The house in South Carolina had giant porches that spanned the first and second floors and overlooked the dunes and ocean. We left the sliding doors open so Jake and the dogs could come and go as they pleased because it was easier than getting off our fat rear ends and letting them out every ten seconds. We were on vaca, dammit.
The dogs barked at the big blackbirds while Jake ran around flapping his arms screaming "biwds! tweet! tweet! my wings! tweet! tweet!" and when they got tired they all ate dogfood.
Jake ran from side to side of the deck sticking his arms between the rails and screaming "hi bacation! hi biatch!" at absolutely no one because absolutely no one was around but us.
Jake sat on the big lounge chairs with his head tilted at the sky and pretended like his life was so hard that he needed a break. The hardest thing he did all weekend was convince himself not to cry whenever he saw a bug.
"A bug! I skeered! I cry! I no cry. Its okay."
"A bubblefwy! Ahhh. Is beau-a-full. I no cry at bubblefwies."
"A spidah! I cry! Is cucky. No toucha spidah."
Someone is teaching this kid about the creepies of nature. No 20 month old child knows that bubblefwies is beau-a-full and spidahs is cucky unless someone tells them that. He's totally obsessed with bugs lately and everything small and dark are bugs.
Maybe instead of an engineer he will be an entomologist. If you want to piss Dave off next time you see him use the word "mechanic" instead of engineer and "exterminator" instead of entomologist. He loves it when you limit Jake's future to fields that you enter through correspondence courses.
Do you want to make more money? Sure! We all do.
Jake spent a lot of time counting steps as he walked up and down them and we let him do it all by himself because there were only three and if he fell there wouldn't be too much blood. Oh, and if you think it's bad that he calls the beach "biatch" you should hear how he says "count". Kinda like he drops the "r" in shirt and the "l" in clock he totally leaves out the "o" in count. Kids are so effing adorable. They should talk all the time, mostly in public places like churches and synagogues.
When the temps dropped to a ghastly 65 and we old people couldn't take the chill the doors were closed and Jake would blink real big and say "I go outside? Witta doggies?" and blink real big again and I couldn't help but get out from under the blanket to let the three monsters out.
Someone should've had the foresight to take a picture of all the nose, hand, and paw prints on the door.
I was afraid Jake would freak when we got home and his outside time dropped off to near zero, but he seems to be okay with it. Maybe all this was the motivation we need to get our backyard repaved.
Yes, repaved. My backyard is essentially a concrete pit. I've never mowed a lawn in my entire life, and I can probably count on my hands the number of times that I've raked. Yard work is a foreign concept to me. I can't imagine having that task added to my list of home chores. I can hardly get the inside stuff done.
11.27.2007
losing sleep
I'm toying with the idea of taking the side rail off Jake's crib and turning it into a toddler bed. He climbed out of the Pack and Play two weeks ago at his grandparents house and more than once I've caught him with a leg over the side of his crib in the morning. In regular life Jake doesn't climb much, but when he does it's pretty extreme. He can get his leg over my shoulder if I'm sitting on the floor so you can imagine the damage this kid can do if left unattended and off the ground.
My biggest line of defense in keeping this kid caged is a Halo Sleepsack, and luckily they are making them in toddler sizes now because his toes were practically poking out of the 24 monther. If you're a mom with a baby, buy this. It's the best twenty some dollars you'll ever spend. I've used them since Jake was born and they are the next best thing to tying your brat's legs together. Toys'backwardsR'Us sells them cheapest.
I think Jake is ready for a big boy bed. His head is always at the same end of the bed in the morning as it was when I put him to bed the night before. That doesn't sound like much, but I've found that child with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet up on the rail, butt hovering at four inches in the air at 4am. He does well on regular beds in guestrooms all over Philadelphia and the few times that he has been in my bed he doesn't fall out but he makes sure I do because he needs an entire queen sized bed for himself and Bear and has no qualms about kicking and punching until they get their space.
It will probably be much easier to switch to a bed sooner than later, and maybe we can get this transition down before we move on to the serious potty stuff. I'm a big fan of yanking habit forming baby stuff before the habit is formed. That's why Jake wasn't allowed bottles after 11 months, pacifiers after 3 months, and I cut his thumbs off shortly after I pulled the paci. I'm just not the kind of mom who has the patience to deal with childhood addictions. I have to many of my own big girl ones to deal with.
I'll get a safety rail just in case, and will put a baby gate in Jake's doorway. Unless one of you are genius enough to tell me how the hell you block off the stairs in a 120 year-old row home with plaster walls and one inch by one inch wooden banisters. Something tells me that Little Benny Franklin probably took a few tumbles back in the day. Luckily back then you could only fall up the stairs, and the constant ice and snow numbed you instantly. And if you were really good you could loop your book belt thing over the railing and stop yourself before you were seriously injured or ripped the knee of your knickers.
I'm not sure that I'm ready for a big boy bed. It seemed like nothing about Jake was ever babybabyish and putting him in a bed is a pretty big deal for me.
I like to sit Jake up on the crib rail before he goes to bed and we rock back and forth and count to 25 every night. I'll definitely miss that. On the other hand, I'll be able to sit on his bed and read him a bedtime story if he has a regular bed and can lay down with him if he isn't feeling physically well and is in need of a big snuggle. Or if I'm not feeling mentally well and am in need of a little snuggle.
I'll probably be a wreck for the first week or so the rail is off, so I'll need a good excuse for sleeping on the floor in Jake's room. When he moved to his crib from the bassinet we were in the middle of a heat wave and Jake has air conditioning. Now it's freezing outside and my flannel sheets and down comforter are so much more inviting than a cold floor.
Any suggestions? What was it like when your baby graduated?
My biggest line of defense in keeping this kid caged is a Halo Sleepsack, and luckily they are making them in toddler sizes now because his toes were practically poking out of the 24 monther. If you're a mom with a baby, buy this. It's the best twenty some dollars you'll ever spend. I've used them since Jake was born and they are the next best thing to tying your brat's legs together. Toys'backwardsR'Us sells them cheapest.
I think Jake is ready for a big boy bed. His head is always at the same end of the bed in the morning as it was when I put him to bed the night before. That doesn't sound like much, but I've found that child with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet up on the rail, butt hovering at four inches in the air at 4am. He does well on regular beds in guestrooms all over Philadelphia and the few times that he has been in my bed he doesn't fall out but he makes sure I do because he needs an entire queen sized bed for himself and Bear and has no qualms about kicking and punching until they get their space.
It will probably be much easier to switch to a bed sooner than later, and maybe we can get this transition down before we move on to the serious potty stuff. I'm a big fan of yanking habit forming baby stuff before the habit is formed. That's why Jake wasn't allowed bottles after 11 months, pacifiers after 3 months, and I cut his thumbs off shortly after I pulled the paci. I'm just not the kind of mom who has the patience to deal with childhood addictions. I have to many of my own big girl ones to deal with.
I'll get a safety rail just in case, and will put a baby gate in Jake's doorway. Unless one of you are genius enough to tell me how the hell you block off the stairs in a 120 year-old row home with plaster walls and one inch by one inch wooden banisters. Something tells me that Little Benny Franklin probably took a few tumbles back in the day. Luckily back then you could only fall up the stairs, and the constant ice and snow numbed you instantly. And if you were really good you could loop your book belt thing over the railing and stop yourself before you were seriously injured or ripped the knee of your knickers.
