And To All A Good Night

There will be a posting hiatus for the next three-ish weeks because tomorrow morning, we're packing up baby, dog, and Explorer and heading off to visit McMoose's family for the holidays. I hope everyone has a wonderful end of the year and a very happy new year. See you in 2010!

They're Quadruple Teaming Me

Back when I was pregnant, I anticipated all kinds of weird issues cropping up between the animals and Luke. This anticipation was only heightened by all the fliers in my OB/GYN office that said things like "Help your pets cope with your new addition!" Hmm, I thought, apparently, pets are so routinely traumatized by the addition of a new baby that they need help COPING. And of course, I kept meaning to figure out exactly what I should do to help them cope, but in case you don't already know this about me, I procrastinate. A lot. So I kept putting it off and before I knew it, we were driving home from the hospital with a very small, angry person in the back seat.




You can imagine my surprise when we brought the small, angry person into the apartment and the Dog sniffed us, sniffed him, and then went off in search of his toy. Then, Black Cat sniffed us, looked warily at him and disappeared for two days. Then, Yellow Cat sniffed us, sat on us, sniffed us, purred, and generally acted like the high maintenance cat that he is, but other than trying to claw at the baby's head a couple of days after we got home, he adjusted fine too. In fact, he's the one who now lets Luke pet him (read: pull out handfuls of fur).



So now, seven months into this endeavor, I was feeling pretty confident that hey, babies and animals are a BREEZE. And then, a couple of days ago, I was in the shower and Luke was chilling in his little chair when I heard a growl, followed by loud screeching. My first response was, of course, to leap out of the shower, prepared to defend the baby against whatever evil was coming to get him. The evil, as it turns out, was Black Cat, who had a firm grip on the toy that Luke was playing with and was trying with all her 11 lb might to pull it away from him. He, in turn, was pulling back and screeching and making horrible, horrible faces at her.


About 20 minutes later, after averting that crisis and finishing my shower, Luke and I headed out to the living room, where I immediately noticed that the bottom of our Christmas tree had been savagely attacked. Tinsel was strewn everywhere, ornaments were littered across the floor and one ornament in particular was...dismantled. It was one of the little balls and the metal hook and string were there, but the actual ball was not. I searched high, I searched low, I interrogated the cats, but to no avail. I still haven't found it and I'm absolutely convinced that one of these days, I'm going to turn around and Luke's going to be playing with it, which would be fine if it weren't for the fact that it's glass and, you know, fragile.



So after all this, I was already doubting my whole "animals + baby = easy" equation, so it certainly didn't help that I put Luke on the floor and left the room for 30 seconds and then returned to find this:

Animals + baby might be easy, but animals + mobile baby? Not so much.

Welcome To My Fragmented Mind

• This is a bullet post. (See? I'd make a great twitter-er. Tweeter? Whatever.)
• I missed my nap this morning. Those two or three blissful hours that Luke and I spend cuddling and snoozing each morning are more essential to my well-being than his because he's acting perfectly normal while I'm grumpy as can be. (Also, I just read this bullet and realized that I am seriously spoiled. Who over the age of 4 has the luxury of a daily nap?!?)
• In one week, we'll be packing up and driving 13 hours overnight to Mississippi and as usual, I am BUZZING with excitement. Except, unlike usual, I can't plan to take a day or two off next week to pack and clean so that'll be an interesting task.
• The. Rotten. Stinkin'. Plant. Is. Still. Budding.
• Yellow cat was spotted drinking out of the toilet this morning. I thought cats had more self-respect than that. Shame on you, Yellow Cat, shame.

The Missing Link

I don't have as many pictures to post as I would like, but here's one that proves that my son probably has an ancestral chimp or two:

Seven!

I feel like I just wrote Luke's six month post, so I had to double check the calendar to make sure, but sure enough, he's seven months old today. (As a side note, he's the same age that my friend's baby was when Luke was 2 months old and her baby seemed SO HUGE to me.) He has mastered the art of sitting now so he no longer flops over after a couple of minutes. He does, however, intentionally THROW himself to the ground if he has decided that he has had enough of the whole sitting business. And then, he invariably hits his head on the nearest piece of furniture. And then, he screams. And his screams are of such a screamy nature that more than once, I've checked the back of his head for bleeding head wounds, but no blood yet. (He did, however, cut his lip on a zipper earlier this month, and oh, the pitiful faces were pitiful indeed.)

His latest quest has been trying to crawl. Not the inchworm thing he's been doing for the past couple of months, but actually get up on his hands and knees and crawl. He finally figured it out yesterday, and today, he decided to move on to bigger and better things, so instead of crawling on his hands and knees like a--dare I say it?--normal baby, he has been "crawling" on his hands and feet today. Like a baby bear. The downside to this is that his head is pointed down, so he can't see where he's going so earlier today, he crawled right into the entertainment center. (Yes, I was watching him. But normally, he moves at the rate of about an inch per minute, so when I put him in the middle of the room, and sat down on the couch to eat my lunch, I didn't exactly expect him to be in any danger.)

Between the eating all kinds of nonsense and the moving around and the sitting like a little Buddha, Luke's suddenly starting to seem more like a real person, and an entertaining one at that. After all, there's nothing funnier than watching a Very Slow Baby getting all excited and trying to chase a Very Fast Cat.

I don't have pictures to post this month (again) because I'm not entirely sure if we took pictures on our camera this month. We did take pictures on McMoose's phone, so I'll try to post some of those...soon-ish.

My Ick Factor

During my second year of college, I had this nightmare that I had a pimple on my cheek which started glowing red and then turned into a piece of wood and by the time I realized what was happening, I had turned into a tree. Even before this nightmare, I was predisposed to be highly suspicious of any skin things, but afterwards, it was MONTHS before I could pass a tree without shivering. To this day, I hate looking at the brake lights of buses because it reminds me of the red glow from the dream. And I really, really dislike plants.

Specifically flowering plants. I'm okay with flowers. I'm okay with plants that grow really slowly, so you can't really tell that they're growing. But things that actively bud and flower? Yech, *shiver,* bleh.

My stepdad bought us an amaryllis bulb in a vase for Christmas. It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture and I was very excited to bring it home and water it and watch it grow. And then? It started GROWING. Right now, it's tall and bud-like and every time I look at it, I nearly hyperventilate and then, I consider feeding it to a goat. This plan would, of course, require me to find a goat, which might be hard to do here in suburbia.

I wonder if there's a name for this particular phobia/neurosis.

The Bug's Bug

I knew it had to happen eventually and I hate to jinx myself, but I have to say, as illnesses go, Luke's first one was kind of a walk in the park. He had a very grumpy day on Wednesday, which I chalked down to the fact that we had gone to a La Leche League meeting, which threw off his nap schedule. And when I say "very grumpy day," what I mean is that he wanted to play on the living room floor with the coffee table. Sounds fine, right? Except I wasn't allowed to interact with him in any way. So for an entire hour, if I so much as looked in his direction, he wailed. Still, I'm sure you don't understand the problem because hey, that's an hour of the baby amusing himself, right? Except that during this hour? If I tried to get up off the floor, he yelled. If I tried to sit on the floor and fold one of the small mountains of laundry that had accumulated, he hollered. If I tried to knit or eat a snack or read a book, he broke down into pitiful tears. Which means that for an hour, I sat thinking about ALL THE THINGS I should have been doing instead.

Needless to say, this behavior is not normal for my kid. Usually, he likes interaction, likes being held and played with and talked to and growled at. I mean, the whole not-getting-to-fold-my-laundry thing was nothing new, but this was the first time that I was not folding laundry because I was sitting on the floor and staring at YET ANOTHER EPISODE of a home improvement show.

But other than that weirdness, he wasn't acting sick. No sneezing. No coughing. No runny nose. So when he was still awake 2 hours after his normal bedtime, I was done. Done with a capital D-O-N-E. I was convinced that a demon had taken over my sweet child's body for the sole purpose of TORTURING ME. Until I realized that his forehead felt warm...and his hands...and his feet...so I quickly whipped out the thermometer that has been waiting on a table in his room for the past six months and sure enough, he had a fever. A low fever, to be sure, but a fever nonetheless.

So of course, I took that as the perfect opportunity to hold and cuddle him all night long (why, yes, I AM opportunistic, thank-you-for-asking), which is why I know this fact: Luke is a really weird sick person. For one thing, he whistles in his sleep like a cartoon character. For another, all through the night and for a good part of the next day, he would get really, really hot and then, 15 minutes later, be cold and clammy again. On Thursday, every time he felt warm, I braced myself for the fussing and the whining that I expected to come with a sick child, only to find that a feverish Luke is actually a very charming and pleasant Luke. Who knew? And by Thursday night, he was completely back to normal again.

