I think I have a blog?

So, this week has been a little busy because my mom has been here visiting us and getting her fill of Cee time. Last time she was here, Cee was just on the brink of taking some steps but hadn’t made that leap of faith into full-fledged walkdom yet. That didn’t stop us from going shoe shopping with Grammy while she was here, though. Back in early March, we fitted Cee with her first pair of high-tops:

C gets shoes.

Now since she’s walking, running, and basically being a human, she’s having tons o’ fun with Grammy. The three of us have been going out on the town while B works on his summer courses for work.

Grammy and Cee at the Children's Museum in our town

Grammy and Cee at the Children’s Museum in our town

My mom brought some dresses I wore when I was a Wee Eee, and they are in fantastic shape thanks to 30 years of moth balls. (And BTW, if y’all have any tips for getting the smell out but protecting the semi-fragility of the clothes, I am all ears. Dr. Google says to make a vinegar solution but I’m nervous that then she’ll just smell like an old mothy pickle.) Cee has been wearing them around town, making her the cutest little gal who smells like an attic.

Wee Cee modeling my own sailor dress from when I was a toddler. SO EXCITED for her to wear this on the Fourth of July.

Wee Cee modeling my own sailor dress from when I was a toddler. SO EXCITED for her to wear this on the Fourth of July.

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….and a frilly pink number from when I was a tyke. Before I had her, I vowed I would not be one of those moms who dresses their daughter up in pink frills. This is me eating my words. And boy, are they yummy.

Seriously, I'm dying. So.Freaking.Cute.I.Can't.Even.Believe.It.The.End.

Seriously, I’m dying. So.Freaking.Cute.I.Can’t.Even.Believe.It.The.End.

So that’s what I’ve been doing. Dressing my baby up and frolicking with my mom at stores that are normally outside of my price range. Today I learned that I love Talbots because I can go a size down there. Um, hello, new favorite store. (Don’t worry, Target, I still love you too, but y’know, it’s nice to see a number on the tag that doesn’t make me feel like I ate an entire cow for lunch. And to not be tempted for once with ceramic plates with mod owls all over them.)

Another fun thing happened this week! I ordered some business cards on which I call myself a freelance writer and a blogger. (I know.) A couple months back, I pitched a column to a local women’s publication in my town. And guess what? They actually accepted it! It’s going to be based on the parenting writing I do here. I figured that now I’m kinda legit and all I should start behaving as such and order some little cards. And spend an arm and a leg at Talbots on fancy clothes.

Emily for hire. I’ll write you some words. (Don’t worry; the cards don’t say that.)

Congratulations! It’s a human!

It’s no surprise that we liken newborns to sacks of sugar and hotdogs and tacos. (No? Just me?) They are as inanimate as various foodstuffs and their toes and ears just as delicious. We hold them up and admire them, but they’re not really humans because they lack the characteristics inherent to adults and even toddlers.

Then they learn to roll, walk around, and bump into things. Their ability to move is experimental and aimless. Without hindsight and foresight, they seem to volley from room to room simply because their muscles don’t want to atrophy. They are kind of like a worm that gets cut in half but whose parts still move around independent of each other because its nerves – not its brain – are dictating its movement.

These taco worms, they are not of our kind. That’s what makes them so wonderful but also so mind-numbingly infuriating. They look like humans but their actions* basically prove that they’re not. Their human-ness is slow to appear, but with a bit of faith and the requisite patience, it will come. One day, you’ll push that baby from your figurative loins once again, and instead of announcing your child’s sex, the doctor will declare, “Congratulations! It’s a human!”

*Ie., when they throw their entire bodies to the ground when they are not allowed to lick the bottom of your shoe. Not like I’ve been there before or anything.

Wee Cee became a human over the weekend. An honest-to-God human.

