The Emperor Wears No Clothes

Willem’s been having issues with his clothes lately. First it was about the socks that he won’t allow to be on his person if I don’t have shoes strapped to his feet to keep them in place. Thank god for the staying power of Robeez shoes. Many times I spy the little sprite with the toe of one of them pinched between his chipmunk teeth tearing away like a leopard gnawing a carcass. As a result, we’ve had to retire the fire truck ones because he chewed a hole in the sole. Long sleeved t-shirts give him serious grief as he manages to get a hand slipped inside and can’t get all digits to return to view. He squawks and squeals while flapping his arm like a wounded bat. I try and make a game out of finding the missing hand but his fuse is usually already spent. Today I dressed him in overalls and you’d thought I had put a horse harness on him, yoke and all. He tugged and rolled and drug himself around the room by the straps like a baby mime removing himself from a bad stage performance. And forget hats. Unless it comes with a seatbelt sized strip of Velcro to hold it in place, it’s taking a flight across the room. Thankfully, it’s been pretty warm ‘cause this boy’s just about naked.

Here is his Highness redecorating his Christmas tree for like the hundreth time...

Yabba Dabba Do

No one is in the office right now. I’m here an hour earlier that I’d normally be. I look at my iChat list and it flatlines. Not a soul to bug. Everyone is dragging ass on the day before our time off begins. My breakfast is a dark chocolate pecan chunk cookie because I didn’t plan the morning so well and I’m tired of my routine. Couldn’t bear to go to the coffee shop again and have the barista looking at me expectantly like I’m going to order something different than I normally do. “Large latte, bottle of water, and a breakfast taco with sausage, potato, egg and avocado. Pico and salsa, too. Thanks.” I needed to get in the orifice early anyway. I don’t want to be checking email over the holidays and finding work to do. I want it all done today. Happy Holidays and good riddance until next year, ‘yo.

Bring On The Break

Everyone here at work is counting down the hours until tomorrow afternoon when we’re off for like ten or eleven consecutive days. Whoo-hoo! Last night, I was planning on making a couple of rum cakes to bring to the office but couldn’t for the life of me find the bundt pan and then I realized I still hadn’t purchase the rum yet. They call it a “rum cake” for a reason. Besides it takes an hour to bake and by the time I would've gotten W down for the night, had some soggy pizza with the Hubs and straightened up the joint for the cleaning lady, I would’ve been too tired to wait around for the thing to cook. “Hey, what’s that burning smell?”

We’re not going anywhere for the holidays except three hours south of here to see the mom-in-law for a couple of days. I’m stoked we’re not traveling too far away for once. It’s just not a good idea with a little one, if you can avoid it. Two years ago, before baby, we tried to go to Rome but the weather was bad in Chicago (?) so that screwed up everything for others and us . I burst into tears at the ticket counter. It couldn’t be helped. We were stewing for over an hour in line in anticipation of the success or failure of our efforts. It would’ve been my first trip to Europe. The tears helped though. We got an immediate full refund. We ended up taking a bus to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, and had a lovely time. Little did I know I was with child. Thankfully, there's no evidence that all that wine and tequila hurt the en utero Mexican bean pod.

Did I mention that W’s daycare is closed the ENTIRE TIME I’M OFF WORK for the holidays? “Damn you, daycare!” Don’t get me wrong, I love hanging with the spawn but I had dreams of pedicures, massages, after Christmas sales and long cocktail lunches with girlfriends during the work break. That is so someone else’s life. I did make a list of baby-mommas I need to see over the break so if you’re reading this and I know you and you have a kid near W’s age, I’m coming over. Better get that margarita machine warmed up!

Ode To A Growing Boy

This morning when we reached W’s school (a trip that includes the ritual of me naming all of the people in his class, singing songs and talking about “Big trucks!” the entire drive over), he handed his pacifier to me with authority before I removed him from the carseat. It’s been a small work in progress to get to this point. I didn’t mean for him to be a pacifier baby but it’s a simple solution for what sometimes seems like unsolvable dramatic moments in his little world. As recommend by W’s pediatrician, we are limiting the times and places he can have it on his person so I was very proud and encouraged when he dutifully handed it to me and made motions to get him the hell out of the car so he could dash inside and play with friends. We were barely in the door, literally tripping over the daycare cast and crew, when he practically fell out of my arms on to a small school bus. Ahhh…now I understood the impetus of his sense of duty in the car earlier. A week ago, I brought a tearful W into the classroom and explained to his teacher that he was upset because he had to relinquish his “duh tuk” before going into class. Like a magician, she appeared with a handful of cars and a school bus to offer him. Like magic, all was well in W land. It’s amazing to recognize that his determination to get to class revolves around something he knows will be there waiting for him. Just the simple fact that he is that aware is remarkable to a mama. He’s showing me these things by the truck load. He’ll run to his crib to show you where his pacifier is hiding. He points to the fridge when he wants water. He brushes his four teeth like a pro. He eats with a spoon and fork. He helps when getting dressed and undressed. He says so many words and makes the sounds of things. He hugs and pats you like a reassuring AA sponsor. He dances like an old man and plays the piano like a pre-school prodigy, sorta. I continue to have mixed feelings about my little boy growing up. I adore seeing him evolve into his own way of doing things and finding an identity that is all his own but, as I’ve said before, it’s all going by so fast.

Illin'

It’s a good thing you can’t hear me talking right now. I sound like I have a hollowed out tin can attached to my face. W gave me the mother of all colds and it’s rocking my world. I clear my throat every 5 seconds, cough every four and sniff every three. Don’t you wish you were my officemate? Like I told a girlfriend last Friday night, I fanaticize about digging the baby bottle brush out of storage and sticking it down my throat to relieve the endless itching. Oh, and my face is as puffy as a cadavers. Nice, no? I’m sure W is suffering from the same symptoms but can’t verbalize them specifically. We cough, sneeze and sniffle together. It’s the pits. I just hope we don’t trade this thing back and forth like a game of Go Fish. It would be good to be well so that we don’t make Santa sick, too.

Lately, it’s been hard keeping W out of the toilet bowels. He slinks off to the loo and soon after you hear the bathroom door clicking closed. He has to do his dirty work in complete privacy. He goes in with serious determination and resurfaces like Jacque Cousteau after a successful dive. Most times, he’s armed with the bowel brush and scrapes the insides and outsides clean, others, he just goes in head first. You catch him in the act and he doesn’t recoil in fear or shame or disgust. He grins at you like he has just won the Olympic medal in synchronized swimming and this makes it very hard to discipline him without wanting to hug him for being so damn cute.

W is still the proud owner of only four teeth. At fifteen months, he still looks like a chipmunk but one that resembles David Letterman more and more as the weeks go by. The absence of other anchoring teeth is causing the two top ones to drift apart. He’s a masculine Madonna or a real life pint-sized Alfred E. Newman. I just hope the mystery of the missing teeth is soon solved. He would really like to sink his teeth into some holiday Angus.