I, on the other hand, have a sore throat, a runny nose, and a headache that has been with me for the past two days. Because apparently, my immune system feels that it already helped one person through this illness and really, it deserves a few days off now.

First Thanksgiving: Mission Accomplished

I love, love, LOVE that McMoose takes the whole week of thanksgiving off from work because it means we can actually get in a decent visit with whichever family member is willing to house the three of us plus the Dog. This year, it was my mom. This was a rather momentous occasion actually, because the Dog lived with her for the first six misspent years of his life and when she delivered him to me, she told me that she loved him dearly but didn't want to ever see him in her house again. Fast forward four years and lots and LOTS of what can only be described as intensive rehabilitation for the miscreant of a Dog and he was finally welcomed back into her home. Her NEW (rented) home. Where he didn't pee on the carpets or eat the bed linens or steal the turkey. And that right there? My definition of a Most Successful Visit.

It was successful in other ways too. We survived the drive there and back without too much crying or getting lost. We got to see one of my friends from college, which is always fun. We had thanksgiving with people I haven't seen in ages. I cooked two pies, one of which was entirely vegan (take THAT, Sara Lee.) And Luke? The baby who decided before we left that he resented all solid foods and was going to revert back to a milk-only diet? He spent the entire week eating EVERYTHING in sight. Avocado. Bananas. Sweet potatoes. Rice. Banana puffs. Peas. A (small) slice of apple pie. Indian things.

And since I fall on the lazy side of the parenting spectrum, most of these things were fed to him directly off my plate. After feeding him all this nonsense, it occurred to me that if he'd had an allergic reaction to something, we wouldn't have had the slightest clue what caused it, but luck was on our side. Of course, now, every time he sees me eating anything, he throws an unholy fit until I share with him, which is maybe not the best habit to be instilling in him, but...meh, what are you gonna do?

Dinnertime Conversation

If Luke could talk, the conversation at our apartment yesterday evening would have gone something like this:

Me: Look, Little Bug! I have some oatmeal for you!
Luke: Oatmeal, you say? Hm. It comes on a spoon. I like things that come on spoons. Okay, let's give it a try.
*I feed him a spoonful of oatmeal*
Luke: *Gag! Spit, spit, spit! Gaaaaaaaaaaaag!!!! Spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit!*
Me: Well. That was dramatic. But then again, you're always dramatic on the first bite. Wanna try another?
Luke: I guess....
*Takes another spoonful*
Luke: *Gag! Spit, spit, spit! Gaaaaaaaaaaaag!!! Spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit! Sticks hand into mouth to attempt to pull out all remaining vestiges of oatmeal. Arches back, spits straight upwards. Realizes that's a fun new game and continues. Swishes spit around in mouth. Figures out how to spit for DISTANCE. Spits on highchair. Spits on dining table. Spits on dog cage. Spits on wall BEHIND HIM. Spits on carpet. Spits on me.*
Me: Right. No more oatmeal for you. Quit spitting and I'll get you some pears. *I go warm up some pears and put a spoonful in his mouth, which he eagerly opens.*
Luke: *Gaaaaaaag! Spit, spit, spit* Hey, look how far I can spit my pears!
Me: STOP spitting! You like pears! No, you LOVE pears!!!
Luke: *Opens mouth for more. Spits out entire mouthful. Laughs. Opens mouth for more*
Me: Um. No. No more pears for you. Here, just feed yourself some banana puffs while I go get a washrag to clean you off with.
Luke: Hey! These banana puffs are SO MUCH FUN! *Smushes banana puffs into high chair. And clothes. And hair.*
Me: You. Are. Being. Ridiculous. Just...drink some water or something.
Luke: EWWWW, water! I will throw it at the dog!

Usually, McMoose is in charge of bathing the baby. Last night, McMoose got home to find me AND the baby hanging out in the tub because as it turns out, congealed oatmeal-pear-banana puff-water mixtures do NOT clean off easily. (It's also really hard to get that stuff out of a baby's ear. Especially a wiggling, giggling, still-spitting baby.)

Suffice it to say, there will be no more oatmeal fed to this child for a Very Long Time.

Thank You, Captain Obvious

I love advice. Especially unsolicited advice. ESPECIALLY unsolicited advice given by people who have no experience with the topic that they're giving you advice about. Yeah, that's the BEST KIND. Today, for example, I had a meeting and as usual, little Bug went with me. The person I was meeting with has no children and very little experience with other people's children. As usual, the talk turned to whether I missed school (I wholeheartedly do NOT), whether I wished I were working (again, a definite no), and whether I was happy being home with Luke (very much yes).

Apparently, my answers were less than satisfactory because she then informed me that at some point, I would have to "let go" because I couldn't be attached at the hip him when he's 18. Wow, REALLY? Gee, I had no idea.

It seems to me that everyone who has any advice to give about this whole parenting endeavor feels the need to follow it up with "or else, he'll be doing that FOREVER!" Really? Forever? If I rock my 6-month-old to sleep, I'll have to move my rocking chair into his dorm room? If I don't put him in daycare by the time he's 1, he'll be living in my basement when he's 43? Because if that's the case, I'd better start teaching the kid how to drive, lest he expect me to chauffeur him to his doctor's appointments for the rest of his life.

Yes, He's Mine. Yes, I'm Sure.

I love Thursday nights. Thursday nights, in case you didn't know, are Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice nights, which are the only two shows I actually care about enough to watch when they're actually on, instead of TiVo-ing and watching in 10 or 15 minute increments (or, as is the case with several TLC shows which should all just be called "See Our Enormous Family Take Yet Another Vacation," TiVo-ing and then deleting after reading the summary.) So a couple of weeks ago, I had my cup of tea, I had my comfy pillows, I had my lovely blanket-with-sleeves, and McMoose and I were all settled in watching Private Practice and as it turned out, there was a story that week about a couple who wanted a baby who "looked like them," which posed an ethical problem for the fertility specialist because they were Little People.

At one point during the episode, the would-be expectant mom made an emotional plea (because all good primetime dramas contain at least one emotional plea per episode, of course) to the doctor, asking how she (the black doctor) would feel if there were a 50% chance that her child could be white. McMoose and I looked at each other, then at the sleeping baby between us, and burst out laughing because hey, guess what! We BOTH faced the chance that our child would look nothing like us. (Ok...I'll admit, I didn't actually think it was a real possibility that our kid would look like him instead of me, and of course, the Universe has responded by proving to me that yes, it was a very real possibility.)

For the most part, I think the desire for a child-who-looks-like-me is pretty universal, but also, really, really easy to get over. As in, I took one look at my blue-eyed boy in the delivery room and decided that he was far cuter than ANY child of my imagination. So really, not an issue at all, right?

Except apparently, this whole having-a-child-who-isn't-a-mirror-image-of-you is a really foreign concept to people who haven't directly been in this situation. Which is why I constantly get questions about who I am, who Luke is, how come he doesn't look like me, am I sure he's mine, etc. And can I just say, that last question there? The "Are you sure he's really yours" thing? Every time I get that, I just have to shake my head because how do you even respond to that? "Well, gee, the maternity test SAID it was 99.99% sure he's mine..."

In any case, I was in the grocery store the other day, and the same cashier who got on my nerves while I was pregnant decided it was time to get on my nerves again:

Cashier: Aww...
Me: *smile*
Cashier: Are you baby-sitting?
Me: No...
Cashier: He's not yours, is he?
Me: Yes...
Cashier: Really?
Me: Yes...
Cashier: He doesn't look like yours.
Me: *Sigh* *Make non-committal noises while swiping my credit card as quickly as possible.*
Cashier: Well, if he is yours, blah-blah-blah-insert unsolicited advice here-blah.

I'm sorry, IF HE'S MINE? I just TOLD you he's mine. If he's mine. Feh. And then, THEN! I was at the pediatrician's office last Friday, and this happened:

Random woman (RW): How old is your baby?
Me: 6 months.
RW: Aww. How long have you had him?
Me: Umm.....6 months.....
RW: Oh! How long did it take you to get him?
Me: Ummmmmmmm...9....months....?
RW: Wow! My sister and her husband adopted and it took them over 2 years!

