Jake has all sorts of new things to say, like "bones" and "witch" and "pumpkin" and "scare" and "leaf". He finally says "spider" instead of "its" when he presses his fingers together so you are coerced into telling him about bugs and spouts and rain and sun. We take turns jumping out from behind the couch at each other and yelling "BOO!" and every time Jake squeals "I skeered!". If you really scare him good he looks at you and says "I cwry" and makes a sad face.
I'll be upset when all the "howween" stuff comes down but I'm really looking forward to teaching him all about Santa and midgets and greed.
10.31.2007
10.30.2007
this island life
I know what you were thinking... maybe I should call Lora. What if she's dead in a gutter somewhere or maybe she fell to the fate of a firey auto crash or what if she got stolen and eaten by cannibals at what she thought was the petting zoo but turned out to be a trap set for small children or maimed in the ghetto while out saving the world from poor parenting practices? The bad part about reading people's blogs if you have no other line of communication with them is that you never know what is going on in that person's life unless they are posting. Well, I'm not dead, but I was horribly ill and I didn't want you to catch my germs so I stayed off the world wide interweb for a little while.
A few weeks ago, my ENT gave me some sort of steroidal nasal spray to clean out what was left of the garbage that had been living in my face for the past fifteen years and it turned out that every damned side effect listed on the tightly folded onion skin patient info packet went straight from the paper and into the core of my being.
Dizziness, nausea, bloody noses, headaches, sore throat, earaches, trouble with swallowing, trouble with eating, trouble with sleeping, trouble with breathing, trouble sorting out your troubles. All there. All me. So, I didn't go to the doctor because I am so incredibly above being sick with any actual illnesses and I assumed it was all from this medication because I am way too good and way too pretty to ever get sick. Fast forward two and a half weeks of misery and I found a little flashlight in Jake's grubby hands. I snatched it from him, pointed it into the deepest recesses of my throat, and almost puked. I would have, but my throat hadn't worked right in three days so I just got that weird heartburn that you get when your stomach wants to empty itself but your mouth says "no, I simply cannot allow this to happen. Not here, not now".
It looked like someone had emptied a carton of cottage cheese in there ten days after the expiration date and six days before I got a chance to look at it. If you do the math, that's just a bit over two weeks of lumpy rotting dairy product. In my mouth.
When I finally dragged myself to the pit of humanity that is the Methodist ER, the doctor gagged a little when she looked down my throat. She loaded me with steroids and penicillin and sent me away fast so as not to infect the teenaged gunshot victim with no insurance, his two giggling friends, the immigrants who wouldn't stop saying the word trabajábamos(which coincidentally was my favorite word in the Spanish language until that point. Go ahead and say it. You'll love it), and the woman who was teaching her son to drink his own urine if he ever gets trapped in a hole because "they just don't teach things like that in school, but it is important to know that". When I made it to my ENT three days later, he told me I was disgusting and he hadn't seen a case of infection that bad since he worked with the homeless and that was after twelve doses of penicillin.
And penicillin is fun, isn't it? Diarrhea AND a yeast infection?!?!? Yesssss!
Luckily the boys managed to stay well.
There are tons of topics I'd like to blog about, but I just haven't had the time. I've been working hard on boycotting television because it is sapping my time, energy, motivation, and general will to live. I used to be an avid bookworm and a halfway decent housekeeper until Jake was born, and since he is almost at a point in his babyness that I can just about read and keep an eye on him at the same time, I figure now is as good a time as any to start up again. I read American Psycho (good, but I can think of grosser and more revolting things to do to people and their corpses. Corpsi? Whatever... I was a bit disappointed, but maybe if I had read it back in the early nineties before the current World War and Marilyn Manson and Rob Zombie and Quentin Tarantino and the BBC News and other shockmonsters ruined my soul and desensitized me to what goes on in the world I would have been appalled). I'm currently eating- er, reading- This Book Will Save Your Life. I like it, but I don't love it. Next is This Side of Paradise, and then I'm going to finish The Idiot, which has been kicking around my bedside for three years now. So, I'm feeling better about reading more, but now that is cutting into my housework. What is a girl to do?
I went to a DC United game on the 20th with an old friend. Well, a young friend, but we've been friends for a long time. We used to work together at the bar a thousand lifetimes ago and now she is a hotshot editor at the Smithsonian even though she has yet to see her twenty-fifth birthday. When I first met her she was really into all-night raves in Baltimore warehouses and glitter eye make-up and house music that no one else had ever heard of and we called her Marajuana behind her back because she was a little soupy sometimes. Who knew she was secretly a straight-A genius who would run circles around us all? I was a little overwhelmed at the big city life of Our Nation's Capital and was more than ready to jump on the Metro and hightail it back to 95 North where I could return to the safety of my small town existence here in Little Big City, USA where everybody knows your name and no one pushes you around and there is room to walk and you never have to touch someone's shoulder with your own and they're always glad you came.
Other news, other news... Someone called me Mrs. the other day and I almost flipped. Never once have I been called that. I simply don't allow it. I hate it. It was bad enough that I changed my name upon marriage let alone call me Missus. Okay, I changed it because I was tired of people asking me if I was related to the band. Or the (fictional, people! He's not real either!) doctor. I measured people's intelligence and literary prowess by whether they asked if I was related to the band or the doctor. It was a fun game, but it's over.
If you don't know me, you probably don't even know I'm married. I don't usually wear wedding rings even though I have a good half dozen of them, I don't talk about my personal life with people who aren't loyal readers or close friends. Someone I boss around at work introduced me as Mrs. SoandSo. Gross. She won't do it again, I can assure you that.