In our bedroom, there is pretty much always a glass of water on my bedside table that I keep around but don’t drink because that would be logical and logic and I have a complicated relationship. C is obsessed with this water, and I’m usually able to snatch it out of her hands before she manages to splatter it all over the room and somehow make one and a half cups seem like Sea World. Saturday, though, she got the water, dumped it all out, and then had the wherewithal to retrieve my purse and deposit it on top of the wet spot so that we would not see it. That sneaky little bugger was covering her tracks. This is real human behavior, my friends. The whole right and wrong concept? She’s got it.

Then, a little later on, she was playing with B in her room when he called to me, “She just did pretty much the sweetest thing I have ever seen her do.” Truth. She had taken a rock that she had found outside, pulled out his hand, put it in his hand, and then made him curl up his fingers around it so that he would know that it was his.

I. Died.

Tears? Oh, there were tears. Lots.

My girl is becoming a human. Please welcome her to our complex world full of lies and love. And wish us good luck, too. I think things will only get exponentially harder from here on out because raising a human is slightly more complex than raising a hotdog.

c and bunny

I wrote some Stuph.

Twindaddy graciously invited me to write a guest post on his formidable corner of the Intertron, and I, of course, was all over that.

Then – surprise, surprise – Wee Cee commandeered the keyboard while I was busy watching Arthur (because, let’s be honest, I am more of a fan than she is. She has yet to appreciate the tragic humor of beauty school dropout Binky Barnes.) What resulted was a meeting of the minds between her and Baby C, TD’s toddler.

I guess that makes the title of this post a lie, as I didn’t write some stuph. She did.

Pop on over and check it out.

Don’t make the babies cry.

wee ceebaby-c-trooper

Oooooh That Smell: Living with a Stinky Kid

It will happen. You will think your baby is immune to it and that it’s an affliction that only claims children who log 30+ hours each week in the Pit of Filth otherwise known as McDonald’s Playplace, but you will be sorely wrong. You’ll wake up one morn lacking the ninja skills to effectively rid your child of their ubiquitous eye crusties. It’s happened.

You’ve got a grubby kid.

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Not even an iota of remorse

Grubbiness is more than just a blowout diaper or an entire cup of grape juice dumped down the front of your child’s white sundress. While massively catastrophic at the time, those can be cleaned with a dunk in the tub. Grubbiness, however, is more persistent and insidious. It comes in droves. It’s playground grit under their nails, oatmeal woven through their hair, a random rash likely caused by the duck poop they carried around the park for ten minutes before you noticed.

Wee Cee has been nursing a case of the nasts for nearly two solid weeks now, and I don’t see it abating until she’s off to the prom. I am incapable of staying two steps ahead of the film of babyhood that is constantly building up all over her. I will find a smudge of yogurt behind her ear and then recall that the last time she ate yogurt was two days prior. How could this happen? Is she stockpiling the stuff in the cavity of her Sleep Sheep and breaking it out when we think she’s napping?

I think it all started when she actually grew some hair. Up until recently, C has been sporting the natural pixie look. I birthed what was effectively a cueball and her hair was slow to come in. Then, the back overtook the front and now she’s got a Carol Brady flap-back thing happening. I lie. It’s a mullet. My child has hockey hair. Hockey hair that is constantly in that precarious cradle cap zone (“cradle cap” sounds so much cuter than “dandruff”, which is what it really is) and smells like wet dog even after it’s been shampooed.

Speaking of dogs.

You know how it’s kind of cute when your baby is teething for the first time? How those front teeth come in and you can just give them some frozen toy that assuages their pain? Yeah, it’s been my experience that teething molars is a completely different, disgusting ball game. The pain that is brought on when her molars come in induces so much drool that she looks like an inbred hound dog lacking a barrier lip to fight the influx of saliva. And that colorful teething ring? LOLOLOLOL. She gnaws on her hands and my keys and rocks and and and.

It’s gross.

The good thing about molars, though, is that she can now eat more. I say “good” because I’m ironic. C is all about helping herself to whatever we’re having and smearing it over her hands, face, elbows, and highchair, but when it comes time to clean up after her meal, she makes like Regan McNeil and thwarts all our attempts to clean her off. It burns. IT BURNS!