Once I explained that no, Luke is not adopted, he just looks like his dad, the woman quickly turned beet red and apologized profusely. But seriously, how hard is it to just Mind. Your. Own. Damn. Business. How hard?

Six, Take Two

As promised, here's the picture portion of Luke's six month post:

Our trip to Wisconsin was his first plane ride, his first hotel stay, AND his first wedding...and in keeping with my phenomenally poor record of taking pictures, this is the only evidence I have of that weekend:

That green thing he's sleeping on? Yeah, that was the bedspread in the hotel.

Here he is, enjoying a dinner of smushed up avocado. See the giant grin? That grin had me convinced that smushed up avocado tasted good. So I tried a spoonful. Big. Mistake.

He was a frog for Halloween. A big, shiny, velveteen frog.

Why was the baby hanging upside down and sticking his tongue out at McMoose at 10 pm? Good question.

This is what we do on days when we don't leave the house. In other words, THIS IS WHY WE LEAVE THE HOUSE.

I thought it would be cute to take a picture of him with the pumpkin before, during, and after the carving process. And by the time I remembered the during and after part, the pumpkin had started growing mold.

And last but not least, a picture that needs no explanation:

Catchin' zzzzs

I've always liked the idea of co-sleeping with your baby, of having them nearby, of being able to respond to their nighttime needs quickly and without too much disruption to your own sleep.

I loved the first two months when Luke slept between me and McMoose, when we could check on him by putting a hand on his belly, when we could cuddle him back to sleep before he even woke up. And then, he figured out how to move around in bed and we started finding him lying sideways between us, which meant that he took up 50% of the bed, leaving McMoose and me with 25% each. Obviously, that wasn't working for us, so we put the crib right beside my side of the bed and he slept in there for part of the night and beside me in bed for the other part.

And then, his nighttime sleeping began deteriorating and he went from being able to sleep hours at a time to only sleeping for about 45 minutes at a time. After spending several weeks being convinced that my kid was the worst sleeper ever, it occurred to me that between McMoose snoring all night long and the Dog sneezing and whimpering and clawing at the carpet, maybe we were waking him up instead of the other way around.

So this past weekend, we moved the crib to his room, and of course, he's been sleeping like a normal human being again for the past two nights. I, on the other hand, am very grouchy about this new development because (a) no baby to cuddle at night and (b) since Luke lives in his own room at night, the cats have once again been allowed into ours, which means that they spend all night chasing each other around and attacking my feet under the covers. Seems to me the better alternative would have been to give the animals their own room at night, get a king sized bed, and buy McMoose some no-snore nose strips.

Promises, Promises

Lately, I've started blocking out certain days on my calendar and calling them "Stay home days" because if I don't, we end up finding something to do every single day and after about a week of that, I end up all grouchy at the world because I feel like I haven't had any time to just sit and be. So one or two days each week, we stay home, the baby gets all his naps, everyone goes to bed on time, and life is happy again.

Today was totally supposed to be one of those days. And then, I realized I didn't have contact lens solution, so of course, I had to go to the drug store. And when I left the apartment, I couldn't help but notice how unbelievably nice it was outside. And since it's November, we don't have too many of these days left, right? So really, we HAD to go enjoy the weather. Which is why at 3 this afternoon, we were watching the clouds on a blanket near a lake, instead of sticking to the nap schedule. And that in turn is why at 5:30, Luke is snoring away in his crib instead of eating his dinner. And THAT is why, when he's acting like a hyperactive hyena at 9 tonight, I'll be swearing up and down that tomorrow, we WILL stay home all day.

(Let's just see how that works out, shall we?)

Six!

Luke turned six months old yesterday. That's half a year, for those who are interested. Half. A. Year. Remember how I was all oh-my-baby-is-growing-so-fast-where-has-the-time-gone when he was a month old? Take that, multiply it by, oh, THREE HUNDRED AND TWELVE, and you might have some idea of where I am right now.

It seems like he does something new every day. He can sit up by himself. (Okay, most of the time he can sit up by himself. But then one of the animals walks by or we go on a play date and he sees other babies and he gets distracted and falls over. Hence the many, many bumps on his head.) He wants desperately to crawl. The problem is that he spends all his energy getting up on his knees and his head flops onto the ground because apparently? You can only concentrate on holding up one body part at a time. (On the plus side, he has mastered the downward dog pose.) Oddly enough, he can get from one end of the bed to the other with this odd flip-floppy crawling, which means that any day now, you're going to see a post about how he fell off the bed. (I know it's coming. I'm doing everything I can to stop it from coming, but I think every single child has a falling-off-the-bed story.)

I had planned to wait until he turned 6 months to start feeding him baby food, but as with everything else, he had his own ideas on the matter and at 5 months, he decided that he wanted a change. To that end, he started helping himself to things off McMoose's and my plates: hummus, ketchup, fruit, and in one memorable occasion that involved a face first dive into my plate, a piece of quiche. So. We started feeding him. He hates bananas, but loves apples and sweet potatoes and (go figure) avocados. And in keeping with this whole growing up business, he has decided that he's big, so he no longer has any use for a bottle, but is happy to drink from sippy cups, straws, and shot glasses. (You'd be surprised by how well shot glasses work as baby cups...)

I know that this is the point in the post where I usually post pictures, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm seriously slacking lately, so stay tuned and the pictures will come later this week.

Happy Birthday, McMoose!

McMoose turns 26 today! And as you can see, his excitement knows no bounds:

P.S. I don't have the slightest clue what he was doing in this picture. Pantomiming eating a piece of cake? Blowing someone a kiss? Twirling his goatee? Hey, what good is a birthday if a ridiculous picture of you doesn't show up on the internet?

Aisle Ten

I love the baby aisle at grocery stores. LOVE it. Before I was pregnant, I used to sneak down it, covertly eyeing all the sweet, pastel colored things I assumed that I would one day be buying. During my pregnancy, when I'd get especially anxious about whatever genetic disorder I had convinced myself that my child would have, I'd stroll down the baby aisle and look at bottles and pacifiers and the cute baby on the Huggies cover.

You can imagine my surprise that almost six months into this endeavor, I...um...don't really go down the baby aisle at the grocery store anymore. I had fully expected that I would, but as it turns out, I don't have too much use for the products they sell there. Formula? Nope. Disposable diapers? Very rarely. Baby food? Well, so far, Luke's perfectly happy with the homemade stuff.

So, instead, I make up reasons. Gee, I say to McMoose, maybe Luke would like to try a new kind of pacifier. Or a sippy cup. Or, I don't know, a spoon.

And McMoose goes along with it and is kind enough to pretend not to notice that all I really wanted was to sneak another peek at the cute Huggies baby.

A Mini-Post

I'd like to point out YET AGAIN that McMoose and I make horrible first-time parents. Yesterday was our child's first Halloween and although we did dress him up and take him to a Halloween party, what we forgot to do was take pictures. Again. So not only did we not record the party itself, we now have to put him in the costume again just so we can have some pictures of him as a frog.

On another note entirely, Luke just woke up and turned off his baby monitor by himself. And then, McMoose went to get him out of his crib and he (the baby) very matter of factly picked up his pacifier to bring with him. Because apparently, he's done with being a needy baby and would like to try his hand at being an independent, adult person now, thank you very much.

Big, Bad Germies

I'm not a germaphobe.

In fact, I'm the very opposite of a germaphobe. I think that healthy immune systems need germs to fight, lest they become unhealthy immune systems. I resolutely stayed away from the anti-bacterial bandwagon. I dust and clean my house, but usually not with products that claim to kill 99.99% of bacteria. (After all, it's that .01% that worries me.) I don't get flu shots and sometimes, I get the flu and during those times, I drink lots of fluids and hibernate like a grouchy bear.

And then, I went and had a kid. Now, all of a sudden, I'm like a CIA agent, scoping out public places for anyone who so much as has the sniffles. Now granted, this is partly because this is predicted to be an especially bad flu season and I don't want him getting sick, but more than that? I don't want to get sick.

For the first time ever, I'm considering the flu shot--both swine and regular. Because this year, I can't hibernate. I can't call in sick, I can't take the morning off, heck, I can't even skip the 3 am feeding to get a full night's sleep.

This year, I'm suddenly considering stocking up on anti-bacterial soap. This year, I'm turning into a germaphobe. This morning, when I woke up with a headache and a sore throat and a cough, I almost called a doctor.

