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