Work is going well. Knocking heads together as usual. My yummbly mummbly wooshy gooshy class is over. I actually learned something there. SomethingS, as a matter of fact. The greatest thing I'm taking away from it all is patience with others who don't understand what I am trying to cram down their throat and why I am doing it. Note that I didn't say I learned tolerance. I still get really pissy, but now I can sit in my piss and use the skills I have gathered to guide and teach and love and hug and make the world a little bit better than it was when I woke up. It has helped immensely when I'm trying to teach people how to use the crappy city-run database that was outdated in 1985. Which I have to log onto now and do what they are paying me to do while I sit at my desk pretending to look busy.
A few weeks ago, my ENT gave me some sort of steroidal nasal spray to clean out what was left of the garbage that had been living in my face for the past fifteen years and it turned out that every damned side effect listed on the tightly folded onion skin patient info packet went straight from the paper and into the core of my being.
Dizziness, nausea, bloody noses, headaches, sore throat, earaches, trouble with swallowing, trouble with eating, trouble with sleeping, trouble with breathing, trouble sorting out your troubles. All there. All me. So, I didn't go to the doctor because I am so incredibly above being sick with any actual illnesses and I assumed it was all from this medication because I am way too good and way too pretty to ever get sick. Fast forward two and a half weeks of misery and I found a little flashlight in Jake's grubby hands. I snatched it from him, pointed it into the deepest recesses of my throat, and almost puked. I would have, but my throat hadn't worked right in three days so I just got that weird heartburn that you get when your stomach wants to empty itself but your mouth says "no, I simply cannot allow this to happen. Not here, not now".
It looked like someone had emptied a carton of cottage cheese in there ten days after the expiration date and six days before I got a chance to look at it. If you do the math, that's just a bit over two weeks of lumpy rotting dairy product. In my mouth.
When I finally dragged myself to the pit of humanity that is the Methodist ER, the doctor gagged a little when she looked down my throat. She loaded me with steroids and penicillin and sent me away fast so as not to infect the teenaged gunshot victim with no insurance, his two giggling friends, the immigrants who wouldn't stop saying the word trabajábamos(which coincidentally was my favorite word in the Spanish language until that point. Go ahead and say it. You'll love it), and the woman who was teaching her son to drink his own urine if he ever gets trapped in a hole because "they just don't teach things like that in school, but it is important to know that". When I made it to my ENT three days later, he told me I was disgusting and he hadn't seen a case of infection that bad since he worked with the homeless and that was after twelve doses of penicillin.
And penicillin is fun, isn't it? Diarrhea AND a yeast infection?!?!? Yesssss!
Luckily the boys managed to stay well.
There are tons of topics I'd like to blog about, but I just haven't had the time. I've been working hard on boycotting television because it is sapping my time, energy, motivation, and general will to live. I used to be an avid bookworm and a halfway decent housekeeper until Jake was born, and since he is almost at a point in his babyness that I can just about read and keep an eye on him at the same time, I figure now is as good a time as any to start up again. I read American Psycho (good, but I can think of grosser and more revolting things to do to people and their corpses. Corpsi? Whatever... I was a bit disappointed, but maybe if I had read it back in the early nineties before the current World War and Marilyn Manson and Rob Zombie and Quentin Tarantino and the BBC News and other shockmonsters ruined my soul and desensitized me to what goes on in the world I would have been appalled). I'm currently eating- er, reading- This Book Will Save Your Life. I like it, but I don't love it. Next is This Side of Paradise, and then I'm going to finish The Idiot, which has been kicking around my bedside for three years now. So, I'm feeling better about reading more, but now that is cutting into my housework. What is a girl to do?
I went to a DC United game on the 20th with an old friend. Well, a young friend, but we've been friends for a long time. We used to work together at the bar a thousand lifetimes ago and now she is a hotshot editor at the Smithsonian even though she has yet to see her twenty-fifth birthday. When I first met her she was really into all-night raves in Baltimore warehouses and glitter eye make-up and house music that no one else had ever heard of and we called her Marajuana behind her back because she was a little soupy sometimes. Who knew she was secretly a straight-A genius who would run circles around us all? I was a little overwhelmed at the big city life of Our Nation's Capital and was more than ready to jump on the Metro and hightail it back to 95 North where I could return to the safety of my small town existence here in Little Big City, USA where everybody knows your name and no one pushes you around and there is room to walk and you never have to touch someone's shoulder with your own and they're always glad you came.
Other news, other news... Someone called me Mrs. the other day and I almost flipped. Never once have I been called that. I simply don't allow it. I hate it. It was bad enough that I changed my name upon marriage let alone call me Missus. Okay, I changed it because I was tired of people asking me if I was related to the band. Or the (fictional, people! He's not real either!) doctor. I measured people's intelligence and literary prowess by whether they asked if I was related to the band or the doctor. It was a fun game, but it's over.
If you don't know me, you probably don't even know I'm married. I don't usually wear wedding rings even though I have a good half dozen of them, I don't talk about my personal life with people who aren't loyal readers or close friends. Someone I boss around at work introduced me as Mrs. SoandSo. Gross. She won't do it again, I can assure you that.
