Several of my friends and family regularly offer to take Jake for a night if Dave and I ever want to spend some time together or go for a nice dinner and a movie. Most who offer have children of their own, and complain that their kids have put the kibosh on the romance in the marriage.
Whatever, is what I say to all that. But you can certainly take the brat if you'd like.
Dave and I have only been on a handful of real dates. And romance? It's just not our thing. Flowers and chocolates are kind of dumb, really. They just die and make you fat, and who wants that?
For our first date we took the hour long public trans ride from our idyllic college town to Philadelphia, went to South Street, made out at Penns Landing for a little while, walked down to South Philly to some now-defunct seedy Cambodian billiards hall to play a few games, over to Tony Lukes for some cheesesteaks, then to his grandmother's to say hi, and finally up the street to his parents to beg a ride back to school. Denied. We slept on the living room floor. Nice right? Well, it was nice to spend time together off campus. But, I hate pool, I don't like meat, and meeting the parents was something I was totally unprepared for. I didn't even know Dave's last name. In fact, I didn't really even consider that he had one. I had only recently learned that he spoke English. Plus it was freezing outside, and I didn't bring contact stuff or extra tampons, two very crucial things when you were me that night. I didn't agree to many more dates after that, I just settled for make out sessions between classes and parties. When Dave could tear himself away from the Sega, of course. We had it all back then.
Together time for Dave and I has always been happy hours and dinners with friends, quick lunches in the middle of the workday, and occasionally we would run into each other while we were out at night and all our friends would hang out together. Not much different than when we spent our time in basements with boat race and beerpong tables and a hundred other people clamoring to get to the keg, doing papers with classmates at the library, or studying for something that we totally forget about now because it has no practical use in real life. Always surrounded by others we got along so well with one another, and even today people we know are shocked to learn that we are real live married people, let alone married to each other and the proud owners of a brand new baby. After leaving college, we had our own friends, our own graduate programs, and our own lives, and then came home at night and talked about it. It worked.
Enter pregnancy and our social lives had to slow down a bit, completely changing the dynamic of our relationship. We thrived thus far on individuality and group interaction, but that stopped because no one wants to hang out with the cranky preg, and she certainly didn't want to be in public for fear of getting pushed in front of the subway or that her terrible backne might somehow slip out of her shirt and terrify millions.
Dave and I went out for a few dinners at actual restaurants. I hardly knew there was such a thing, they are terribly boring. We saw two or three movies (boo) and spent a lot more alone time together. I guess it went well, I've repressed most of pregnancy, which is nature's way of allowing you to do it all over again. Dave is still around and there seems to be no love lost. Postpartum trauma is also locked in the vault, but I guess we spent alone time together then too. I remember getting a sitter for the first time and heading out to the Phils game, and probably a few other places by ourselves too. I didn't want Dave to go too far from my side because I was certain that he was going to die in a freak accident leaving me all by myself with the child. Plus, he doesn't have life insurance.
Back to the point...
I do take people up on their offers to watch Jake overnight, and instead of doing something nice and quiet and lovey with Dave I usually opt to catch angst-filled farewell concerts, indie films in Old City, Monkey brunches, or something of the like with my favorite cool punk rock hipster friends who Dave would rather choke than be within ten feet of. Dave chooses to do whatever it is that Dave does, and sometimes we might just hang out at home, going to bed at dusk and sleeping in until the hour hand rests in the double digits. Other times we get the old gang together and head out en masse to do something fun and urban and yuppyish like in the good old days. We don't go out dancing. We don't dine. We don't take long walks by the river holding hands and planning our future. But that's okay.
These days we get our kicks on the living room floor with a little boy and his toys. Those are the happiest hours of all.
I bet you just puked in your mouth a little, didn't you?
11.28.2006
11.27.2006
could it be...
SATAN???
At least fifty-three times this weekend people have asked Jake if he is all ready for Christmas, and tickle him while they promise that Santa is coming to give him lots and lots of presents. Well-mannered Jake politely smiles and sucks their chins.
And then there are the people who talk to Jake about how Santa isn't the reason for the season.
Dave and I never considered not allowing Jake to believe in Santa Claus. It is a fun part of growing up, until your entire world comes crashing down on you and leaves you amist the rubble of societal lies and parental deceit, of course. But until then- total awesomeness. Plates of cookies left out (plus carrots for the reindeer), dreaming about the workshop, and writing letters to Santa are some of the best parts of Christmas for children.
When we were little, Santa was everywhere and everything to everybody this time of year. He knew when we were sleeping, when we were good, and whether we were pinching our brother when Mom wasn't looking. He saw our report cards, our messy rooms, our unfinished dinners, and I was convinced that he could even watch me in the bathroom, if he was so inclined, so I better not misbehave even there in fear of my Barbie being downgraded from Malibu to regular. Even my best friend Jenny who was Jewish was good for goodness sake, even though her Santa went by the name of Harry, and we were all okay with that.
Wherever we turned we saw Santa. Santa came to our classroom and to Sunday School, there was the mall Santas, Salvation Army Santas, Santas, Santas, Santas, and I loved it and I was good. I never confused Santa with Jesus, nor do I remember anyone else doing so. Definitely two different guys. As far as I know Santa never slept in a manger or saved mankind, and Jesus never got grey hair or played around in the chimney.
These days it seems like everywhere I go Santa is the devil (seriously, Google "Satan Santa" and see what you get) and Christmas is falling into the hands of the militant because they feel that there is no Christ in Christmas anymore.
There were tracts in the subway this morning revealing that Santa is a farce, right out where the kiddies can see them.
I have a lady at work who proclaims that Christians who celebrate 'American Christmas' are guilty of sin, in accordance to 'true Christian law'. Whatever that is. I guess she should know since she is pretty high up in the Baptist church circuit here in Philly. She keeps books at work about this crap. At work!
People who celebrate Christmas but not Christ are made to feel guilty about sharing in the holiday, and I can't even get into Target without being assaulted by some sort of Coalition member shoving flyers into my face, pleading with me to renounce a secular holiday celebration with trees (pagan) and elves (demons) and Santa dressed in devil's red, telling me that I am sure to be damned if I write Christmas with an X, or wish someone a Happy Holiday rather than a Merry Christmas. That isn't how it works according to that Bible you are hitting me on the head with, sir. Trust me, I know, I've read it. If you want to harass shoppers, Walmart is on the other side of I95. People are used to it there. I'm just here to pick up some Enfamil and socks.