But anti-germaphobic habits die hard, so instead, I drank some tea and took a nap with the baby and I'm hoping oh-so-hard that my immune system lives up to the trust I'm placing in it because this year, it's fighting for two.

Down The Rabbit Hole

Ha, I just realized it's been over a week since I posted. Where has the time gone? Well...

1. I went shoe shopping. Because I have oh, about a zillion pairs of shoes and NONE OF THEM FIT ME. I watched my feet grow and swell to ridiculous proportions during my pregnancy and I was very hopeful that eventually, they'd go back to their regular size, but apparently, that's not going to happen anytime soon and with the coming of winter, I needed more than flip-flops. Shoe shopping, by the way? Every bit as good as I remembered.

2. I've been working on running stats for an article I'm writing based on my thesis. I took this project on thinking that hey, I already did all the work, so I might as well get a publication out of it, right? WRONG. Because I'm using a slightly different sample for the article (and by "slightly different," I mean that I'm adding in questionnaires done by 60 people that I had previously taken out of my study), so I have to re-do ALL. THE. ANALYSES. This, by the way, was the part that took me months to do the first time around. And I'm doing it again, only this time, I don't have 20 hours a week to sit down and do it, so I steal 30 minutes here and an hour there while the baby sleeps.

3. McMoose took a half-day on Tuesday and we took Luke to the State Fair. I say "took Luke" like this was something we did for his sake, when in fact, we go to the fair every year, specifically so that we can eat fried foods and waste a lot of money on playing pointless games, as a result of which we win giant stuffed animals that take up vast amounts of space in our closets. But Luke enjoyed himself and McMoose and I enjoyed ourselves and the fried foods were delicious and we now own a 2-foot tall stuffed frog and a 3-foot tall blue gorilla that has a diaper and a pacifier. (I don't. Want. To talk about it.)

4. And of course, the usual play dates and meetings and craziness that somehow seems to fill up our weeks.

Back before I had this baby, I absolutely expected that as a stay-at-home mom, I'd be bored out of my skull, mostly because I thought that being a stay-at-home mom involved, you know, staying AT HOME. Ha! Silly me...

Automobil Adventures and Hotel Hassels

I'm going to preface this post by saying that I've never rented a car by myself before. But I've witnessed my mom renting any number of cars and a couple of years ago, McMoose and I rented one to drive home after visiting his family for Christmas, and from what I could remember, the process seemed fairly easy. As it turns out, my memory must have been faulty because the renting of the car and the getting to the hotel were by far the most challenging parts of our trip because it went something like this:

-Wait in a line of 3 customers while the representative tried to sort everyone out. Each person took 20 minutes. People, that's an hour of waiting FOR THREE CUSTOMERS.
-Get to the counter, FINALLY, where you're told that no, you cannot have the compact car you had requested because the carseat that you were renting would only fit in an "intermediate size." And oh, guess what, they were all out of those. So you'd have to pay extra for the mid-size. You huff, you puff, and then you say fine, whatever, just give me a damn car.
-Get to the outside office, where you have to go pick up the carseat. By this time, you're carrying the baby, who's sick of the stroller, and pushing the duffel bag in the stroller, which is ridiculously hard to maneuver with one hand. Oh, and also, you're wearing a backpack and a huge coat. Wait in another line for the carseat while the baby grouses and flings his body around.
-Get the carseat. Notice that it appears to be from approximately a decade ago. Ask if they have an instruction manual for installing it. Nope. Ask if they could help you install it. Nope. Huff. Puff. Put the carseat on top of the pile of stuff on the stroller and try to get it and the angry baby out to the car. Fail miserably. A very annoyed representative comes out to help.
-Get the bags and the stroller into the trunk, then turn attention to the carseat installation. Notice that since the thing is ancient, the locking mechanism no longer, you know, locks. Go back to ask if they have a better seat. Nope. Return to the car and realize that the only way to get the thing tight enough is to put the baby down. Except there's nowhere to put the baby down. Put him IN THE CARSEAT and then try to install it. FAIL. MISERABLY.
-Fight with the carseat to get the carrier out of the base. Put the carrier, with angry baby still inside, on the pavement. Look around every 10 seconds to make sure no suspicious, kidnapper types are lurking around. Sit on top of the base to get the stupid thing installed.
-Hope and pray that you're not in an accident because you're not entirely sure that the seat won't go flying out of the car if someone so much as looks at it sideways.
-Wrestle with the carrier again to get it back into the base. By this time, the baby is in actual hysterics. Take him out and attempt to calm him or feed him or put him to sleep. He doesn't want to eat. He doesn't want to sleep. And how dare you ask him to calm down, DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE'S JUST BEEN THROUGH?
-Put hysterical baby back in the seat and drive the 2.5 miles to the hotel, where you check in and collapse on the bed with a pile of bags, coats, and (finally sleeping) baby.
-After the baby wakes up an hour later, go to the vending machine and return to the room, only to discover that hey! The door doesn't lock! Go downstairs, where they tell you that they can't fix it, but they'll be happy to let you move to a new room. With all the stuff that you JUST UNPACKED. And the food that was JUST DELIVERED to your current room.

It was around then that I seriously began considering the rationality of just getting in the car and driving back to North Carolina with the baby on my lap.

Now the Not-So-Good

I know that yesterday, I made it out to seem that our trip was all sunshine and butterflies and maybe compared to the doom-and-gloom that I was expecting, it was mostly sunshine and butterflies. But there were definitely some moments when I thought all my fears were coming true. For example, the moment when I realized that I had lost the boarding pass to my very first flight. And the subsequent five minutes that I spent re-tracing my steps, all the while knowing that they were going to start boarding ANY MINUTE NOW. And then, when I finally figured out that I had left it at a food stall and the lady running the stall informed me that she had turned it into an airlines representative. And when I went to the representative to ask for it back, he felt it necessary to give me a long-winded lecture about the national security level (ORANGE, in case you were wondering) and how I should be more careful and meanwhile, did I mention THAT MY FLIGHT WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE?

And then, there was the moment when I realized that in the Milwaukee airport, the bathroom stalls aren't big enough to accommodate a stroller. And there was no way I was going to leave the baby in his stroller outside the stall by himself, so...well...let's just say it's a really good thing that part of the airport was completely deserted and no one came into that bathroom in the 60 seconds that I was in there.

And then, there was the whole being-too-late-to-get-my-bags-at-baggage-claim fiasco, which was compounded by the throwing-my-claim-ticket-away-too-early snafu, as a result of which I had to stand there telling the lady at baggage claim that the duffel bag RIGHT THERE was mine and if she didn't believe me, she could open it and she would find a black dress and two coats and nursing tank tops and...she stopped me at "nursing tank tops."

Of course, all of this was a walk in the park when compared to the ridiculousness that is renting a car with a baby in tow...

First, the Good

The trip to Wisconsin went surprisingly well, which is to say that the plane didn't crash, the baby didn't get kidnapped, and we're home safe and sound. It did, however, provide me with so many new experiences that they can't possibly all be contained in one blog post, so you'll probably be reading about this trip for the rest of the week, at least.

One of my biggest worries was that I wouldn't be able to juggle all the things I had with me because generally speaking, Luke hates the stroller. He will sit in it for all of 90 seconds before he starts writhing and flinging his body around like an angry salmon. And more and more, I'm starting to realize that he doesn't cry like a normal baby--the pitiful, woe-is-me kind of cry. Instead, he SHRIEKS. Loudly. Ear-piercingly. In a way that is absolutely impossible to ignore, even for a minute because if the noise continues for longer than, say, 35 seconds, it's entirely possible that the universe might implode.

But as it turned out, airports are so fascinating that he was perfectly happy to sit in the stroller, as long as we were walking around. Which meant, of course, that I walked to the gate, then to the bathroom, then back to the gate, then to a food stall, then back to the gate, just to prolong the walking portion of the trip and minimize the sitting around portion, which was of course the dangerous, at-risk-for-shrieking portion.

So we got through the walking and the juggling and the waiting and then, I was absolutely positive that he'd cry during the entire plane ride because maybe you haven't noticed, but plane rides? Include lots of sitting still in one place for extended periods of time. Luckily for me (and the 100 or so other people on each of our FOUR flights), we were sitting in the back and the noise from the engine put him right to sleep. Granted, there were short bursts of grousing here and there, but my fear that he would spend the entire flight screaming did not come true.

All this to say that the part that I was worried about the most, the airport and plane part, was a breeze. Okay. Maybe not exactly a BREEZE, but far, far easier than I expected. And also, far easier than The Part That Came After...