Often, an odor that’s not that bad but certainly not right will emanate from her pores. I’ll smell something off and realize that it is my girl who I got done scrubbing vigorously not twenty minutes before. All the soap in the world will not be able to cleanse her of her musk of burnt cumin. The most fun she’ll have all morning is when she toots or burps loudly and then grins as if the secrets to the universe made themselves known to her through the bubbles of her gas. She’s basically a yogi of stank.

And crusty crumbs.

And playground sand packed into the tiny lines of her palms.

And onesies dotted with a potpourri of orange and purple stains.

Grunge was a style of music popularized by bands like Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Soundgarden when I was a preteen. Now it’s one of the recurring themes of my life. But that C? She doesn’t smell like teen spirit.

Raw Meat In My Purse: A Primer to Images That Populate My Dreams

Since my blog stats are already at a super low right now*, I am going to go ahead and talk about a dream I had last night. There is nothing I could do to further estrange my readership, so I figure that now’s as good a time as ever to write a post that is the blogging equivalent of showing you pictures of people you don’t even know at a fundraiser or something.

Google search "gala 2013" and many other thrilling images like this one are there for the taking. Source

Google “gala 2013″ and many other images full of strangers one will be yours for the taking. Source

*Seriously, though, thanks for sticking around. I’m still writing through it, and I hope to be on the other side of the doldrums soon.

Last night I dreamed that I was at a hospital waiting in a reception area for the results of a routine test that had been performed on me days before. I think it was probably a blood pressure exam or something humdrum like that. While I waited, B went to a drink machine to get a Coke. In his absence, a nurse came out to me with a pink and green book. She gave it to me and told me I was expecting twins and that one of them was for sure a boy. She could tell because he had a lot of hair. (I know.) I could look through the book to find more information on my babies. She told me all this out in the open, in front of other patients and with no confidentiality, which was odd to me even in the oh-it’s-totally-normal-that-my-husband-is-Kurt-Cobain reality of the dream. I asked her to stop talking so we could both wait for B to come back before she divulged more information that I was likely to forget or possess the wherewithal to convey to him. But she just led me to an exam room and left.

The exam room was just a huge, open warehousish space that was icy blue and separated with many curtain partitions. It had low ceilings and no windows. While I waited, I opened my purse and found a huge piece of raw beef that was in a Ziploc bag. I remembered that I had put it in my bag days earlier with the intent to throw it away. The bag was now punctured and leaking blood all over the contents of my purse. I threw it away in the exam room and decided to find a way to leave. When I left my partitioned cell, I noticed that all the teal blue equipment in the hospital was covered in splotches of blood too. So, dream me decided that my decision to leave was a good one because gross.

I woke up about then. My mind immediately went to the twins in the dream and how terrifying it would be if I were indeed pregnant (just to be 1000% clear with you, I’m NOT.) with not one new baby but two. Supes practical me started freaking out about where we would actually put these new humans if they arrived. Our apartment is small and we’re busting at the seams as C outgrows all her baby junk. Big girl carseat arrives this Friday and when I ordered it at Target.com I had half a mind to buy some training bras too.

Lying in bed, I probably chose to dwell on the practicality of housing two newborns rather than affording them – which would be the real issue we’d face – because it’s not as overwhelming. We won’t live in our apartment for more than another year, but I’m not sure we’ll ever be even modestly wealthy. Seriously, I don’t know if it would even be fiscally responsible for us to have another child. C’s cardiogram last month already wiped out the prospect of us going on a modest vacation this summer outside of the roadtrip to see family in Tennessee. You may have never heard this before, but kids are expensive.

DSC08845Then I worried about how C would handle being an older sibling. READ: I worried about how I could handle being the parent to more than one child. The tens of you who read my blog know that I am pretty much obsessed with her. She is the best thing that ever happened to me and her eyelashes demand my attention at all times. And while I know in my mind that if I had another child, I would not love her or the new baby any less, I cannot imagine my heart growing any more to accommodate another child. It just doesn’t seem possible.