Pooparama

As my child grows and his appetite mirrors his development, his diapers double in weight. What was once a quick swipe of the bum is now a “Mop up on aisle 3!” For a while, W’s bowel movements were saved for the classroom. We had gotten on a reliable schedule of dress at home, dump at school. I’m sure his teachers cringe at the smelly explosions but, hey, that’s part of the gig in the infant room. Lately, W has been saying “Yucky.” It’s probably safe to assume he learned it on the changing table from one of his teachers. For the past few mornings, I’ve been the lucky recipient of his recycled edibles. It’s no mystery when he is laying the Holy Grail of all poops. The room is quiet and he remains relatively motionless, his face the color of a Santa suit. This morning was no exception. The diaper unveiling revealed, well, you know, and lots of it. The funny thing is, if I had someone participate in a smell test, they would be convinced it was a bottle of nail polish remover. Upon inspection, they would also be convinced that I was feeding him handfuls of birdseed when I know last night he ate turkey with gravy, corn, mashed potatoes and 5 animal crackers. When we were at the pediatrician’s office last Monday for W’s 15 month check up, he mentioned that our son’s appetite would probably start to decline. So far, no dice. In fact, recently at a parent/teacher meeting at W’s school the head teacher remarked at how such a tiny boy could consume so much food. His weight is in the 10th percentile but his head is in the 95th. I think it’s safe to say we’re feeding his brain.

First Sentence

This morning as W and I were leaving the house headed for day care, he said his first sentence. It was "Bye, bye Da-da." He even threw in a wave. The Hubs immediately started dancing a jig of happiness and I'm certain there were tears in his eyes. They were in mine.

Mr. T-N-A

The Hubs and I are working on some things, personal stuff that revolves around how much your life changes when you have a child. One of the changes I didn’t count on was the fact that words like “libido” and “sex life” would disappear completely from my vocabulary. The only time those words leave my mouth is when the Hubs and I are discussing this sensitive topic. Lately, it’s been a popular one, and Lord knows, the Hubs is deserving of the activity. The other night in bed, instead of making the physical effort to get somewhere intimate, we got into a long, drawn out discussion of the situation. This usually happens and as you can surmise, it’s a total buzz kill. After several minutes of “why nots” and “how comes,” I got fed up and said in my sexiest Mr. T growl, “Enough of this jibber-jabber!” Guess what? It worked.

Why do I tell you this? I’m not sure. Why do you read it? So you can point and laugh when you see me out in public.

Out With Hubs

The Hubs and I had date night last night. The wonderful Miss Jo (www.missjohanna.com) came to keep the little one. W is the president of the Miss Jo Fan Club. It’s very reassuring to know that your child is crazy about his caregiver. We were getting ready to make our departure and I asked W if he wanted to go play with Miss Jo. He leaned out of my arms and dumped himself into hers, a move I didn’t expect from him. Makes it very easy for me to leave the house for the evening when he’s ga-ga like that.

Our first stop was an entertainment community-oriented mixer. We ran into so many people I knew I almost felt like the shindig was for me. See, when you’ve got a baby and a full time job and a life like that, you have a tendency to forget that there is a world out there you were once a part of and there are folks that you miss or have forgotten about or wished you hadn’t run in to at all. I slurped on Cosmos and two bevies later, I needed some serious nosh.

We made our way to Manuel’s for dinner, snuggled into a corner booth and dug in. Our waitress, who was obviously bored, had the hots for the Hubs and, by the end of dinner, was on the verge of giving him a Latin lap dance. I told him that she was SO flirting with him and he said she wasn’t. It was amazingly apparent and I wondered if he even knows it when a girl is making advances. Must be hard to discern when it doesn’t involve complete nudity, a pounding bass line and a pole. Anyway, I guess I could’ve gotten all bowed up about the scene occurring before my eyes but found it to be rather entertaining. Of course, if she had gotten as close to him as his plate was, I would’ve had to body check her like a hockey player.

We scooted out of there and were home by 10. I tried to play it cool (as in “3 adult beverages don’t do nuthin’ to me”) when I saw Miss Jo out the door but my liquored up lingo had Jo looking at me like I was speaking Klingon. Sorry Miss Jo. I bet it happens a lot. I mean, for all parents, you’re a “get out of jail for $10 an hour” card and you must see some really silly stuff at the end of a night. Do tell next date night, okay?

It's Christmas Up In Here

Where did the year go? Seriously, someone tell me. Before baby, time was measured by the months passed since I had seen an old friend or how long ago that beach trip was or whether or not I had achieved a certain goal. Now it’s blatantly apparent in the form of a little boy who is growing much faster than I can sometimes comprehend. He simultaneously makes me feel old and young, both a gift and a bummer.

Did you happen to hear the deafening screeching sound in the air recently? That was my metabolism pulling off of the road of life and leaving me stranded with the sort of spare tire I don’t want. The Hubs suggested I make some time to exercise. Umm, hello? Time isn’t a paper mache project. I can’t just cut and paste it together. We’re talking about me here, the person that may have a problem with making the best use of her time because every nook and cranny of her life is just about filled with work, parenting, to dos and deadlines. I guess my New Year’s resolution should be to re-evaluate how I go through each day and make better use of every hour. Yeah. That sounds good.

I’m happy to report that this holiday pimp has some new hos. A few of us hit the Christmas tree farm yesterday with a little trepidation but everyone came away feeling the holiday bug biting them in the ass. We noshed on sweets and cheeses before make the journey east. Upon arriving, W was THRILLED to see a tractor pulling the hunters of pine around the farm and was more than eager to climb aboard the hayride and take a lap. At an agreed upon moment, we all yelled STOP and began our descent into the manmade forest. W waved to the tractor driver like she was a long lost friend never to be seen again. Everyone scattered in different directions and in the distance you could hear the squeals of a friend’s kiddos screaming “This one, daddy, this one!” The Hubs and I considered many trees but continued to dilute our choices by moving a little farther off and finding yet another prospect. We both eventually committed to a six footer but moved a little further on to survey a few more. When we came back to claim our tree, it had been cleanly cut away from the earth by who we soon discovered was one of our team. The Hubs was shocked and disappointed as the rest of us laughed and marveled at the popularity of the perfect spruce. Out of 11,000 trees, the one we liked was snatched up but it went to a good home.

The happy fam. It was gloriously cold, like it's supposed to be when you're talking about Santa and reindeer and stuff.
















The lumberjack hard at work on our giant chosen one.
















Now we all get involved. That tree was a monster!
















TJ and Ruby Jane, overseers of Project Tree Removal.
















W bidding a fond farewell to the tractor.

Effin'

So. Effin'. Busy.

More to come.

xo

Christmas Pimp

I mentioned last year that I’m a holiday ho. This year it looks like I get to be a holiday pimp. Why, you ask? Because I’ve got the ultimate partner-in-crime to O-D on peppermint, twinkling lights and eggnog with…my son. Tears of joy! I struggle with getting the Hubs to take me and this time of year seriously, I encounter way too many Scrooges on the streets and I get fed up with my own half-assed attempts to “make the season bright” because the North Pole wind has been knocked out of my ho-hoing sails. Nevermore! I come from a very rich childhood history of Christmas cheer spreading. Many eves of yore were spent at my grandmothers’ with cousins, aunts and uncles buzzing about and drinking themselves silly. The photographer would show to take the family photo. We’d open the door to carolers and sit around the piano to sing our own favorites (I know, very Norman Rockwell). We'd plow through mountains of food, grandmother’s pies and pecan pralines. We’d tear in to gifts and then head out for midnight mass, when we could make it. In a drunken stupor, dad would play Santa in the wee hours of the morning and lay out a spread of toys turning the living room into Disneyland. It was outrageous! I want this for my son. I want all of the jingle bells and whistles to be a part of his memories. The pimping will begin this weekend.

Holiday Fever

W awoke with a subtle fever yesterday morning. He was warm all day but not quite warm enough to be sent home from school. His temp teetered on the edge of what is hot enough to call the ‘rents but never reached phoning status, the tipping point being 100.4 degrees. He didn’t eat any dinner (frown) and was out cold by 7 p.m. It worked out for us as we had my scientist-sis-in-law over for dinner and I got to spend uninterrupted time with her but in the back of my mind, I was fretting about the little one. Thankfully, he awoke this morning totally chill, mood and temperature wise. Unfortunately, since he crashed so early he decided to be up at 4:45 a. freakin’ m. He was bright eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to rock. I felt like I had been pummeled by rocks. Such is the roller coaster ride that is parenting.

