Okay friends, it’s time for our next installment of “Is this Funny?”
Is it, right? Because I’ve been laughing at this for the last 45 minutes.
Oh, get back here. It’s not what you think.
Why it’s my horn, of course. Why? Because it’s been a while since I tooted it, right? Well, as least that you know. (My husband might have a different story.)
I do not know the Cunning Geek, but I do believe he is the Cat’s Pajamas, as his WordPress proclaims. And really it has nothing to do with the fact that he gave Confessions of a Part-Time Sorceress a glowing review. Honest. I swear.
Have I ever told you how much I adore Hallmark Channel Christmas movies? Have I ever told you how much I adore Christmas? Let’s just say, I could be a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie. In fact, if I were an actor, all I would do is Hallmark Channel Christmas movies.
Therefore, I feel like kind of an expert on these movies so if you ever fancied yourself a screenwriter wanting to cut your teeth on fake snow and Candice Cameron Bure vehicles, then you should follow my advice on how to write a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie. I’ll be watching!
Take 1 from each column:
When suddenly you:
Which results in:
It’s been a long time since I visited this website. So long that I thought about skipping town and pretending to forget this thing ever existed. I could start up again on a shiny, new site, maybe start blogging about something totally fresh like how to make your own household cleaners from pinecones and dust bunnies or how about the opposite of fresh like why Trader Joe’s keeps selling me rotten foods? Yesterday I purchased a delicious looking stilton and peach chardonnay cheese only to discover today that it was totally rancid. (Admittedly it’s kind of hard to tell when stilton goes bad but still.) Couple that with the bag of soggy butter lettuce and moldy heirloom tomatoes also purchased and you have a delicious E. coli salad.
How have you all been? Good? Me too. Well, mostly. Things are a tad different now. Why you ask? It’s same reason why I’ve been neglecting this poor website.
There’s a baby among us. My baby.
A baby! Yes, a human baby! I know, right? Still hard to fathom. On most days I feel like I’m this kid’s babysitter but then I wonder what kind of irresponsible parent would hire me to babysit their infant? Even after nearly six months it hasn’t totally sunk in that he’s my child. That’s my flesh and blood over there drooling on the hardwood floors and eating his toes? Maybe it would help if he looked liked me. Or his dad. Right now he’s a cross between Bart’s dad and my brother as a baby. Weird how genes get selected. Like he just swam past mommy’s and went straight for Uncle Mike? Well, Uncle Mike does have long lashes and exceptionally good skin.
So please don’t feel neglected. It’s been a long time since I visited any website other than TheBump.com or Whyismybabydoingthat.com. Turns out everyone on the interwebs is an expert in how to parent your baby. Sometimes that’s actually a relief. Good for you! I want to tell them. You take the reigns and parent my child! I’m just going to lay down right here on this pile of brick chips and take a little snooze. Oh god, sleep. I remember sleeeeeeeeeepppppppppppppppssgjidkliroedfklgorfgogolgfdkl;gfdlgkflgfgl;
Whoa. What happened? Sorry about that. I swear I just shut my eyes for a second. Allow me to wipe this drool from the keyboard and get back on topic. What were we talking about? Oh right, the experts. I’m not above soliciting or accepting advice. You never know what nugget you might receive that suddenly nets you four uninterrupted hours of shut eye one night or prevents you from feeding your kid honey before they’re twenty-three years old (lest you give them botulism!) or whatever the rule is these days. I promise to not just post things about babies. Jeez. Those people are sooooooooo annoying. But I do have a few good stories I might have to share. Babies are pretty good fodder as it turns out. And now that I am once again a person on the interwebs, that makes me an expert who can officially spew advice about how to raise other people’s children. Yay! Where shall we start?
If anyone out there is anticipating the arrival of their first child, please allow me to give you this piece of unsolicited advice. It was by far the best I got (and trust me, this will be your mantra those first few days.)
It gets better.
First, allow me to apologize to all those experienced parents I silently mocked when they told us how unbelievably challenging this would be. Yeah, okay, I thought. It’s just a baby! If you can’t boss a baby around who can you boss around?
