding our plastic hangers. No matter where those bad boys go, he can find them.

4. Of the 1,001 toys in the playroom, the most interesting things to play with are (in order): the floor grate, the only outlet I have anything plugged into and the armoire that I have not yet had time to strap to the wall. Now if only I could find a glass Coke bottle and a plastic hanger.

5. Baby safety paraphernalia manufacturers: Stop lying. None of this stuff is easy to install. Here’s what you should put in your instruction manual:

   Step 1: Retrieve husband. If husband unavailable, procure handyman.
   Step 2: Have margarita.

See? Easy. And I’m an engineer, too.

On the bright side, check out the balance (and also brightsided, check out how I got to twist up a Notorious BIG song for my title) (but that’s not the point, really) (but still):

Mommy, I don’t think this is a sanctioned use of the stacker.

Alright, it’s just a cute gratuitous baby pic. Smooch.

The Container Story (Household Edition)

So my sister (Brook Shields, three kids, blah-de-blah) and I started this little, uh, habit during my last trip to Texas. Dane is quite the smushy little baby, and super mellow to boot, and so Brookie down there thought (like any aunt would): hey, i wonder if my smushy little nephew would fit into this fruit bowl?

Uh… lady, do I know you?

And then came mother’s day, and this awesome urn from Pottery Barn (for her, not me, although I would have left behind a good deal of my wardrobe to stick THAT nugget in my checked luggage):


What? Nobody said we were NORMAL, y’all. Also, this is where Dane’s alarm at being stuck in random containers peaks. I TOLD you he was mellow. He definitely does not get that from me. Also, also, sorry for the blurriness, but like I said, this was the peak of his alarm, so we didn’t get the normal five-to-ten to take good pics; my phone had to do.

So then I get home and what was once a random every-once-in-a-while thing has now become a full-fledged capsy THING:

Uh, Gig’em, Mommy.

 I confess, I was really just making myself feel better by determining if he was still small and smushy enough to fit in a diaper box.

And then:


At least when I decided to stick him in this one, he’d already crawled halfway into the bag (apparently for a snack.).

And it doesn’t stop there:

This. Is. Crazy. Mommy.

Y’all. HE FITS IN MY LAUNDRY BASKET. So there ARE benefits to having the 15th percentile baby. Also, thank you, Gymboree, for tricking me into buying a redneck muscle shirt by putting a crab on it daring me to pinch my baby’s cuteness.

And finally:

Yo, Brookie. Here I come. Also, nice duck tape.

Yeah. So it’s a thing.

And one more thing:

Um, yeah. YUMMY.