I guess that maybe this animosity towards tradition has always been around and I was sheltered from it when I was younger, but it is so sad to think of my poor baby being told that he is going straight to Hell if he doesn't follow the masses to church on Christmas morning because his mommy and daddy chose to have some family time by the tree or that he is doomed because instead of going to the Christmas Eve service he goes to his grandma's house for pie and presents. It must be true, because that is what a very holy co-worker told me last Christmas when I didn't drag my fat pregnant self to mass last year. God understands. He's been to church in South Philly on a holiday. There is hardly room to stand but for the floor length fur coats and the huge diamond rings. And that's just what the men are sporting. You should see the gay apparel that the ladies don.
Some day soon I might have to explain to little Jake that despite what the crazy lady down the street says, the Christmas tree isn't demonic, even if it does hail to the 12 Rauhnächte, back in the times before Jesus. The decorations aren't horrifying just because red (blood) and green (nature) are the sacred colors of the ancient Druids. And the star at the top of the tree isn't supposed to be a pentacle, no matter how witchy your mother gets around the holidays.
But my Christmas cookies? Now they are down-right full-of-sin good. Bring on the badness. And a glass of milk, please.
At least fifty-three times this weekend people have asked Jake if he is all ready for Christmas, and tickle him while they promise that Santa is coming to give him lots and lots of presents. Well-mannered Jake politely smiles and sucks their chins.
And then there are the people who talk to Jake about how Santa isn't the reason for the season.
Dave and I never considered not allowing Jake to believe in Santa Claus. It is a fun part of growing up, until your entire world comes crashing down on you and leaves you amist the rubble of societal lies and parental deceit, of course. But until then- total awesomeness. Plates of cookies left out (plus carrots for the reindeer), dreaming about the workshop, and writing letters to Santa are some of the best parts of Christmas for children.
When we were little, Santa was everywhere and everything to everybody this time of year. He knew when we were sleeping, when we were good, and whether we were pinching our brother when Mom wasn't looking. He saw our report cards, our messy rooms, our unfinished dinners, and I was convinced that he could even watch me in the bathroom, if he was so inclined, so I better not misbehave even there in fear of my Barbie being downgraded from Malibu to regular. Even my best friend Jenny who was Jewish was good for goodness sake, even though her Santa went by the name of Harry, and we were all okay with that.
Wherever we turned we saw Santa. Santa came to our classroom and to Sunday School, there was the mall Santas, Salvation Army Santas, Santas, Santas, Santas, and I loved it and I was good. I never confused Santa with Jesus, nor do I remember anyone else doing so. Definitely two different guys. As far as I know Santa never slept in a manger or saved mankind, and Jesus never got grey hair or played around in the chimney.
These days it seems like everywhere I go Santa is the devil (seriously, Google "Satan Santa" and see what you get) and Christmas is falling into the hands of the militant because they feel that there is no Christ in Christmas anymore.
There were tracts in the subway this morning revealing that Santa is a farce, right out where the kiddies can see them.
I have a lady at work who proclaims that Christians who celebrate 'American Christmas' are guilty of sin, in accordance to 'true Christian law'. Whatever that is. I guess she should know since she is pretty high up in the Baptist church circuit here in Philly. She keeps books at work about this crap. At work!
People who celebrate Christmas but not Christ are made to feel guilty about sharing in the holiday, and I can't even get into Target without being assaulted by some sort of Coalition member shoving flyers into my face, pleading with me to renounce a secular holiday celebration with trees (pagan) and elves (demons) and Santa dressed in devil's red, telling me that I am sure to be damned if I write Christmas with an X, or wish someone a Happy Holiday rather than a Merry Christmas. That isn't how it works according to that Bible you are hitting me on the head with, sir. Trust me, I know, I've read it. If you want to harass shoppers, Walmart is on the other side of I95. People are used to it there. I'm just here to pick up some Enfamil and socks.
I guess that maybe this animosity towards tradition has always been around and I was sheltered from it when I was younger, but it is so sad to think of my poor baby being told that he is going straight to Hell if he doesn't follow the masses to church on Christmas morning because his mommy and daddy chose to have some family time by the tree or that he is doomed because instead of going to the Christmas Eve service he goes to his grandma's house for pie and presents. It must be true, because that is what a very holy co-worker told me last Christmas when I didn't drag my fat pregnant self to mass last year. God understands. He's been to church in South Philly on a holiday. There is hardly room to stand but for the floor length fur coats and the huge diamond rings. And that's just what the men are sporting. You should see the gay apparel that the ladies don.
Some day soon I might have to explain to little Jake that despite what the crazy lady down the street says, the Christmas tree isn't demonic, even if it does hail to the 12 Rauhnächte, back in the times before Jesus. The decorations aren't horrifying just because red (blood) and green (nature) are the sacred colors of the ancient Druids. And the star at the top of the tree isn't supposed to be a pentacle, no matter how witchy your mother gets around the holidays.
But my Christmas cookies? Now they are down-right full-of-sin good. Bring on the badness. And a glass of milk, please.
11.23.2006
giving spanks
Dave and I had the best intentions of getting to his parents for dinner, but a block and a half away from the house we realized we had a flat. So, back to the desperately bare-cupboarded house, calls to all the relatives in the city to see if we could catch a ride, and no. Everyone is already in gross Jersey. Calls to the Asian owned pizza and noodle shops, and no. Everyone is closed for the white man's holiday.
Luckily I had a burst of Wondermomness last week and I bought tons of stuff that I could potentially soften up for Jake if I was so inclined. So, his mashed baby reds, baked sweet potatoes, and green beans were served alongside a renegade box of cornbread stuffing, some of my famous baked beans (the secret is lots of brown sugar, some cinnamon, and a little nutmeg mixed into a can of Bush's), and well seasoned chicken breasts.
And for dessert? I cut up Jake's almost too-ripe apples, baked them with some butter, brown sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice at 350 for 25, topped them with some crushed Biter Biscuits, and served them warm. Good stuff.
