Things I probably didn’t realize pre-baby:

  • Post-partum depression? Try pre-partum depression
  • Nursing hurts like a motherfucker even if you’re doing it right
  • I will use the word poop more times in an average day than I ever have in my life
  • It will take much, much longer to leave the house
  • I will cancel plans at the last minute
  • I will leave the house without looking in the mirror even once
  • Breastfeeding will not, despite the hype,”make the baby weight fall right off”
  • My feet will grow an entire shoe size and every shoe in my closet will need to be tossed
  • Large breasts are not, in fact, fun
  • I will somehow make it through not just days but weeks on less than four hours of sleep per night
  • My kid’s drool will not gross me out, even a little bit
  • I will share chocolate pudding with my nine-month-old, even though I swore I wouldn’t give him sugar until he’s a year old
  • I will find myself comfort-eating and not have the energy to figure out why
  • My kid will exhibit classic gender tendencies despite the fact that we don’t insist he play with “boy” toys
  • I will develop a furious hatred of clothing emblazoned with trucks, sports and/or teddy bears
  • I will not stop nursing just because the baby repeatedly bites me with his sharpsharp little teeth
  • My kid will only resemble me when he’s squinting

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minibreak

I just finished my Corporate Identity class on Saturday (final grade: A!). I’ve got two weeks before the next class starts, which I am declaring The World’s Shortest Summer Vacation.

My vacation is off to an inauspicious beginning: Not So is sick. He has a cold, poor thing. Do you hear that? That is sympathy. I am sympathetic, because I am a good wife. I am certainly not inwardly irritated because I now have two dependents to coddle, one of whom claimed he would vacuum and clean over the weekend but, inexplicably, did not. (Damn Happy Fun Baby. It’s as though he has no sense of responsibility.)

No, I am filled with sympathy. Being sick sucks. Not So’s upstairs right now, trying to get some rest while propped upright on a mountain of pillows so he doesn’t drown in his own snot. That, folks? That is not a good time. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially someone whose help I could use with, for example, the vacuuming and the cleaning of the house.

I feel comparitively footloose and fancy-free, what with the not having a cold and all. I feel, in fact, well enough to go out and play. The fact that I had a playdate scheduled for today would have worked out delightfully, had the baby not begun showing signs of inheriting his father’s Cold of Doom. Here’s a thing you do when you’re a parent: you stay home at the slightest sign of illness so as not to infect other kids, because bringing your sneezing, clinging baby to a public get-together is a definite faux-pas. You stay home and you do things like mopping and washing all the furniture covers to minimize the spread of germs, and then you turn your head, and in the space of that moment your angelic child somehow finds a used tissue (which, hello! Shouldn’t be within reach of the baby anyway!) and puts it in his mouth, despite the fact that you’re running toward him shouting “…Nooooooooo!” in slow motion. You think dear lord children are disgusting and you also think there is no way he’s not getting sick. And your child? He just laughs at you, like duh, mom.

Perhaps I will take a virtual vacation. I’ve got two weeks; where should I go? Since it’s all in my mind (like so many other things) I don’t have any financial or practical constraints. Well, guys? And suggestions?

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the mobile baby, or: goodbye, sweet bumbo

Happy Fun Baby started walking at a little past 8 months. He didn’t just start walking, either – he jumped into it head-first, just like he does with everything else. The amount of time between taking his first steps and doing laps around the living room? Minimal.

Now that he’s an old, wise baby of 9 1/2 months, Happy Fun Baby runs, dances, wriggles under things and (as of today) can climb onto the couch. The one thing he can’t (or chooses not to) do is climb back down again, but who needs down? Our baby’s an optimist. He assumes he’ll figure something out on the way to the ground. (…Kidding. We don’t let him fall off of things if we can help it. But still, you’d think a healthy sense of fear would be part of being a foot and a half tall and speaking no English, wouldn’t you?) He’s repeated the word “kitty” (well, what sounds like “kitty” if you had a mouth full of peanut butter) while seeing or running after the cats enough times that I’m forced to concede that it’s his first word. The kid, he’s going places.

But he’s still 9 1/2 months old. He doesn’t get concepts like volume or “You need to sit down when you climb up on the couch so you don’t fall off and crack your head open on the hardwood.” He’s not big enough to ask “Why?” but there’s a why on his face every time we step onto the other side of the baby gate and leave him in the living room to play or put shoes on his feet even though he was perfectly happy without them. How do you explain concepts to someone who is isn’t even really sure about nouns?

I’ve been perusing the toddler threads on my online mama community, but even if he’s gross-motor-skilling at a 12-month level, he’s still not quite all-toddler, all the time. He’s not associating prepositions with actions (“in” and “out” don’t mean a lot to him; “up” is only relevant when he wants me to snuggle with him). He isn’t interested in many interactive games – he thinks it’s fascinating when we play peek-a-boo, for example, but loses interest if we try to get him to play it with us. He doesn’t clap yet so it’s a similar situation with pat-a-cake. So far the only actual game I’ve seen him play is when Not So tries to get him to come over: he runs toward him and then swerves away at the last second, and when Not So finally goes after and grabs him, he squeals with laughter. Pretty cute, right? But not exactly something we could structure a playtime around.

