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.