In For A Rough Ride

Tomorrow morning, Luke and I will be getting on a plane and heading off to Wisconsin, by way of Atlanta (ugh). By ourselves. For two days. To go to an outdoor wedding. In October. In--did I mention?--WISCONSIN. Clearly, I was under severe delusions a month ago, when I said, "Oh, a baby and a plane and cold weather? I can TOTALLY handle it! No problem!" Because here we are, one day before the trip and I can see a whole plethora of possible problems:

1. I have to juggle the baby, a stroller, a diaper bag, a duffel bag, and a carseat. That's five things. I have two hands. And it takes both of those hands just to contain the baby.
2. I might accidentally put the baby on the x-ray scanner thing.
3. I might forget to eat or drink all day long and then I wouldn't be able to feed the constantly ravenous baby.
4. The baby might scream during both flights.
5. The baby might refuse to nap. And then, he WILL scream during both flights.
6. We might end up sitting on the tarmac for 15 hours with no food or water. Or lights. Or access to a bathroom. Because clearly, the seatbelts would all lock up and we'd be trapped in our seats.
7. Planes crash. Enough said.
8. They might lose the carseat if I check it in. Or they might break it. In either case, I would then not be able to leave the airport.
9. The hotel might lose our reservation.
10. I might sit here worrying needlessly about ridiculous things instead of calling the car rental people, and then when I get there tomorrow, they might be all out of cars and then we'd have to rent a radio flyer wagon to get around town.

Five!

Luke turns five months today! And in celebration of the fact, he got his foot stuck in his mouth this morning. If you've never been seized by panic because your kid is screaming and you can't pry his big toe out from behind his gums, I highly recommend it. Over the past month, he has realized that his hands are the Best! Things! Ever! And so he uses them to grab, oh, everything. His toys. My hair. McMoose's goatee. The cat's whiskers. And of course, his feet.

He has decided that he would really like to sit up and crawl. Unfortunately for him, his body likes to play tricks on him, so in the midst of a really focused sitting session, he flops over on his side and smashes his face into the carpet. As for the crawling thing...let's just say he's working on it. He tries. Very, very hard. And yet, the result is that he looks like a very large inchworm: head down, bottom up, bottom down, head up. And after a lot of effort, he moves maybe 2 inches.

I remember from the daycare that there are some babies who think the whole world is hilarious. They laugh at every sound, they smile just to see your face. Luke? Is not one of those babies. You have to put in some serious effort to amuse this kid. And after you give it your best shot, after you play peek-a-boo and make funny noises and goofy faces, he goes hm? Is that all? Well, all right...I guess maybe you deserve a half-smile. Or at least, that's how he reacts to ME. All McMoose has to do is say "Dog!" and the kid is cracking up. But I'm not bitter...no, NOT AT ALL.

I have a thing for frogs. Hence the rocking chair. And the stuffed animal. And the t-shirt.

He inherited a giraffe costume from his cousin, and although he's going to be a (surprise, surprise!) frog for Halloween, I couldn't resist putting him in the costume one evening.

We went to the Raleigh International Festival last weekend (which, by the way was AWESOME. Great food, interesting stalls, lots of people--very fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon). Of course, Luke had to get into the spirit by wearing his Indian outfit.

Confession

When Luke was just over two months old, he outgrew his first set of newborn clothes. As I was folding them up and packing them away, McMoose sat rocking the baby and I turned to him and said I want a baby. His response, the only sane response, was to laugh and point out the fact that we had a baby. Right there, in his arms, was our baby. And yet, I felt like his babyhood was already over as I packed away the clothes that we had so carefully chosen when I was just 18 weeks pregnant, the clothes that I had washed and folded (and then unfolded and refolded about 15 times, just to have something to do), the clothes that I had taken out and looked at every time I felt like the pregnancy was taking forever and I needed a reminder that someday, it would come to an end and on that day, it would all have been worth it.

And just two short months after that day, I was packing them away. And ever since that day, I've been regularly telling McMoose how much I want another baby. With every new skill Luke learns, I'm reminded that he's not a newborn anymore. I can no longer hold him nestled in one arm--I need two to accommodate his 15 pounds of deliciousness. Before having him, I thought that the need to have a baby would be greatly diminished once I had one, once I saw how much they actually cried, how much they woke up at night, how hard this parenting thing was. And yes, he cried. Oh, how he cried. And yes, he wakes up at night. Last night, in fact, he woke up no fewer than EIGHT times. And certainly, this is not an easy job.

But what I neglected to consider is that when he cries? I can turn his tears to smiles, just by picking him up. When he wakes up at night, I have a warm little body to cuddle back to sleep (although it is hard to see it that way when it's 5 in the morning and it's the sixth time I've been woken in as many hours). And even though it may not be easy, this is also the most fun I've had, ever. So OF COURSE the baby fever hasn't gone away. If anything, it's about 20 times stronger than ever before. Luckily, this current baby fever isn't the same awful ache that I felt before we had Luke; the raw need to have someone to hold in my arms and my heart. This is more a reconfirmation of how much I'm enjoying my life right now. This is the acknowledgement that I love having a baby every bit as much as I thought I would, even at 5 in the morning, even when I've been home with him all day long and my arms hurt from carrying him, even when he's being a complete pain in the butt (which he often is, especially when I'm tired and grumpy and just want him to take a nap already so I can get a break, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR?).

This isn't the right time for us, for our family. I know that. I want Luke to get to be the baby, the only baby, for a good long time. I want to focus on him, and then on getting that ever-elusive Ph.D. We want a house of our own, a place where we can sit out on the porch, where Luke and the Dog can have the run of the yard, where the cats can find a cozy spot near a window and stay for the next ten years. So. I'm trying very, very hard to get a handle on this I-want-a-baby stuff. I'm trying to remember that we HAVE a baby, not to mention three animals who think they're babies, and that all of these creatures take up lots of time and lots of attention. And yet, every time I see a pregnant woman, my first thought is Oh, she's so lucky!

Technology: 391, Me: 0

Between the two of us, McMoose and I own a total of six computers. Six, for crying out loud! One is McMoose's work laptop, so needless to say, it's at work with him. One of them (his) has a problem with the power cord, I think, so it has been out of commission for as long as I can remember. Another one (mine) works great, but the monitor is mysteriously unresponsive and since it's a laptop, that poses a pretty big problem. So for all intents and purposes, it too is out of commission. Yet another one of mine recently found itself victimized by a hyperactive dog, so it no longer works. And the desktop that has been my lifeblood for the past month or so has just today decided to join its compatriots and no will no longer let me log on.

And this is why, in a household with six computers, I'm sitting hunched over on the floor like Quasimodo because the ONLY COMPUTER THAT ACTUALLY WORKS lives underneath the desk.

Birth Certificate: Check

After Luke was born, there were, oh, about 2 billion people going in and out of our hospital room trying to get us to fill out paperwork and watch videos about how babies? They cry. I'm not even kidding about this. It's an actual requirement that new parents be given this video. I'm thinking that if you don't know that babies cry, you probably have no business having a kid, but I digress. In any case, one of the pieces of paperwork that we had to fill out was, of course, the application for his birth certificate. Except it wasn't actually the application for his birth certificate, it was just the pre-application and then we had to wait 3 weeks and send in the actual application. (I'm kind of fuzzy on the details, what with the not sleeping for 2 days and the expelling a person out from my body and all that).

So we waited for...well, significantly longer than 3 weeks. Like maybe 3 months? Because it took me that long to remember that the thing we filled out wasn't actually the application. So then, I looked through the enormous mountain of papers that they sent home with us (mostly about how babies cry) and found the actual application, which I promptly filled out and sent in. Only to have it returned not two weeks later because I had FORGOTTEN TO INCLUDE THE CHECK. Oh, and also? They don't accept checks.

Okay. So I did what I do with all my mail that Requires Attention...I left it sitting on the coffee table for about a month. And then, I got an invitation to a friend's wedding and since this wedding is happening in Wisconsin, the only real way to get there is by plane. And I don't know if I've mentioned this, but my kid? Looks. Nothing. Like. Me. Oh, I don't just mean that he doesn't have my nose or my lips. I mean that the child is a miniature replica of McMoose, down to the dark blond hair and blue eyes. I mean that every time we go to the doctor's office, they ask if I'm the baby-sitter. So of course, there was no way that I was going to even attempt to get on a plane without valid, government issued identification for both of us.