Work is going well. Knocking heads together as usual. My yummbly mummbly wooshy gooshy class is over. I actually learned something there. SomethingS, as a matter of fact. The greatest thing I'm taking away from it all is patience with others who don't understand what I am trying to cram down their throat and why I am doing it. Note that I didn't say I learned tolerance. I still get really pissy, but now I can sit in my piss and use the skills I have gathered to guide and teach and love and hug and make the world a little bit better than it was when I woke up. It has helped immensely when I'm trying to teach people how to use the crappy city-run database that was outdated in 1985. Which I have to log onto now and do what they are paying me to do while I sit at my desk pretending to look busy.
10.18.2007
nineteen to the dozen
For the first time in nineteen months I truly and totally forgot that Jake's birthmonthday thing passed. I didn't think about it coming up, and I didn't even realize that it happened until I got the obligatory Your 19 Month Old:Week One email from BabyCenter. I'm really slipping.
Nineteen months brings Jake to a real live walking, talking, singing, dancing boy. It's weird to have something like that running around your house. He gets better and better with the talking every day, and he says things that take me by surprise all the time.
He loves to ask questions- where are you? where's bear? where's Jacob? what's that smell? what's that sound? what's this? what's that? where did it go?
And he'll tell you all about everything he owns and everything he does- bear's nice. kitty soft. my blanket. cold milk. hot coffee. my penis. hi penis! bye penis! penis for pee. don't touch eyes. here's my ear. comb my hair. let's brush my teeth. put on my socks. put on my pants. i poop. i no poop! let's sing. i wanna dance. eat peaches? no! banana? no! apple? no! cheese!! cheese!! cheese? Jacob cheese? Jacob cheese please? thank you? come on, mom. cheese? please? and watch 'toons?
Every morning Jake wakes up and calls out, "Jacob! Where's Jacob? Mommy? Where's Jacob? I'm hungry. Milkshake? Mommy? Where's Jacob? Daddy, where's Mommy? Kitty? Peek-a-boo!" It's hilarious, but it is earlier and earlier every day. 5.17 am today. I ignored the hilarity and Jake cried. Then Jake slept and I slept and we all got up at 6.35. Much better. And I know where Jacob is. He is in his cage/crib. Safe and sound and if he cries he will just cry himself back to sleep and I can get some more sleep and we will all be better off for it.
I could go on and on. Just like he does. The kid never shuts up and it amazes me what goes on in his little brain. I never knew 19 month old kids were so capable of saying so much. He is so soft spoken and quiet that you really have to pay attention to catch everything. He gets that from his dad. I'm pretty loud. I want you to hear what I'm saying, just in case something important and revolutionary slips out of my mouth between all the crap I spew on a regular basis.
Jake runs. Jake runs fast. Go, Jake, go!
Jake whines. Jake whines frequently. Stop, Jake, stop!
Jake is getting cuddly again which I like, but he's also a bit clingy at times, which I don't like. There is nothing better than curling up on the couch with him and watching him lose his schniz over Wheel of Fortune because it is totally on his level. Screaming out letters at the tops of your lungs is awesome. Clapping and cheering and spinning things rank pretty high as well.
Speaking of nineteen, Jake loves the word "nineteen" and thinks it means "Charge!" If you hear a little voice yell "nineteen!" brace yourself. You are about to be pounced on or have a ball hurled directly at your head. I blame myself, because every time we count together I swoop in at 19 and tickle him on the 20.
I've put in a lot of time with other toddlers this month. At work, on weekends, after work on weekdays. Throw a dart at my planner and chances are that you would hit a day that I had to spend some QT with the sub-three set. Normally I shun small people and run away if I see one coming, but I got the chance to stand back and watch and see how different they all are. As adults we are all kind of a little bit different, but not really because we are polite and we adhere to social mores and we mind our manners and our tongues and we are generally careful to point our gasses and our sneezes away from one another. Kids are kind of gross and rude and farty and snotty and weird, and they are all kind of gross and rude and farty and snotty and weird in their own ways. After weeks of observation and deliberation and deducing and inducing and pondering, I've come to the conclusion that:
1. My kid is the best.
2. Your kid is almost the best and I love it because I love you and it is just like a little you and I love that about this whole spawning thing.
2a. Except your kid. Your kid creeps me the eff out. It creeps us all the eff out but we don't say anything because we don't know how to break it to you and you seem to love the little wackjob.
2b. No, not you. Your kid is fine. I love your kid. We all love your kid.
3. Those people over there's kid is obnoxious. In fact, those people over there are obnoxious. We will talk about it after they leave.
4. That kid in the corner trying to put a stick up that dog's rearend should just be shot now to save taxpayers the hassle of dealing with it in twenty years.
5. That kid on the swings is so ugly that its mother won't even kiss it directly on the face.
6. That mother on the bench is so ugly that I don't understand how she got to be a mother in the first place. Wait, never mind. I just figured it out when I looked back at that poor dog...
7. Yeah, um, so this is clearly pretty much where the science part of it all ends, I could continue the list, but I won't.
Nineteen months brings Jake to a real live walking, talking, singing, dancing boy. It's weird to have something like that running around your house. He gets better and better with the talking every day, and he says things that take me by surprise all the time.
He loves to ask questions- where are you? where's bear? where's Jacob? what's that smell? what's that sound? what's this? what's that? where did it go?
And he'll tell you all about everything he owns and everything he does- bear's nice. kitty soft. my blanket. cold milk. hot coffee. my penis. hi penis! bye penis! penis for pee. don't touch eyes. here's my ear. comb my hair. let's brush my teeth. put on my socks. put on my pants. i poop. i no poop! let's sing. i wanna dance. eat peaches? no! banana? no! apple? no! cheese!! cheese!! cheese? Jacob cheese? Jacob cheese please? thank you? come on, mom. cheese? please? and watch 'toons?