I'm not sure that I'm ready for a big boy bed. It seemed like nothing about Jake was ever babybabyish and putting him in a bed is a pretty big deal for me.
I like to sit Jake up on the crib rail before he goes to bed and we rock back and forth and count to 25 every night. I'll definitely miss that. On the other hand, I'll be able to sit on his bed and read him a bedtime story if he has a regular bed and can lay down with him if he isn't feeling physically well and is in need of a big snuggle. Or if I'm not feeling mentally well and am in need of a little snuggle.
I'll probably be a wreck for the first week or so the rail is off, so I'll need a good excuse for sleeping on the floor in Jake's room. When he moved to his crib from the bassinet we were in the middle of a heat wave and Jake has air conditioning. Now it's freezing outside and my flannel sheets and down comforter are so much more inviting than a cold floor.
Any suggestions? What was it like when your baby graduated?
singing songs about the southland
I'm almost fully recovered from our trip down to the Durty. Everything was incredible and I couldn't believe how relaxing a holiday can actually be once you put eleven hours between you and your next of kin. I turned off my phone, boycotted my email, and threw the clock out the window. Who needs a clock when you have a Jake, anyway.
To get down there I earned my keep by driving through North Carolina at 3am. So yeah. That's different than anything I've ever done before. NC I95 is way different than our I95.
Our 95 has eighteen lanes, each big enough to land a 747 in case of an emergency, street lights, and a reasonable speed limit. NC 95 has two eensy lanes, nothing but the moon to light your way, and no real traffic rules at all. Our 95 is full of normal, mid-Atlantic people. NC is full of not-normal, not-mid-Atlantic people. Which explains why all the pickups that blew past me at 100mph contained at least one of the following:
*An elderly lady with a 100-length cigarette smouldering in her trach-hole counting Marlboro miles that will be redeemed for Christmas gifts
*A skinny guy spraying Febreeze in a Winston t-shirt to make it smell like new so no one makes fun of him when he makes it to the drinking party at the parking lot down by the old quarry.
*A blonde with a bad dye-job trying to pull her fauxny-tail out of the rifle rack without crashing
*A sloppy weepy chick with runny eye makeup drinking homemade booze out of a mason jar
*A guy in a sleeveless flannel shirt trying to scrape the now-defunct number 8 off his windshield. While driving.
*A 21 year-old guy in a wife beater beating his 19 year-old pregnant wife. Who in turn was beating her just-turned nine year-old son with a broomstick. Who in turn was kissing his almost-about-to-be 12 year-old cousin. On the mouth, with tongue.
*A dog with a bandanna in the truck bed
*A life sized cardboard cutout of Larry the Cableguy
*A life sized cardboard cutout of Billy Graham
*A life sized cardboard cutout of Robert E. Lee waving a real Confederate flag and wearing a mullet wig.
I was a-scared, Ma. Real real a-scared.
So I did the only thing I thought to do. I handed the wheel back over and went to sleep until Charleston.
To get down there I earned my keep by driving through North Carolina at 3am. So yeah. That's different than anything I've ever done before. NC I95 is way different than our I95.
Our 95 has eighteen lanes, each big enough to land a 747 in case of an emergency, street lights, and a reasonable speed limit. NC 95 has two eensy lanes, nothing but the moon to light your way, and no real traffic rules at all. Our 95 is full of normal, mid-Atlantic people. NC is full of not-normal, not-mid-Atlantic people. Which explains why all the pickups that blew past me at 100mph contained at least one of the following:
*An elderly lady with a 100-length cigarette smouldering in her trach-hole counting Marlboro miles that will be redeemed for Christmas gifts
*A skinny guy spraying Febreeze in a Winston t-shirt to make it smell like new so no one makes fun of him when he makes it to the drinking party at the parking lot down by the old quarry.
*A blonde with a bad dye-job trying to pull her fauxny-tail out of the rifle rack without crashing
*A sloppy weepy chick with runny eye makeup drinking homemade booze out of a mason jar
*A guy in a sleeveless flannel shirt trying to scrape the now-defunct number 8 off his windshield. While driving.
*A 21 year-old guy in a wife beater beating his 19 year-old pregnant wife. Who in turn was beating her just-turned nine year-old son with a broomstick. Who in turn was kissing his almost-about-to-be 12 year-old cousin. On the mouth, with tongue.
*A dog with a bandanna in the truck bed
*A life sized cardboard cutout of Larry the Cableguy
*A life sized cardboard cutout of Billy Graham
*A life sized cardboard cutout of Robert E. Lee waving a real Confederate flag and wearing a mullet wig.
I was a-scared, Ma. Real real a-scared.
So I did the only thing I thought to do. I handed the wheel back over and went to sleep until Charleston.
11.26.2007
black and white and read all over
Remember when I made the paper over the summer? Well, I'm so fabulous and interesting and my life is so full of hijinksy twists and turns that I got another shot at fame. Enjoy! If you have trouble reading this you can visit http://www.phables.com/
I'm a fabulous cook, by the by. I just don't do it often. If you want to eat what I cook, click here and try it yourself.
I'm a fabulous cook, by the by. I just don't do it often. If you want to eat what I cook, click here and try it yourself.
11.20.2007
me meme
There are a lot of meme's going around the blogosphere lately, most likely because we are all conflicted between getting stuff ready for Spanksgiving, doing a little bit of work at work because everyone knows that absolutely nothing gets done between Thanksgiving and mid-January, and laying out our lives for the whole literate world to see. Creativity runs a bit low this time of year, so we all look for someone to tell us what to write about so we don't have to come up with topics between breaks in the holiday madness.
One of my favorites out there right now is the list of things that readers most likely don't know about the author of the blog. I've learned tons. Especially from people who I think are total Stepford moms and wives or are total loser trainwreck bloggers. Turns out that not everyone is as perfect or as horrible as I judge them to be. Hmm.
I put myself out there pretty well, so you already know that I'm a little obsessive but I'm too lazy to be compulsive. And you know I like to do things by the book but you may not know that it is because I don't always trust my own intuition and innovation. That's why I like math so much- there is always a right answer and I know how to get to it nine times out of ten. That's ninety percent of the time. Or nine-tenths. Or 0.9 of each of my attempts.
I'm freaking adorable and wildly hilarious.
I'm a pretty good listener but I'd always rather talk. In fact, I'll listen to you until you say something that reminds me of something that happened to me, and then I'll totally monopolize the conversation.
Some of you will be pleased and some will be disappointed that I don't drink as much booze as I purport to on this blog. But I think about it all the time because everyone knows that whiskey is the solution to all of life's problems. As I get older my body doesn't process the poison so well anymore and I end up with a real bad case of the pukes and the poops if I have one too many and that's never fun when you have a one year old who likes to watch you in the bathroom. But don't worry, I still drink more than my fair share.
I'll break the news to you all here because the authorities have already been notified that my little brother is going to be a dad in June. And because I'm a really good sister, I like to tease him about his bastard love child. No, really. Look up bastard in the dictionary. It's true, just like when I say that your dog is a bitch. I'm not being mean, I'm just telling it like it is.