I feel a peculiar reluctance to admit all the things my kid can do without adding some sort of disclaimer, like: he’s crazy. We try to tell him he’s too little to be doing these things, but he doesn’t listen. I don’t know how any of this happened. And it’s the truth. We didn’t set out to have a kid who could climb over furniture before his first birthday. We aren’t pushing him to be all advanced and ahead of the curve. We work with what we’ve got, and what we’ve got is a baby who doesn’t act much like a baby except when he’s cranky. I don’t want to be mistaken for one of those parents.

I’m proud as hell of him, of course. He’s the most amazing kid ever. I’d think that even if his biggest accomplishment to date was batting his eyelashes at me and going “Coo?” It’s just a different kind of stress to have a baby who can do all these crazy things. Like, who do you talk to when you wonder, for example, why your baby isn’t clapping? How do you come across as not being all “My baby can do all these things and I’m so superior blaaaaaah” when you talk about how hard it is to childproof? Where do you find out if any of the things your kid is not doing (not that I’m harping on the clapping thing) is a problem?

He’s exceptionally happy, though. I hope that means we’re doing something right.*

*Not that I’m suggesting that parents of unhappy babies are doing something wrong. Jeez. You’re so sensitive.

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gated communities

Ignore for a moment how messy my house is (and pretend you don’t know that I actually tidied up before taking this photo), and behold the wonder that is our new baby gate:

That’s right: no more cunningly engineered furniture stacks and rows of chairs to keep the baby from crawling to his doom in the kitchen. No more obstacle course for mama to struggle over when said baby somehow manages to wriggle through the chair maze and runs as fast as his fat little legs will carry him toward the stairs. No more unusable space in the middle of the room. This is the big time, people. We have gate.

My heart, it sings.

In other news, Safeway does not carry spackle.

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wall anchors, indeed

The UPS man brought our gate today. It is quite lovely. I could compose odes to the gate.

I could, but I won’t, because apparently the installation of said gate is beyond me. I shouldn’t have been trying anyway, since history has shown that Cranky Mama + wall anchors = huge gaping holes of doom. But I am older and wiser now, or so went my mental rationale. Besides, Not So is having a bad day at work and will probably have to stay late, and won’t it be a nice surprise when he comes home to find the gate all up and not requiring anything from him? It would be like if he came home to find dinner waiting for him, instead of what actually happens every day (which is walking in the door, having a cranky baby thrust at him, and hearing his wife demand “what are you going to cook?”).

So I read the instructions, and then re-read the instructions. It looked simple enough. Drill holes, tap in wall anchors, screw in mounting thingers, and attach gate. It took some time to actually locate the necessary tools, but once I had everything it was easy as pie. Mounting thingers up, gate in place. Now just press down and -

The fuck?

The whole thing pulled right out of the wall. On both sides. Aren’t wall anchors supposed to, you know, anchor?

I do not understand. At all. I am a clever girl; I should be able to put up a simple gate. I should be able to use wall anchors. Other people can use wall anchors. It’s not like I’m doing anything differently. I’m following printed instructions, for god’s sake. Drill hole, tap in wall anchor, screw. Why won’t it work???

I’m going to sit here and cry for a while. Then I will go over to the store and get some spackle.

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sleep, glorious sleep

I have an announcement to make. Last night? I slept.

Allow me a moment to savor that sentence. I slept last night. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? I like the way the word sleep rolls off the tongue. Sleeeeeeeep.

Happy Fun Baby only woke up once or twice last night, and they were just little wake-ups, not the full-blown screaming fits he’s had lately. (Also, the last of his impending teeth broke the surface yesterday…think the two are related?) After Not So left for work this morning, the baby and I snuggled up together and slept solidly until 9. He fussed a bit but then woke the rest of the way and gave me his patented 500-watt morning smile. Instead of wriggling out of bed right away like he usually does, Happy Fun Baby snuggled and played with my hair and sang me some baby songs and pulled the blanket over our heads. He played with my hands and poked me in the eye (…okay, that wasn’t so much fun) and gave me big wet baby kisses. We lounged around in bed for a whole half hour, and when we got up he played in his nursery while I did some laundry.

Yes. My child has been replaced by a pod baby. You don’t see me complaining, do you?

Seriously, guys, this sleep thing? Better than drugs. I was noticing while replying to some e-mails that I can actually think. I haven’t felt clear-headed in weeks. There’s been this underlying sense of desperation to everything which has dissipated like morning fog. Do you hear that? I am using a simile. I must be feeling better.

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ma.gnolia, yo

My Parenting Group was tagged as a hot group for September on Ma.gnolia! ::dances:: Because, you know, I am just that cool.

What was that? You don’t use Ma.gnolia? Well, here’s your chance. (And no, I don’t get kickbacks for this – I just proselytize because I’m that kind of girl.)

View Parenting v2.0 on Ma.gnolia

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