Today couldn't have been more perfect.
And it snowed! A good ten or twelve flakes.
Oh, and I'm thankful for my friends and family and health and house and job and all that other crap too.
And the blogosphere. Thank effing goodness for the blogosphere.
Luckily I had a burst of Wondermomness last week and I bought tons of stuff that I could potentially soften up for Jake if I was so inclined. So, his mashed baby reds, baked sweet potatoes, and green beans were served alongside a renegade box of cornbread stuffing, some of my famous baked beans (the secret is lots of brown sugar, some cinnamon, and a little nutmeg mixed into a can of Bush's), and well seasoned chicken breasts.
And for dessert? I cut up Jake's almost too-ripe apples, baked them with some butter, brown sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice at 350 for 25, topped them with some crushed Biter Biscuits, and served them warm. Good stuff.
Today couldn't have been more perfect.
And it snowed! A good ten or twelve flakes.
Oh, and I'm thankful for my friends and family and health and house and job and all that other crap too.
And the blogosphere. Thank effing goodness for the blogosphere.
11.22.2006
misery loves company...
and I completely love that a friend of mine who has a baby a few days younger than Jake just called me to ask if Jake is screaming and whining every time he opens his mouth. The answer is yes, and it is totally annoying.
So annoying in fact, that I pawned Jake off on relatives for twenty four hours so I could get some peace and quiet and alone time. And instead of going out on the drinkiest night of the whole entire year with all my coolkid friends I am at home all by myself pumped full of caffeine, putting up Christmas decorations, listening to Social Distortion, and nursing a warm lager. It's my very own little tradition that for the past ten years has taken place the day after Thanksgiving, but because it is so sacred to me I didn't want it interrupted by screaming and bottles and strained peas and diapers and screaming and whining and screaming and diapers so I'm doing it tonight.
There are a few guns that girl needs to stick to no matter who comes along, and if garland and punk rock happens to be one of them, so be it.
So annoying in fact, that I pawned Jake off on relatives for twenty four hours so I could get some peace and quiet and alone time. And instead of going out on the drinkiest night of the whole entire year with all my coolkid friends I am at home all by myself pumped full of caffeine, putting up Christmas decorations, listening to Social Distortion, and nursing a warm lager. It's my very own little tradition that for the past ten years has taken place the day after Thanksgiving, but because it is so sacred to me I didn't want it interrupted by screaming and bottles and strained peas and diapers and screaming and whining and screaming and diapers so I'm doing it tonight.
There are a few guns that girl needs to stick to no matter who comes along, and if garland and punk rock happens to be one of them, so be it.
11.20.2006
and it's not a skirt, it's a kilt
Jake and Aaron are now the proud owners of Curious George tea sets. I told you the gift was progressive.
My standard gift for every one year-old girlchild is a tea set. She opens it, loves it for a minute, tosses it aside, and it is usually nabbed by her brother or boy party-goer, who is inclined to immediately give his darling mommy a cup of air and a plate of nothing so the attention is on him and not the birthday girl. My tea set was coveted by the boys, and I'm guessing you were either a victim of theft or a thief yourself, depending on your gender.
I was thrilled to see the sets for boys at the local yuppie toy store, where you can get any vintagesque toy your little heart desires. They had the tin Curious George set, a china Sponge Bob set, and the guy behind the counter said that there is a melamine GI Joe set available too, if I was interested. The GI Joe one is marketed as a "mess kit" rather than a tea set, and the tea pot is a canteen. Whatever. It's a tea set.
Because I'm feeling particularly nostalgic and brimming with holiday cheer, I have pasted a few links to pictures of my favorite toys when I was little. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you my list of toys that I wish I had saved so that I could wrap them up and put them under the tree for Jake this year...
Riding Horse
Record Player
Xylophone
Kermie
Corn Popper
Snoopy
Train
Hour glass
Chimey Ball
Three Men in a Tub
Play House
My standard gift for every one year-old girlchild is a tea set. She opens it, loves it for a minute, tosses it aside, and it is usually nabbed by her brother or boy party-goer, who is inclined to immediately give his darling mommy a cup of air and a plate of nothing so the attention is on him and not the birthday girl. My tea set was coveted by the boys, and I'm guessing you were either a victim of theft or a thief yourself, depending on your gender.
I was thrilled to see the sets for boys at the local yuppie toy store, where you can get any vintagesque toy your little heart desires. They had the tin Curious George set, a china Sponge Bob set, and the guy behind the counter said that there is a melamine GI Joe set available too, if I was interested. The GI Joe one is marketed as a "mess kit" rather than a tea set, and the tea pot is a canteen. Whatever. It's a tea set.
Because I'm feeling particularly nostalgic and brimming with holiday cheer, I have pasted a few links to pictures of my favorite toys when I was little. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you my list of toys that I wish I had saved so that I could wrap them up and put them under the tree for Jake this year...
Riding Horse
Record Player
Xylophone
Kermie
Corn Popper
Snoopy
Train
Hour glass
Chimey Ball
Three Men in a Tub
Play House
11.17.2006
psi, rem, ept, etc.
First of all, let me start by saying far be it from me to dole out parenting tips, but please check your tire pressure, especially if you have a kid in your car. Dave and I are less than diligent about car crap, and about a month ago our car lost traction on that scary part of I76 on our way up to Plymouth Meeting to have my eyes lasered. When Dave checked the pressure, which apparently they do not do when you get your tires rotated and a tune-up, it was way low. Like two. Or fifteen, or something like that, but it was bad. So, do that today. There was a warning on the morning news about weather changes and tire pressure which reminded me of the near tragedy at the hands of air.
Thing two: I have been sleeping through the nights for about three or four months now, but I am still exhausted. I think it is because when there is a baby in the house you lose all ability to fall into a deep sleep. I used to be clinically dead between the time my head hit the pillow and my alarm and had pleasant, vivid dreams every night (about your mom) and would wake up and go about my day. Now I hate morning and sunshine and automated time keeping at work. My dreams are about house fires and giant baby teeth and sleeping through my alarm and paying the car note. It is really bringing me down. Especially when I see Dave sleeping in, Jake sleeping during the day, and my co-workers whine about how their dog woke them up at 7.30 when they could have slept for another half hour. Boo-frigging-hoo.