I show love and support through insults and punches and by stealing milk money. It's because I grew up in a terribly dysfunctional environment and I don't know any better. I'm hoping it's a boy so I can dump all of Jake's old stuff on the new brat. But I guess a girl would be nice too. I have 1.5 nieces by Dave's sister, but it is a lot more exciting when it's your own brother having a baby. Mostly because there is a chance that the kid will look like me.
I'm not a very healthy eater anymore. I used to be, but I just ate a sleeve of Chips Ahoy and a KFC bucket full of coffee and I didn't think that there was anything wrong with that until I typed it out for the world to see. Now breakfast is coffee, lunch is either coffee or pizza, and dinner is either pizza or whatever Jake didn't eat off of his plate. Jake eats a well balanced meal every night so I'm getting a little bit of nutrition every once in awhile. I'm going to try my best to change my eating habits. One of these days.
Before I had Jake I was a size 6. Now I'm a 2, sometimes a 4, or a 30x32 when I wear boy's pants. My boobs used to be glorious DDs, now they are a pretty nice C but they are kinda lower than I'd like them to be so I have to buy bras that are more expensive than I'd like them to be. But a $40 bra makes a $10 shirt look like a million bucks.
The most I ever weighed was 145 pounds when I was a freshman in college. I got down to about 112 when I was nursing but now I'm a robust 123ish, ten pounds less than I weighed when I got pregnant. Don't hate. I was actually concerned because of my wacky health problems this year but it turns out everything is fine.
Speaking of health, my cat is sick. She's old and puking. It's awful.
Speaking of sick cats, my lady cancer has been cut out and thrown to the hounds and I guess I'm all better. At least that's what the pathology reports say. I go back for another screening in June. I'm pretty happy that's all done with, even if I am missing a big chunk of my chassis. Word on the street is that you can't really tell that anything is gone up there. If you know what I'm saying, and I think you do.
I dress like a 19 year old boy when I don't have anywhere special to be. I'm kinda butchy sometimes, but I like it. And so does your mom.
I have all sorts of funny in my brain. Believe it or not, the dose you get here is mild and clean compared to what you'll get in person. Think of this as Ivory Soap, all lily white and floaty and 99.9% pure. I'm practically a sailor in real life. A hilarious sailor. Insert seamen joke here.
I'm a little ADD. Okay, a lot. Writing helps keeps me focused. If I could only get a job writing I'd get a lot more work done in a day because I wouldn't be here all the time.
I'd like to get a Doctorate in English Literature.
I'm an exhibitionist. I don't even have proper curtains on my bedroom windows. The bottoms are covered with this faux-stained glass stuff (not as bad as it sounds. It's actually quite lovely) but the tops are bare naked. To see in you would have to stand on my neighbor's roof and if you are going to put that much effort into seeing what I do in there, you've deserved it.
I'm a chronic nose-picker. It almost doesn't matter who the nose belongs to, I love it that much.
I'm smart enough to understand British humor.
I'm obsessed with the inner-workings of the US Mail System.
I'm deathly afraid of severed heads and those pointy things at the end of umbrellas. I'm certain that I will die in a firey autocrash as a result of losing my vision in a terrible eye-gouging incident involving a golf umbrella on that block of Sixteenth Street between Chestnut and Walnut where everyone has to walk on the West side of the street because of the construction on the other side and we are all jammed together because there are so many mailboxes and lunch trucks and that homeless guy who sometimes has public sex on his milk crate with that homeless lady who wears that long winter coat all year round to hide her sex-having. It doesn't hide it well.
Don't worry, I've enlisted some professional insight to my issues.
Anything else you need to know? Just ask. I'll likely tell you.
One of my favorites out there right now is the list of things that readers most likely don't know about the author of the blog. I've learned tons. Especially from people who I think are total Stepford moms and wives or are total loser trainwreck bloggers. Turns out that not everyone is as perfect or as horrible as I judge them to be. Hmm.
I put myself out there pretty well, so you already know that I'm a little obsessive but I'm too lazy to be compulsive. And you know I like to do things by the book but you may not know that it is because I don't always trust my own intuition and innovation. That's why I like math so much- there is always a right answer and I know how to get to it nine times out of ten. That's ninety percent of the time. Or nine-tenths. Or 0.9 of each of my attempts.
I'm freaking adorable and wildly hilarious.
I'm a pretty good listener but I'd always rather talk. In fact, I'll listen to you until you say something that reminds me of something that happened to me, and then I'll totally monopolize the conversation.
Some of you will be pleased and some will be disappointed that I don't drink as much booze as I purport to on this blog. But I think about it all the time because everyone knows that whiskey is the solution to all of life's problems. As I get older my body doesn't process the poison so well anymore and I end up with a real bad case of the pukes and the poops if I have one too many and that's never fun when you have a one year old who likes to watch you in the bathroom. But don't worry, I still drink more than my fair share.
I'll break the news to you all here because the authorities have already been notified that my little brother is going to be a dad in June. And because I'm a really good sister, I like to tease him about his bastard love child. No, really. Look up bastard in the dictionary. It's true, just like when I say that your dog is a bitch. I'm not being mean, I'm just telling it like it is.
I show love and support through insults and punches and by stealing milk money. It's because I grew up in a terribly dysfunctional environment and I don't know any better. I'm hoping it's a boy so I can dump all of Jake's old stuff on the new brat. But I guess a girl would be nice too. I have 1.5 nieces by Dave's sister, but it is a lot more exciting when it's your own brother having a baby. Mostly because there is a chance that the kid will look like me.
I'm not a very healthy eater anymore. I used to be, but I just ate a sleeve of Chips Ahoy and a KFC bucket full of coffee and I didn't think that there was anything wrong with that until I typed it out for the world to see. Now breakfast is coffee, lunch is either coffee or pizza, and dinner is either pizza or whatever Jake didn't eat off of his plate. Jake eats a well balanced meal every night so I'm getting a little bit of nutrition every once in awhile. I'm going to try my best to change my eating habits. One of these days.
Before I had Jake I was a size 6. Now I'm a 2, sometimes a 4, or a 30x32 when I wear boy's pants. My boobs used to be glorious DDs, now they are a pretty nice C but they are kinda lower than I'd like them to be so I have to buy bras that are more expensive than I'd like them to be. But a $40 bra makes a $10 shirt look like a million bucks.
The most I ever weighed was 145 pounds when I was a freshman in college. I got down to about 112 when I was nursing but now I'm a robust 123ish, ten pounds less than I weighed when I got pregnant. Don't hate. I was actually concerned because of my wacky health problems this year but it turns out everything is fine.
Speaking of health, my cat is sick. She's old and puking. It's awful.
Speaking of sick cats, my lady cancer has been cut out and thrown to the hounds and I guess I'm all better. At least that's what the pathology reports say. I go back for another screening in June. I'm pretty happy that's all done with, even if I am missing a big chunk of my chassis. Word on the street is that you can't really tell that anything is gone up there. If you know what I'm saying, and I think you do.
