Will To The Um.

So “bahth” time usually plays out like this…I say “Do you wanna take a bath?”and W leaps to his feet and runs like a drag queen in new stilettos to the loo, his arms swinging wildly from side to side. One recent evening, W was seriously excited about the idea of bathing with one of his small toy trucks. He stepped up on his little plastic IKEA stool and threw the truck into the clawfoot tub as it was filling with water and bubbles. I turned to get a wash cloth out of the drawer behind me and turned back just in time to see his feet pass in front of my eyes as he tumbled heels over ass into the tub like a drunken sailor, clothes and all. Needless to say, he was a bit upset but washing his truck was mighty important to him so he quickly bounced back for the task. Thank goodness he wasn’t traumatized by the event (I sorta was. I mean, it happened so fast!). It’s hard enough to get his hair washed without a ultra drama already.

The Hubs has been rather busy with this band and musical lately which means face time with W has been minimal. W and I went out of town for the night for his grandad’s 60th birthday this past weekend (fun was had by all!) so we all have been ships passing in the night. When this happens, and it periodically does, W develops a Super Glue-like bond to me and shuns his father. Physically. Night before last, the Hubs was trying to get in on a group hug and W stiff-armed him out of the circle like a bouncer denying K-Fed club access. Ouch! I know there will come a day though when he will no longer have much interest in his mama and I will be the one banished from the group while he and his daddy talk about football and girls. Right?

Chaos Unleashed

Since I am the queen of chaos, I seem to subconsciously enjoy making things way more chaotic than they need to be. I don’t mean that I’m an over-reacting, control-freak sort of martyr type (that’s only part of the time). I mean that when I am in the midst of intense, brain pureeing details of my job times 1,000, I seem to find at least one more mammoth project with numerous details to add to the mix. Last year is was a complete house remodel and birth of a new baby. This year it's 90 events that are to happen within a 9-day period in March and a complete overhaul done of our front and back yards. Months ago I spent some time inartistically drawing out my dream yard, something suitable to our budget and neighborhood. After a bit of searching and some outrageous bids from landscaping companies that took my ideas to a whole new level (“How about a floating deck, one that seems to hover over the surface of the yard?”), we settled on a company whose owner is a friend of the family, does good work, and we’d get the “Friends & Family” deal. This deal, however, is still a major wallop to the pocketbook and we’re currently looking for a job for W. After a couple of weeks had passed, the crew showed up on the scene and, armed with an orange can of spray paint, marked up the lot. I came home at the end of the day and it looked like our yard had been tagged by a handful of artistically challenged gang members. I found a few of the markings to be incorrect and used the can of spray paint to make some adjustments. This included accidentally spraying the wall of the studio out back. Nice.

And so it rained for 40 days and 40 nights and then it froze and all of the landscaping demarcations washed away and had to be done again. One sunny day the crew arrived (one of them is in touch with his inner pirate complete with bandana, goatee with long mustache and a dangling gold loop earring the size of a silver dollar…he totally rules!) and began unloading chunks of stark white limestone. I had to go to work and wasn’t able to witness what was about to occur but later in the day I received a frantic phone call from the Hubs. “Did you tell them they could do what they just did to the yard? I mean, it looks awful. You gotta talk to them. I hate what they’ve done!” I came home later that day to see my two trees barricaded by a short wall of limestone in the shape of an “o” and a wall of the same stuff outlining the front of our house framing the beds of the yard. I realized we could go to battle with the neighborhood and be safe in our own personal version of the Alamo. Egads! I immediately got on the horn and told our family friend/landscape company owner that this was not going to work and all of the rock had to come out. Our tiny yard couldn’t support such weight, such bulk and besides, we live in a purple and orange house with straight lines and squares. What does stark white limestone in the circlular shapes got to do with it? So, confused and befuddled, the crew dismantled their beautiful work and quietly laughed at the Gringa who wants only metal edging around the beds. I do have to admit that this talented bunch has replaced our front sidewalk with same said stark white limestone and their craftsmanship is incredible. We are now the proud owners of one of the sexiest sidewalks in the ‘hood. Now if people would just keep their muddy feet off of it.

The nightmare before...
















And the nightmare during...
































The crew. The pirate is the clown in the yellow shirt.

Catch 22

It’s been a week and a half since the breastfeeding tour of duty ended but it hasn’t gone without its repercussions. Instead of W making his “time to nurse” throat clearing sounds to cue me in advance, he just blatantly reaches down my shirt like it’s a bag of candy, grabs a hold of flesh and squeezes it like the bulb the RN uses to take my blood pressure. His eyes sort of glaze over as if he’s just come off of a huge bong hit and he goes limp with the satisfaction of connection. Sometimes just looking at my mini rack as I dress in the morning is enough to make him go weak in the knees. He yearns silently, wistfully. I can see it in his eyes.