C: There has been a rash of positive pregnancy tests among my friends these days. Congrats ladies, you are in for a wild ride. Take each day as it comes and accept the fact that pregnancy can be scary, painful, hilarious, and kinda gross. It may not be the most beautiful, joyous time of your life, and that's okay. It is exciting and challenging, and you'll look back on it fondly no matter how bad it gets, and it does end contrary to how you may feel six or seven months into it. If you don't love your baby immediately that is okay, just give it time. It took a miscarriage scare for me to realize I actually was pregnant, and the love kicked in around the time that the baby kicked me. I lost a little more than a little of it that first month when life sucks and you are totally drained of life and feeling, and then it kicked in full gear. Luckily I had a doctor who told me that it is perfectly normal to be a little disconnected from everything before I even thought to think about it. Enjoy your pets and partner now, they become annoying once the baby is born. They always need your attention and the last thing you want to do is feed another mouth or touch another living thing when you already have a baby attached to you all day long. That changes a few months into it though, so you are likely to come out of this with a loyal pet and a happy marriage. Enjoy your free time, enjoy your friends, enjoy your self, and enjoy the fact that even though everything is going to change in a few long months, it's going to eventually be okay no matter what. Eat right, exercise, and give that belly a good rub at least once a day for me.
Jake turns eight months today. Hard to believe that it has really been that long, until I think of the day to day stuff. Days are long, nights are short, weeks are fast, and months fly by. It used to be easy to do these monthly posts, but now there is so much going on that the only way I can think about doing it is to start from the top and work my way down.
His hair is unbelievably uncontrollable. I have cut his bangs (do boys have bangs?) because his hair and eyelashes were getting tangled and matted in his sleep and trimmed the hair around his ears, but I have left the stuff on top alone. It is probably about four inches long at the crown. People say that he has Dave's hair, but it is mine. Cowlicks everywhere and really fine and wispy. Dave's hair is thick and coarse and nappy. Jake loves to play with his hair, especially when he is confused about something. The soft spot is still there, but is only the size of a fifty cent piece. Jake is always managing to jam it up against my chin and it grosses me completely out. Please don't shove your brain on my face.
The eyes, ears, and nose seem to be working well. Jake only has those two bottom teeth but his gums are white and hard, so more are sure to come. He eats all sorts of fruits and veggies, plain yogurt, baby cereal, tiny bits of macaroni mixed with veggies, biter biscuits and zwieback (when I feel like dealing with the mess), and he is still drinking the Enfamil. I try to give him as much fresh mashed up food as possible, but truth be told the boy eats a lot of stuff out of jars. I'm sure he has had some juice somewhere along the line, but not from me. I think juice is dumb for anyone. Eat fruit, drink water. Unless you need something to cut the booze of course, and then bring it on. And get me one of those little umbrellas too. And a bendy straw please.
Jake is still pretty skinny, but every once in awhile he will have a tubby day. Then he grows, and his belly goes away. He gets weighed and measured next month, but I'm guessing he is between 18 and 19 pounds and is probably about 28 inches long.
Jake can get on all fours, and sometimes crawls that way, but he usually just drags himself all over the place. He can stand up if he is holding on to something, and can move himself side to side while standing by the couch or the playpen. I don't think he realizes he can do that yet, it just happens. He has walkers at daycare and his aunts' and grandparents' houses, but is stuck in the exersaucer at home. Kiddie containment is key at our house. Far gone are the days when you could just toss the baby on the floor and go about your business.
He sleeps on his belly and sucks his thumb. He isn't picky about where he sleeps or eats, as long as the job gets done. Jake doesn't seem to have a favorite food or toy, but he does love that Fisher Price aquarium in his crib and apples.
Jake screams at the top of his lungs for no reason at all, and he says "blah blah blah", "icky icky icky" "mah mah mah", "dah dah dah", and "ache ache ache". If I was delusional I'd say that it was kitty, mama, dada, and Jake, but I know better. He has been crying more, and fake coughing to get attention. He needs new game though- that doesn't fly in our house. When Jake is hungry he screams "mah mah" and when he is tired he just cries and sticks his hand in his mouth. He looks at you when you say his name, but then again he looks at you when you say anything.
It is hard to believe that the Christmas decorations go up next Friday. I have been looking for a nice stocking to cross stitch for Jake, but none of them seem good enough. For you crafty ladies out there, if you see something online or in a magazine that is cute, let me know. I don't know what I am looking for, but I know that it doesn't include teddy bears dressed like Santa or carolers. Maybe a festive rocking horse and evergreen boughs and wreathes and ribbons or a nice tree or something. I don't know. Maybe I'll just wait for the online sales at the end of the season. Jake is too little to know any better anyway.
And I know better than to blog all day, so I'm going to do some real work.
Thing two: I have been sleeping through the nights for about three or four months now, but I am still exhausted. I think it is because when there is a baby in the house you lose all ability to fall into a deep sleep. I used to be clinically dead between the time my head hit the pillow and my alarm and had pleasant, vivid dreams every night (about your mom) and would wake up and go about my day. Now I hate morning and sunshine and automated time keeping at work. My dreams are about house fires and giant baby teeth and sleeping through my alarm and paying the car note. It is really bringing me down. Especially when I see Dave sleeping in, Jake sleeping during the day, and my co-workers whine about how their dog woke them up at 7.30 when they could have slept for another half hour. Boo-frigging-hoo.
C: There has been a rash of positive pregnancy tests among my friends these days. Congrats ladies, you are in for a wild ride. Take each day as it comes and accept the fact that pregnancy can be scary, painful, hilarious, and kinda gross. It may not be the most beautiful, joyous time of your life, and that's okay. It is exciting and challenging, and you'll look back on it fondly no matter how bad it gets, and it does end contrary to how you may feel six or seven months into it. If you don't love your baby immediately that is okay, just give it time. It took a miscarriage scare for me to realize I actually was pregnant, and the love kicked in around the time that the baby kicked me. I lost a little more than a little of it that first month when life sucks and you are totally drained of life and feeling, and then it kicked in full gear. Luckily I had a doctor who told me that it is perfectly normal to be a little disconnected from everything before I even thought to think about it. Enjoy your pets and partner now, they become annoying once the baby is born. They always need your attention and the last thing you want to do is feed another mouth or touch another living thing when you already have a baby attached to you all day long. That changes a few months into it though, so you are likely to come out of this with a loyal pet and a happy marriage. Enjoy your free time, enjoy your friends, enjoy your self, and enjoy the fact that even though everything is going to change in a few long months, it's going to eventually be okay no matter what. Eat right, exercise, and give that belly a good rub at least once a day for me.