I dress like a 19 year old boy when I don't have anywhere special to be. I'm kinda butchy sometimes, but I like it. And so does your mom.
I have all sorts of funny in my brain. Believe it or not, the dose you get here is mild and clean compared to what you'll get in person. Think of this as Ivory Soap, all lily white and floaty and 99.9% pure. I'm practically a sailor in real life. A hilarious sailor. Insert seamen joke here.
I'm a little ADD. Okay, a lot. Writing helps keeps me focused. If I could only get a job writing I'd get a lot more work done in a day because I wouldn't be here all the time.
I'd like to get a Doctorate in English Literature.
I'm an exhibitionist. I don't even have proper curtains on my bedroom windows. The bottoms are covered with this faux-stained glass stuff (not as bad as it sounds. It's actually quite lovely) but the tops are bare naked. To see in you would have to stand on my neighbor's roof and if you are going to put that much effort into seeing what I do in there, you've deserved it.
I'm a chronic nose-picker. It almost doesn't matter who the nose belongs to, I love it that much.
I'm smart enough to understand British humor.
I'm obsessed with the inner-workings of the US Mail System.
I'm deathly afraid of severed heads and those pointy things at the end of umbrellas. I'm certain that I will die in a firey autocrash as a result of losing my vision in a terrible eye-gouging incident involving a golf umbrella on that block of Sixteenth Street between Chestnut and Walnut where everyone has to walk on the West side of the street because of the construction on the other side and we are all jammed together because there are so many mailboxes and lunch trucks and that homeless guy who sometimes has public sex on his milk crate with that homeless lady who wears that long winter coat all year round to hide her sex-having. It doesn't hide it well.
Don't worry, I've enlisted some professional insight to my issues.
Anything else you need to know? Just ask. I'll likely tell you.
ready to sing your song?
Sometimes between cleaning up poop and puke and washing spoiled milk out of sippy cup valves and digging catfood (or litter) out of a small mouths and dodging renegade pee and struggling with tiny shoelaces and losing sleep and washing clothes and removing ground up mac and cheese from the rug there are little things that are really nice and fun. Like showing your brat this and seeing that he likes it! He really really likes it! And he tries to sing along.
I tried to embed but I'm having trouble copying the code. Jerks.
I tried to embed but I'm having trouble copying the code. Jerks.
11.19.2007
one and two-thirds
Twenty months old already. Jake is so busy that I can't begin to tell you what he is doing. He eats, he sleeps, he plays, he sings, he dances, he runs amok, and he'll tell you all about it.
Jake's trying really hard to speak in sentences, so a lot of what he says comes out in a complete mushy mess but he gets it right every once in awhile. When he does he is so excited that you understand him that he'll say it over and over until he falls on the floor in a giggly fit. This morning he watched me get dressed and told me how to do it,
Put on shirt.
Head.
One arm.
Otha arm.
Put on pants.
One leg through.
Otha leg through.
Put onna socks.
One. Two!
Put onna shoes.
I got tons of claps and cheers when I did it all right. And a bite of waffle as a reward. I'm learning but sometimes I make mistakes and then Jake makes me wear this so he isn't embarrassed.
I'm not sure anymore what is "normal" for Jake's age. Since he was so slow and floppy and lazy when he was first born until he was about six months old I've stopped reading the childhood development stuff. I know what is supposed to happen between eighteen months and two years and I think he's on track. Who knows. I think he's a little over-developed in the language department. He's developed a fear of the tub which works out for me because I'm not that much into giving him a bath anyway. He loves his Bear but I don't let him take it out of his bed. He recognizes the difference between basketball (bassaball), baseball ("Go Pee-a-lees!"), football (Eaggas!), and hockey and loves to run up to the screen and tell you which one you are watching. Yesterday I heard "Is football! Eaggas! No is Pee-a-lees. No is hockey." Three times. Dave is pretty happy about that.
We are leaving for our big trip down to the Southland tomorrow night, so keep your fingers crossed that 95 isn't a big parking lot this weekend. We have a laptop so hopefully I'll get around to doing some blogging. My mental health has improved 7% since getting rid of the old desk top and the giant computer armoire that was eating up space in my dining room. Add that to the 4.5% improvement from replacing our giant couches with more manageable ones and you'll find that I'm doing much better. I don't feel like I'm drowning in my living room anymore. It's a good thing. Now if I can only get rid of that couch in my bedroom so I can breathe in there. Any takers?
It's really cold here now. I hate it. To save heating oil I've been setting my house at 60 degrees at night and when I'm not there and kicking it up to 70 in the morning and when I get home from work. It's no fun at all. Jake loves to say "I fweeeezing" and "Ids (It's) cooollllddd owside". I wonder where he learned that from? Not his mother who complains when the temps dip below 80, I'm sure.
Jake's trying really hard to speak in sentences, so a lot of what he says comes out in a complete mushy mess but he gets it right every once in awhile. When he does he is so excited that you understand him that he'll say it over and over until he falls on the floor in a giggly fit. This morning he watched me get dressed and told me how to do it,
Put on shirt.
Head.
One arm.
Otha arm.
Put on pants.
One leg through.
Otha leg through.
Put onna socks.
One. Two!
Put onna shoes.
I got tons of claps and cheers when I did it all right. And a bite of waffle as a reward. I'm learning but sometimes I make mistakes and then Jake makes me wear this so he isn't embarrassed.
I'm not sure anymore what is "normal" for Jake's age. Since he was so slow and floppy and lazy when he was first born until he was about six months old I've stopped reading the childhood development stuff. I know what is supposed to happen between eighteen months and two years and I think he's on track. Who knows. I think he's a little over-developed in the language department. He's developed a fear of the tub which works out for me because I'm not that much into giving him a bath anyway. He loves his Bear but I don't let him take it out of his bed. He recognizes the difference between basketball (bassaball), baseball ("Go Pee-a-lees!"), football (Eaggas!), and hockey and loves to run up to the screen and tell you which one you are watching. Yesterday I heard "Is football! Eaggas! No is Pee-a-lees. No is hockey." Three times. Dave is pretty happy about that.
We are leaving for our big trip down to the Southland tomorrow night, so keep your fingers crossed that 95 isn't a big parking lot this weekend. We have a laptop so hopefully I'll get around to doing some blogging. My mental health has improved 7% since getting rid of the old desk top and the giant computer armoire that was eating up space in my dining room. Add that to the 4.5% improvement from replacing our giant couches with more manageable ones and you'll find that I'm doing much better. I don't feel like I'm drowning in my living room anymore. It's a good thing. Now if I can only get rid of that couch in my bedroom so I can breathe in there. Any takers?
It's really cold here now. I hate it. To save heating oil I've been setting my house at 60 degrees at night and when I'm not there and kicking it up to 70 in the morning and when I get home from work. It's no fun at all. Jake loves to say "I fweeeezing" and "Ids (It's) cooollllddd owside". I wonder where he learned that from? Not his mother who complains when the temps dip below 80, I'm sure.
11.15.2007
ssshhhh
Most people that I know have no trouble putting their babies to sleep. And after a certain age, most babies stay asleep when they fall asleep. But just in case your baby is a little resistant, I'm sharing with you some tips from the world renowned Sleep Lady that we keep on hand here at the office:
Putting yourself to sleep is a leaned skill and we as parents must teach it to our children. Begin by putting your child to bed drowsy but awake at bedtime. Stay with him and reassure him until he is asleep.