We’re heading to a Christmas tree farm on Sunday with friends to choose and murder our own tree. Last year was our first year to go and the Hubs went kicking and screaming. Hopefully this year, since W is a bit older and more fun to do stuff with, Hubs will be eager to play Santa to last year’s Ebenezer. If he doesn’t make nice, Mrs. Claus is changing the locks on the doors and he can go live with the elves out back.

Gobbler Wobbler

We returned yesterday from visiting my side of the family for Thanksgiving/early Christmas which, due to divorce, marriages, and relocations, has been whittled down to only my mom, her sister and one brother. There’s enough energy in that household though to keep a city block lit with holiday lights. It was W’s first visit and it won’t be the last. He ran amok with a perpetual smile on his happy face as he played with the dog, rode in the wagon and pushed a basket full of toys cars around the house. I feel good knowing that come next June/July when the Hubs and I leave the little one for two weeks to vaca, he’ll be in the best of hands (this was a babysitter offer dream come true and it was all I could do to keep the Hubs from grabbing the phone and buying the plane tickets right then). Since I’m still playing catch up and my “To Do” list is as long as Santa’s naughty list, I’m going to make this short and instead post some pics of the growing sprout. It’s been a while.

Happy Holidays!


A few weeks back, W and I got to see this...
















This past weekend at a birthday party, he got to do this...

















W is ALWAYS on the phone.

































Getting his 2 servings of fruit...and 15 servings of sugar.

















People, I forgot to mention that IKEA opened this month. It's a big deal! See that little table and 2 chairs? $19.99. No joke.

















Baby Einstein poster child.

















That's his "I plead the Fifth" face.
















Here we are visiting W's uncle about to venture out to terrorize the neighborhood.
















Here we are with my brother/W's uncle/the youngest fire chief in the state of Texas. Yes'em. We are proud.
















And lastly, what I love about the composition of this pic is the fact that you can see the photographer/my mom/W's GoGo.

Bumps and Bruises

I was reading this blog and am reminded of the times I have managed to maim my child or been there to witness his own baby stunt gone awry and every single time, I come this close to expiring, just falling on the floor and dying from the fear that this is it, my child is crippled/brain damaged/injured for life.

When he was just a couple of months old, I took him to BabiesRUs. I was craving to get out of the house and wanted to feel comfortable in my new mommy-skin. I thought shopping for a bunch of crap I didn’t need was the perfect fix. I navigated through the isles like a juvenile driver on a wet highway with baby tethered to my chest but was triumphant when we both came out of the store unscathed. That is, until I opened the back of the Xterra to unload the booty. I didn’t think about the distance between the door and myself and cleanly whacked my son upside his tiny head with the force of life size Jack In The Box. My heart slid out of my shoes as I raced around to the backseat to untangle my child from the Bjorn and see if his nose, chin or forehead had been completely removed from his face. He was screaming, oh yes he was, and I was shaking with fear and stupidity. I felt like a failed mom. I didn’t see any telltale signs of damage which only concerned me more but after offering up the boob and sitting there for 20 minutes, the shock finally wore off and W fell asleep in my arms. I could’ve sat there the rest of the day. I was too terrified to move.

W’s latest mishap was on the stairs at home. He normally stops at the top of them and ventures down “feet first” as he’s been taught to do. This day, however, his spiritedness got the best of him and he came tumbling down towards me just as I screamed STOP! He toppled down five steps, ears over ass, and landed in one of those break dancing positions where you’re on your head and your back is arched to the sky and held aloft by your toes. He wasn’t hurt but completely spooked. So was I.

He’s also toppled off of the bed but, thankfully, I missed that one and found him on the floor twisted like Stretch Armstrong and with a look of bewilderment and confusion that said, “Umm…how did I get down here?”

I loop crazy scenarios in my mind all of the time of W getting in to some kind of trouble, i.e. wandering out in to the street, falling off of playground toys, consuming something poisonous or choking to death. My heart races as I live the moment in my head and, wow, it’s so real! But it’s not. Today he’s fine and, dammit, I certainly want to keep that way forever but that’s so unrealistic unfortunately.

Baby Ali

I’m eager to brag that this here mommy guiltlessly enjoyed two nights off IN A ROW this past weekend and got to bask in the glory of some fabulous estrogen and sassiness. Friday was a powwow with other mommy bloggers at a local watering hole. We downed Bloody Marys and beers while sharing tales of massages with perks and at what an early age little boys touch themselves. I wish I could’ve stayed out later but I’m a wimp and have to gradually build up a tolerance for the witching hours. Saturday night was Parents Night Out at W’s school so I dropped his butt off at 5 p.m. and spent a quiet hour at home getting dressed for a night on the east side. It was gloriously strange to have the place to myself without interruption. I was actually able to completely pluck both eyebrows, find a matching bra/panty combo and spend extra time deciding what to wear. People, it was glorious. I joined a girlfriend for dinner at a new restaurant complete with faux wood paneling, pleather walls and a huge Paint By Numbers horse head under pin lights. We then headed to a bar for more kibitzing. I was home with baby by 10 p.m. so, again, I have yet to get into a late night groove that doesn’t include breastfeeding or insomnia but I’m not complaining. It’s a start!

Speaking of starts, W has started coping with his frustration by using his dukes and has been taking swings at my face like a swatter after a fly. I swear I send him to a kind and gentle daycare each day, not the Mohammed Ali Boxing School for Tots. He’s also in to head butting but it’s the kind that doesn’t quite connect with its intended target. He stops short of impact. It’s more like faking whiplash and is hilarious to watch. I start laughing which probably isn’t the best way to help him deal with his dramatic moment. I’m wondering what’s going on at school though. He must be getting it from someone, some where. Must investigate.

Bitty

We’re back to the CSS (cough, snot, sneeze) circle of unhealthiness in the Fantasy household. After pumping the baby with sweet pink antibiotic juice we were illness free for about a week and a half but I guess the force field of germ killer has worn off. Such a bummer. The kid wakes up looking like he’s been rooting around in rubber cement all night. He cries out in his attempts to keep breathing until ‘morn.

I have been trying to wean him but my efforts have been thwarted. A nighttime rescue from the crib means a boob cocktail for Shorty. With his eyes closed in the dark living room, he yanks out his pacifier with the POP! sound of a champagne cork unleashed. He hurls it into the night and positions himself expectantly, his mouth shaped like an “O”. It’s amusing but I’m wondering where it will end. Sure, I could get the Hubs to help out by having him be the recipient of the child-in-need but he’s kept nighttime working hours since the Rolling Stones show and that was like 3 weeks ago. My biggest fear is that we end up being something like this…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XGonnqcU-U

And Away We Gooooooo!

Hey all! Wanted to drop a line here in the blogosphere before getting on the wild bull ride that is my job this week. We’ve got another vendor fair to do over the next four days at a company whose name rhymes with “Bell”. It’s a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade theme this time and I’ll be spending most of today inflating animals and Spidermen and dinosaurs. Thank God we found an electric inflater so I don’t have to blow myself until I pass out (Yikes, that sounds SO dirty!). Anyway, just want to give a shout out to all of the local blog girls, some of whom I haven’t met but will do so on Friday when we will get together for a bitchin, drinkin’ and visitin’ session. Can’t wait! Also want to briefly point out that this here bloggin’ activity has been an amazing way to reach out and make some pretty amazing friends, most of whom I never hang out with but care dearly about and I really appreciate the shared stories, words of wisdom and support. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Anon.