But wow. Wow, wow, wow. I wouldn’t wish those first two weeks on a housewife of New Jersey. I was flat out terrified of this 7 pound, 6 ounce mass. Sometimes when I’m wide awake at night wondering when the next “MY BINKIE FELL OUT OF MY MOUTH HOLE” alarm is going to go off, I think back to the day we left the hospital. Bart went to get the car and I stayed behind in the lobby with Quinn who was sound asleep in his car seat. Holy hell, I. Was. Terrified. Like Space-Mountain-terrified. Like accidentally-seeing-how-much-I-weighed-four-days-before-giving-birth-terrified. Like accidentally-seeing-how-much-I-weighed-four-days-after-giving-birth-terrified.
Oh god, I thought, please don’t let this baby wake up! I had no idea what to do with him if he did. Then this father and little boy came through the automatic double doors and the kid was all energy and enthusiasm. Poor kid was probably on his way to visit his beloved grandma who just made a miraculous deathbed recovery. Perhaps it was the bouquet of balloons he gripped in his tiny hand, but this kid’s exurberance was literally lifting him off the ground. I looked at that child who barely four years ago was probably at the feet of his terrified mother, tucked in a car seat in this very lobby waiting to make his first pilgrimage home and all I could think was, make a sound and I will take those balloons and shove them so far up your bad-touch zone, you’ll be picking latex out of your braces for the next six years. Yes, that’s right. The fear of my own child caused me to threaten (albeit silently) bodily harm on another child. Where the heck was Child Protection Services when you needed them?
I came home on drugs so powerful they made me hallucinate (I swear Zelda was in the hospital with us) and so scared to close my eyes because I knew as soon as I did Quinn would cry and I’d have to do something. Feed him? Change him? Warm him? Hold him? How would we know what to do? Bart and I both became phobic of the night because sleep was so tenuous and we were so exhausted we were terrified we would sleep through a feeding, which would lead to another of the 683 ways your baby could just drop dead. (Remind me to tell you about those infant CPR classes we took. Scared straight, I tell you.) Horrible to ponder but what else does a new parent really think about in the middle of the night?
In those early days, I found myself clinging to a beacon of hope– my friend Suzie’s text. She sent an innocent congratulatory message after Quinn was born that said, “Good luck. You’ll do great. I thought the first two weeks were the hardest.”
I clung to those words like lyrca to a Kardashian. Two weeks, Suzie said. It was hard for Suzie and she was a prosecutor for goodness sake! It’s not just me! Surely I can get through two weeks. I don’t know if she was right or if I manifested the tiny beam of proverbial sunlight that shone down on us 14 days postpartum. (Didn’t hurt that it was around that time my parents came to visit. God bless the grandparents!) The point is, it is hard. And for anyone who doesn’t have a text from Suzie to cling to, allow me to give you hope. Those first two weeks suck. They are the hardest. Take it from someone who was there 5 and a half months ago. I shudder to think. You will not know yourself. You will seriously contemplate not doing things like brushing your teeth because you could use those two and a half minutes for sleeping. You will think you’re broken and doomed and a menace to your child because you don’t feel exactly the way the websites and books and hospital birthing classes said you would feel. You wonder if you’ll ever see your friends let alone the inside of a Target again. You can not figure out how one tiny being could be so much work, could take up so much time, could beat you down so very much. You will feel like you’re trapped on a Japanese game show where you have been tossed a wet, slippery baby and told to keep that baby warm, dry and fed for an indefinite amount of time. And the prize? You get to keep doing it! For-freakin’-ever.*
So yep, it’s hard. If it’s not, time to get off the hallucinogenic drugs. It is also terrifying. And weird. And life-altering and core-shaking and mind-blowingly exhausting. And then suddenly it’s also amazing.
One day when you go to get your baby who has woken up from a nap, you realize this one-sided relationship has changed. This creature does know who you are. And they prove it by smiling. That’s when you begin to figure out how babies have managed to survive all this time.
I know I’m not the babysitter, but I still don’t know myself. I have become someone who just wants to talk about her child. I want to look at the 983 pictures of him on my phone and listen to the voice memos of him laughing. I text my mom a picture and then immediately call her so we can analyze his every detail like cytologists studying stem cells. I forgo Facebook or back episodes of The Bachelor in favor of watching his tiny ribcage move up and down on the baby monitor. I can’t wait to get home from work so we can lay on the circus-themed blanket I got at a garage sale for $1.50 and shake maracas while we play with our feet and tell each other about our days. Charlie ate carrots? Ingrid lost a sock? Mr. Eric read you a story? I enjoy spending time with a baby. Who am I? I do not know this person but it looks like she’s sticking around so we may have to get used to her.