Make sure your child has an early enough bedtime- usually between 7-8 pm. Most children typically need 10-11 hours a night for the first 10 years of their life, much more than many parents realize.
Pay attention to your child's sleep window- the natural moment when a child is ready to fall asleep. If you miss that opportunity, your child will become overtired and wired. He will then take longer to get to sleep, wake more often during the night, and wake too early in the morning.
Install room-darkening shades if your child wakes up early or has trouble napping. Also, consider using a white noise machine or a fan if you live in a noisy home or neighborhood.
If a new baby is coming, move the older child from crib to bed at least two months before or four months after the birth of the sibling to avoid feelings of displacement. Better yet, borrow a crib for the interim if the older child isn't ready to move out of his.
Consistency counts! Whatever your plan is, be consistent at bedtime and for all night wakings. Be patient and remember that sleep is a learned skill and takes time!
For the record, Jake goes down at eight and sleeps until about seven in the mo-nin. He takes a nap during the day. Sometimes it's three hours sometimes it's twenty minutes. I put him down around 10am on Saturdays and Sundays. This is terrible, but I have no idea what time he naps at daycare. I'm the luckiest mom ever when it comes to this sleep thing. Maybe three times in Jake's toddlerhood has he woken up so fully that I needed to come in and pat his butt to get him back down. If Jake cries at bedtime it is usually only for a minute or two, and we just let him go ahead and cry until he falls asleep. So mean.
And off the record, I love that I can get the same information that we hand out to thirteen year old mothers and crack babymamas to help me out with this mommy stuff. It helps a whole lot. Moms like us rarely get resources. People just think we know everything because we went to college. I don't know about you but the only things I learned in college was my social security number and how to play Flip Cup without puking. I didn't learn nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies and certainly nothin' 'bout raisin' 'em.
How is your brat doing? Inquiring moms need to know.
Putting yourself to sleep is a leaned skill and we as parents must teach it to our children. Begin by putting your child to bed drowsy but awake at bedtime. Stay with him and reassure him until he is asleep.
Make sure your child has an early enough bedtime- usually between 7-8 pm. Most children typically need 10-11 hours a night for the first 10 years of their life, much more than many parents realize.
Pay attention to your child's sleep window- the natural moment when a child is ready to fall asleep. If you miss that opportunity, your child will become overtired and wired. He will then take longer to get to sleep, wake more often during the night, and wake too early in the morning.
Install room-darkening shades if your child wakes up early or has trouble napping. Also, consider using a white noise machine or a fan if you live in a noisy home or neighborhood.
If a new baby is coming, move the older child from crib to bed at least two months before or four months after the birth of the sibling to avoid feelings of displacement. Better yet, borrow a crib for the interim if the older child isn't ready to move out of his.
Consistency counts! Whatever your plan is, be consistent at bedtime and for all night wakings. Be patient and remember that sleep is a learned skill and takes time!
For the record, Jake goes down at eight and sleeps until about seven in the mo-nin. He takes a nap during the day. Sometimes it's three hours sometimes it's twenty minutes. I put him down around 10am on Saturdays and Sundays. This is terrible, but I have no idea what time he naps at daycare. I'm the luckiest mom ever when it comes to this sleep thing. Maybe three times in Jake's toddlerhood has he woken up so fully that I needed to come in and pat his butt to get him back down. If Jake cries at bedtime it is usually only for a minute or two, and we just let him go ahead and cry until he falls asleep. So mean.
And off the record, I love that I can get the same information that we hand out to thirteen year old mothers and crack babymamas to help me out with this mommy stuff. It helps a whole lot. Moms like us rarely get resources. People just think we know everything because we went to college. I don't know about you but the only things I learned in college was my social security number and how to play Flip Cup without puking. I didn't learn nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies and certainly nothin' 'bout raisin' 'em.
How is your brat doing? Inquiring moms need to know.
as you like it
I just went shopping for a little girl's birthday present. I'm guessing she is about five-ish, I have no idea but I got suckered into going to her babyparty because she is a friend of Jake's and her mom is my cousin's friend so I'm officially on the list. By default. Or courtesy. Or whatever. I'm totally a B-lister so that means that I can just sit back and watch the pink unfold before my eyes. Erase that. I didn't mean to say that. It sounds really porny, but all I meant is that there is going to be a lot of frilly stuff there (little girls tend to surround themselves in it) and I'm not an official family friend so I can sit in the corner and not take part in the madness. You guys have dirty minds.
I always head to The Children's Boutique for kidgifts because they have a lot of original stuff there and they aren't corporate and you are almost guaranteed to not buy something the brat already has squirreled away somewhere and not a lot of people from my neighborhood brave downtown, especially if they are in the market for toys. I'm usually bowled over with choices but I had a hard time finding anything appropriate.
Appropriate girls' toys to me are non-pink, non-princess, non-ballerina, non-popstar, non-slutty, non-dress-up, non-kitchen, non-dolly, non-Disney, non-Dora, non-non. After today I'm adding non-High School Musical, non-Hannah Montana, non-Madeline, non-Groovy Girls and non-Bratz. What did I end up with? A Barbie and her kitchen complete with 30 pieces of flair. Whatever. It's not my kid.
JUNK! Girls toys are junk! Sexist, silly, syrupy, sparkley junk.
Don't tell anyone I'm admitting this- Barbie I kind of like, but this progressive new Barbie is atrocious. Where are her boobs? What's with the eye make-up? Why isn't she tan? Why is she dressed in more than a bathing suit? How is America supposed to keep her daughters skinny, busty, blonde, and dippy with this new Barbie? I hate.
It's so much easier with Jake, who is only really into cars and skeletons. And buses, trains, ambulances, helicopters, planes, trucks, and wagons. And tractors. And his Bear. And cookies.
I try really hard to never ever buy anything that has to do with any sort of popular character but stuff finds its way into our house despite my best effort. We have a Spiderman t-shirt upstairs from an aunt, a Bob the Builder ("Bobbabilda") book from a judge, a few Winnie the Pooh books from a neighbor, and a Superman ball from my mom. Jake knows who Tigger and Piglet is even though I never talked about them until he did (disclaimer: I'm okay with the vintage Pooh stuff. It somehow seems okay to me). He knows Dora and Diego, every damned resident of Sesame Street is his best friend, and I almost threw up the other day when he pointed at a lady in a purple sweater and screamed "Bahhhneeee!!!!". I'm okay that he loves Elmo and Ernie and Big Bird. I'm okay that he feens for Boohbahs and "'Tubbies". And I'm even okay that he likes Curious George, but I'm not okay with Bahnee.
And I'm completely at ease with the fact that whenever he sees a skeleton he wants to "kiss da bones". It's very normal, I'm sure.
I always head to The Children's Boutique for kidgifts because they have a lot of original stuff there and they aren't corporate and you are almost guaranteed to not buy something the brat already has squirreled away somewhere and not a lot of people from my neighborhood brave downtown, especially if they are in the market for toys. I'm usually bowled over with choices but I had a hard time finding anything appropriate.