The absence of breastfeeding in the morning has had its mixed blessings. Now most mornings I either have to wake W up or I find him playing quietly in his crib without a trace of urgency on his face. The fact that I need to sometimes wake him means that I’m not getting up any earlier either which translates in to not enough time to get to the gym and out again. Yeah, so I guess I could start setting my alarm and getting my a.m. act together but dammit, I’ve been waking up at the ass crack of dawn for what seems like forever and the last thing I want to do is be jolted awake by anything other than my kiddo. Just doesn’t seem fair but neither is the hit you take on the bod after growing a person in your person.

In other news...W is finally sprouting a few more teeth which is another reason to be grateful that the boob trough is permanently closed for business. Interestingly enough though, his new teeth are all on one side of his mouth and it's looking pretty weird, folks.

All Part Of The Plan

I married a wonderful man but a very messy man, he is. This defect of character is a learned one and was instilled at an early age. He is number nine of ten children and as you can imagine by the ninth child, a parent could give a rats ass about a trail of destruction left in a youth’s wake. Besides, that’s when the maid earned her keep. Then there was college and who in their right mind cleaned up after themselves in college, especially if you were a dude? Add to that a few other messy roommates and you’ve got a situation for OSHA. Since I have full knowledge of this condition, I have begun grooming Willem in a different direction and I’ll be damned if it’s not working! W and I practice putting things back when he’s done with them and that’s gone rather smoothly. He’s a big help when unloading the dishwasher and dryer (little guy practically crawls in there to retrieve socks), too. Just the other day, he returned about 50 multi-colored straws to the plastic container they came in and tried to reach the countertop to put it back. Two more feet in height and he would’ve succeeded. This morning while the Hubs and I were getting ready to leave the house, W started pulling things off of the bedside table on dada’s side and handing them to him…a guitar pic, a pen, eye drops, etc. This was a little trying for the Hubs who doesn’t like to put things away on his own and was being forced by a 16.5 month old to do so. His thank yous grew from genuine appreciation to more and more stern. W picked up a dirty black sock and offered it up. It was then that the Hubs figured out how to make this little exercise work in his favor. He showed W the dirty clothes hamper and the rest is toddler history. Before long, dada’s side of the room was clear of clothing debris and the Hubs didn’t have to pick up a stitch. W did the work for him so guess what? My side of the bed is next!

In other news, the Hubs is making it harder and harder for me and some of my parental friends to watch certain children’s programming. His interpretations of them are concerning, to say the least. Although I have never watched Clifford the Big Red Dog, I’m certain that I will never do so, thanks to the Hubs. He pointed out that this little red puppy becomes a giant red dog when a little girl climbs up on its back. Envision…interpret…retreat!

"Dear Hubs, Step away from the PBS."

The Pictorial Issue

Not enough time to post much these days. When I get a moment to sit and relax, I try to do just that. In the meantime, here's W being busy.

This W's tent. This is what we do when the weather keeps us indoors indefintely. This is W's tent...in the kitchen.

















"What are you wearing..."

















"Let's talk about options..."

















Chillin', watching Melma and eating a whaffu.

Nurse Nurse No More

A weekend in LA was exactly what I needed more than I could’ve ever imagined. After many days of ice, rain, cabin fever, not to mention16 months of raising W, a flight headed west to hook up with the Hubs couldn’t have come at a better time. Like a CODA candidate, I sat by myself at the airport coffee shop wrestling with feelings of child abandonment and unwelcomed inactivity. I imagined my son’s busy little body running between the tables and chairs of the groggy coffee campers awaiting their flights. I missed his energy and smiles already. He would be in the safe arms of his Gogo at the end of the day and I really had nothing to worry about. It was our first time apart with great distance in between and I wasn’t dealing with it too well. It probably didn’t help that I was reading Alternadad by Neal Pollack, a hilariously raw writer whose blog I read on a regular basis. The chapters were filled with the trials and tribulations of raising a youngin’ and many things hit home. On the plane, I sped through the pages, Bloody Mary in hand. No one sat on my row. I was completely alone and was quickly beginning to love it.

Laurie plucked me from the airport and we caught up on the details of her life…filmmaking, dating, living in LA and missing Austin... while we drove to Santa Monica. She took the scenic route to the beach (translation: sorta lost), which she apologized for, but I completely enjoyed the extra girlie time. We met the Hubs poolside at the hotel and dined on overpriced nibbles while soaking up sunshine. It was wonderfully warm and somewhere other than home. In a word…awesome.

That evening Laurie and I went to see the Hubs play at the Mint. They opened for the kick ass band, the Mother Truckers. I barely made it to the end of the Small Stars set before I was begging a cabbie to drive me back to the hotel as fast as he could. I had been feeling nauseous and it wasn’t letting up. Work-related stress, fatigue (of course W had to get up at 5:30 a.m. this morning…3:30 a.m. LA time), and the anxiety of leaving W behind had caught up with me. I barely made it to the hotel room before arfing in the loo. I curled up in bed in the fetal position and passed out with relief.