Every morning Jake wakes up and calls out, "Jacob! Where's Jacob? Mommy? Where's Jacob? I'm hungry. Milkshake? Mommy? Where's Jacob? Daddy, where's Mommy? Kitty? Peek-a-boo!" It's hilarious, but it is earlier and earlier every day. 5.17 am today. I ignored the hilarity and Jake cried. Then Jake slept and I slept and we all got up at 6.35. Much better. And I know where Jacob is. He is in his cage/crib. Safe and sound and if he cries he will just cry himself back to sleep and I can get some more sleep and we will all be better off for it.
I could go on and on. Just like he does. The kid never shuts up and it amazes me what goes on in his little brain. I never knew 19 month old kids were so capable of saying so much. He is so soft spoken and quiet that you really have to pay attention to catch everything. He gets that from his dad. I'm pretty loud. I want you to hear what I'm saying, just in case something important and revolutionary slips out of my mouth between all the crap I spew on a regular basis.
Jake runs. Jake runs fast. Go, Jake, go!
Jake whines. Jake whines frequently. Stop, Jake, stop!
Jake is getting cuddly again which I like, but he's also a bit clingy at times, which I don't like. There is nothing better than curling up on the couch with him and watching him lose his schniz over Wheel of Fortune because it is totally on his level. Screaming out letters at the tops of your lungs is awesome. Clapping and cheering and spinning things rank pretty high as well.
Speaking of nineteen, Jake loves the word "nineteen" and thinks it means "Charge!" If you hear a little voice yell "nineteen!" brace yourself. You are about to be pounced on or have a ball hurled directly at your head. I blame myself, because every time we count together I swoop in at 19 and tickle him on the 20.
I've put in a lot of time with other toddlers this month. At work, on weekends, after work on weekdays. Throw a dart at my planner and chances are that you would hit a day that I had to spend some QT with the sub-three set. Normally I shun small people and run away if I see one coming, but I got the chance to stand back and watch and see how different they all are. As adults we are all kind of a little bit different, but not really because we are polite and we adhere to social mores and we mind our manners and our tongues and we are generally careful to point our gasses and our sneezes away from one another. Kids are kind of gross and rude and farty and snotty and weird, and they are all kind of gross and rude and farty and snotty and weird in their own ways. After weeks of observation and deliberation and deducing and inducing and pondering, I've come to the conclusion that:
1. My kid is the best.
2. Your kid is almost the best and I love it because I love you and it is just like a little you and I love that about this whole spawning thing.
2a. Except your kid. Your kid creeps me the eff out. It creeps us all the eff out but we don't say anything because we don't know how to break it to you and you seem to love the little wackjob.
2b. No, not you. Your kid is fine. I love your kid. We all love your kid.
3. Those people over there's kid is obnoxious. In fact, those people over there are obnoxious. We will talk about it after they leave.
4. That kid in the corner trying to put a stick up that dog's rearend should just be shot now to save taxpayers the hassle of dealing with it in twenty years.
5. That kid on the swings is so ugly that its mother won't even kiss it directly on the face.
6. That mother on the bench is so ugly that I don't understand how she got to be a mother in the first place. Wait, never mind. I just figured it out when I looked back at that poor dog...
7. Yeah, um, so this is clearly pretty much where the science part of it all ends, I could continue the list, but I won't.
10.09.2007
a rose is a rose
I always hated it when grown people call their parents "Mommy" and "Daddy". But I'm totally guilty of calling Dave's dad "Daddy" if I'm talking to Dave's mom, who I call "Mom". Otherwise I call him "Dad". Dave calls my dad "Your Father" and my mom "Janet" because he doesn't know what else to call her.
Her name is actually Janet, btw.
I call my mom "Mum" and my dad "Dad", but I think my brother calls my mom "Mom" with an O sound. Weird.
Dave says "Mom" and "Dad", but I've heard him say "Mommy" and "Daddy". I don't remember ever saying "Mommy" or "Daddy" but I'm sure I did when I was little.
Jake calls me "Mum", "Mama", and "Mommy" and he calls Dave "Daddy".
Jake calls my mom "Mimi", which is what I called both of my grandmothers and my dad likes to be called "Grandpa" which I hate. I have never called anyone "Grandpa" in my whole entire life because it sounds cold and old and decrepit and mean. I called my grandfathers "Poppa" and I refer to them as "my Grandad" in conversation.
Dave calls his mom's mom "Grandmom" but I call her "Mom". There is nothing really all that grand about her anyway. I call old ladies "Mom" all the time. Neighbors, people at the grocery store, people on the bus. I've even had elderly clients that I called "Mom" because I think it is respectful and I can't bring to call them by their first name like they ask.
Dave called his dad's mom "MomMom" and that is what Jake calls Dave's mom. Most kids in this area call their grandmothers "MomMom". I think it's weird, but whatever.
People in this area also call their children "Mommy" and "Dad". And don't think that the girls are "Mommy" and the boys are "Dad". The moms call all children "Mommy" and the dads call all children "Dad". Grandmothers call all children "Grandmom" or "MomMom" and grandfathers call all children "Grandpop" or "PopPop". I'll never understand it. I hate it. Loathe it. I seethe. I don't understand why it is okay to do that. There is nothing that gets under my skin more than a fifty year-old woman sitting on a park bench screaming "Grammom! Grammom! Git ovah here wheres I kin see yous, Grammom!" between bites of horrid dried out Italian pastries and sips of Dunkin Donuts coffee out of a cup with Revlon Fire and Ice lipstick all over the rim.
