Great Balls Of Fire

Technically, Luke is now 9 months old and this should be a 9 month post...but the last post had pictures in it and my obsessive-compulsive nature will not allow me to put up two picture posts back to back, so instead, let's talk about microwaves for a minute, shall we?

Those of you who have been following this blog for a while might remember the time I set my Arby's sandwich on fire and then proceeded to eat it anyway. And at the time, I blamed it on my pregnancy because (a) it made a convenient scapegoat and (b) I genuinely believed that under normal circumstances, I would never do something quite so...vile.

As it turns out, I was wrong. This morning, Luke and I went to a water aerobics class, which we do every Monday and which always leaves him exhausted and me ravenous. So he was napping and I was looking forward to a lunch of leftover pizza and chicken wings. This past weekend was my mom's birthday, so she and my step-dad had come to celebrate with us and we had bought paper party plates which were all shiny and very cool.

But my stomach was grumbling and the food looked delicious and the regular plates were so high in the cabinets that I decided to use the (shiny) paper plate instead. As it turns out, the only reason that paper plates are ever shiny is IF THEY HAVE FOIL IN THEM.

So I put the shiny plate into the microwave and 30 seconds later, smelled something very suspicious. And the first (highly illogical) thought in my head was "Huh. When did we get a fireplace?" Because apparently, in my head, it makes more sense that a fireplace would have morphed out of NOTHING than to imagine that I might have put something in the microwave that did not belong there.

Now, remember how I mentioned that Luke was napping? Yeah, even in the midst of looking at the FIRE in my microwave, my top priority was to NOT WAKE THE BABY, so there I was in a blind panic, very quietly saying "Fire! McMoose! Fire!"

McMoose, who was working from home, apparently has exceptional hearing, not to mention lightning fast reflexes because in the time that it took me to fill up a glass with water to throw on the flame, he had dashed into the kitchen, prepared to offer aid. Of course, the only "aid" he actually offered was to (a) point out that the plate shouldn't have gone in the microwave (duh), (b) laugh at me for failing to notice the FOIL on the plate, and (c) dump the cup of water ALL OVER MY LUNCH.

Which I then proceeded to eat.

It was good. In a soggy kind of way.

The Great Snow of 2010

We had a snow storm on Saturday, and for once, I'm not snickering as I say "snow storm." This was, by far, the most snow I've seen in the 4 winters I've been in North Carolina, which is to say that there was no grass visible through the snow. And now, a good 3 days later, there's STILL snow--okay, ice--on the ground.

As a northerner, I always scoffed at North Carolinian's penchant to drive off the road in half an inch of snow, but this time? I finally got it. It isn't the SNOW, per se, that causes the aforementioned driving off the road, but the fact that there's maybe one snow plow in the entire Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area and much of the time, the driver of that snow plow seems to be on break. Which is to say that maybe, if we're lucky, one lane on the big roads might get cleared off, but small roads and parking lots stay winter-wonderlandy for days. And then, because the temperatures go up during the day and back down at night, the snow melts and then re-freezes until you're left with what is essentially a giant ice skating rink.

In any case, this was Luke's first snow and of course, we had to go out and get lots of pictures...

Gotta love the jester hat:

Chattin' It Up

So every time I talk to my dad, he asks if Luke is talking yet. So Dad, this post is for you...

No, Luke doesn't talk. But here's what he does do:

-Pitiful cry # 1: he says "Hey, Boo-boo, boo-boo, boo-booooooooo. Heeeeeyyyy, Boo-boo, boo-booooooo." I have no idea where this came from, but McMoose and I both agree that it is hilarious and it has led to us calling Luke "Boo-boo."
-Pitiful cry # 2: "Oh, Mama, Ohhhh, Maaamaaa, Ohhhhhhh, Mmmmaaaammmaaaaaa." This one is more recent and he mostly does it when I've done something to piss him off--wipe his face, change his diaper, etc.
-When the cat purrs, Luke goes "Arrrrrr...arrrrrr...arrrrrr." He's been doing this since he was 4 months old, and technically, it was his first attempt at vocal communication. Figures it'd be aimed at the cat...
-When the dog barks, he goes "Oooohhh, ooooohhh, ooooooohhh," and then cracks up. What can I say, the kid has a weird sense of humor.
-He imitates the vacuum cleaner ("Hmmmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrr"), the leaf blowers that the maintenance guys have ("Harr, harr, harrrrrrrrrr"), and McMoose coughing ("Eh, eh, eh.")
-And earlier today, I was cleaning the oatmeal off his face, which always infuriates him and to make him smile, I started saying "Eek!" every time I wiped his mouth. Of course, he picked up on the game immediately, saying "Eeee! Eeee!" back to me in high-pitched voice and then grinning in oh-so-obvious pride.