Appropriate girls' toys to me are non-pink, non-princess, non-ballerina, non-popstar, non-slutty, non-dress-up, non-kitchen, non-dolly, non-Disney, non-Dora, non-non. After today I'm adding non-High School Musical, non-Hannah Montana, non-Madeline, non-Groovy Girls and non-Bratz. What did I end up with? A Barbie and her kitchen complete with 30 pieces of flair. Whatever. It's not my kid.
JUNK! Girls toys are junk! Sexist, silly, syrupy, sparkley junk.
Don't tell anyone I'm admitting this- Barbie I kind of like, but this progressive new Barbie is atrocious. Where are her boobs? What's with the eye make-up? Why isn't she tan? Why is she dressed in more than a bathing suit? How is America supposed to keep her daughters skinny, busty, blonde, and dippy with this new Barbie? I hate.
It's so much easier with Jake, who is only really into cars and skeletons. And buses, trains, ambulances, helicopters, planes, trucks, and wagons. And tractors. And his Bear. And cookies.
I try really hard to never ever buy anything that has to do with any sort of popular character but stuff finds its way into our house despite my best effort. We have a Spiderman t-shirt upstairs from an aunt, a Bob the Builder ("Bobbabilda") book from a judge, a few Winnie the Pooh books from a neighbor, and a Superman ball from my mom. Jake knows who Tigger and Piglet is even though I never talked about them until he did (disclaimer: I'm okay with the vintage Pooh stuff. It somehow seems okay to me). He knows Dora and Diego, every damned resident of Sesame Street is his best friend, and I almost threw up the other day when he pointed at a lady in a purple sweater and screamed "Bahhhneeee!!!!". I'm okay that he loves Elmo and Ernie and Big Bird. I'm okay that he feens for Boohbahs and "'Tubbies". And I'm even okay that he likes Curious George, but I'm not okay with Bahnee.
And I'm completely at ease with the fact that whenever he sees a skeleton he wants to "kiss da bones". It's very normal, I'm sure.
11.14.2007
a jake is a jake is a jake
There are three solid things that I learned in life. Thing one is that sixteen may not be the best time to give a child permission to operate heavy machinery, eighteen is really not the best time to chose your lifelong career path, and thing three is that pregnancy hormones do terrible things to your brain and pregnancy is SO not the time to chose your child's name. Before I pass on my book of 25,000+ Baby Names (which by the way has the world's ugliest baby on the cover and it gave me terrible nightmares about the potentially hideous spawn that was growing inside me. Check the link only if you are not pregnant and not eating) I thought I should thumb through to see what was starred, circled, and earmarked for baby labeling.
Reid, Owen, Nicholas, Matthew, Jeremy, Evan, Eric, Drew, Cameron, Benjamin, and Alexander were all starred. I remember really liking Jack, James, and Daniel but we already have our shares of people called that in our families so they were vetoed. Notice there is no Jacob on the list. Notice that I thumb through books from back to front. I do the same with magazines. There has to be some sort of DSM diagnosis that explains that.
We didn't give much thought to the name until about five months into pregnancy (lazy!) because I was certain that my baby would die anyway (crazy!) that I wasn't really pregnant in the first place (whack job!) and I didn't see the point of picking out names before then (apathetic!). For a girl we liked Cecilia and Sophia, middle name probably would have been Rose. Now I think those names sound kind of skanky, but whatevs. Maybe my daughter would have been skanky anyway so it wouldn't have mattered. Who knows?
I went to school with a girl named Bambi. She was a little bit older than I was. I wonder what she's doing now? It's gotta be hard to keep a girl named Bambi off the poles I'd imagine. I also knew a girl named Fawnfeather and I think of her every damned day of my life, wondering what the hell a girl named Fawnfeather does for a living.
Oh look! She is doing well for herself! And she got out of crappy Pennsylvania! God I love Google. I think I'm going to dig out my yearbook this weekend and Google everyone.
Now that I'm rambling, I'll tell you that we were talking about weird names for white people at work the other day/week/month/year (I'm really bad with the time-space continuthing), and I mentioned that there was a boy named Farman that I grew up with who was the strangest little boy in all the land. No one believed me, so I Googled him and found that he is the strangest man in all the land. The site that used to come up for him is no longer in existence, probably seized by the US Govt in connection with a murder plot.
My parents almost named me Tina Marie. Puke. Talk about having a hard time keeping someone off the poles. I would have been swinging topless from the rafters with that name. I was originally Laura but because it was the seventies and my parents thought they were progressive they changed it after I was born. So now all my baby stuff says Laura and I have two birth certificates. I think they were going to name me Neely Laura but went with the other way around. I probably would have been teased with jokes about getting on my knees if my name was Neely, but now I like it better. Besides, if I had a nickle for every time someone called me Lora Whora I could take us out to lunch. At The Palm.
I think they had the name Charles in the works for my brother who ended up being called Brian Daniel. I can't imagine that Dave's parents even considered naming Dave anything other than Dave because they are strong believers in the whole Junior thing. We never considered naming Jake, Dave because we are strong haters of the whole Junior thing. And by we, I mean mostly I. I don't get why anyone thinks that they are so great that they should name their brat after themselves. Dave's middle name is Anthony btw, and I love to tease him about that like this. Youtube is blocked here at work so I'm only guessing at that clip, but I think it's the one where Jerry says "Hey, Tony! Hey, hey, hey, Tony". I'm laughing in my head right now just thinking about it.
What was your name supposed to be? Answer that for awhile because I have to go and get some coffee. I haven't had any yet and I kinda have a hunch that this post doesn't make much sense because I'm not very coherent unless my Blood Caffeine Level is .15.
It's really hard to be me.
Reid, Owen, Nicholas, Matthew, Jeremy, Evan, Eric, Drew, Cameron, Benjamin, and Alexander were all starred. I remember really liking Jack, James, and Daniel but we already have our shares of people called that in our families so they were vetoed. Notice there is no Jacob on the list. Notice that I thumb through books from back to front. I do the same with magazines. There has to be some sort of DSM diagnosis that explains that.
We didn't give much thought to the name until about five months into pregnancy (lazy!) because I was certain that my baby would die anyway (crazy!) that I wasn't really pregnant in the first place (whack job!) and I didn't see the point of picking out names before then (apathetic!). For a girl we liked Cecilia and Sophia, middle name probably would have been Rose. Now I think those names sound kind of skanky, but whatevs. Maybe my daughter would have been skanky anyway so it wouldn't have mattered. Who knows?
I went to school with a girl named Bambi. She was a little bit older than I was. I wonder what she's doing now? It's gotta be hard to keep a girl named Bambi off the poles I'd imagine. I also knew a girl named Fawnfeather and I think of her every damned day of my life, wondering what the hell a girl named Fawnfeather does for a living.
Oh look! She is doing well for herself! And she got out of crappy Pennsylvania! God I love Google. I think I'm going to dig out my yearbook this weekend and Google everyone.