Jake turns eight months today. Hard to believe that it has really been that long, until I think of the day to day stuff. Days are long, nights are short, weeks are fast, and months fly by. It used to be easy to do these monthly posts, but now there is so much going on that the only way I can think about doing it is to start from the top and work my way down.
His hair is unbelievably uncontrollable. I have cut his bangs (do boys have bangs?) because his hair and eyelashes were getting tangled and matted in his sleep and trimmed the hair around his ears, but I have left the stuff on top alone. It is probably about four inches long at the crown. People say that he has Dave's hair, but it is mine. Cowlicks everywhere and really fine and wispy. Dave's hair is thick and coarse and nappy. Jake loves to play with his hair, especially when he is confused about something. The soft spot is still there, but is only the size of a fifty cent piece. Jake is always managing to jam it up against my chin and it grosses me completely out. Please don't shove your brain on my face.
The eyes, ears, and nose seem to be working well. Jake only has those two bottom teeth but his gums are white and hard, so more are sure to come. He eats all sorts of fruits and veggies, plain yogurt, baby cereal, tiny bits of macaroni mixed with veggies, biter biscuits and zwieback (when I feel like dealing with the mess), and he is still drinking the Enfamil. I try to give him as much fresh mashed up food as possible, but truth be told the boy eats a lot of stuff out of jars. I'm sure he has had some juice somewhere along the line, but not from me. I think juice is dumb for anyone. Eat fruit, drink water. Unless you need something to cut the booze of course, and then bring it on. And get me one of those little umbrellas too. And a bendy straw please.
Jake is still pretty skinny, but every once in awhile he will have a tubby day. Then he grows, and his belly goes away. He gets weighed and measured next month, but I'm guessing he is between 18 and 19 pounds and is probably about 28 inches long.
Jake can get on all fours, and sometimes crawls that way, but he usually just drags himself all over the place. He can stand up if he is holding on to something, and can move himself side to side while standing by the couch or the playpen. I don't think he realizes he can do that yet, it just happens. He has walkers at daycare and his aunts' and grandparents' houses, but is stuck in the exersaucer at home. Kiddie containment is key at our house. Far gone are the days when you could just toss the baby on the floor and go about your business.
He sleeps on his belly and sucks his thumb. He isn't picky about where he sleeps or eats, as long as the job gets done. Jake doesn't seem to have a favorite food or toy, but he does love that Fisher Price aquarium in his crib and apples.
Jake screams at the top of his lungs for no reason at all, and he says "blah blah blah", "icky icky icky" "mah mah mah", "dah dah dah", and "ache ache ache". If I was delusional I'd say that it was kitty, mama, dada, and Jake, but I know better. He has been crying more, and fake coughing to get attention. He needs new game though- that doesn't fly in our house. When Jake is hungry he screams "mah mah" and when he is tired he just cries and sticks his hand in his mouth. He looks at you when you say his name, but then again he looks at you when you say anything.
It is hard to believe that the Christmas decorations go up next Friday. I have been looking for a nice stocking to cross stitch for Jake, but none of them seem good enough. For you crafty ladies out there, if you see something online or in a magazine that is cute, let me know. I don't know what I am looking for, but I know that it doesn't include teddy bears dressed like Santa or carolers. Maybe a festive rocking horse and evergreen boughs and wreathes and ribbons or a nice tree or something. I don't know. Maybe I'll just wait for the online sales at the end of the season. Jake is too little to know any better anyway.
And I know better than to blog all day, so I'm going to do some real work.
1976 called, and she wants her phone back
While I was picking up Aaron's birthday present (which is the single most progressive toy I have ever seen in my entire life and how could a modern-day mom like Susan not have this for her son, who will grow up to be sensitive yet manly thanks to his mom and dad's guidance and things like this and even if he doesn't use it for it's intended purpose it makes good flying saucers or chewing gum dishes. I'll tell you all about later just in case she gets a break from hiding all the stuff on the floors in her closets in a rampant attempt to ready the house for the party and happens upon this blog) I spotted one of my favorite childhood toys and knew that Jake had to have it for his eight month day.
As I bought it I thought "Jake loves my phone. He will love this one too". I shelled out the $15 for it, rushed it home, took it out of its retro packaging, and then realized that Jake will have no idea what the heck this thing is. He'll never dial a rotary phone, never have to worry about getting yelled at because the cord got all kinked and tangled because he was nervous and playing with it while he was on the phone with a girl, or make me worry about him pulling the phone off the table and on to his head. He'll never have a little book with his friend's telephone numbers listed in it, or need to learn my extension at work (3433 was my dad's, and I could ask for mom by name). But, he'll have this. And that freaky cookie monster head. You can imagine how I felt about that thing when I pulled it out of the gift bag. I almost puked.
As I bought it I thought "Jake loves my phone. He will love this one too". I shelled out the $15 for it, rushed it home, took it out of its retro packaging, and then realized that Jake will have no idea what the heck this thing is. He'll never dial a rotary phone, never have to worry about getting yelled at because the cord got all kinked and tangled because he was nervous and playing with it while he was on the phone with a girl, or make me worry about him pulling the phone off the table and on to his head. He'll never have a little book with his friend's telephone numbers listed in it, or need to learn my extension at work (3433 was my dad's, and I could ask for mom by name). But, he'll have this. And that freaky cookie monster head. You can imagine how I felt about that thing when I pulled it out of the gift bag. I almost puked.
11.13.2006
baby bites
Jake finally got his two bottom teeth to poke through last week. They have been ready for months, it seems, but he finally figured out how to chew on things instead of just sucking. I guess all the mashing and grinding and gnawing helped. Now it hurts when he bites.