Flab Fab

Yesterday I took off my jeans and it looked like I still had them on. Why, you ask? Because the seams had imbedded themselves into my skin. Paint my legs blue and you wouldn’t be able to tell any difference. No, I’m not overweight or pudgy or thick. I’m soft like a doughy bagel, something I’m not used to in my skin. Having a baby encourages this pliable exterior but exercise cures it. Remember a couple of weeks ago when I posted I was committing to a workout routine? Well, I also forgot to tell you it was opposite day.

The main building where I work down the street from and call the Mother Ship is full of seasonal hires and it is the foxiest bunch of (mostly) gals I have ever seen. Our staff meetings are distracting. Even I’m checking them out. It’s depressing, too. I’m really starting to feel 37 and if I don’t get my ass in gear I’m going to end up like Eddy on Absolutely Fabulous before I know it (see chick on the right…the one on my left would be Holly, my best friend and designer of my mansion). “Shampoozle, sweetie dahling?”

Ain't No Fun

I know this isn’t a news flash but being married to a musician is HARD, people. I know marriage in general is challenging but when you add to that two bands, tons of rehearsals, a musical in progress (why?) and more rehearsals, traveling, evening engagements, conflicting schedules and, in my case, an artist with a defective domestic gene and you’ve got an interesting situation on your hands. Yeah, I sorta knew what I was getting in to but I guess I didn’t read all of the small print before signing off.

So frustrating and hard.

(Zenbetty, I have misinformed you.)

Banner Day

Here is a list of Dr. Spock approved disciplinary words and phrases I am currently using on W. I’m certain I’ll be wearing the Mother Of The Year banner on Mother’s Day…

“DUDE! (insert questionable situation in high pitched voice here)!”

“Get a grip.”

“WAIT!”

“Not for babies!” -My favorite and works like a charm.

“Hey…hey…heeeeyyyyy!”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“This is your dad’s fault!”

“This is why mommy drinks in the closet after night night.”

Yup, I’m the best mom EVER!

Ding-A-Ling

As the weeks of childrearing blow by like brittle autumn leaves, I make mental notes of W’s progress from baby to toddler the hours I am with him and as he heads into his fifteenth month of life, W has discovered a few things. An important discovery, next to the boob on the day he was born, occurred in the bathtub just last week. He was playing with his bathtub drums and dropped a drumstick between his legs. As he patted around with his hand to locate it, his five digits found his pecker, the Holy Grail to many a man. W gave it a tug and paused to look at me. I grinned back at him not sure what to do. I sorta felt like zoologist Marlin Perkins watching a lion cub taste a fresh kill for the first time. I didn’t move and waited to see what happened next. I then remembered what my parents taught me about sex which wasn’t much, if anything at all. I vaguely recall them addressing me in the living room by the gas fireplace and fake ivy and saying something about something daddy gave to mommy and it swam somewhere and then she was pregnant. The whole time I just wanted to be outside playing. Like most kids in my neighborhood, we gained full knowledge of sex in the S book of the encyclopedia collection but our own mental interpretations were a little warped. I remember giggling on the floor by the bookshelf in 5th grade as a small group of us, boys and girls, read the section aloud. All details became perfectly clear, however, when a copy of The Joy Of Sex was discovered at a friend’s house. Hello pictorals! I remember a bunch of “Ewwwwws” and “What is that?” being screeched and the book being tossed around like a bag of flaming poop. I think that whole experience stunted my sexual growth for quite a while. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and race off on my bicycle with the faux denim banana seat.

So W has discovered his schmeckel and it’s now a constant bath time plaything. It makes for awkward moments as he sits there in silence and diddles. Maybe its time for the Hubs to take over.

Early Birdie

Daylight savings time has officially screwed our household. W woke up BEFORE five a.m. this morning and instead of immediately heading downstairs to his bedroom door to scoop him up, I paused for a moment and considered jumping off of the balcony (Dear brother, please don’t call me and ask me if I’m depressed. I’m not. I’m just tired.). To my surprise, however, the Hubs took matters in to his own hands and rescued baby. They hung out until the little rooster dozed off again about an hour and a half later. This never would have happened if I was up with him because he gets too distracted by boobs and the morning routine and boobs. I got to sleep until 8 a.m. which almost as good as getting diamond earrings for Christmas (insert subtle hint to the Hubs here).

Our time together this morning was short and sweet. As we were saying our good-byes, W decided to smack me in the face a few times with his tiny hand and as I turned to give him the business, he had a huge, happy grin on his face which immediately diffused the situation and was quickly replaced with giant, cheek puckering kissy sounds that he makes every time the Hubs and I smooch. He loves getting in on the act. Little fish face.

And so, we go. And it’s date night tonight. More tomorrow.

Halloweenie

Ugh. It's been hard to get a post up. I've started a couple, don't finish them and then they're outdated just like that. I've been too tired, too. And it seems like, somehow, daylight savings has taken an hour or more out of my day. Maybe it seems that way because it gets dark so dang early. There's not enough time to get everything done and like I said, I've been tired. Pooped. Worn out when I finally leave the salt mine. By 10 p.m. I'm sawing logs. Maybe I'm doing something wrong. Maybe I'm not budgeting my time well. Maybe getting up at 5:39 a.m. just isn’t early enough (this is what time W decided to get his Halloween day started…yeay for me!).

I have committed to exercising at least three times a week and this morning I walked good and hard for thirty minutes around the 'hood. I got a stitch in my side 20 minutes in but I pressed to finish the walk at a steady pace. Yeah, so I was only walking but it's been over a year and a half (or more) since I got my heart rate up over 30 bpm. I'm starting out slow so I don’t scare myself away. It felt good though…walking in the sunshine, taking in the window of time to myself. What sucked about it was the catcalling from construction workers (who must all be seriously lonely because I was wearing a t-shirt with my kid’s face plastered as big as a billboard on it), the cars trying to run me over, the bus exhaust, the demons in my head that won’t shut up for one damn minute and let me just mentally coast. Exercising is hard.

And no, I didn’t get W a Halloween costume this year. How could I top this? This was last year.























Instead I dressed him in his short black pants (girls section at Old Navy) and a black t-shirt that says, “I do my own stunts” with a stick figure falling over so if anyone one asks, he’s a stunt man for Halloween. Yeah.

W is FINALLY getting over the daycare disease he absorbed over 3 weeks ago. It raced through the family (and then some) like wild fire but we are all on the mend (knocking on wood). He’s still ingesting that sugary, thick pink liquid amoxicillin so I’m guaranteed a few more days of a healthy child ‘till it runs out. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to keep this kid healthy. Anything. Seriously.

This is W texting some hot baby he met on the internet..."Yeah, baby, yeah!"
















Grabbing the remote because Elmo's World is about to come on...
















"What? You're interested in some other baby? Aww, baby!"
















Our Halloween porch. Real World plastic chairs gone good.
















Baby in lights.

Junebugger

Dearest Junebug (that was your name before you were born),

Today you are thirteen months, one week and four days old. I am compelled to write to you because the internet is down at work and when mommy doesn’t have much to do at the office, she thinks about her life with you.

Now let’s see…your latest talents are blowing on things and dancing fever. You blow out any candles that are lit and you blow on anything that I tell you is hot. If the oven is hot, you blow on it. If the bath water is hot, you blow on that, too, and all the food you eat gets a puff of your breath as well.