Dave calls his dad's dad "Pop" and so do I. We are trying to get Jake to call him "Poppy" but he insists on "PopPop" or "John". Dave called his mom's dad "That asshole, I'm so glad that he is dead".
I always called my aunts and uncles and all my parents' friends "Aunt This" and "Uncle That" but Dave calls his aunts and uncles by their first names, no titles. Jake will call all adults either Aunt or Uncle or Mr/Mrs/Ms/Miss. That's my rule. I still don't feel comfortable calling Dave's aunts and uncles by their first name, even if they are only four or five years older than me and I've known them for thirteen years. If my mother knew I did that I'd have a mouth full of Palmolive for sure.
What does your family call one another?
Her name is actually Janet, btw.
I call my mom "Mum" and my dad "Dad", but I think my brother calls my mom "Mom" with an O sound. Weird.
Dave says "Mom" and "Dad", but I've heard him say "Mommy" and "Daddy". I don't remember ever saying "Mommy" or "Daddy" but I'm sure I did when I was little.
Jake calls me "Mum", "Mama", and "Mommy" and he calls Dave "Daddy".
Jake calls my mom "Mimi", which is what I called both of my grandmothers and my dad likes to be called "Grandpa" which I hate. I have never called anyone "Grandpa" in my whole entire life because it sounds cold and old and decrepit and mean. I called my grandfathers "Poppa" and I refer to them as "my Grandad" in conversation.
Dave calls his mom's mom "Grandmom" but I call her "Mom". There is nothing really all that grand about her anyway. I call old ladies "Mom" all the time. Neighbors, people at the grocery store, people on the bus. I've even had elderly clients that I called "Mom" because I think it is respectful and I can't bring to call them by their first name like they ask.
Dave called his dad's mom "MomMom" and that is what Jake calls Dave's mom. Most kids in this area call their grandmothers "MomMom". I think it's weird, but whatever.
People in this area also call their children "Mommy" and "Dad". And don't think that the girls are "Mommy" and the boys are "Dad". The moms call all children "Mommy" and the dads call all children "Dad". Grandmothers call all children "Grandmom" or "MomMom" and grandfathers call all children "Grandpop" or "PopPop". I'll never understand it. I hate it. Loathe it. I seethe. I don't understand why it is okay to do that. There is nothing that gets under my skin more than a fifty year-old woman sitting on a park bench screaming "Grammom! Grammom! Git ovah here wheres I kin see yous, Grammom!" between bites of horrid dried out Italian pastries and sips of Dunkin Donuts coffee out of a cup with Revlon Fire and Ice lipstick all over the rim.
Dave calls his dad's dad "Pop" and so do I. We are trying to get Jake to call him "Poppy" but he insists on "PopPop" or "John". Dave called his mom's dad "That asshole, I'm so glad that he is dead".
I always called my aunts and uncles and all my parents' friends "Aunt This" and "Uncle That" but Dave calls his aunts and uncles by their first names, no titles. Jake will call all adults either Aunt or Uncle or Mr/Mrs/Ms/Miss. That's my rule. I still don't feel comfortable calling Dave's aunts and uncles by their first name, even if they are only four or five years older than me and I've known them for thirteen years. If my mother knew I did that I'd have a mouth full of Palmolive for sure.
What does your family call one another?
10.08.2007
gangly
Even though we are in a summer holding pattern today and tomorrow, I'm trying to sort out Jake's fall clothes. I'm having a huge problem with his pants. Because I can't bring myself to run all over town in search of toddler pants that are cut to fit and because I can't bring myself to pay more than $10ish dollars for a pair of pants for a baby, I'm stuck with all of Jake's Old Navy pants, which are either size 18 months, 24 months, and 2T.
Jake measures a hair longer than 33 inches and weighs just about 24 pounds.
Size 18 month pants fit children who are 29-31 inches tall. No.
Size 18 month pants fit children who weigh 22-27 pounds. Yes.
Size 18 month pants look like capri's.
Okay in Europe and on 12th and Locust, not so much for Jake.
Size 24 month pants fit children who are 31-33 inches tall. Yes, for the next thirty seconds.
Size 24 month pants fit children who weigh 27-30 pounds. No, and if Jake continues at the 20th percentile, he will reach 27 pounds at age 2 and a half.
Clown pants. Pass the suspenders and put a hula hoop in the waist.
Size 2T pants fit children who are 33-36 inches tall. Close, but that three inch window means the cuffs drag. A lot.
Size 2T pants fit children who weigh 30-33 pounds. Again, at the 20th percentile, 30 pounds is off the 0-3 years charts.
I have problems with the hems of my pants. Regular is too short, Tall is too long. I take them to the cleaners and give the little man behind the curtain $10 per pair to make them fit me. Dave has problems with the hems of his pants. Tall is too long, Regular is too long, Short is too long. I take them to the cleaners and give the little man $5 per pair to make them fit him. Why it costs twice as much to make my pants fit me is beyond my comprehension. My shirts cost three times as much to get clean, so maybe it is some sort of mathematical formula that I can't comprehend. The dry cleaner is Asian after all, and you know they are much better at that stuff than white girls like me.