And yes, she welcomes your advice. You are also people of the interwebs.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a baby to oogle on the monitor. Back in eighteen years.
*Please note, if you do not feel any of these things, don’t worry! That’s totally normal too! Feel what you feel and go with it! It gets soooooooo much better!
We all know about “daddy issues.” We wouldn’t have shows like The Bachelor or Bad Girls Club without them. But “mommy issues” are equally prevalent as evidenced on last night’s episode of The Bachelorette. Don’t judge. It’s required viewing for soon-to-be parents so you can witness what happens to your kids when you don’t read to them or make them write thank you notes.
This dude, Brandon– oh my. In only 3 episodes he’s mentioned his mommy issues more times than the word “rose” was uttered by the entire cast. Apparently after Brandon’s daddy “ran away” when he was five, his mommy paraded a long string of potential daddies throughout his childhood. And just when he “fell in love with these guys” they left. Chicks love hearing these stories upon first meeting potential paramours. By all means, let loose on the abandonment issues before the less trivial stuff like where you’re from or what you do.
Not to spoil things for you but, well, Brandon didn’t get a rose last night and was totally confused by this. You see, he thought when he confided for the eighteenth time to Desiree, The Bachelorette, about his mom’s inability to keep a man and his constant quest for a male role model, they were bonding. Umm…no. Desiree (who clearly hasn’t made many good decisions lately because she’s– well, The Bachelorette) rightfully kicked him to the curb, gently explaining their lack of chemistry.
“You’re a great guy– just not for me.”
He still didn’t get it.
“I don’t understand,” he answered.
Well tough noogies, Brandon. Google it or something.
In his exit interview, he was visibly dejected. Even looking a little quite a bit maniacal with is beady little raven eyes darting up and down, and backwards inside his skull.
“Another person left me,” he sighed. “Way to go, Brandon.”
Yes, he congratulated himself on driving another person away.
And just when you really wanted to punch him in the neck he shook his head and added, “There just aren’t any more tears left.”
Oh, me-wow, Brandon.
You might not see the educational value in watching shows like this, but I do. In about a month or so, I will have a son. A son who might grow up to attend college and get a job and afford his own car insurance. Or he might grow up and look for love on a national television show, using things like his mommy’s love of reality television or play-acting scenes from Mommie Dearest before bed as tactics to get a woman he just met on TV to marry him. While he might not get a rose, he will likely get “Clip of the Week” on The Soup and for that I can’t help but be proud.
Ok, who would win in a fight:
My mother’s innate influence over me or all the “how to parent” crap I’m getting inundated with from well-meaning friends, eblasts, and the twenty-seven inch pile of paperbacks on my nightstand?
Here’s the deal: in my daily phone call today with my mom, I mentioned my friend’s two-year old son was having a hard time being away from Mommy.
“He’s going to the spa with you?” she asked. “That’s crazy!”
“Well, it’s just pedicures,” I reasoned. “It’s not like we have to be quiet or anything.”
“But still…” Judy was not convinced. “Can’t he stay with his dad for one hour? Don’t tell me the dad won’t watch him. Ooooh…”
If it’s one thing Judy hates almost as much as a whiny kid, it’s a dad who won’t babysit his own kid.
“Of course he could. But I think Mason just gets so upset when she leaves it’s easier just to bring him.”
“That’s WRONG!” Judy was really fired up now. “She’s doing that kid a great disservice by giving into him! He needs to learn that sometimes Mommies have to go out, but they usually come back.”
“So I’m supposed to just leave my sobbing little baby who is very clearly upset just so I can enjoy overpriced cocktails and half-price hummus with my girls?”
“But I can do that at home!” Truthfully nothing sounded better than an overpriced cocktail and half price hummus right about now and I’d probably leave all my worldly possessions on the side of I5 to get my hands on a French 75, but it’s sometimes hard to resist getting Judy worked up.
Judy sighed. “You listen to me, missy. If you baby him, if you coddle, if you give in to his every whim and demand, you will turn him into Ricky Mendoza. Is that what you want?”