Uncle Joey and Aunt Misty got you a refrigerator DJ and you punch it every morning like the Fonz at the jukebox in Al’s Diner. I get to hear the first two seconds of all the songs before you randomly decide on one for us to dance to in our Pjs. Lately, you’ve found rhythm in the choo-choo sound your train table makes and your high chair dancing is the BEST! It’s like watching an inchworm move in place. Lately you’ve actually been moving to the beat which is a big deal to your papa.

You also enjoy jumping on the bed which is actually more like just the idea of jumping instead of actual jumping but I know what your intentions are. You’ll get there soon enough.

For the past week or so, you’ve loathed bath time. I thought I had changed your mindset when I bought you Elmo watermelon scented bubble bath but I think the idea of washing up in what is the equivalent of sugarless Kool-Aid made us both sick to our stomachs. The sweet stench is a tad overwhelming. Two nights ago I bathed with you but you just thought it was an all you can nurse buffet with bubble accents.

Last night I was calculating the few hours a day I get to spend with you when, in the beginning, I was with you 24/7. Now this cherished time has been whittled down to only 4.5 hours a day Monday through Friday and 48 on the weekends. It just doesn’t seem fair but we have to make money to pay for all of my diamonds and furs. That was a joke, son. Hopefully, someday soon our time spent together won’t be so abbreviated. Mommy and daddy dream real big.

Love you,
Mommy

Bogger

It’s a “bog you down” kinda week, folks. Days and nights are filled to the brim with family, work and friends so I guess I’m bogged in a good way, just no time to blog about the bog. Plus we’re all still reeling from the bug that W brought into our lives almost 3 weeks ago. Keeps our energy levels on the low end of the gas tank and at night we all fall into bed completely expended. Is this madness ever going to end? I’ve heard that all of the other classes in W school are down to very few little people as they swap and share the scourge. Might be a vicious cycle for many months to come. I could go home right now and call it a day already.

Went to see the Rolling Stones last Sunday with 42,000 other people and it was a great show. My sis-in-law (who is also trying to kick W’s bug) lives close to the park where they performed so we were able to hike the short distance instead of dealing with the traffic and parking nightmares. The Hubs, his drummer (who flew in from Boulder, CO on his day off on another tour in progress with Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians), and I stood within yards of the stage for some great perspectives on the aging rock star royalty. I encountered a couple who were Nazis about the crowd behind them slowly ebbing closer to the stage like their soiled blanket that’s been on the ground for five hours and consequently considered to be their valuable piece of real estate is their license to bitch. News flash…when the headliner hits the stage, all bets are off. My back and legs ached as I stood there mesmerized by the energy and stamina of Mick. There were plenty of tasteful pyrotechnics and fireworks and at the very end of it all Mr. Jagger muttered into the mic, “No expense spared” in his delicious British accent.

On another rock n roll note, the Hubs’ new record is done and we’re now looking for a label to take it to the platinum level. It is AMAZING and a recorded testament of his incredible talent as a musician and songwriter. This gem is going to get us that little chateau in the south of France. Oh, yes, it is.

On the office front, we’re already kicking some serious ass for the next conference season. Last year (which is technically this year, just last March) we executed 68 parties in 9 days. We’re already up to 52 parties booked and it’s only October. How are we going to do it, you query? Crystal meth and lots of it.

Bobble Head

I was just looking at some of the pics of W that I've posted of him recently and I was wondering, does it look to you like his huge noggin' has been superimposed on a tiny shrunken body 'cause it looks like that to me. Seriously, it just looks weird.

Eycarumba

Date night didn’t go so well last night. I’ve learned that having date night the same evening that the Hubs has a gig is a bad idea. His cell phone rang off the hook (or does that description even apply since cell phones don’t have hooks or cradles or base units, do they?…maybe I should say his cell phone rang out of his pants), he was obviously distracted by a cerebral set list or guest list or wine list and he was dressed as his alter-stage dominating-ego. This means a bright blue pinstriped polyester suit, blinding white shirt and brown shoes with heels taller than mine. I love the suit but it certainly has its place and that place is not in an intimate setting on date night. I mean, the lapels are dangerously huge and could put out an eye when necking occurs and the fabric is like cozying up to a Brillo pad. Did I mention this thing is exceedingly flammable? A candlelit table for two was out.

We eventually got to the gig location after a painful detour to a local Mexican restaurant to see a friend play in the midst of what seemed to be the last hoorah on the dance floor for a busload of the elderly. The Peacock (venue for said gig) was filled with foxy youngin’s ready for an alcohol enduced dance party and upon crossing the threshold of the place, the Hubs immediately checked out of date night and assumed his rock star personae. Total bummer but wifey understands. Better luck next week.

Man Child

W is just beyond the thirteenth month mark of life but in just the last few weeks, he has grown into what hints more of a young man than a toddler. Some moments he’s as stoic as Abe Lincoln and will sit completely still with a serene expression on his face despite one’s arm flapping efforts to get a rise out of him. His reaction (or lack thereof) makes you feel silly for trying.

He pushes his walking toys around the house like a wheelbarrow racing champion, arms stiffly extended, head down while taking long, determined steps.

He calmly sits in the Hubs’ lap for chunks of time pointing at things around the room and asking questions about them in babble-speak. Of course the Hubs doesn’t speak babble but he pretends to. It’s a sweet dialogue between father and son.

W curls up on the couch with at least two baby blankets and quietly drives the TV channels to locations we didn’t know existed. We’re waiting for the cable bill to arrive. I’m afraid he has purchased some programming (Elmo Does Sesame Street) on his own.

He’s also grown a macho pair side burns and a rockin’ mop that some days is straight as a board and others, crazy curly depending on how much daycare sand is embedded in the follicles.

He’s now a perfect candidate for a Wal-Mart greeter with his 4-toothy grin and waving abilities. All he needs now is a blue vest.

He’s a freak for semi trucks, dump trucks, trains and his favorite, airplanes. Never mind the toy ones, give him the real thing. Driving down the highway is as great to him as is 75% off at Neiman Marcus for momma. Planes fly over and he freezes, looks up and silently points like he’s summoning the mother ship to take him back to Planet Zornkin.

He changes and evolves daily and the Hubs and I have lately found ourselves spellbound by his transformations. Of course not everything has changed (fits on the changing table, pacifier usage, the breastfeeding) but that’s okay with us.

Yes, No, Maybe

Lately W has been using two words in sign language, basically the only two words I consistently taught him. Okay, I didn't really consistently teach him but somehow he's picked it up in the few times I showed him. One of his teachers told me that he had been signing the word "more" and asked me if we had been practicing at home (like good parents) and I immediately said "Oh, yes!" I'll take all of the positive parenting credit I can get. His other sign is "all done". My heart leaps with joy when he uses them because I know that he's actually trying to say something, specific communication without screaming. He does a modified version of "more" by touching his two index fingertips together instead of using all of his fingers. "All done" is more like parade waving at me but it's awesome...until he gets schizo and starts signing "More, all done, more, all done, more, all done" in rapid succession. Suddenly he's doing the hand jive and I'm simultaneously giving him food and taking it away like a malfunctioning robot. W finds this sort of manipulation amusing. Mommy does not.

Queen For About Six Hours

Willem woke up at 4:30 this morning and I just slid the upstairs door closed and crawled back in to bed with a guilty conscience. I just couldn’t deal with the super early a.m. drama...and it made me feel like a crappy mom. He seemed unscathed when I got him out of bed at 7 a.m. except he was pounding on his aquarium like a crazy person, his toys were tossed out of the crib and his PJ bottoms were off. I removed him from his own private hell and the morning routine began.