Saturday the Hubs and I walked down to the beach for some breakfast. He rented roller blades and I chose to sit on my duff and chill. Dolphins swam in the distance, surfers negotiated small waves and sailboats silently outlined the horizon. A sense of complete calmness easily washed over me, an unfamiliar sensation in the hustle bustle world of parenting, event planning, penny pinching and so forth. I wanted to just sink into the sand and disappear. Bliss.

We attended an amazing private party at a recording studio that evening. The Small Stars knocked the soiree out of the park. Guy Fantasy made every off color joke about LA that he could and made some new friends despite his salty rants. Jackson Brown was there. So was Lisa Loeb. The guy who wrote “Let’s Get Physical” was there, too. We mingled our minglers off and headed back to the hotel. We had an 8 a.m. lobby call. Yuck.

When we got home, W had just gone down for a nap so of course I woke him up. He looked at me squinty-eyed as if to say “Oh yeah, you’ve been missing, haven’t you?” When he finally came to, he repeated “Mama” over and over again and pointed at my face. It was so heart-warming. The rest of the evening was “Mama, Dada, Mama, Dada,” as if he had just learned how to say it. We could’ve eaten him with a spoon. I was concerned about how the next morning would go. In the past, that was the nursing hour. Leaving him for the weekend was dubbed “Project Cold Turkey” and, surprisingly, it worked. After retrieving him from a cozy night’s sleep the next day, we sat on the couch in preparation for “Melmo’s Wurd” as W calls it. He looked at my boobs and patted one of them as if to say “Thanks for all of the good times, old buddy, but your work here is done.” He then turned to watch his show and that was the end of that. 16.5 months later and the nursing is over. My nips are mine again! And the angels sang.

I’m back to the wildest time of year at work and it’s the best we can do to maintain a safe level of sanity that still borders on manic. The postings will be sporadic but I will do my best to get something in here daily.

Onward!

Angel VS Devil

It’s snowing today. You didn’t read that wrong. It’s snowing here in Austin, Texas...big, fluffy, marshmallowy flakes. The icy tree branches creak and pop ominously in the silent breeze. No work at the office but modern technology allows for no time off. I have a conference call in the next hour. All work and no play makes momma a dull momma. This weekend will be a reprieve though as I will be heading to sunny L.A. for the weekend to see the Hubs play a couple of shows, see my good friend, Laurie, and do some shopping(!). This is all sans the child as Gogo is kind enough to drive down and hang with him. I am putting together a meticulous list of W’s world and its requirements that I’m sure mom will use to wipe W’s snot with cause it’s not like she didn’t raise three of her own. Speaking of snot, I have a protective layer of it on my clothes. I’m sure I could escape frostbite in the winter storm with it.

W is going through the most intense passive/aggressive stage ever. It’s an extreme case of Jekyll & Hyde. Yesterday morning, after following my gentle orders not to lose or eat the Hubs’ wedding ring, W slid down the stairs feet first the way he does like it’s a waterslide and delicately handed it over to him, no muss, no fuss. On the other hand, when I refused to put W on the shelf in my closet because I’m trying to get dressed for work and this does not include hanging out in the closet for chunks of time while he fondles my garments and teeters on the edge of falling in a mountain of shoes, he pouts and stomps and throws things, anything he can get his angry mitts on. What’s really funny is when he goes for something that weighs as much as I do and tries to heave-ho it in my direction. It’s hard not to laugh at him when he’s feeling especially spicy. He’s really a sweet little guy but he’s certainly giving the exploration of “how fitful can I be before I injure myself or others” a good run.

Santa brought him a wooden train track with 4 magnetic cars. He choo-choos his way through about 2 minutes of solo play before the bliss becomes diss and the train cars are airborne with the track pieces soon to follow. He is blessed with a high level of concentrated effort and will intently work on a project to master it as it was shown to him. “This tiny stick fits in this hole and then the whole thing fits in here and this button spins it and this one stops it.” He repeats the task beginning to end as shown but if something in the sequence goes amiss, insert major drama. He gets it from his father, there’s no doubt, as I am the calm, collected one and the Hubs is a wild bull in search of an “Ole’!” It’s yet another stage in W’s development, one we all have to grow through with him.


Them icicles is reals! Not some leftover Christmas decorations, peoples! For reals!

















W headed out into the wintery morning, mitts and all. He thought they were puppets and did a mime act with them.





















Totally tuckered out (he doesn't ALWAYS have that pacifer in his mouth, promise...we let him talk once in a while).

Place Holders

Got Latte Foam?