Be careful little Jakey, the world bites back.
Be careful little Jakey, the world bites back.
11.10.2006
damn you commercialism, damn you
I am in the midst of back-to-back 70 degree sunny days, I haven't had a bite of turkey, and I haven't seen a flake of snow south of I-80, yet I'm brimming with holiday spirit.
My coffee cup is red and green and wreathy. There were Santa cookies at the coffee shop. I am itching to walk up the street to see if Macy's has their windows done yet. I might buy a new Christmas tree this weekend. I am asking everyone to go ice skating. Want to go? I'm tempted to take down the fall decorations. I hope to get myself to AC Moore to buy a cross stitch stocking kit to make for Jake. Every baby deserves a homemade stocking on their first Christmas. I still have mine at my dad's house, and it says "Laura" smack across the top in sparkley gold 70's fabulousness. My parents changed the spelling of my name after I was born. The birth certificate was re-issued, but not the other stuff.
I am excited to start baking and decorating and making ribbons and wrapping paper. I get to eat cookie dough again this year! I can't wait to show Jake the lights and pull him away from the tree every three minutes. There isn't much else he can participate in, but tree mauling will definitely be in order this Christmas.
Christmas Day at the M's is very low-key. It involves movies and Chinatown, lots of reflection, tons of couch time, and cookies all day long. We don't really do presents because we spoil ourselves rotten year-round. I'm not buying anything for Jake this year, because we still have toys in the basement from the shower and I'm sure that he'll get a bunch of stuff from his fans. He will only be nine months old, and wrapping up socks and onesies is pointless. I'll stuff his stocking full of balled up wrapping paper, Biter Biscuits, and applesauce and let him dump it all over the floor and push it around and jam it in his face. Stockings are better than presents any day, if you ask me.
Christmastime however, is full of magic and mayhem. We always throw a giant party in December, and it runs from noon until the wee hours of the next morning. There is tons of food and drink, and everyone just drops by whenever between shopping trips, family stuff, and company parties. We get at least fifty or sixty people every year and end up with a stocked liquor cabinet and a full belly since we feel the need to eat a little something with everyone who stops over. Dave and I try our best to hit up everyone else's parties, but I don't know how that will work out with baby in tow. Some of those parties are pretty rowdy.
Last year we had the entire family over for a huge Christmas Eve dinner, but I don't think that will happen again. Someone else can take a turn. This year on the Eve, if the weather is nice, we will take Jake downtown and take a hansom cab ride around Old City, complete with blankets and cocoa. Then we will drop by a few houses and eat some fish and drink some nog. Sounds yummy, right? Fish and boozey raw eggs are awesome at the holidays.
Then we get a few days of rest which I like to spend at the office doing absolutely nothing, and then things get kicked up again on the 31st. New Year's Eve is pretty quiet, we don't have a party for that ever since the Millenium with the guns and the swords and the 2x4's full of nails but the next day is the parade and Dave and his buddies make a day out of that. I'm not a fan of loud and cold, so I make a day out of getting organized and giving the house a good cleaning. It makes me feel good to start out the year with a clean house.
Then it's all over, and the Seasonal Affective sets in until about May, when the temperature finally becomes acceptable. That is not the most wonderful time of the year.
My coffee cup is red and green and wreathy. There were Santa cookies at the coffee shop. I am itching to walk up the street to see if Macy's has their windows done yet. I might buy a new Christmas tree this weekend. I am asking everyone to go ice skating. Want to go? I'm tempted to take down the fall decorations. I hope to get myself to AC Moore to buy a cross stitch stocking kit to make for Jake. Every baby deserves a homemade stocking on their first Christmas. I still have mine at my dad's house, and it says "Laura" smack across the top in sparkley gold 70's fabulousness. My parents changed the spelling of my name after I was born. The birth certificate was re-issued, but not the other stuff.
I am excited to start baking and decorating and making ribbons and wrapping paper. I get to eat cookie dough again this year! I can't wait to show Jake the lights and pull him away from the tree every three minutes. There isn't much else he can participate in, but tree mauling will definitely be in order this Christmas.
Christmas Day at the M's is very low-key. It involves movies and Chinatown, lots of reflection, tons of couch time, and cookies all day long. We don't really do presents because we spoil ourselves rotten year-round. I'm not buying anything for Jake this year, because we still have toys in the basement from the shower and I'm sure that he'll get a bunch of stuff from his fans. He will only be nine months old, and wrapping up socks and onesies is pointless. I'll stuff his stocking full of balled up wrapping paper, Biter Biscuits, and applesauce and let him dump it all over the floor and push it around and jam it in his face. Stockings are better than presents any day, if you ask me.
Christmastime however, is full of magic and mayhem. We always throw a giant party in December, and it runs from noon until the wee hours of the next morning. There is tons of food and drink, and everyone just drops by whenever between shopping trips, family stuff, and company parties. We get at least fifty or sixty people every year and end up with a stocked liquor cabinet and a full belly since we feel the need to eat a little something with everyone who stops over. Dave and I try our best to hit up everyone else's parties, but I don't know how that will work out with baby in tow. Some of those parties are pretty rowdy.
Last year we had the entire family over for a huge Christmas Eve dinner, but I don't think that will happen again. Someone else can take a turn. This year on the Eve, if the weather is nice, we will take Jake downtown and take a hansom cab ride around Old City, complete with blankets and cocoa. Then we will drop by a few houses and eat some fish and drink some nog. Sounds yummy, right? Fish and boozey raw eggs are awesome at the holidays.
Then we get a few days of rest which I like to spend at the office doing absolutely nothing, and then things get kicked up again on the 31st. New Year's Eve is pretty quiet, we don't have a party for that ever since the Millenium with the guns and the swords and the 2x4's full of nails but the next day is the parade and Dave and his buddies make a day out of that. I'm not a fan of loud and cold, so I make a day out of getting organized and giving the house a good cleaning. It makes me feel good to start out the year with a clean house.
Then it's all over, and the Seasonal Affective sets in until about May, when the temperature finally becomes acceptable. That is not the most wonderful time of the year.