Ahh, Ricky Mendoza. I’ll save that story for another time.
“Oh dear lord, no.”
“Good. Because I will kick your ass,” she concluded. “The same way you kicked Ricky’s.”
“The same way everyone kicked poor Ricky’s,” I said. “I think our class hamster gave him thirteen stitches.”
“My point exactly. Remember when I used to go to happy hour with the girls every Thursday,” she asked.
“And Monday through Wednesday,” I added. “Yes, I remember.”
“You didn’t want me to go but I did.”
“Mom, I was like 15. I probably just wanted to go with you.”
“Well the point is, I went anyway. And you didn’t cry. You got over it.”
Ignoring me, Judy went on to explain that while the teen me didn’t care if she left me alone to go drinking with her friends (what the heck did she think I was doing when she left?) the wee me apparently had mommy separation anxiety.
“I thought my anxiety was from the Phenobarbital withdraw,” I said.
“That was prescribed by the doctor,” she said calmly. “I told you. We didn’t know any better back then.”
I’ll save the Phenobarbital story for another time as well.
Notice I say “apparently” I had separation anxiety because I clearly don’t remember this.
“And now look how strong and independent you are. You ran off right after college to go live in Seattle. Who the hell does that? Up until you the time you booked your flight we weren’t even entirely sure where Washington was!”
“I thought it was south of Oregon.”
“I thought it was in Canada.”
(Don’t judge! Can you West Coasters name every state along the East Coast? Probably Maybe not.)
Geography aside, she’s got a point. I feel like my parents did a fine job raising me, despite what the journals from my early 20’s might imply. My life was and is relatively angst free. I’m pretty well adjusted. And if that’s due in part to my mom rushing off to happy hour while toddler me left snot stained smudges on the screen door begging her not to go, well so be it. I’m none the wiser. Or actually maybe I am.
But I have to wonder. Could I walk away from my sobbing two-year old begging mommy to stay? I remember one time when I left my beloved old dog, Charlie, at a dog groomer she had been to a dozen times before. Charlie was notorious independent and often aloof. She needed me to do things like unlock the balcony door or open a bag of Moo-Q’s but otherwise she was fine on her own. But this one day she started whimpering in the waiting area and when they came to take her back she rolled over, wrapped two big paws around my ankle, and looked up at me with these pleading, brown eyes. I swear she said, Please don’t leave me! I love you! I’ll be better, I promise! Ugh. Brought tears to my eyes! And to think I did leave her there! I had to go to work. Eight years later I still regret it.
“That’s because you like dogs better than kids,” Bart said.
“I like dogs better than other people’s kids,” I reasoned. “They might be equal with my own child.”
We already know that I’m not going to be the one who takes the baby in for his shots after my meltdown at the vet’s office when we tried to get Zelda’s nails clipped. It would break my heart. But then again, it would also break my heart if I inadvertently raised a kid who was constantly hiding behind mommy’s skirt. Not to mention the real travesty—never getting to enjoy a kid-free pedicure ever again.
“Oh, he’ll cry,” Bart said. “But it’s not like I’m going to hold our crying child up to the window so you can see how upset he is when you leave.”
That’s a terrible visual and now I can’t look at the gigantic picture window in the front of our house without tearing up a little. Must be the hormones.
“We’re both going to need to get out once in a while,” Bart continued. “It will be good for him.”
I have to admit it was good for me. Which is why I’m putting all those books on my nightstand away and catching up on all the unread books in my Kindle library. When people talk about “mother’s instinct” I’m staring to think they mean “your mother’s instinct.” Fine by me. I’d rather have my mother’s instincts kicking in than her kicking my ass.
The other day Bart and I were at a store in our neighborhood looking at picture frames for the Star Wars prints he bought for the baby’s room. (I was under the impression we were going with a classic Pooh theme but as it turns out, Pooh and Darth Vadar actually look pretty good together.) Anyway, this store has a fun selection of books like Knitting With Cat Hair and 1,001 Famous Landscapes Recreated with Broccoli. I get all my friend’s birthday presents here.
So, we’re walking past the book section and this one in particular catches our eye:
“Oh ha, ha,” I said, pointing. “Look at that funny, totally useless book that’s clearly meant for people not as collected and composed as we are!”