The Hubs returned from his trip to the land of saline and botox Saturday night and I can’t even remember what we did that night because yesterday ruled like winning the lottery. After spending so much time with W and catching his cold which made me feel like H-E-double L, I really felt like our little relationship was being compromised. We were seriously tired of each other. I handed him off like Peyton Manning to his daddy and headed out with no real destination in mind but here’s how my lottery-like day played out…

-Solo brunch at El Chile with a thigh high boot sized Bloody Mary (okay, I kid, I kid, it wasn't that big).
-$35 manicure/pedicure at Nails of America. No more cheap looking french manicure courtesy of Desitin under my nails. They were showing the movie Click.
-Shopped for shampoo, conditioner, and reading glasses (yes, my vision is finally going).
-Met Holly, the artist and confidant, for a movie and we went to see The Departed. It was great but I’m deaf in both ears from all of the gunfire.

And then I went home and rounded up the boys for some punk rock pizza at the Parlor. Mama was feelin’ fine. Later we watched a DVR’d version of The Last Days of The San Jose directed by our friend Liz Lambert. Great documentary but we can’t help but wonder how she got the rights to some of the songs in the film. Must investigate.

Willem is going to be a Flesh Eating Monster for Halloween..."I eat your face."
















Can you say "Bath time?"...

He Who Wears Me Out

I pissed off my little drama king this morning by changing his clothes again before we left for school. He was already in an emotional state and the switching of his mismatched outfit was the straw that broke his baby camel’s back but I had to. It was cold out. C-O-L-D. So I dressed him in a warmer mismatched version and dropped his fussy self at school. The past two mornings (the Hubs has been out of town since Wed.), W has awoken at 5:22 a.m. (Thursday a.m.) and 2:27 a.m. (today). I have tried to thwart his ribcage rattling cough with meds but the situation persists. It’s hard on the little guy and, consequently, hard on momma. This restlessness has been going on a week now. We roam the house in the dark as I try to console his spirit and encourage sleep again. Memories of his early days on this planet come tumbling back. Oh, how I don’t miss those sleepless nights but here we are again. Two nights ago, I ended up on the couch and W finished the night on his miniature sofa. Last night, after much rocking and back patting, we collapsed on the couch together. It’s amazing how such a small person can take up so much space. Add to that the mutual fatigue, the perpetual crankiness, the “I will cry like you are beating me if you put me down” mood, and the “the water feels like acid on my skin” at bath time spectacle and it makes for some exhausting mornings and evenings during the work week. TGIF. When the Hubs returns tomorrow, I’m making the baby hand off and checking in to a hotel…or an asylum. Wherever I can get some uninterrupted sleep.

Someone Else's Kid

Read the latest entry of the following blog. I'm a big fan of Neal Pollack's writing and when I recently discovered he had a blog (I'm slow like that) I did seven backflips in a row. Seven. Enjoy.

The Maelstrom

Chianti

Hello interneters! Can I just tell you how much the Marfa trip for Chinati Weekend was so much like riding a rollercoaster without a seat belt? Well, it was and here’s how it went…

Thursday awoke with an interesting sensation in/on my right eye. Fast forward to Friday and I’m sporting the gnarliest case of eye sty ever. My ball was like a giant red hot encased in a pudgy hot dog bun. Daycare strikes again! Yeay for me and I had a lot of networking to do. Thank God I packed my giant Mia-Farrowesque sunglasses.

Drive to Marfa one way, seven hours. "Hello, flat ass."

Passengers included hubby, baby, my sis-in-law and her fiancé.

How did baby do in the car? Basically he did everything he normally does but did it all in the car seat. He was a good sport. It probably helped that I had put whiskey in his sippy cup.

Friday via the Marfa Chamber of Commerce I secured a sitter who was a housekeeper at the Paisano Hotel. Score! I hook up with Holly, the decorator of my mansion, who has shown up to sell t-shirts that say “Chianti” on them. Again, this is Chinati weekend, a huge art event and soon her t-shirts are all over town.

Dandy Warhols are in from Portland. We drink adult bevies at the Thunderbird Hotel bar and the DJ spins us all into the night. Good times.

Return to the casita. Hubby says he’s always wondered what it would be like to live in an apartment in NYC with eldest sister. Lodging is very small but comfortable. Baby has a fever that is rocking his world. The deep chest coughs only make it worse. Long night.

Saturday Papa prepares for his gig in Alpine only to find that 3 of the five members of his band are ill. One of them makes the trip anyway. Papa scouts for a drummer and lands a local alternate and Fran Christine of the Fab Thunderbirds. Gig is great, so I hear. There is a street dance and dinner in Marfa. Food is retched, mariachis are great, baby is feeling fine. I hit the town with friends and leave baby with the sitter. Home at one and baby is in bad shape. We roll through another long night.

Sunday is a day of decompression. We drive, we eat, we stroller, we nap. It rains a trace and it’s beautiful. In the evening, we nosh as a little fam outside the casita and cobble together a nice meal with odds and ends we’ve all brought. Later I hang with friends for a while and return to an upset baby and a concerned daddy. We curl up together and sleep.

Drive back to Austin, another seven hours.

Monday is the long drive home. It all goes fairly well except for the last hour when baby had reached his limit. We finally make it home and W just about jumps out of my arms and races around the house to all of his toys like it’s Christmas morning. He’s a new kid and so happy to be back. So are we.

Soft Core For Breakfast, Please

This morning I nominated Papa as school bus driver for W since I would be picking him up later today. I got up with the little rooster and went through the motions of the morning…nursing (I don’t know how to wean the boy…he throws a heartbreaking fit when I deny him the boobage), eggs and waffles, shorts and shirt, etc., etc. then I shook the hubs from his slumber and got them quickly out the door. By 8:30 a.m., I had the dishwasher unloaded, the kitchen clean, two loads of laundry started, one folded and some stuff pulled out for our trip to MARFA! this weekend. Afterwards, I hiked up the stairs to crawl between the sheets and ingested a chill pill. I switched on the tube and channel surfed before settling on a shirtless Spanish-speaking yoga instructor with caramel-colored gluteus sexiness just below his belly button. He cooed and breathed in Latin tones and slowly stretched his well-honed parts. I was riveted. Soft-core porn for stay-at-home moms! Too bad I couldn’t make a day of it so I drug my muffin soft parts out of bed and headed in the direction of the salt mine. Bummer.

Buffet Baby

For a tiny guy (all 19 pounds of him), Willem can put away some vittles. This is what he consumed yesterday…
- Cheerios he found in his dwarf-sized couch cushions
- Three bites of a bagel
- A box of juice
- Half of a slice of quiche
- An entire veggie corn dog
- 8 grapes
- A quarter of a giant Belgian waffle at Hyde Park Grill
- A dried apricot
- 2 animal crackers
- A bite of my peanut butter sandwich
- One veggie chicken nugget
- A handful of corn
- Apple yogurt with cereal
- Container of applesauce
- Gallons of water

Oh yeah, he nursed twice.

W knows where the nibbles are and lets it be known with an outside voice that rattles glass window panes that he’s feeling peckish. As a result, he walks around led by a round ball of a belly, back arched and shoulders back for support of said belly. Seriously cute.