Yes yes yes, I know it would be possible, and in fact having another child would make me love C more. Love is not something that you run out of. It begets itself. But remember that the same brain that you’re trying to explain that to is one that dreams of rancid Ziplocked steaks leaking all over Subway Sub Club punch cards in her purse. That’s what we’re up against, folks.

I don’t even know. I fell back asleep pretty easily. For funsies, I took a pregnancy test this morning just to make sure my uterus is 100% empty. It was. And because I am totally logical, that made me sad. Anyone want to swap brains for a sec? I’ll throw in some spaghetti I made in the Crock Pot to sweeten the deal.

Likey me bloggy? Likey me Facey!

Have you entered to win a free Datevitation custom love coupon book? You still have time! Click here for details!

Bathtime

Tonight I am inspired by my daughter’s little shoulderblades.

B and I have been spelling out B-A-T-H so much that soon it will be a code for nothing and just another way to tell her that it’s Time. We tell her it’s time for a bath and she runs straight to the tub. Even though she doesn’t need to, she bathes every day because why not? Babies know simple pleasures better than anyone else.

I count 1-2-3-4-5 when she stands up in the tub. She’s usually down by 3. It shouldn’t surprise me anymore when she follows my rules, but I’m still awestruck when she does what she’s supposed to do. Watching her learn and retain is miraculous. Once she didn’t even exist. Then she did. Then she was born. Then she started understanding us. Then she started minding us.

Sitting alongside the tub, I like to get right up in her face and examine her profile. With her pacifier out, I can see her lips and appreciate her jaw when it’s not tightened by the constant sucking. She usually splashes me away because I get too close. Sometimes she smiles under the paci and her eyes beam.

She stretches to get to the rubber duck. Her tiny shoulderblades flex back and forth, a motion that illustrates her body working in harmony. I remind myself to change the lightbulb in the bathroom so I can have more light to see her move.

It is her custom to call out DA-DA when she’s done with her bath. He comes in and dries her while I get her toothbrush ready. She sucks out all the toothpaste before any serious brushing occurs. I act annoyed but knowing that those teeth are connected to those shoulderblades diffuses me. She runs buck naked back to her room. She just learned to run so we let her.

The running, the shoulderblades, the beaming eyes: they are all my C.

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Diapering Memorandum

Dear Ms. Baby,

We regret to inform you that when you opted in to the Eating and Drinking Program (EDP), you also opted in to the Diaper Changing Program (DCP). For each meal/snack you consume, you will have to report to the changing table roughly two times. As long as your parent/guardian continues to feed and clothe diaper you, these numbers are expected to rise. The anger you have been expressing recently on the changing table may worsen.   However, we understand your frustrations and are here to offer some constructive pointers on improving your situation.

Perhaps you would like to persuade your parents to start using disposable diapers more frequently so as to cut back on potential trips to the changing table. While your mother and father are ever so smug about the environmental and financial savings they incur when they wrap your lower torso in reusable garments, they are knowingly creating more work for themselves and for you. Each time they haul you off to the changing table to change your soiled prefold diapers, they are tearing you away from the pressing matter of removing every single item from every single drawer in the home. Please notify them that by switching to disposables, they will not have to change you nearly as often.

Frequent diaper rashes may be the source of your frustrations when your parents insist on laying you upon the slab. If this is the case, we suggest you procure yourself a tube of diaper cream and have your guardian apply it liberally to your underside. Note: we advise against you performing diaper cream maintenance on yourself. The urge to eat Desitin is just too great and poses many threats to your still-developing innards.