So today, we went on what I expected to be a Most Onerous trip because it involved (a) going downtown, which is never fun because it's filled with one-way streets and (b) dealing with a government office. I was very pleasantly surprised to find that the people at the department of records are not only friendly, but also helpful. AND fast. So we are now the proud owners of two copies of Luke's birth certificate and I no longer have to worry that airport security will think I'm a kidnapper. Instead, I can worry about plane crashes and the swine flu and muggers and kidnappers and terrorists and...oh, the list, it goes ON.

Luke's Mom

The world of stay-at-home moms is just so strange. I know all these women who have babies who are about Luke's age and with a very few exceptions, all I know about them is that...they have babies...who are about Luke's age. So instead of thinking "Oh, I have to tell Nancy about this," or "Hm, I hope Ashley is feeling better," I think "Oh, I wonder if Cooper's mom ever found his favorite blanket," or "Hey, there's that park that Macey's mom was telling me about!" I have no idea where many of these women come from or what they used to do in their pre-baby days. I don't know anything about their religion or their politics or even their hobbies. It's like the sum total of their existence is that they've had these children and now, we get together for coffee or lunch or whatever.

Of course, this also means that I'm just "Luke's mom." I'm not the person who made the very foolish decision to go to graduate school for, of all things, Community Psychology. I'm not the person who got a Master's and then decided not to continue with the Ph.D. I'm not the person who is currently trying to figure out what to do with the rest of her life and how, exactly, to do it. I'm just Luke's mom.

Right now, I really like that to this group of women, all I need to be is Luke's mom.

Car Key Escapades

I had a very WTF moment this morning (in fact, I actually said "Dude, WTF?" to myself as I was walking to my car...it's not bad enough that I talk to myself, but I now use Internet abbreviations in this ridiculous self-speak. I also throw "LOL" and "Sigh" around in conversation. Because I am just THAT cool). I was walking to my car, juggling my wallet, cellphone, keys, and the baby, who was doing his level best to leap out of my arms and plunge head first down the stairs. As I always do, when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I started jiggling my keys around, trying to find the clicker to my car, which oddly enough, was nowhere to be found. Hence the "Dude, WTF?"

See, I had JUST used my car yesterday and the keys were in order. To the best of my knowledge, no one had used my car after me. So where were my keys? I had the apartment key. The key to the new Explorer. The key to a friend's old house in Virginia. The key to my old office. The key to a suitcase (I think. Not really sure on that one). BUT NO KEY TO THE MATRIX.

Of course, at this point my mind started working overtime, trying to come up with explanations for The Case Of The Missing Key:
1. Aliens. Aliens who eat car keys. Specifically, Toyota car keys.
2. Burglars. Who took the car keys, but left the car. Along with the rest of our possessions.
3. Sleep-driving. Maybe I sleep-drove the car and misplaced the keys upon my return.
4. McMoose. Who maybe belongs to the CIA and was on a secret mission last night that took him to the Matrix reunion. And he needed my car to blend in.

Luckily, I had a spare key, which I used to go to the grocery store to get lunch, but McMoose has some explainin' to do when he gets home. (And I really hope the phrase "secret mission for the CIA" comes into that explanation somehow).

Learning My Lesson

The layout of our apartment is such that the master bedroom is all the way on one end and the other two bedrooms and extra bathroom are all the way on the other. This is one of the reasons Luke sleeps in our room because I like my sleep and even before he was born, I knew that I would be Most Grouchy if I had to wake up multiple times a night and trudge across the apartment to go deal with a high-pitched, crying child. I don't know why or when builders decided that master bedrooms should be separated from the other bedrooms by the entire expanse of the living room, kitchen, and a hallway, but I would like to tell them to STOP IT because it's the most ridiculous floorplan ever.

Wow, that got started on a tangent. In any case, the reason I began this post was NOT to rant about apartment floorplans, but to point out that what started out as "Luke's room" has now turned into "The Playroom" because let's be honest, all we ever did in that room was play. And read. Unfortunately, as a further result of the inane floorplan, the cats' bathroom is right across from the playroom, which meant that I was constantly finding little crystals of cat litter in the carpet. This didn't bother me in the least until Luke started rolling, at which point the thought of him putting that stuff in his mouth started completely icking me out.

So we decided to get foam floor mats to put in there that double as an alphabet puzzle, if only because dust-bustering foam floor mats? Much easier than vacuuming the carpet. But! As an added bonus, Luke LOVES his floor mats. So now, when I put him on the floor in his room, he no longer bleats like a wounded goat. Sensing my opportunity, I left him in there yesterday while I made my lunch because he has recently discovered that he has control of his hands, which means that holding him while trying to put food on my plate is like trying to contain an octopus. For a while, I heard scratching noises coming from the room, which I took to mean that all was well...and then, it got quiet. Really, really quiet. So I went to check on him, only to discover that he had popped out one of the letters, reached through to the open patch of carpet, and pulled out a handful of carpet fuzz, which had promptly made it into his mouth.

Lesson of the day: I can try to stop my child from eating gross things, but he is smart and single-minded in his quest to thwart my efforts.

Bulleted

Bullets. Because I haven't done a bullet post in ages. And also because The Bug--er...Luke--is napping right now and so far, all his naps today have been ridiculously short. So in the interest of getting the most for our time:

• Why does blogger turn bullets into flowers? Just wondering...
• McMoose and I went to dinner at a fancy restaurant in fancy clothes last Friday without Luke. We both got to eat our meals--including appetizer AND dessert--without having to feed, change, or entertain a 2-foot-tall human being. It was exhilarating. And also, oddly lonely.
• I found Yellow Cat sitting inside the dryer this afternoon. Clearly, a habit we'll have to break before we end up with a cat-kebob.
• Apparently, Luke is of the opinion that it's time to grow some teeth. To that end, he has decided to chew on everything, drool on everything, and stop sleeping. After waking up with him approximately every 40 minutes last night, I turned on the fount of wisdom that is Google to find out how long I can expect this awesome phase to last and did you know babies can teethe for months before actually getting a tooth? MONTHS. M-O-N-T-H-S! Guess I'd better start developing my coffee habit now.
• To offset the drooling, chewing, and non-sleeping, he has also decided to become ridiculously endearing. Even more so than he was, I mean. He watches football with us. He burps and then chuckles about it. He entertains himself while I fold laundry or eat lunch or whatever it is that I need to do. He giggles when the Dog licks his toes in the car. The tiredness sucks, but still, I'm loving this stage.

Daddy Love

When Luke was first born, McMoose stayed home with us for three weeks, which was great because during those first three weeks, I pretty much went from the bed to the couch back to the bed. My recovery from the birth took so long, thanks to the fact that my oh-so-thoughtful child had his head turned to an odd angle while being born, that for those first weeks, I couldn't even get around well enough to change him, let alone bathe him or get him to his doctor's appointments by myself. Add to that the difficulties we had with breastfeeding and the fact that McMoose had to take over several feedings using an odd little bottle/syringe with tubes contraption and it makes sense that McMoose and I were on pretty equal footing, as far as parenting went. In fact, if anything, McMoose was MORE involved with the active, hands-on portion of parenting for those first three weeks by simple virtue of the fact that he could move around faster than, say, a snail.

Of course, once he went back to work, Luke and I had to muddle through how to do it by ourselves and we managed to figure it out fairly quickly, but still, as soon as McMoose got home in the evenings, baby-duty promptly passed from me to him. And then. Luke got used to having me take care of him all day and decided that he'd like to continue that into the evening. So when McMoose held him, he screamed. When McMoose played with him, he whined. When McMoose changed his diapers, he squalled. And while screaming and whining and squalling, he'd whip his head around and search the room until he figured out where I was and then make sustained eye contact, as if to say "Mama, help!"

And then, some little switch turned on in his head and he realized that hey! Daddy's fun! He throws me around and plays with me and talks to me in weird voices and makes faces. And furthermore, he's better at ALL of those things than Mommy! Which means that now, when he's tired or hungry, Luke still looks for me, but the rest of the time? He's ALLLL about Daddy. (And can I just say: thank goodness! 24-hour-a-day parenting? Totally not my thing.)

Discovering Raleigh

Before moving to Raleigh, I lived in Blacksburg, Virginia, which as far as I was concerned was The Best Place In The Universe. It was in the middle of the blue ridge mountains, which meant that it was always absolutely gorgeous. There was always something to do, which is a must for an insomniac such as myself. Equally important, there was always another insomniac who was willing to do ludicrous things at 3 a.m. Just about everything was within walking distance and when something wasn't within walking distance, it didn't matter anyway because there was a beyond excellent bus system. So. Best Place In The Universe.