There is probably some sort of equation that figures in baby sized pants. If you take the cosine of the total seamstress bill and multiply it by the atomic number of the metal that your wedding ring is made of I think that is how much it costs to have small pants hemmed. But that hardly seems worth it because they grow so fast. But you can go ahead and hem them if you consider that the knees might wear out before the kid outgrows the pants. Or you can just tuck the cuffs under and tack it with a few stitches but that means that I would have to buy a sewing kit which might end up costing more than the hem job would because I lose things like that and it would never get done because I'd never get to the store and then I'd never do it because I'm not that kind of girl but then I'd feel like I want to because my idea of wedded bliss is sitting under the lamp sewing stuff while my husband nods off while watching World News Tonight and the laundry is running and my dishes are washed and I look lovingly at my two cats curled in front of the fire while the snow falls and my tea kettle whistle blows so I put down my needle and thread and long pants with the waistband that is years too big for my child to make my tea that I drink to stay awake long enough to figure out how to run elastic through a waistband (I think it involves a safety pin and some bunching) and wonder if I am being obnoxious with the "no sweatpants in this house" rule because sweatpants already have an elastic waistband and then I panic because I realize that diapers add bulk to a child and what if Jake is potty trained and then his pants are really too big without that extra padding around his middle. Then I realize that speaking of peeing, I really have to go but it is so cold upstairs that I might pee a little before I get to a place where it is appropriate to pee so I warm myself up by drinking my tea which is too hot and it scalds my tongue and I won't be able to taste anything for a week so I get really annoyed at my husband who is sleeping through the Stupid World News Tonight and he is sitting on the remote and I'm angry because I have to do everything and he gets to sleep whenever he wants while I stay awake and sew stupid pants and do the stupid laundry and the stupid dishes and clean the stupid cat box and sweep up the stupid cat hair and drink stupid tea. And then I think about how much it sucks to live in stupid Pennsylvania where we have obnoxious winters and if only we moved somewhere sensible where the temperatures don't drop below 65 degrees I wouldn't have to worry about inseams because we could all just wear shorts all the time.
So yeah, I don't think I'm going to be sewing anything any time soon. Any suggestions?
Jake measures a hair longer than 33 inches and weighs just about 24 pounds.
Size 18 month pants fit children who are 29-31 inches tall. No.
Size 18 month pants fit children who weigh 22-27 pounds. Yes.
Size 18 month pants look like capri's.
Okay in Europe and on 12th and Locust, not so much for Jake.
Size 24 month pants fit children who are 31-33 inches tall. Yes, for the next thirty seconds.
Size 24 month pants fit children who weigh 27-30 pounds. No, and if Jake continues at the 20th percentile, he will reach 27 pounds at age 2 and a half.
Clown pants. Pass the suspenders and put a hula hoop in the waist.
Size 2T pants fit children who are 33-36 inches tall. Close, but that three inch window means the cuffs drag. A lot.
Size 2T pants fit children who weigh 30-33 pounds. Again, at the 20th percentile, 30 pounds is off the 0-3 years charts.
I have problems with the hems of my pants. Regular is too short, Tall is too long. I take them to the cleaners and give the little man behind the curtain $10 per pair to make them fit me. Dave has problems with the hems of his pants. Tall is too long, Regular is too long, Short is too long. I take them to the cleaners and give the little man $5 per pair to make them fit him. Why it costs twice as much to make my pants fit me is beyond my comprehension. My shirts cost three times as much to get clean, so maybe it is some sort of mathematical formula that I can't comprehend. The dry cleaner is Asian after all, and you know they are much better at that stuff than white girls like me.
There is probably some sort of equation that figures in baby sized pants. If you take the cosine of the total seamstress bill and multiply it by the atomic number of the metal that your wedding ring is made of I think that is how much it costs to have small pants hemmed. But that hardly seems worth it because they grow so fast. But you can go ahead and hem them if you consider that the knees might wear out before the kid outgrows the pants. Or you can just tuck the cuffs under and tack it with a few stitches but that means that I would have to buy a sewing kit which might end up costing more than the hem job would because I lose things like that and it would never get done because I'd never get to the store and then I'd never do it because I'm not that kind of girl but then I'd feel like I want to because my idea of wedded bliss is sitting under the lamp sewing stuff while my husband nods off while watching World News Tonight and the laundry is running and my dishes are washed and I look lovingly at my two cats curled in front of the fire while the snow falls and my tea kettle whistle blows so I put down my needle and thread and long pants with the waistband that is years too big for my child to make my tea that I drink to stay awake long enough to figure out how to run elastic through a waistband (I think it involves a safety pin and some bunching) and wonder if I am being obnoxious with the "no sweatpants in this house" rule because sweatpants already have an elastic waistband and then I panic because I realize that diapers add bulk to a child and what if Jake is potty trained and then his pants are really too big without that extra padding around his middle. Then I realize that speaking of peeing, I really have to go but it is so cold upstairs that I might pee a little before I get to a place where it is appropriate to pee so I warm myself up by drinking my tea which is too hot and it scalds my tongue and I won't be able to taste anything for a week so I get really annoyed at my husband who is sleeping through the Stupid World News Tonight and he is sitting on the remote and I'm angry because I have to do everything and he gets to sleep whenever he wants while I stay awake and sew stupid pants and do the stupid laundry and the stupid dishes and clean the stupid cat box and sweep up the stupid cat hair and drink stupid tea. And then I think about how much it sucks to live in stupid Pennsylvania where we have obnoxious winters and if only we moved somewhere sensible where the temperatures don't drop below 65 degrees I wouldn't have to worry about inseams because we could all just wear shorts all the time.