Today was the first day of full-time daycare and again W could’ve given a rat’s ass that I was there or leaving. Malcontent Mama made a good point stating that at his age, babies want to be social and as a mama wearing W’s velvet handcuffs for the past year, it’s nice to break free of the chains and get into my own groove. That groove would consist of getting my southbound buns into the nearby gym but, ugh, I don’t look forward to that at all. I’m the kind of person that works out for a while and then pays the monthly dues out of guilt because I can’t stand to go in there and engage in a monotonous workout any longer. And then there’s the gym/sweat/disinfectant odor that attacks my nostrils like allergy season. Perhaps I’ll consider yoga, a perfect opportunity to bend myself into a public pooting machine. Seriously, I’m terrified of breaking wind while relaxing my inner sphincter. Besides, I get too giggly when I try to relax and stretch and be quiet all at once. I’ve never done well in-group exercise settings because my own buffooness makes me laugh like a banshee. Once I took a step class and nearly killed myself and the girl next to me. I flapped my arms and legs like a wounded seagull because the steppers expect you to just know the moves and they just keep on moving. For me, it was a bad idea all the way around.

Oh, remember when I wrote a few days ago about the onset of autumn? Well, the chilly days I so eagerly embraced are gone, gone like a jilted lover. Back to tank tops and shorts. I’m so over this.

Toddler In 'Da House

Some days I sit and stare at the computer waiting for words to spring on to the screen like spit from a sneeze. Some days my thoughts are as dormant as a tulip bulb in the winter and try as I might, nada. This is when I realize that things are pretty good in my world so what’s to write? It’s easier to rant and rave and fuss about this or that, cathartic even, but writing about the good stuff is, umm, boring. (This is the part where I say “thank you” and count my blessings and knock on lots of wood. )

So what’s happening in the household lately? W is a little sick. Crusty nose, snot marks on the knees of my pants. First the sneezing then the coughing and now the runny nose and serious napping. Wednesday he took a 30-minute nap and then a 3 hour nap and this was all during the six hours the sitter was caring for him. Makes me feel like she should only get paid half the hourly rate when he snoozes. I imagine her curled up on the couch checking off her “to do” list for her upcoming Costa Rica trip. Tough gig, huh babe?

He’s also increasing his vocabulary with honest efforts and interesting results. The “E-I-E-I-O” part of Old MacDonald is more like “blabble, blabble, dee dee, bah” but he knows when to say it (after me like a parrot). “Nnnnnnnaked” is still his most popular word. Parents quickly pull their children out of his orbit and run away with them, fearful that W has some litigious intentions. I’ll be damned if he isn’t whistling, too. He puckers and blows and a little high-pitched tweet comes out of his rosebuds. He does it when he’s concentrating on something like getting his shopping cart over his baby doll’s head.

Yesterday was a full day of “mom’s leaving me and I’m not going to cry.” Dropped him at school, no tears, Miss Jo showed up to sit with him for date night and, again, no tears. He was practically waving me out the door and a part of me went limp with sadness. I don’t want the little cowboy to always be crying when I go out to pretend I’m Daddy’s girlfriend again, but is he really growing up THAT quickly? Dammit.

He starts school full-time next week. That’s an 8:30 to 5 p.m. sentence for the kiddo. He seems to like it there though so I’m not going to worry about the long hours day in and day out. Yesterday, when I went to pick him up, I watched him play for a spell on the infant/toddler playgound without him knowing I was there. He disappeared behind a toadstool size tent for the longest and was soon joined by his buddy, Prine. Neither of them surfaced until I called his name. I picked him up and asked loudly, “Are you back there smoking cigarettes again?” Needless to say, we don’t have many mommy/daddy friends at daycare yet.

He's All Grows Up

This morning I scooped up baby from his crib and stuffed him in a blanket before heading to the living room for our breakfast of Cheerios and Sesame Street. The blanket part is what I’m emphasizing here. It’s gotten chilly enough at night that we wake with cold hands and feet. Papa leaves a pile of Pjs on the floor next to the bed for middle of the night layering. We bundle up in blankets before curling up on the sofa. Autumn is upon us. All I can say is halle-freakin’-lujah! It was a hot as hell summer around here and I don’t think our little family will be able to endure another one. Anyone interested in a June-August house swap next year?

I took W to school this morning and this was the second time in the history of his daycare days that he didn’t cry when I scurried out the door. I know this fact is really only important to me but it’s a big deal. I go through a wave of mental anguish when I drop his tiny buns off and don’t breathe from the door to my car. I know because I exhale like a breeching whale when procuring my keys to get the heck out of there.

Here’s the growing weed now…

Absent Minded

Hello! Sorry I haven’t written but I’ve been burnin’ it at both ends. That also includes searching for harmony w/ hubby and catching up on some sleep. Last week was a week of “Did that really happen?” and I’m still filtering through the details.

Tuesday, the Mr. and I celebrated our 3-year anniversary of wedded hit and miss a day early. We did the usual and gorged ourselves on a tasting menu at Wink. This included a wine pairing, i.e. 5 glasses of vino. Ugh. We got a late start to the night so painfully empty stomach’s combined with that much rich food and hooch equals a gluttonous coma. Had to be up and at ‘em early Wednesday in preparation for a corporate event the following Thursday for 700 people. Banged out a full day and arrived home to find four generations of family taking over our nest in the best way. There’s nothing more heart warming that to come in the front door and see your child splayed across the lap of his great-granny. I took a step into the living room and saw my beloved and pro-active auntie, her daughter and her daughter’s daughter making themselves at home. Corks were popped, halibut was served and stories swapped. We went late into the night (because midnight is late in my world) and then they raced out of the driveway at 8 a.m. ready to make the 4-hour drive back to my hometown. It was a surreal and wonderful visit and I’m sad it went by so quickly. Thursday was all about the corp. event that had us home at 1 a.m. I hired Papa’s band to play for the inebriated masses so it was nice to have him around. He kept forgetting that PDA’s were not part of the job description and was trying to kiss me while I was working. Not allowed, mister. Swollen, sore and tired, I drug my buns in to work to finish off the week in a half-hearted state of being. Over the weekend I napped when baby did, hung out with the boys, and bought some foxy brown boots at a shoe warehouse (where everyone in the world that is a size nine shops and so there are never any size nines).

It’s Monday already and another week moves forward.

Complete Harmony

Hunger Strike

We dodged the ACL bullet this weekend and became ever more thankful that we don’t live anywhere near the river. We went to a lovely wedding at the One World Theater Sunday night and as much as I wanted to hit the boutiques south of the river for something fabulous to wear, I made do with what my ‘hood had to offer which was nada. I threw fits and tired ol’ dresses on the floor as I fought with clothes that no longer fit. I settled on a neglected top and skirt and pretended not to notice myself. We had great fun and the wedding couple had, by far, the most incredible cake IN THE WORLD. The husband, being a drummer, had a cake that was an entire, made to scale, drum kit. I’m talking every drum but the bass was cake. It had to be roped off so people wouldn’t mistakenly play a solo. It was amazing. Papa and I acted like teens on a date, made new friends, and smooched in the rain.

Baby went on a hunger strike this weekend and the whole damn thing began with a fever of 102.7 Friday night. I never panicked and in fact as baby faded in and out of the evening, we went about our business of making dinner and sipping vino and every so often I’d go poke him in the butt with the thermometer. Saturday the fever was gone and so was his appetite. Thankfully, he acted pretty normal and drank plenty of fluids and after the wedding Sunday night, had his first snack at midnight. The whole time though he was shrinking into a wafer thin version of himself. His ribs showed and I could almost carry him in my pocket like a lucky rabbit’s foot. Pitiful.

Days prior to Willem’s first birthday, we installed his front facing car seats in our cars. I was excited to have him right there behind me. His needs wouldn’t be such a mystery anymore and I could console him easier when the demon part of his personality took over. What I didn’t realize was he would now have direct contact with me at the wheel and could therefore torment me with better efficiency. His screaming voice projects at the windshield, bounces off and smacks me in the face. It’s awesome.