Raleigh, in comparison, seemed like a woe-filled, drudge-hole. Not a mountain to be found. Not even a hill. Everything closes at 7 pm. Worse still, the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill Triangle area is so enormously huge that it takes forever to get anywhere, which also limits the amount of time you can spend with other people because invariably, all your friends live in opposite ends of town. And the bus system is a cosmic joke.

Needless to say, I've spent the past three years despising Raleigh. Hating its guts. Generally feeling very put out that I had to leave the aforementioned Best Place to come to this boring, ridiculous, no-good town. And then, Luke came into the picture, and suddenly, I've discovered the secret of Raleigh: It's a phenomenal town...for people WITH FAMILIES.

In the past few months, we've discovered parks and trails and lakes and family festivals and outdoor concerts and baby gyms and family friendly restaurants and...the list is endless. There's so much to do here with kids that now, for the first time in three years, Blacksburg is a fond memory instead of the place for which I was constantly homesick.

Comedy Hour

Luke had another well-baby doctor's visit today and of course, I have to--HAVE TO--write about it. I really don't know if maybe I just attract lunacy from medical professionals because most people seem to have perfectly normal encounters with doctors and nurses, right?

I was worried about the fact that he was dropping on the weight charts, but apparently, the nurse practitioner was perfectly happy with his current weight...up until I mentioned that I still feed him "on demand," (like there's any other way to feed a screaming hyena of a child), which means that he often eats every 1.5 or 2 hours. Oh, you should have seen the horror on that woman's face as she exclaimed "What! At this age, he should be eating no more than five or six times a day!" To which I respond like this: AHH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Five or six times a day. Yeah. RIGHT. So. It turns out my worries about his weight gain were completely unfounded and now, there's a note in his chart saying that I'm OVERFEEDING this child. This 13-pound child. Who, did I mention, is in the 18th percentile on the weight charts.

And then! I asked her about recommendations for plane travel, and do you know what this ridiculous woman told me? DO YOU KNOW? She said that in order to avoid all those "nasty, airborne germs," I should put a blanket over Luke's head. Like a tent. I had to think about puppies being tortured in order to stop myself from laughing at the mental image of me carrying Luke around in public with a blanket-tent over his head.

All in all, this visit was highly entertaining for me. Not the least bit useful, mind you, but HIGHLY entertaining.

In Which I Overuse Parentheses

Usually, we take a trip in the summer--to the beach, to the mountains, to a touristy place where you can "mine" for gems. This year, McMoose used up his usual summer vacation when Luke was born, so we weren't able to go anywhere and I was all, "Oh...we NEVER go anywhere...we ALWAYS stay home...woe is me, woe, woe, WOE." So when McMoose made the mistake of mentioning that he got Labor Day off, my brain immediately started working overtime to figure out Where We Could Go.

Of course, we were constrained by the fact that we were traveling with (a) a baby who hates the car seat and (b) a dog who tends to tear up hotel rooms. So after some rambling suggestions--Alaska, Mexico, Atlantis, etc--we decided that Asheboro, North Carolina was the place for us. Asheboro is where the North Carolina Zoo is located and more importantly, it's a short 90 minute drive for us.

The best part of the trip was the KING SIZED BED in the hotel room (yes, we stayed in a hotel...90 minutes from home...). And the eating out (which we do on weekends anyway, but somehow, the McDonalds vs. Wendy's discussion is so much more exciting when you're out of town). And the whole throwing our daily routine out the window extravaganza (although...now that I think about it...Luke pretty much stuck to the schedule anyway, going so far as to NAP AT THE SAME TIME, even though we were badgering him to Look over there! Right there! See that thing that isn't moving and looks like a stick? That thing is a snake! Ooh, snake! Meanwhile, he'd crack one eye open and sigh before returning to his reverie). Oh, but did I mention the KING SIZED BED? (After getting home, I suggested to McMoose that since we don't have room for a king sized bed, maybe we should just put the dining table in storage and fill the dining room full of mattresses and all six of us (two adults + one baby + one dog + two cats) could just hang out in there all the time. Apparently, my suggestion was "not practical.")

Of course, we had to buy Luke a hat that said "NC Zoo" on it, and for some reason, passing strangers kept commenting on the fact that Hey! Look at that baby! He's wearing a hat! That says NC Zoo on it! How novel! (Dude. Where ELSE would you wear a zoo hat?)

No, the baby is not suffocating in the above picture. He just really, really liked chewing on the foam part of the baby carrier. So much so that when we took him out of the baby carrier, there was a drool spot that extended all the way down the inside.

Unfortunately, when I decided that it would be a good idea to throw all semblance of a daily routine out the window, I also decided that baths were highly overrated. And then, I remembered my child's penchant for drooling and spitting up and getting all manners of grossness on himself. (Can you explain to me how a child who is not mobile AND gets daily baths manages to get dirt in his neck, elbows, knees, and under his fingernails?) So of course, we had to improvise...

That right there? That's his "These adults are so damn stupid" look. I get that look on a daily basis.

4 Months Old!

Today is Luke's 4 month birthday and I can hardly believe it's been that long. This month has been filled with new developments, the most significant one being our one-hour-long feeding sessions now take anywhere from five to twenty minutes. Let me say that again. Our ONE-HOUR-LONG feeding sessions now take anywhere from five to twenty MINUTES. Can I just say how much more enjoyable my life is now that I don't spend 10 hours a day sitting in a chair feeding a baby?

As a result of this wondrous new development, we have spent the past month Going Places. Fitness classes, meetings, friends' houses, restaurants, outdoor concerts, coffee shops, the zoo--you name it and we're there. And each time we go somewhere, random people come up to us and without fail, they say, "Oh, he's so active!" On the one hand, I was expecting this because this, after all, is the same child whose prenatal kick counts frequently approached 200 movements per hour (a "really active baby," according to my doctors, might move about 50 times per hour.) On the other hand, if he's already "so active," what's he going to be like in a year, when he can, you know, move around OF HIS OWN VOLITION?

The other day, we were meeting up with a group of moms with infants at a coffee shop in a bookstore, and while all the other babies were content to sit quietly in their mothers' laps or maybe even take a nap in their strollers, Luke decided it was the perfect time to practice his latest skill: squealing. Loudly. So loudly, in fact, that a woman soon approached our table, played with Luke, and then commented on the fact that she just had to come over and see the "social" baby, whom she heard all the way in the gardening section. In the BACK OF THE STORE. Did I mention that there were ten other babies there? TEN! And Luke was the only one who was attracting attention based solely on decibel level.

I had noticed that with each passing month, the number of pictures we took of the baby were gradually decreasing. And then, BAM, this month came and he spent a ridiculous amount of time being cute, so now all of a sudden, I have almost 200 pictures to choose from for the picture part of this post. So...I know this is a little bit photo-heavy, but just go with me here...

As usual, here's the requisite crying picture:

And then...he found a new favorite toy:

And discovered football:

Carded...for Orajel???

Dear Cashier at the Pharmacy,

Thank you for your dedication to your job. I appreciate that you're probably not paid too well and if I had to stand behind a counter for 8-12 hours each day, I'd be grouchy too. However, I would not give someone grief for trying to buy baby orajel. And? When you tell them that they have to be 21 to buy baby orajel and that person says "Um...I'm almost 25," I would not glare at them for 30 seconds before scanning the darn box.

(Could I take this moment to point out that baby orajel does not have alcohol in it?)

(Could I also point out that even if it DID have alcohol in it, minors are allowed to buy mouthwash, not to mention rubbing alcohol, both of which DO have alcohol in them?)

In The Space Of A Year

Saturday, August 31st, 2008

The first football game of Virginia Tech's 2008 season was scheduled to be played that afternoon in Charlotte, North Carolina. McMoose and I, in an attempt to start the season on the right foot, decided to go.

Over the course of the past three months, I had taken more pregnancy tests than I care to admit because I wanted a baby and I was impatient and waking up ridiculously early to take those tests gave me something to do, something to write on my calendar, something to look forward to. Each time another one came back negative, I swore to myself that I would NOT take another one until the next month...and then, 2 days later, I'd be setting my alarm 30 minutes early again. (No, it does not take 30 minutes to take a pregnancy test. But it DOES take 30 minutes to sit on the couch and mope when they come back negative.)