11.08.2006
absolutely breathtaking
I'm going to open by saying that all babies are not cute. Some aren't even slightly attractive. A few are hardly passable as human. Of course I'm not speaking of children with deformities or syndromes or whatever. I'm talking about normal healthy children who have the unfortunate combination of genes that will eventually turn them into adults that look like Anne Ramsey, Steve Buscemi, or Martha Plimpton. Or that hideous hag of a woman from Brooklyn who lives in the yellow house a few doors down from me. She says she was in television up there, and I'm guessing as a stand-in for Sigmund the Seamonster.
Do mothers of ugly babies actually admit that their baby is disgusting? Would I be able to recognize if I had a child that should be shrouded from society? Dave and I were the first to say that Jake looked a bit revolting in the 3-D sonogram, and we crossed our fingers that he would at least be smart. When Jake was born, I was okay with the fact that he would have looked just as much at home in the PECO Primate Reserve. I still loved him. I know that Jake has some off days, and I was kind of hideous throughout my whole childhood, but people still loved me. It doesn't mean that I don't love Jake when he has acne or a big head or squinty eyes or a slack mouth. It just means that I don't look him directly in the face as often or take his picture those days. He gets plenty of belly kisses and foot tickles and hugs, and I close my eyes if I must kiss his ucky face.
And it isn't just babies. We all have our unseemly days. When I have an ugly day, I avoid mirrors and hide behind my big sunglasses if I have to go out in public. When you have an ugly day I tell you that I like your shoes. I still love you, you still love me, and once we get over our cold/take a shower/figure out that shade of lipstick isn't for everyone all will be right in the world again. When your kid has a less than adorable day (as if. Your kid is the best. I love that kid.) I still think it is the best thing in the world when I get that smile and that hug and that squeal and that picture drawn for me.
Because the apple doesn't fall very far from the proverbial tree, you would think that if a mother was aware of her own (or her husband's own) level of grossness, she could see it in her child, accept it, and move on. But some people don't. They look at that thing and say "hi baby! You are the most beautiful baby in the world! Everybody loves you and thinks you are pretty!". Do they really believe that? Or are they just saying that to be nice? When I look at an ugly baby I say "hi baby! You look like you are having so much fun with that cookie! Eat that cookie up! You be a good baby! Take good care of your mommy!".
Since having Jake I was surprised that more than a few mothers- some ugly some pretty some somewhere in between- have told me how ugly their babies were. Some prefaced that with an enthusiastic "your baby is so beautiful". Others just said it, making me wonder if they think that Jake is ugly too. Which is okay. He isn't theirs so they can think whatever they want. And if it makes them feel better to think that their baby is cuter than mine, that is okay too. I'm really just here to help you help yourself feel good. Seriously, I get paid to do it a few hours a day. When I was pregnant, people told me that their babies were red or bald or short or fat, but they turned out okay. I guess that other parents want to prepare you for the worst, and let you know that life still goes on. Telling me about your appalling baby is one way to welcome me to parenthood. Telling me that I will be able to sleep and fit my old jeans again one day is another. Whatever.
I was at a party the other day/week/month/year (I'm omitting details since some of you were there and I don't want to offend) and was in the company of one of the ugliest children I have ever seen in my entire life. The poor child was so blindingly revolting that the mother actually introduced her spawn as "and this is little (insert name here). There is nothing wrong with my little one, (s)he just looks like my husband's side of the family. And me too a little before I put on my make-up. Ha Ha. You can treat (name) just like you would any other child, (s)he just looks different".
Oh. Good. Lord. The child comes with a disclaimer. Imagine if Rob Schneider and Kathy Bates and Nicole Kidman's nose in The Hours and that thing from the movie Powder and Matthew Broderick's eye in Election and Alfred E. Neuman's ears and this dog were shoved in a blender, pureed, and baked in an oven at 425 degrees for 35-40 minutes in a pan the shape of a human child. Pretty bad, right? But there was no doubt that this child was loved, and the rest of the kids on the floor didn't seem to think there was anything at all to be concerned about. My kid even grabbed those ears and planted a wet kiss right on that putty-esque nose.
I should probably take a lesson from the kiddies and just get over the whole thing. Honestly, who finds the time and energy to write about unsightly babies anyway?
Do mothers of ugly babies actually admit that their baby is disgusting? Would I be able to recognize if I had a child that should be shrouded from society? Dave and I were the first to say that Jake looked a bit revolting in the 3-D sonogram, and we crossed our fingers that he would at least be smart. When Jake was born, I was okay with the fact that he would have looked just as much at home in the PECO Primate Reserve. I still loved him. I know that Jake has some off days, and I was kind of hideous throughout my whole childhood, but people still loved me. It doesn't mean that I don't love Jake when he has acne or a big head or squinty eyes or a slack mouth. It just means that I don't look him directly in the face as often or take his picture those days. He gets plenty of belly kisses and foot tickles and hugs, and I close my eyes if I must kiss his ucky face.
And it isn't just babies. We all have our unseemly days. When I have an ugly day, I avoid mirrors and hide behind my big sunglasses if I have to go out in public. When you have an ugly day I tell you that I like your shoes. I still love you, you still love me, and once we get over our cold/take a shower/figure out that shade of lipstick isn't for everyone all will be right in the world again. When your kid has a less than adorable day (as if. Your kid is the best. I love that kid.) I still think it is the best thing in the world when I get that smile and that hug and that squeal and that picture drawn for me.
Because the apple doesn't fall very far from the proverbial tree, you would think that if a mother was aware of her own (or her husband's own) level of grossness, she could see it in her child, accept it, and move on. But some people don't. They look at that thing and say "hi baby! You are the most beautiful baby in the world! Everybody loves you and thinks you are pretty!". Do they really believe that? Or are they just saying that to be nice? When I look at an ugly baby I say "hi baby! You look like you are having so much fun with that cookie! Eat that cookie up! You be a good baby! Take good care of your mommy!".