And the rest of the time, he babbles and hisses and growls and basically narrates every moment of his life. So here's my question: how come he can mimic the dog, the cats, various loud machines and what he considers funny noises, but he can't mimic a simple "Mama" (except when he's crying, of course)?

Anatomy Of An Illness

Luke has been sick for the past two days, which doesn't seem like a long time until you're sitting there at 3 am on the second consecutive night of getting Very Little Sleep with a baby who is on HIS second consecutive night of getting Very Little Sleep and who, as an added bonus, has a 103 degree fever that WILL NOT respond to medication. I was wondering when his first real sickness would happen and I am so, so glad that it was now and not when he was younger and--let's be perfectly honest here--generally grumpier.

And as a person who has had more than her fair share of colds, I was very surprised that baby illnesses are so different from, you know, normal PEOPLE illnesses. Basically, the last two days have gone something like this:
-Coughing.
-Sneezing.
-Not sleeping.
-Spiking (what I would consider) high fevers.
-Not sleeping.
-Nursing incessantly, then refusing to nurse, then nursing incessantly, then refusing to nurse, repeat, repeat, repeat.
-NOT SLEEPING.
-Refusing to eat anything except processed Baby Junk Food.
-And did I mention the not sleeping?

Here's hoping that he doesn't get sick again for, oh, at least another 18 years.

Leaving Me Speechless

Ever since we got home from the holidays, Luke has been putting himself to sleep in his crib. Which is wonderful, except that ever since we got home from the holidays, Luke has also been pulling up. On every blessed thing. And the putting-self-to-sleep thing only works if he's, you know, lying down. So a couple of weeks ago, we did a little experiment to see exactly what would happen, now that he's fully capable of falling asleep by himself, if we left the room.

I expected tears. I expected anger. I expected pouting. None of which actually ensued. Instead, he stood up and shrieked quite happily for an over. an. hour. Loud, ear-piercing shrieks of joy. At which point McMoose made the decree that We Will Not Let The Baby Shriek For Long Periods Of Time. Now, McMoose doesn't make too many decrees--I think so far, the only ones he's come up with are: (1) We Will Not Feed The Baby Large, Chokable Pieces Of Food; (2) We Will Not Let The Baby Play With Dangerous Objects; and (3) the aforementioned edict against shrieking.

What all this means, of course, is that someone has to sit beside the crib for about 20 minutes every time Luke goes to bed and tell him to put his head back down every time he picks it up. And since McMoose is gone during the day, the task fell to me. And I have to admit that as far as tasks go, this is a pretty easy one. I sit in a chair, read my book, and occasionally pat or rub the child's back for a few seconds. Not a bad deal, right?

Of course, as a result of all this, I realized yesterday that I'm going to need more books to read, so off we headed to the library. I should mention here that I love, love, LOVE the library and that I'm always a much friendlier person while I'm there. So there I was in my friendly-library-mode when a woman approached me in the parking lot. She started off asking if Luke was mine, so of course, I expected it to be another "Really? He's yours? Are you sure?" kind of conversations. Imagine my surprise when it went wildly, freakishly off track:

Lady [to Luke]: Hi, Buddy! [To me]: Aww...is he yours?
Me: Yes.
Lady: How old is he?
Me: 8 months.
Lady: That's great.
Me: *Smile* Yeah. (Aside: what exactly was I saying "yeah" to here? The fact that he's 8 months old? Or that being 8 months is great? Conversations are so weird sometimes.)
Lady: So what did you think of pregnancy?
Me, starting to realize this wasn't going to be a run of the mill conversation: Well, it was fine. I loved the second trimester, when he finally started kicking and moving a lot.
Lady: Oh, I bet! And how was your labor?
Me, getting a little bit weirded out: Um...it was...fine...
Lady: Did you have a vaginal delivery?
Me: Ye...yes...
Lady: That's great! Did you have to get an epidural right away?
Me, looking around for the cameras because this kind of thing has to be for some kind of weird reality show, right?: Um...I...didn't...actually...need...one...
Lady: Oh, wow! Hey, listen, I was wondering...have you ever considered being a surrogate?
Me: Ok, I have to go...

Bad Morning, Good Day

I woke up in quite the snit today. (Now there's a word that gets vastly underused: snit.) It was 30 minutes earlier than I expected to wake up, and for some reason, Luke was bouncing around his crib and babbling LOUDLY over the monitor. (I don't think he has a quiet volume just yet. So far, everything he does, be it laughing or babbling or crying or burping is LOUD.) So I turned off the monitor, dragged myself out of bed, tripped over a cat, tripped over a dog, grumbled all the way to the nursery, got Luke out of the crib, grumbled all the way back to bed, tripped over the other cat, and finally got back under the covers.

Of course, Luke took this to mean that I was trying to put him back to sleep, and he didn't WANT to go back to sleep, so the happy babbling turned into enraged, high-pitched shrieking, and right that moment, any hopes I had of waking up slowly and peacefully were shattered. (Any hopes McMoose had of doing the same were also shattered, but somehow, he manages to handle these situations with grace and patience, while I moan about how all I want is 10 more minutes of sleep, IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK FOR?)

And when I got in the shower, I ran out of hot water right when I started shampooing my hair. And then, the Dog stepped on me and I hit my (already hurting) wrist on the doorjamb and the baby whined at me while I was trying to get dressed and I could not, for the life of me, imagine how I was going to survive the rest of this day.

Until I remembered reading something the other day about how a woman noticed that if she expected to have a bad, overwhelming day, she invariably did. So I made the conscious effort to smile at McMoose and coo at the baby and pet the dog. And by 9 o'clock, my day had taken a drastic turn for the better. And furthermore, so had Luke's--I don't know if he sensed my mood or just enjoyed having his playful, laughing Mama back, but his whininess disappeared and he has been the picture of glee all day long.

Now if only I could remember this the next time I get woken up too early...

The Ever Beleaguered Dog

The Dog has officially put in his petition to be relocated to a different family. Apparently, he has had it up to HERE with us and his only regret is that McMoose won't be able to go with him. I mean, first, we brought home Yellow Cat, who spent many weeks convinced that the Dog was his mother and trying to nurse from him. And then, just when he finally made his peace with sharing the humans' attention with Yellow Cat, we brought home Black Cat. And then, THEN, if that weren't bad enough, we had the gall to go and get a baby. A BABY, for crying out loud...and in fact, the baby spent much of his early months doing just that.

Then, when he finally accepted the fact that his life had changed and he had now been eclipsed by YET another little being, we put him in the car for a 16-hour drive, and at the end of the drive, we forced him to spend two hellish weeks with a two-year-old who chased him and made weird noises at him and spent a lot of time saying "No!" to him. And then, to add insult to injury, the baby, whom he had finally befriended when he realized that he could skulk under the high chair and get free handouts, went and decided to start CRAWLING.

Which means that the Dog has spent all morning being chased, headbutted, and laughed at. Now granted, the Dog could just hop up on any of the pieces of furniture we have in our apartment and then, he'd be well out of the baby's reach, but the Dog? Not the smartest creature ever created. So instead, every time he gets headbutted, he jumps, looks startled, and moves 6 inches away. And then, 2 seconds later, he gets headbutted again.

Of course, he did manage to get his revenge after lunch, when he licked the baby from head to toe in an attempt to get every stray molecule of pasta and egg. I guess this is as symbiotic as their relationship will ever be.