So yeah, I don't think I'm going to be sewing anything any time soon. Any suggestions?
must haves
I love knowing what kind of shampoo you use. That is why your shower curtain is askew every time I come over. I care about your dish soap, your flatware, your lotion. Tampax or Playtex? Bounce or Downey? Lysol or Febreeze? Please?
New moms want to know what old moms know. It's a fact. People ask me about stuff all the time and I'm hardly an old mom. But, I'm new enough to remember what I used when I was a new mom and old enough to have tried lots of stuff, so here it goes.
Diapers- Target Brand until Jake could crawl, and now I switch between Huggies Baby-fit and Pampers Baby-dry, whatever is cheaper.
Wipes- Huggies Naturals
Rash cream- Budreaux's Butt Paste or A+D. I think we may have used it a dozen times, if that. I use it more often on myself. Butt Paste is great for pimples, burns, ingrown hairs, and unexplicable rashes.
Bottles- I started out with Dr. Browns but switched to Playtex VentAires when I saw how simple they were to clean. I liked the Dr. Brown's better before Jake learned how to burp himself, but the Playtex were good once he figured it out.
Formula- Regular old Enfamil or the Target Brand. Jake never needed anything fancy. Please breastfeed!
Babyfood- Gerber
Sippy cup- I liked Avent and Nuby when Jake was learning. They were good for those first few months when I weaned him off the bottle. I think he was ten or so months old and still needed some softness. Now I only buy the Playtex ones and the Take-and-Toss (please don't toss! they last forever) cups. Be sure to wash your valves EVERY time. They get gross.
Silverware- Those rubber Gerber spoons were great at first, then I used the Take-and-Toss ones, now I'm loving a little set of cutlery I bought at Toys R Us for Jake. It is a fork, spoon, and (totally useless) knife and it is the best thing ever. I can't remember the brand, but it is there and costs about $5. I hated the Gerber Fun Grips, the spoons sucked. Don't waste your cash on those Gerber Little Dippers either. And because I'm easily grossed-out those mesh feeders were a total waste of time and money.
Dishes- Take-and-Toss comes through again for me here, the little containers are godsends, especially when you are me and you care about every single thing that your baby ingests. They made it easy to carry Jake's food around with him and store the stuff I pureed. Jake has a few supercute plates from Target but now that I broke down and bought Corelle he uses those. Corelle dishes could be a whole other post for me. Hell, they could be a whole other blog. Someday I'll tell you about how Corelle has infiltrated my psyche.
Bathsoap and lotion- Johnson's Baby. I just don't trust the Huggies and Pampers and other stuff. I do like Aveeno Baby and Arbonne, but I'm not made of dollars.
Laundry detergent- Tide or All Fragrance Free.
Softener- Bounce, but only in the winter.
Dish soap- Palmolive green stuff. Use it to get greasy food stains out of your laundry too, it is better than any pre-treater out there. That's an insiders tip from the restaurant business.
Cleanser- I try to stick to natural stuff like vinegar, lemon juice, salt, and elbow grease, but if I must I like Clorox Clean-up and Comet. I'm a big fan of the Sun and Earth products too. You can eat them, which is reassuring when you have Jake around.
Baby clothes- I hate shopping, so I do most of it online at OldNavy.com. The clothes hold up better than the ones from the Gap, and there is always a sale. If I love something and it is dirt cheap, I'll buy a few sizes. Burlington Coat Factory has the best stock of Gerber Onesies in all sizes and Target has good socks. I think they are as ugly as sin, but those Robeez slippers and the knock-offs really come in handy.
Crib toy- Fisher Price Aquarium = lifesaver. When Jake is responsible enough to sleep in a big-boy bed, I'll put it back in there. I'm afraid he would use it as a step to leap out of his crib now, and I believe in baby-containment so I can get a better night's sleep.
Baby Monitor- yeah. I couldn't stand it. Jake was the monitor. If he needed something really really bad, he screamed and I came into his room. I think I used it twice.
Bear- all the stuff above is important to me, but the most important thing to Jake is Bear. A thousand years ago when I was living the grad-school life and working retail, I secretly fell in love with Fuzz. Yes, that Fuzz. I bought one and squirreled it away in the darkest recesses of my basement so no one would ever see that I bought a Beanie Baby. I dug it out when I was well enough to go up and down stairs after having Jake. Best $5 I ever spent. Because Bear has already seen better days and I am neurotic about stockpiling things, I scoured the internet and bought three more just in case puke, poop, or a random act of nature renders Bear unusable.
A mom has to plan for her baby's future after all.
New moms want to know what old moms know. It's a fact. People ask me about stuff all the time and I'm hardly an old mom. But, I'm new enough to remember what I used when I was a new mom and old enough to have tried lots of stuff, so here it goes.
Diapers- Target Brand until Jake could crawl, and now I switch between Huggies Baby-fit and Pampers Baby-dry, whatever is cheaper.
Wipes- Huggies Naturals
Rash cream- Budreaux's Butt Paste or A+D. I think we may have used it a dozen times, if that. I use it more often on myself. Butt Paste is great for pimples, burns, ingrown hairs, and unexplicable rashes.
Bottles- I started out with Dr. Browns but switched to Playtex VentAires when I saw how simple they were to clean. I liked the Dr. Brown's better before Jake learned how to burp himself, but the Playtex were good once he figured it out.
Formula- Regular old Enfamil or the Target Brand. Jake never needed anything fancy. Please breastfeed!