Now that I'm rambling, I'll tell you that we were talking about weird names for white people at work the other day/week/month/year (I'm really bad with the time-space continuthing), and I mentioned that there was a boy named Farman that I grew up with who was the strangest little boy in all the land. No one believed me, so I Googled him and found that he is the strangest man in all the land. The site that used to come up for him is no longer in existence, probably seized by the US Govt in connection with a murder plot.
My parents almost named me Tina Marie. Puke. Talk about having a hard time keeping someone off the poles. I would have been swinging topless from the rafters with that name. I was originally Laura but because it was the seventies and my parents thought they were progressive they changed it after I was born. So now all my baby stuff says Laura and I have two birth certificates. I think they were going to name me Neely Laura but went with the other way around. I probably would have been teased with jokes about getting on my knees if my name was Neely, but now I like it better. Besides, if I had a nickle for every time someone called me Lora Whora I could take us out to lunch. At The Palm.
I think they had the name Charles in the works for my brother who ended up being called Brian Daniel. I can't imagine that Dave's parents even considered naming Dave anything other than Dave because they are strong believers in the whole Junior thing. We never considered naming Jake, Dave because we are strong haters of the whole Junior thing. And by we, I mean mostly I. I don't get why anyone thinks that they are so great that they should name their brat after themselves. Dave's middle name is Anthony btw, and I love to tease him about that like this. Youtube is blocked here at work so I'm only guessing at that clip, but I think it's the one where Jerry says "Hey, Tony! Hey, hey, hey, Tony". I'm laughing in my head right now just thinking about it.
What was your name supposed to be? Answer that for awhile because I have to go and get some coffee. I haven't had any yet and I kinda have a hunch that this post doesn't make much sense because I'm not very coherent unless my Blood Caffeine Level is .15.
It's really hard to be me.
11.12.2007
off a duck's back
Every once in awhile something happens that really really makes me feel like a great parent.
I was such a good mom yesterday and was so on top of things that I had the foresight to bundle Jake up in his big fat waterproof winter coat because it was kind of chilly outside. Good thing I did, because he didn't even notice when I spilled half my piping hot coffee all over his sleeve, on his hood, and down his back while trying to maneuver his stroller away from a crackhead outside of E's Passyunk.
I'm going to win Mother of the Year for 2007, I can feel it.
I was such a good mom yesterday and was so on top of things that I had the foresight to bundle Jake up in his big fat waterproof winter coat because it was kind of chilly outside. Good thing I did, because he didn't even notice when I spilled half my piping hot coffee all over his sleeve, on his hood, and down his back while trying to maneuver his stroller away from a crackhead outside of E's Passyunk.
I'm going to win Mother of the Year for 2007, I can feel it.
11.09.2007
fooled you
I do a lot of my online lurking at J.Crew because I like to think that (a) someday I'll be of the set that can get away with wearing whales embroidered on my khakis without having jeers and insults thrown at me and (two) I love plaid and cashmere and I have to stalk for sales because my baby needs to eat so I can't buy billion dollar sweaters anymore. The home page shows a little video of a catalogue photo shoot, complete with fake snow and leafy green trees and men in t-shirts and women in winter coats. It's all very confusing, yet charming.
Picture it. Rittenhouse Square. 2004. Aprilish.
I woke up early one Saturday morning in a hazy cloud of whiskey and lager and good times with a check made out in Dave's name for several hundred dollars in my pocket that really really really needed to be in the bank so our rent check didn't bounce and we could keep our swanky address.
It was that time of year when winter coats make me sweat and spring jackets aren't enough and my scarf kind of stinks from months of use and lack of dry cleaning so I can't just throw that over my jean jacket and I'm tired of boots and my sneakers are in my gym locker because I realize that I have about a month before I will be forced to show flesh again and I remember that I was a bit warmish last night but it may have been my liquid longjohns (purchased for $4 a pint at any local bar) kicking in but the bank is only three blocks away so I settle for a light jacket since the sun is shining and we are past Easter so it should be okay and I walk out my door and I bust my ass on a thick sheet of ice. Then I walked down Spruce Street soaking my sweet green Pumas that I only wear in the summer with the slush all over the sidewalk that wasn't there at 5 am when I decided it was time to come home before my husband sends out the hounds to drag my drunk rear end in the house. Weird.
18th Street is somehow free of ice but there is some snow and I'm getting really warm and boozy sweat is running down my sides out of my armpits. The Park is covered in really pretty white fluffy snow and everyone is bundled up in really nice richy-looking coats and high heels but it's only 8 in the morning and the dogs are wearing Burberry sweaters and they are all really groomed and no one else seems to be dying of heat and I start questioning my sanity and maybe it was Christmas dinner and not Easter dinner I was eating a couple weeks ago and maybe someone slipped something in my drink or maybe I'm drinking too much and it is time to go to a meeting of some sort or maybe social services was really getting to me and hallucinations were somehow contagious off my schizo-affective clients or maybe I am only dreaming that I got out of bed and I'm really sleeping and hey- there is someone I know from somewhere. who the hell is that? and that older lady too. and that other lady, who is totally from South Philly somewhere, I can remember seeing her in someone's house down there. where do I know them from? maybe they can tell me what effing day it is.
Or maybe some weird guy with a bad goatee is lunging toward me and now he's pushing me and yelling for me to get out of the way because I just walked into a shot.
Ah, big city life with it's movie making and whatnot, always tricking nice girls like me into thinking they have some sort of mental/drinking problem. As if.
Picture it. Rittenhouse Square. 2004. Aprilish.
I woke up early one Saturday morning in a hazy cloud of whiskey and lager and good times with a check made out in Dave's name for several hundred dollars in my pocket that really really really needed to be in the bank so our rent check didn't bounce and we could keep our swanky address.
It was that time of year when winter coats make me sweat and spring jackets aren't enough and my scarf kind of stinks from months of use and lack of dry cleaning so I can't just throw that over my jean jacket and I'm tired of boots and my sneakers are in my gym locker because I realize that I have about a month before I will be forced to show flesh again and I remember that I was a bit warmish last night but it may have been my liquid longjohns (purchased for $4 a pint at any local bar) kicking in but the bank is only three blocks away so I settle for a light jacket since the sun is shining and we are past Easter so it should be okay and I walk out my door and I bust my ass on a thick sheet of ice. Then I walked down Spruce Street soaking my sweet green Pumas that I only wear in the summer with the slush all over the sidewalk that wasn't there at 5 am when I decided it was time to come home before my husband sends out the hounds to drag my drunk rear end in the house. Weird.
18th Street is somehow free of ice but there is some snow and I'm getting really warm and boozy sweat is running down my sides out of my armpits. The Park is covered in really pretty white fluffy snow and everyone is bundled up in really nice richy-looking coats and high heels but it's only 8 in the morning and the dogs are wearing Burberry sweaters and they are all really groomed and no one else seems to be dying of heat and I start questioning my sanity and maybe it was Christmas dinner and not Easter dinner I was eating a couple weeks ago and maybe someone slipped something in my drink or maybe I'm drinking too much and it is time to go to a meeting of some sort or maybe social services was really getting to me and hallucinations were somehow contagious off my schizo-affective clients or maybe I am only dreaming that I got out of bed and I'm really sleeping and hey- there is someone I know from somewhere. who the hell is that? and that older lady too. and that other lady, who is totally from South Philly somewhere, I can remember seeing her in someone's house down there. where do I know them from? maybe they can tell me what effing day it is.