A Boy And His Kitten

Tardy, Tardy, Tardy

It's been over a week since the last post. The last time I took a break was when I had just given birth to the spawn. It's not my intention to be breaking now but I barely have time to write. Schedules have changed since the first of the year. Work loads have increased but that will only last until March 20. Between now and then let's just say I'm fucked. All is well in W's household 'tho. Well, mostly. W is sprouting the rest of his teeth which is the equivalent to all of them. He gnaws his fist constantly, moans in agony hourly and wears a 99.8 fever like a woolly sweater. Uncomfortable. The Hubs is working on a record release scheduled for early next month and me, well, let's just say I am sprouting an average of 3 grey hairs a day. It's the time of year when I am my busiest and such is the nature of the beast that is my job. I will write more maybe tonight, or tomorrow, or Saturday. Definitely by Saturday. Much to tell. Pictures to post. I miss reading everyone else's blobs.

Besos.

Holiday Week In Review

I’m going to write this one in reverse. It’s easier to pry out the historical content in the crevasses of my holiday soaked brain that way.

Today, I went to the gym. Day one. The beginning of the reversal of all that is baby fat. I slogged through a 30-minute cardio workout of make believe snowshoeing in Snoqualmie Pass on the elliptical machine. I barely made it and was disappointed that I couldn’t do the intended 40 minutes but at least I was there getting the heart rate above 20 BPM. I had an hour to myself at home to shower, dress and eat breakfast before work and, folks, it was TOTAL BLISS. Earlier, the Hubs had left the house to take W to school so I was completely alone. Alone, as in my hot tea stayed hot ‘til the bottom of the cup, I was able to put on all pieces of clothing at once without staggering around the house in single items during infantile interruptions, and I even had time to make the bed so tonight, I get to turn down the covers like a lady instead of burrowing my way in like a badger. This will be a four times a week event and I feel like I have won the lottery…sorta.

Yesterday, I went to the outlet mall in San Marcos. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. The last time I was there, you could experience the whole retail raping in just a matter of hours. Then it was just a handful of shops but now it’s larger than several football fields and the loot is crap. And wasn’t I supposed to save some major dough on said crap? I also found that designers like Giorgio Armani would probably change their name if they saw the condition of their stores and the crap on the shelves. Surely this stuff was never on his drawing board or even part of a frustrated doodle he penned. Ugh. I had a list of shops to visit but after having to walk what seemed like miles and periodically move my car so it didn’t feel like I was hiking to Japan, I decided I’d had enough. Nobody should put themselves through that much retail H-E-double L. Never again.

New Years Eve. I stayed home while the Hubs played a gig. I tried to live vicariously through the gay duo that live in the townhouse behind us. They were throwing a little shindig. Every so often I’d peek out the window in hopes of spying some wild chandelier swinging in the buff but the whole thing was as boring as a Catholic mass. Buzz killers.

The always fun and painfully talented Small Stars opened for the legendary Joe Ely at Gruene Hall last Saturday. I enlisted Miss Jo to take care of W so I could partner up with my old college roomie and her fab husband for a night out of town for a few hours. Jen, the roomie, has kept her wonderfully sassy spirit despite being married for 10 years and raising a 4 and 5-year-old. She cusses like a sailor and drinks like a fish while maintaining a certain girlish poise and femininity. Oh, and she’s quite the Martha Stewart in the crafts department. Martha with a piping bag in one hand and a bottle of vino in the other.

We spent some of the holidays in Laredo with the mom-in-law. Thankfully she lives nowhere near El Chapo and his drug cartel. We stayed close to home and soaked up the extended fam. The Hubs and I ventured out briefly one day to get a coffee and go to the bookstore but when you ask someone where the bookstore is, they look at you suspiciously and tell you there is no bookstore. No, wait…there’s one at the mall. Evidently there’s not much reading going on in that border town and in her all knowing, blunt way, the mom-in-law confirmed it to be true.

Santa left some gifts for W under the tree and we got the whole scene of confusion and surprise on video. Santa knew the little sprout was wild about cars, trucks, and construction vehicles so now our house looks like a miniature impounding lot and it’s only a matter of time before one of us breaks our necks.

Speaking of W, he’s still growing too fast. He’s talking up a storm, understanding all we say and amazing us with his problem solving skills and when those fail, replacing them with some mad tantrums skilz. Thankfully, they usually only erupt when he’s trying to do something with a car or train or truck and we don’t have anything to do with it. Occasionally, a vehicle goes soaring through the air and we just juke and jive to avoid injury. On the super duper plus side, he’s totally in to giving major hugs and open-mouthed kisses all the time lately. He grips you like a sumo wrestler on the face or head and comes at you like a hungry animal, mouth agape. It’s the best milestone yet.

Well, that’s all I can remember for now. Seemed difficult trying to blog with so much family stuff going on but now that the routine is back, so am I.

Happy New Year all!

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.