Babyfood- Gerber
Sippy cup- I liked Avent and Nuby when Jake was learning. They were good for those first few months when I weaned him off the bottle. I think he was ten or so months old and still needed some softness. Now I only buy the Playtex ones and the Take-and-Toss (please don't toss! they last forever) cups. Be sure to wash your valves EVERY time. They get gross.
Silverware- Those rubber Gerber spoons were great at first, then I used the Take-and-Toss ones, now I'm loving a little set of cutlery I bought at Toys R Us for Jake. It is a fork, spoon, and (totally useless) knife and it is the best thing ever. I can't remember the brand, but it is there and costs about $5. I hated the Gerber Fun Grips, the spoons sucked. Don't waste your cash on those Gerber Little Dippers either. And because I'm easily grossed-out those mesh feeders were a total waste of time and money.
Dishes- Take-and-Toss comes through again for me here, the little containers are godsends, especially when you are me and you care about every single thing that your baby ingests. They made it easy to carry Jake's food around with him and store the stuff I pureed. Jake has a few supercute plates from Target but now that I broke down and bought Corelle he uses those. Corelle dishes could be a whole other post for me. Hell, they could be a whole other blog. Someday I'll tell you about how Corelle has infiltrated my psyche.
Bathsoap and lotion- Johnson's Baby. I just don't trust the Huggies and Pampers and other stuff. I do like Aveeno Baby and Arbonne, but I'm not made of dollars.
Laundry detergent- Tide or All Fragrance Free.
Softener- Bounce, but only in the winter.
Dish soap- Palmolive green stuff. Use it to get greasy food stains out of your laundry too, it is better than any pre-treater out there. That's an insiders tip from the restaurant business.
Cleanser- I try to stick to natural stuff like vinegar, lemon juice, salt, and elbow grease, but if I must I like Clorox Clean-up and Comet. I'm a big fan of the Sun and Earth products too. You can eat them, which is reassuring when you have Jake around.
Baby clothes- I hate shopping, so I do most of it online at OldNavy.com. The clothes hold up better than the ones from the Gap, and there is always a sale. If I love something and it is dirt cheap, I'll buy a few sizes. Burlington Coat Factory has the best stock of Gerber Onesies in all sizes and Target has good socks. I think they are as ugly as sin, but those Robeez slippers and the knock-offs really come in handy.
Crib toy- Fisher Price Aquarium = lifesaver. When Jake is responsible enough to sleep in a big-boy bed, I'll put it back in there. I'm afraid he would use it as a step to leap out of his crib now, and I believe in baby-containment so I can get a better night's sleep.
Baby Monitor- yeah. I couldn't stand it. Jake was the monitor. If he needed something really really bad, he screamed and I came into his room. I think I used it twice.
Bear- all the stuff above is important to me, but the most important thing to Jake is Bear. A thousand years ago when I was living the grad-school life and working retail, I secretly fell in love with Fuzz. Yes, that Fuzz. I bought one and squirreled it away in the darkest recesses of my basement so no one would ever see that I bought a Beanie Baby. I dug it out when I was well enough to go up and down stairs after having Jake. Best $5 I ever spent. Because Bear has already seen better days and I am neurotic about stockpiling things, I scoured the internet and bought three more just in case puke, poop, or a random act of nature renders Bear unusable.
A mom has to plan for her baby's future after all.
in the sky
I have a mirror that hangs on the wall adjacent to the big bay window in my bedroom. Every night when the streetlights come on, the light reflects off this mirror and makes a big round spot above my bed. Until Friday, it annoyed me to no end because I can't control this.
Sure I could put curtains or blinds up, but I'm morally opposed to curtains and blinds. Because you are morally opposed to watching me sleep, dress, and do it, I have stained glassy things covering the bottom half of my bedroom windows, just like I do in my living room. If you are so determined that you just have to see me naked, you have to climb on to the rooftops across to street to see in my room. If you do that, you've earned the right. I digress.
After Jake's bath on Friday, I carried him and his towel and his pajamas into my room to get him dried off and dressed for bed. I didn't turn the light on because I wanted to get him calmed down and put to bed. Johnson and Johnson's claim that their products can be part of a soothing nighttime ritual. I claim that putting my kid in the tub is like giving him Pop Rocks and methamphetamine. It's terribly stimulating.
Anyway, as soon as Jake saw that reflection he took a huge breath in, pointed, and said, "Wow! The moon!".
Wouldn't it be great if your kids thought that the moon rose and set in your room forever?
Sure I could put curtains or blinds up, but I'm morally opposed to curtains and blinds. Because you are morally opposed to watching me sleep, dress, and do it, I have stained glassy things covering the bottom half of my bedroom windows, just like I do in my living room. If you are so determined that you just have to see me naked, you have to climb on to the rooftops across to street to see in my room. If you do that, you've earned the right. I digress.
After Jake's bath on Friday, I carried him and his towel and his pajamas into my room to get him dried off and dressed for bed. I didn't turn the light on because I wanted to get him calmed down and put to bed. Johnson and Johnson's claim that their products can be part of a soothing nighttime ritual. I claim that putting my kid in the tub is like giving him Pop Rocks and methamphetamine. It's terribly stimulating.
Anyway, as soon as Jake saw that reflection he took a huge breath in, pointed, and said, "Wow! The moon!".
Wouldn't it be great if your kids thought that the moon rose and set in your room forever?
10.02.2007
a fine italian whine
Because no one has ever heard of any such thing as a British Vineyard, Jake must get it from Dave's side of the family, right?
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