As you know, the time you spend on the changing table can be tedious. If the doldrums persist, consider bringing something to entertain yourself with while you’re lying on your back. Entertaining items include but are not limited to:

• Your mother’s filthy set of keys

• An abridged copy of War and Peace

• Plush bunny

• At least four (4) pacifiers

Should you find that having your diaper changed is too unbearable, you may be a prime candidate for transfer to our Early Toilet Training Program (ETTP). Using a potty is indeed a sign that you are a VBG (Very Big Girl). If your expansive vocabulary of da-da, bye-bye, ma-ma, and mooooooooo does not sufficiently convey to your parents your desire to transition to the toilet, we recommend that you simply drop trow in the middle of the living room and go for it. Your parents will likely get the hint.

Yours,

The Management

"Yeah, so, no. I'm not going to lie down."

“Yeah, no. I’m not going to lie down.”

Mothers Day is great and sad. Twosies.

Even though Sunday was my second officially-sanctioned Mothers Day as a mom, it was effectively my first one. Last year, C was only about five weeks old on Mothers Day and I had no energy or desire to celebrate. No one was sleeping, no one was eating well, no one felt like a human. I was paying my dues in the New Baby Club and stocking up on the experiences that would make me truly relish the return of sleep. If this was motherhood, I’d take a pass on celebrating it.

I had something to toast to this year. I celebrated my survival by sipping my coffee and eating pancakes B prepared for me. I sneaked a Dove chocolate between them. It was melty and perfect. I celebrated while lounging on the sofa and watching C and B screen an episode of Mister Roger’s Neighborhood on YouTube. I celebrated by fighting the urge to call and apologize for my tardiness when I ran long at my solo date to the coffee shop. I celebrated by showing B how to make fish tacos for us all for dinner. He only cut his finger once when he sliced the avocados.

We put C in her crib at 6:45. She woke up around 9:15, crying from a bad dream. She rarely wakes in the middle of the night anymore so I jumped at the chance to see her and be there with her. B and I had been discussing only a couple days ago how nowadays, we simply put her away at 6:45. We go about our after-hours routines and have to remind ourselves that she is indeed in the other room sleeping and living. By the time we turn our own lights out at 11, we have almost forgotten we’re parents.

She cried out and I held her. She nestled into my chest and I smelled her head. She’s a lanky baby but she is still so slight in my arms. Mere months before, it would have taken hours to pull her together and meet her needs. On Sunday night, it took no more than ten minutes. By 9:25, she was back in her crib.

I felt sad. At some point, this all got kind of easy. It made me pine for the days where I was regularly put through the fire and earning my keep as the parent of an infant. It made me sad for my own parents that they know exactly what it’s like to be needed intensely and then, in the blink of an eye, just standing by in the other room waiting for me to cry out. All we want is to be needed longer.

Parenthood is heartbreaking.

Let’s drink mimosas.

I miss this.

I miss this.

Dining With C

This will be what I call a Grandmother Post, as in you may have to be C’s grandmother to be interested. We are going to talk about her diet.

In detail.

Fair warning.

I am the proud owner of a terrific eater. And yes, I own my child. I lug that incredibly leggy toddler around like an expensive purse. Only I don’t put my tube of lipstick in her mouth like it’s the little zipper pouch inside the bag.

What.

C eats really well. She has yet to go on a macaroni and cheese hunger strike, which is good because my husband has some strange aversion to the boxed variety and starts retching whenever he sees an ad for it on TV. I don’t even know. I ceased making separate meals for her once she turned one and now she eats little bitty portions of whatever we’re having. This is a win-win situation because I don’t have to work at making an extra set of kid food, and I’m more motivated to make something halfway healthy, ie. no mayonnaise sandwiches. Not that I ever ate mayo sandwiches to begin with, but you know. Small victories and all. I also never murdered anyone.