Since having Jake I was surprised that more than a few mothers- some ugly some pretty some somewhere in between- have told me how ugly their babies were. Some prefaced that with an enthusiastic "your baby is so beautiful". Others just said it, making me wonder if they think that Jake is ugly too. Which is okay. He isn't theirs so they can think whatever they want. And if it makes them feel better to think that their baby is cuter than mine, that is okay too. I'm really just here to help you help yourself feel good. Seriously, I get paid to do it a few hours a day. When I was pregnant, people told me that their babies were red or bald or short or fat, but they turned out okay. I guess that other parents want to prepare you for the worst, and let you know that life still goes on. Telling me about your appalling baby is one way to welcome me to parenthood. Telling me that I will be able to sleep and fit my old jeans again one day is another. Whatever.
I was at a party the other day/week/month/year (I'm omitting details since some of you were there and I don't want to offend) and was in the company of one of the ugliest children I have ever seen in my entire life. The poor child was so blindingly revolting that the mother actually introduced her spawn as "and this is little (insert name here). There is nothing wrong with my little one, (s)he just looks like my husband's side of the family. And me too a little before I put on my make-up. Ha Ha. You can treat (name) just like you would any other child, (s)he just looks different".
Oh. Good. Lord. The child comes with a disclaimer. Imagine if Rob Schneider and Kathy Bates and Nicole Kidman's nose in The Hours and that thing from the movie Powder and Matthew Broderick's eye in Election and Alfred E. Neuman's ears and this dog were shoved in a blender, pureed, and baked in an oven at 425 degrees for 35-40 minutes in a pan the shape of a human child. Pretty bad, right? But there was no doubt that this child was loved, and the rest of the kids on the floor didn't seem to think there was anything at all to be concerned about. My kid even grabbed those ears and planted a wet kiss right on that putty-esque nose.
I should probably take a lesson from the kiddies and just get over the whole thing. Honestly, who finds the time and energy to write about unsightly babies anyway?
11.07.2006
icka bicka soda cricka
I just got back from rocking the vote.
Last election I waited in the freezing drizzly cold outside of a church for two hours surrounded by the foul odor of gingko and alleyway urine.
The election before that I fought my way into an elementary school by sloughing off overly-aggressive campaign folks and pint sized brats clamoring for the swing set.
This year I walked straight into the Community Center, signed my name, went in the booth, did my civic duty, had a cup of coffee, spoke with my neighbor who was running the joint about her daughter's pregnancy and the noise in the neighborhood, and went on my way. Dave and I were the only ones there the entire time. I didn't get punched, I didn't gag, I didn't even have to look at a picture of an aborted fetus. All good things, but does this mean that people aren't voting in my neighborhood? Granted I live in the land of housewives on lockdown and husbands who have to be at the union to check in at 5 in the morning but still. I expected to see at least one other person there. I guess maybe the polls will pick up later. This is a big one after all, a chance to give Santorum the boot and keep Rendell in office.
And in case you were wondering, I voted straight Democrat and I am registered Independent. I have a child to think of after all.
And yes, I did fix my wedgie in the booth, but not with my voting hand. That is just gross.
Last election I waited in the freezing drizzly cold outside of a church for two hours surrounded by the foul odor of gingko and alleyway urine.
The election before that I fought my way into an elementary school by sloughing off overly-aggressive campaign folks and pint sized brats clamoring for the swing set.
This year I walked straight into the Community Center, signed my name, went in the booth, did my civic duty, had a cup of coffee, spoke with my neighbor who was running the joint about her daughter's pregnancy and the noise in the neighborhood, and went on my way. Dave and I were the only ones there the entire time. I didn't get punched, I didn't gag, I didn't even have to look at a picture of an aborted fetus. All good things, but does this mean that people aren't voting in my neighborhood? Granted I live in the land of housewives on lockdown and husbands who have to be at the union to check in at 5 in the morning but still. I expected to see at least one other person there. I guess maybe the polls will pick up later. This is a big one after all, a chance to give Santorum the boot and keep Rendell in office.
And in case you were wondering, I voted straight Democrat and I am registered Independent. I have a child to think of after all.
And yes, I did fix my wedgie in the booth, but not with my voting hand. That is just gross.
11.02.2006
halfway thru recovery
Not only did I have a scare about the clock thing, but I missed Halloween because I was flighty enough to schedule myself to work that night. When I scheduled it, I agreed to work "two Tuesdays from now". On the upside, I got a little thrill walking through the ghetto after dark. I saw a few tricks (on the corner by the 95 on-ramp in short spandex skirts and killer clear plastic heels, with black eyes, fat lips, and obvious addiction issues) and I treated myself to a whiskey with friends because it was on my way home, so all ended well. Dave and Jake visited some family and I hear that Jake tolerated his costume for about a second. An old lady gave him his first two dollar bill and he was assaulted with kisses from his cousins and aunt so he ended up making out like a bandit. I'm going to wrangle him back into character this weekend and snap a few shots for posterity.
Jake's southside seems to be healing nicely, and he doesn't even realize there is anything going on down there. He is mastering the crawl and doesn't seem to be missing his exersaucer as much as I thought he would, and he is allowed to resume normal activity in one week. He is starting to be a mommy-clinger and is starting to cry at bedtime, which we are dealing with by letting him go until he falls asleep which is really only ten minutes or so, well within the realm of responsible parenting and a far stretch from neglect charges. I'm sure the neighbors see it the same way. The needy thing is pretty annoying when I'm trying to get things done, but quite nice when I need a break from life.
In self promotion news, I have been having a great time with my camera phone and this blog. For some reason new posts don't register on the blog roller, so if you like funny- and I think you do- check often. And I promise to be better about this one too, this work stuff is really cramping my schedule.
Jake's southside seems to be healing nicely, and he doesn't even realize there is anything going on down there. He is mastering the crawl and doesn't seem to be missing his exersaucer as much as I thought he would, and he is allowed to resume normal activity in one week. He is starting to be a mommy-clinger and is starting to cry at bedtime, which we are dealing with by letting him go until he falls asleep which is really only ten minutes or so, well within the realm of responsible parenting and a far stretch from neglect charges. I'm sure the neighbors see it the same way. The needy thing is pretty annoying when I'm trying to get things done, but quite nice when I need a break from life.
In self promotion news, I have been having a great time with my camera phone and this blog. For some reason new posts don't register on the blog roller, so if you like funny- and I think you do- check often. And I promise to be better about this one too, this work stuff is really cramping my schedule.
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