“Ha,” Bart said. “Clearly. How silly.”
And he picked it up just to prove show silly and irrelevant to us it was.
He pointed to a blurb on the front cover. “Diablo Cody says we messed up royally by getting pregnant in the first place. Ha! Funny!”
“Oh look,” I said, opening the book at random. “All the really gross ways my body is changing! Meatier smelling body odor! Boob sweat! Incontinence! Yay!”
“Funny, funny book,” Bart said, taking it from my hands and replacing it next to the copy of Stuff on My Cat. “Just meant to make people laugh. Nothing useful in here!”
“Totally,” I agreed. “What’s funnier than hemorrhoids? And there’s like 19 pages on them in here.”
We walked away, then stopped and looked at each other. My big, frowny, panicky face was mirrored in Bart’s big, frowny, panicky face.
“We need to get that book,” he said.
“It’s totally meant for us,” I said.
So while we’re painting the bedroom with the best closet in the house and washing clothes the size of tissues with Dreft detergent from 1959, we’re panicking. A little. I mean, no one told us babies shoot laser beams out of their eye holes. I guess that could explain the burning sensation coursing through my esophagus right now.
I can only hope the baby will be comforted by the swaddle blanket I’m knitting him out of Zelda’s fur.
I walked into my office/Sadie’s bedroom this morning and saw something weird on the floor. It was light yellow-ish in color. Oh no!
Did I leave my computer on?
Did Sadie have another accident?
Did a UFO land in our backyard?*
And then I realized it was the sun. So weird. It’s gone now but I thought I’d tell you about it anyway.
And speaking of “sun”, looks like Bart and I are going to have one. A son, I mean. In July. (How’s that for a lead in?) Talk about weird. They let anyone have babies these days! Even people who have a combined 12 minutes of experience with babies. And 7 of those minutes were spent glaring at crying babies sitting next to us on airplanes. That counts, right? I mean, discipline is discipline.
Anyways, time to pick out paint colors. And read some books. And stop glaring at babies. Don’t be shy with your advice, Parents! Or even babysitters! National Lampoon’s Baby is counting on the village to help raise it!
* Maybe a UFO did land in my backyard one day in September. And maybe I got on board. And maybe they took me to their planet for a long, long time and that’s why I haven’t been here for a while. But then that makes this whole baby thing even weirder, huh? Okay, never mind.
So we haven’t moved in yet (next Friday!) but
we’ve I’ve already done quite a bit of shopping for the new house. Bart is very excited for two things:
1. He gets to see his stuff that’s been in storage for almost 2 years.
2. He gets a mancave.
The mancave is important to me too. Why? Because it will have surround sound and when Bart isn’t there I can hear the Housewives screeching at one another from every direction. AND it’s a nice place for his.. stuff. I’m sure Walter Peyton on a Wheaties box will be happier hobnobbing with G.I. Joe and friends than with my collection of ceramic owls (which grew by one today!) and cashmere throw pillows. I mean, if I had to work Orcus or the Brian Urlacher autographed football into our decor I could. But the mancave is a much better place for that stuff.
That’s all fine and good and really I’m not one to squash Bart’s decorating dreams. He wanted a chalkboard wall in his office (also part of the mancave), then fine. I’ll buy the chalk. He wants to paint the walls orange and blue in honor of the Chicago Bears, great. Let me know if you need help picking out the exact blue. But today Bart emailed me a picture and asked if he could get this…thing for his mancave. I think I finally have to put my foot down.
I don’t understand this at all. I mean, who did this? Why did they do this?
“I think it’s sheer awesomeness speaks for itself,” was Bart’s answer.
But I have to understand this. Where did the artist/previous owner keep it in their house? Why are they selling it? Do they have others? Will someone really pay $550 for this? Did the artist come up with this vision all on his/her own or did his/her cat have a fondness for slam-dunking birds into basketball hoops? Just…why? Why any of it.
Oddly enough Zelda is getting shaved tomorrow. I’m almost afraid to pick her up from the groomers now. Not just because she might look like a mummified, skinless chicken, but because she might safer there if daddy gets really into this design trend.
Jeez. Is this thing on?
What a jerk, right? Oh I have things to update you on. I have stories. But rather than try to write it all down in one long post, how about just the (mostly) inane highlights of the last two months?