*Pats self on back.*

Most mornings, she has yogurt with fruit and cereal. For awhile, I was buying her little readimade fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt cups because one of those super couponing people gave me a TON of coupons while I was staring at the massive yogurt selection at the grocery store. Seriously. She was one of those people who carries around massive file binders full of coupons at the store and buys like 74 rolls of Bounty and 38 boxes of frozen garlic bread and ends up paying $2.75 for her entire purchase. But who am I to judge because she gave me a fat stack of coupons for a brand I occasionally buy, claiming that she only buys the kind with M&Ms. Can’t judge her for that. Anyway, we finally ran out of coupons, and since I’m not going to clip them myself because I’m too busy thinking about blog posts I could write about Bob the Builder and how one of the little songs on that show reminds me of “Like a Virgin”, we are back to good ol’ plain yogurt mixed with Cherrios and blueberries I’ve cooked down a little into a thick, syrupy consistency. She likes it.

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Post-breakfast pic. Also, who is the mom who just now updated her little one-ply infant spittup bibs to proper scoopy toddler bibs? It’s me, it’s me.

Lunch and dinner menus are pretty interchangeable. She usually has something proteiny like peanut butter, beans, or a little pork or beef if we have it around. She likes whole wheat bread, pasta, cucumber, tomatoes, strawberries, chickpeas, and cheese. AND BANANAS. Oh Lordy, does she like bananas! She really likes pesto, so sometimes I spread some on a piece of toast and put some sundried tomatoes on it and melt a little cheese. Yum. I may or may not totally bogart her meals those days.

The best thing about eating the same thing as her is that it gives me the excuse to buy really good, high-quality, grass-fed, free-range, ubiquitously-hyphenated meats. I’m pretty sure I’ve told you before about how we live literally 45 minutes from the largest pork packing plant in the world. And I’m not exaggerating. The entire world. So suffice it to say, there is a ton of scary cheap genetically-modified pork in these parts. We instead pay a bit more for the good stuff at the farmer’s market because you can’t put a price tag on unknowingly eating pig snouts. We talk to the guy who raises it and feel good knowing that we’re supporting him and not putting nasty hormoney animals that lead miserable existences in our bodies.

Salads have made a major resurgence in our lives as of late. B dislikes many salads so I imagine salads and macaroni got together and bullied him when he was a teen. What an after-school special that would have made. C likes salads, though, and she often joins us when we eat baby spinach sprinkled with goat cheese, cranberries, and walnuts. I put a little vinaigrette on it and she om-noms it. She also likes spinach sauteed in a little olive oil and garlic, since she’s a gourmet and all. Or a freak of nature? Let’s stick with gourmet.

Snacks are where this child really shines. Sometimes I fear that her tongue isn’t working properly because some of the things she really shouldn’t like are her faves. B and I are obsessed with wasabi peas because we like to pretend we’re exotic and fancy when we eat them. We usually class-up our feeding frenzy by dropping most of them on the floor. C inevitably gets them and goes.to.town. She licks them and swirls them around in her mouth. She is also a big fan of limes and lemons. The tarter, the better. She sucks on them and then usually comes to ask for more once she’s efficiently removed a couple layers of enamel off her seven baby teeth.

C's first round with Korean food was a big success. Truth: her diaper was a little rough the next day, though.

C’s first round with Korean food was a big success. Truth: her diaper was a little rough the next day.

B and I don’t pretend to have anything to do with C’s very open palate. We are both equally amazed at mealtimes when she actually eats most of what is put in front of her. It will definitely be a confusing and sad day for us when she learns that Dora the Explorer yogurt exists and refuses to eat anything else.

What else should I offer to her? What are some strange foods your kids like? 

Humor me for a sec.

I just have one little question for you. It’s this:

That was easy, no?

I have never done a poll on the blog before. I evidently thought about doing one, though, because when I went to make the one above I found this one in my poll queue. It was from before C (AKA Bebe) was born. You are more than welcome to answer it, although at this point if you get the answer wrong I will have to give you an F- for the reading comprehension portion of your grade. That will inevitably bring down your score for the entire semester, thus affecting your GPA adversely, and then you can kiss your chances of getting into a fully-accredited university goodbye. I may also cut you. Chose wisely.

Now here’s this. My husband spends a lot of time on Tumblr and he found it and made me happy:

funny-gif-llama-gayThat llama is my spirit animal. So fab.

Hope you’re having a great weekend!