That August, I had already taken three tests and watched them all come back with one line instead of two. The last of those three was so late into the month that it should have been absolutely conclusive. But after the game, we were going to a party at a friend's apartment, and being familiar with the tone at VT football games and after-parties and my group of friends, I knew the alcohol would be free flowing.

So I decided that just to be sure, just for my own peace of mind, I should take a final test that morning.

It's going to be negative, you know, said the voice in my head.

I know, I replied.

So don't take it, said the voice.

I have to.

Why?

Because...what if it's not negative?

The alarm went off at 5 in the morning because I was so dead certain that it would be negative that I just wanted to get it over with and go back to bed for an hour, so that I could start the day off on an excited note, rather than a disappointed one. I stumbled into the bathroom, assembled the test, searched around for my glasses and peered blearily at the display on the test. There was the test line, as always. And then, there was a second line. Ever so faint. Almost not there. But getting stronger by the second.

A second line? A? Second? Line? Quick, grab another test!

So I reached back into the drawer...and came out empty handed. I had just used MY LAST TEST. And there was a SECOND LINE. Obviously, it was a mistake. Someone at the factory had messed up, clearly, because there was NO WAY that second line was for real.

I rushed around like a blind fool, getting dressed and then waking McMoose to say something about how I had to go to the pharmacy RIGHT NOW. His eyes opened instantly--a first for someone who frequently takes over an hour to wake up.

Is it...positive?

I don't know, maybe it's wrong, but I have to go to the pharmacy.

And then, I was driving around town in the dark, the only car on the road, trying to find a pharmacy that was open at that time of morning. 45 minutes later, I found myself standing outside a Wal-Mart, waiting for it to open. Rushing in, buying two different brands with 2 tests each, rushing back home. Re-testing and watching as ALL FOUR of the new tests turned positive.

I don't remember a single thing from that game.

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Monday, August 31st, 2009

I was woken up this morning by my almost-4-month-old, who was grousing and kicking, unable to stay asleep, but unwilling to be happy about waking up.

Look, Bug, I said, using the nickname I had coined for him during my pregnancy, either go back to sleep or wake up with a smile.

He chose the second option and we started our morning routine: breakfast for him, a shower for me, a diaper change for him, breakfast for me. My calendar now says things like Playdate and Pediatrician visit and Baby Yoga. There's a pacifier on my coffee table. There's a crib in my bedroom. There's a baby sleeping on my lap who, 365 days ago, was just a second line on a pregnancy test.

Newborn Fears

At the meeting last Friday, there was a mom with a three week old, and I know that everyone says this, but I'm going to jump right onto the cliche bandwagon and admit it: I absolutely canNOT remember Luke being that little. Well...no, it's not the smallness that seems so strange to me because I know that at 3 weeks old, Luke was a good pound smaller than this other baby, but I really can't remember him ever being so...sleepy. Or floppy. Or just generally newborn-like in nature.

One of the reasons I so feared a newborn was because of their floppiness. I'd had plenty of experience with babies who were over 6 weeks old, but for the first 6 weeks, I expected to be a complete mess. And then, Luke came out and on day 3, I was able to sit him on my lap, the way I used to do with the 6-week-olds and he looked around and had some semblance of head control and I figured that hey, maybe 3-day-olds and 6-week-olds weren't all that different after all.

And then, I met this other baby, who had all the head control of, say, a rag doll and I'm terrified of newborns all over again. Of course, this other baby also slept in his mom's arms like an angel the entire time, which is another thing that was completely unfamiliar to me because the thing that stands out the most for the first two months of Luke's like was the non-stop screaming. But given the choice, I think I'd go with the non-floppy screamer again because at least I know I can handle that. Of course, I'm NOT being given the choice and the next time around (in the very DISTANT future), I'll probably end up with the angelic rag doll.

Meeting Crashers

Sometimes, drama just seems to walk around until it finds me...

Luke and I went to our La Leche group this afternoon and we were having a lovely time, talking to the other moms, watching the other babies, snacking on some chips, when this new woman walks in with her baby. Now, considering that this was a breastfeeding group, it was natural to assume that this mom was nursing her baby, yes? Well...apparently not...

Lactation consultant: Welcome to the group!
New mom: Oh, thanks!
LC: Would you like to introduce yourself?
NM: Sure! I'm Jenny and this is Gabby; she's seven months old.
LC: Great! We've been talking about some of the issues people have been having this week...is there anything you'd like to bring to the table?
NM: Mm....well, it's really hard to get her to finish her bottles because all she wants to do is crawl around.
LC: Her bottles...at daycare?
NM: No, at home.
LC: Oh, are you pumping?
NM: Uh...no...
LC: Oh, are you supplementing with formula?
NM: I'm not supplementing with formula, I'm FEEDING formula.
LC: Oh...ah...this is actually a breastfeeding group...
NM: Ugh! I would never do that! I mean, I understand that people have choices, but I hate seeing women doing *that.*

At this point, there were at least three women in that room (myself included) who were doing *that* and nursing their babies. And this ridiculous woman gave each of us a mean and nasty look, after having crashed OUR meeting. So...did we get embarrassed? Did we grab blankets and throw them over our babies' heads? Or...did we do just the opposite and allow just a little bit extra skin to show?

(If you know me AT ALL, you won't need me to answer those questions for you)

Selling Him To The Circus

The Dog and I have had our share of disagreements today. We started like this:

Dog: I think I'd like to eat now.
Me: Huh? Didn't McMoose feed you?
Dog: McMoose NEVER feeds me.
Me: McMoose ALWAYS feeds you.
Dog: He lies. I'd like to eat now.
Me: Hm. No.
Dog: Fine. *Lopes off into baby's room*

10 minutes later, he reappears.

Me: There's something different about you.
Dog: No, there isn't.
Me: There definitely is. Hey! What's that white stuff hanging out of your mouth?
Dog: What white stuff?
Me: THIS white stuff...with the torn off Pampers logo!
Dog: Huh.
Me: Dog?
Dog: Huh?
Me: Did you eat a Pampers diaper?
Dog: No....
Me: Where did you even FIND a disposable diaper?
Dog: Um...
Me: *Go to baby's room, find remains of (unused), half-eaten diaper, throw in trash.*

10 minutes later...

Dog: Ugh
Me: What now?
Dog: ...I don't feel so good...

Apparently, the stuff in the diaper that turns into gel when the diaper is wet also turns into gel in other wet environments. For example, Dog's stomach. And also? The gel acts as an emetic.

Our Week in Bullets

We've had a big week around here, with lots of activities and changes. Here are a few...

• Yellow Cat figured out how to open the laundry room door earlier this summer, which is highly annoying, but lately, I've been finding his toys sitting INSIDE the washing machine. I still don't know how he does that.
• Luke has figured out that hey! He has hands! He can't get them to do exactly what he wants, but he can hug his favorite toy frog and pull off my glasses when I'm feeding him.
• He has also started "laughing." I put that word in quotes because it's not so much a real laugh as an overly theatrical...um...noise that goes "Ahhh...ahhh...ahhh..."
• We've been looking at SUVs again and I think we've finally decided on one. But there were at least 2 other people looking at it too, so who knows if it will still be available when we call later today to make an offer.
• Luke has also figured out how to use his doorway jumper. And by "use," I mean that he spins around in circles and does this odd, little hop that makes him look like a deranged flamingo. And then, he swings wildly around and I come close to having several heart attacks because his head always comes within CENTIMETERS of the door frame.
• We've been doing things every day this week and as a result of that and the fact that my insomnia has returned in full force, I am worn out. I don't think I've mentioned it on here, but when we realized that I was having supply problems and Luke wasn't gaining weight, the most powerful tool in our arsenal was that we started waking up our child, who was sleeping 9-10 hours each night, at 3 in the morning so that he could have an extra, large feeding. It worked, in that we saw weight gain almost immediately, but as a result of that disturbance each night, I now lie awake for about 2-3 extra hours trying to fall back asleep. And by the time I do, it's 6 in the morning and Luke starts stirring at 6:30.
• But! As a wonderful offset to the insomnia is the fact that Luke, who used to eat for an hour at a time, has figured out how to get the same amount of food in 20 minutes. Do you have any idea how much extra time I have on my hands? I actually straightened up the whole house, scrapbooked, sewed, and then got so bored that I rolled all his blankets up and arranged them artfully in a basket. I vacuumed, I kept up on the laundry, I dusted, I baked. Seriously, I don't know what to do with all this time.