Sunday night, on the way to the in-law-sitters, I turned to see a giant mosquito hungrily sucking away at W’s cheek. It was huge and practically needed its own carseat. I swatted at it (i.e. his face) and W just looked at me like I had lost my mind. Immediately the damn thing landed on his forehead and started hammering away and again with the swat. At this point W was taking it personally and I was starting to get really frustrated and cramped in the belted passenger seat (Papa was driving). It landed on his left foot and whack, whack. It landed on his right foot and whack, whack, whack. I finally killed it but by this time crocodile tears were streaming down his cheeks as he looked at me confused and hurt. I felt horrible about it but what was I to do? The next morning he woke up with half grown skeeter bites on his face, a visual reminder of the first time I smacked my kid.

I'm Big In Japan

I pitched my tent at the coffee shop this morning. Bliss! Leroy, the newest counter dude with a rooster’s comb of hair and jovial personality, plies me with smiles and warmth. He laughs at my one-liners and says “Cheers!” a lot but he does that with everyone. I get my taco and head to my favorite table for a relaxing start to the day. Very rarely do I get to eat so slow that my food gets cold. Most meals, it’s a scalding swallow or obnoxious mouthful before baby needs something or the phone rings at the office.

They’ve been working on improving the look of the place. Today artwork covers the walls. There’s a unique series on the life of a pet rabbit and the same artist hung a pregnant belly cast on the wall where you can peek into the belly button and see a picture of her son peering back at you. It’s quite lovely. They’ve applied for a liquor license here but I don’t think it’s going to change the dynamic of the place too much. Bloody Mary, anyone?

And now for a total change of direction…

Sometimes I go back and read some of my posts and think, “My life is really good and it’s boring reading about it and I wouldn’t want to read my blog because nothing really happens.” I’m not on anti-depressants and I’m not having an affair and I don’t sit in the closet and drink after everyone’s asleep and I don’t beat my child or hear voices or communicate with the dead. I know, I need to be careful what I say but it’s true. I have a beautiful child that, just days after turning one, can tell me what a dog and cat sound like. I have a husband that busts his tail to live his dreams while sewing his family into that plan at the same time. I have an eventful (haa, haa…a play on words…I’m so funny…No, I’m not) job that I love. I have a great home, food in the fridge and my bills are current. Booooorrrrrinnnng. I think it’s time to shake things up a bit, pay some serious attention to my goals and not make my To Do lists the bible pages of my life. I want to cross off “Finish manuscript” and “Buy land in Marfa” instead of “Diapers at HEB” and “New tires for truck”. Ugh. It’s time for some action, people!

I found this on the bar the morning after papa's b-day dinner. Alcohol induced creativity...

It's A Jungle In There

While we were away on vaca, Holly, the designer that pieced our house together and made it the silly, wonderful, inviting space that it is, came in and did this to W’s room…


















































































She got the aminals from the valance pictured above that I bought at a thrift store. The morning after we got home, I just knew that W was standing in his crib taking it all in. I probably could’ve stolen another hour of sleep as he examined his new digs but I was excited to talk with him about it. On a daily basis, and sometimes many times a day, he affectionately pets his walls and makes high-pitched breathy sounds (jungle speak?). The parrot is above his changing table and has been a perfect distraction while wrangling his tantrums when we do the diaper tango. I ask him where the bird is and he points. We search for the tiger and fish and it all keeps him still enough to change his britches. When I take him out of the crib, he religiously has to pet the ladybug and the tiger before we can move in to our day. I never had something like this as a child save for the chalk art scribbled on sidewalks but it’s nice to sit in there with him and watch his imagination roam in his private, little jungle.

Holly is for hire, by the way.

One Whole Year

My dear child,

This past Sunday, you turned one (and your papa went kicking and screaming into his 40’s). Happy Birthday! I honestly can’t believe that you made it this far without one of us maiming you or leaving you behind somewhere. When you were a wee one, I often dreamed that I forgot where I put you last. The first night back home from our Mexico vacation, I woke up to the sound of you crying in the distance (downstairs in your crib) and I jumped out of bed and raced off to look for you on the beach because your silly mama thought she was still on vacation. Your super duper attachment to me (i.e. future topic for teen therapy) will not allow for such an event but lately, as I expected, you have become a little more adventurous. The other day you charged across the neighbor’s lawn and would’ve trudged further, if I’d let you. Instead, you gave me a peek into your “Terrible Twos” and fought me like a pissed off cat about to be bathed. I fear you will be my little tantrum tyrant in just a couple of months since you have managed to surpass many milestones reserved for kiddos older than you.


















You will chat with anyone that listens after the initial shyness wears off. You seem to speak in tongues and try to turn them to the Lord or Lord knows what. You gesture like a used car dealer and almost convince many that you have something to sell. Sometimes I think you are actually speaking of something credible as you raise your eyebrows, show me the palm of your hands and then raise them to the sky. Weird.

Thanks to daddy’s genetics you have one of the biggest heads I’ve ever seen but unless you’re at the right angle it’s hard to notice. I’m amazed that your tiny frame can support such a noggin but mommy’s genetics gave you a giant toe on each foot so you can avoid listing too far to the left or right. When you were en utero, we used to imagine that you would inherit the worst of our body parts…beady eyes, double chin, mismatched lips, pear shaped body, etc. but to our surprise you got the best pieces and then some! Like where in the hell did you get those deadly dimples?


















We are so blessed to have such a good baby. We are also so blessed your conception worked like clockwork. I picked the weekend and held your father hostage. I really don’t think he minded too much. Many weeks later, I purchased a pregnancy test from the drug store and hurried home. Your papa was rehearsing with his band and wasn’t around when the results came in but a part of me didn’t believe I was pregnant anyway. The test came back inconclusive meaning it wasn’t a plus or a minus but a line going up and down. I thought I had failed the test and threw it away but something (your tiny voice perhaps) made me take it again and, wow, the same confusing result but way down in the corner of the instruction sheet inside the box was a picture of exactly what I saw on the stick and it said, “Go get diapers now.” I was thrilled, shocked, and terrified. Here began the start of your mommy’s sobriety, and child-o-mine, I missed my Prosecco so much I considered making that your name.


















Since day one you have made me look like I knew what the hell I was doing as a parent when, in reality, I was petrified and hoped the medication in the delivery room never wore off. You have grown so fast and that’s the hardest part. You listen and learn from our direction and have mastered mounting and dismounting any stairs, our tall bed and things that double as steps to things you want to reach way up high. You shake your head no a lot but I think your just experimenting with a theory of momentum, balance and velocity. Very likely with a head that size. You’re favorite word is “Nnnnnnnaked” and you are still buddies with Jelly Cat. You push anything if you discover it has wheels and you inspect them like a mechanic. You officially have three teeth; two bottom and one upper which makes you look, um, silly. There’s no denying that you are beautiful and many people, especially strangers, agree. We have been to other countries and women swoop out of nowhere to hug you and kiss you. I have learned to live with this but I’m considering charging a fee on future trips.

You are innately good-hearted, kind and affectionate. You have brought joy and hilarity into our world and just about stolen the show from your proud papa. You have brightened everything about our lives and have given each day such value. We love you with every ounce of who we are and we can’t wait to see just who you will turn out to be. You are lucky to have parents like us who could care less if you decided to be a cabaret singing drag queen or a greedy Wall Street broker. Just work hard on your dreams and be the best. Thank you for being our little W.

















Love,
Mommy