Or maybe some weird guy with a bad goatee is lunging toward me and now he's pushing me and yelling for me to get out of the way because I just walked into a shot.
Ah, big city life with it's movie making and whatnot, always tricking nice girls like me into thinking they have some sort of mental/drinking problem. As if.
but you'll always be MY little baby
Jake is really big now. I'm not sure how big he is or when this all happened but it's kind of weird. He's outgrowing all his 18-24 month shirts as we speak, and his 18-24 pants are still hitting his ankles only because the waist is so saggy.
Because I don't want to give you grounds to call the people on me because I have a naked baby running around in November, I stopped in to the clearance racks at Children's Place to see what I could find in a 2T. Instead of looking at size tags, I picked up a few things that looked about the size of the boy. (That's how I shop for Dave too, I just hold things up. It works 99% of the time). When I checked the tags to make sure that everything actually was on sale and not just stuck on the sale rack, I was shocked to see that not one thing was bigger than 12 months.
When did I lose track of how big Jake is? Why do I think that he is still so tiny and little and itsy? Am I always going to have this problem? When I look at things he was wearing last year, I don't say "I can't believe he fit this", I say "I can't believe this is packed away, he can probably still wear this".
I guess all this has to do with the same reasoning that causes people to think I am huge and feel the need to buy me XL sweaters. I'm a little on the tall side but not really, and I'm somewhat well-endowed in the boob department but they aren't super huge, but I still take a small because I am lacking an adequately adult-sized ribcage. I'll take a medium maybe if it is running small or you find it in the juniors department. And I like 100% cotton sweaters. Wool bothers me. Cashmere is appreciated. I'm kinda into the Fair Isle thing that is really popular right now. I love love love argyle. I'm sort of over turtlenecks, I like crew necks, and v-necks are flattering. And Christmas is 45 days away.
Because I don't want to give you grounds to call the people on me because I have a naked baby running around in November, I stopped in to the clearance racks at Children's Place to see what I could find in a 2T. Instead of looking at size tags, I picked up a few things that looked about the size of the boy. (That's how I shop for Dave too, I just hold things up. It works 99% of the time). When I checked the tags to make sure that everything actually was on sale and not just stuck on the sale rack, I was shocked to see that not one thing was bigger than 12 months.
When did I lose track of how big Jake is? Why do I think that he is still so tiny and little and itsy? Am I always going to have this problem? When I look at things he was wearing last year, I don't say "I can't believe he fit this", I say "I can't believe this is packed away, he can probably still wear this".
I guess all this has to do with the same reasoning that causes people to think I am huge and feel the need to buy me XL sweaters. I'm a little on the tall side but not really, and I'm somewhat well-endowed in the boob department but they aren't super huge, but I still take a small because I am lacking an adequately adult-sized ribcage. I'll take a medium maybe if it is running small or you find it in the juniors department. And I like 100% cotton sweaters. Wool bothers me. Cashmere is appreciated. I'm kinda into the Fair Isle thing that is really popular right now. I love love love argyle. I'm sort of over turtlenecks, I like crew necks, and v-necks are flattering. And Christmas is 45 days away.
11.06.2007
plastic
I love window shopping for Christmas presents on the internet.
Anything to avoid contact with real live people between the hours of 6am and 6pm makes me so happy and shiny inside that I could just burst. ATMs and automated customer service representatives are just heavenly and the fact that I only have to pay $5 three or four times a year for Old Navy to deliver every stitch of Jake's clothing to right under my desk at work is bliss. A lot of stores are doing in-store pickup as a free service now, so I can order everything online and run up to Walnut Street on my lunch break and everything will be boxed and bagged and ready to go for me when I get there and when eight people ask me if I can be helped I can just say that I have a bag waiting for me. I am seriously considering grocery delivery, I just have to figure out a time when one of us is guaranteed to be home to get the stuff. I think I'm available at precisely a quarter past never on Zerodays, but I have to check my planner before I commit to anything. But the thought of never smelling spoiled milk and rancid meat and my neighbor's colostomy bag at the Acme is very inviting.
I'm 98% sure of everyone's Christmas presents. Jake is getting this and this and some undershirts and a new pair of shoes and probably a few little cars and maybe some candy that will be immediately confiscated in his stocking. We agreed that Christmas presents won't be over the top with this kid because there is nothing worse than a spoiled rotten brat who cries because they didn't get enough under the tree. One or two big ones and a bunch of junk that he would have needed anyway will do, because there is nothing better than getting socks as a present.
Anything to avoid contact with real live people between the hours of 6am and 6pm makes me so happy and shiny inside that I could just burst. ATMs and automated customer service representatives are just heavenly and the fact that I only have to pay $5 three or four times a year for Old Navy to deliver every stitch of Jake's clothing to right under my desk at work is bliss. A lot of stores are doing in-store pickup as a free service now, so I can order everything online and run up to Walnut Street on my lunch break and everything will be boxed and bagged and ready to go for me when I get there and when eight people ask me if I can be helped I can just say that I have a bag waiting for me. I am seriously considering grocery delivery, I just have to figure out a time when one of us is guaranteed to be home to get the stuff. I think I'm available at precisely a quarter past never on Zerodays, but I have to check my planner before I commit to anything. But the thought of never smelling spoiled milk and rancid meat and my neighbor's colostomy bag at the Acme is very inviting.
I'm 98% sure of everyone's Christmas presents. Jake is getting this and this and some undershirts and a new pair of shoes and probably a few little cars and maybe some candy that will be immediately confiscated in his stocking. We agreed that Christmas presents won't be over the top with this kid because there is nothing worse than a spoiled rotten brat who cries because they didn't get enough under the tree. One or two big ones and a bunch of junk that he would have needed anyway will do, because there is nothing better than getting socks as a present.
11.05.2007
kicking off the season
I let Jake out trick-or-treating last week around his aunt's block. He ran four feet ahead of me, never looked back once, learned quickly that people love it when babies say "trick tweat", and thanked everyone who gave him candy. If someone asked him if he would like candy, he said "noOOo!" and ran to the next house. He was allowed one sucker and some fruit snacks and the rest of the loot was dumped into the candy bowl back at the house and redistributed to the neighborhood kids after I stole a Clark bar. Those are the best. I don't know how Butterfinger ever gained the popular vote.
I didn't think Jake would be 100% in love with his costume, but he wore it like a champ for almost five hours, hood on. You could host a chicken fight on that child if you stood around him and told him he looked cute under all the flapping and feathers and squawking and pecking and death. "I cute" is one of Jake's favorite things to tell you when you are looking at pictures of him.
Dave and I went to the best-decorated Halloween party ever last Friday night. Spiderwebs and candles and black mums and spiders and apothecary jars full of eyeballs and candy corn all outdoors in Frank and Hope's courtyard in Rittenhouse. Hope was even smart enough to rent one of those propane heaters. Dave went as Father Guido Sarducci and I dressed up like your grandmother, complete with curlers and a hairpiece and saggy kneehighs under my slippersocks and slippers and pockets full of gross candy, pennies, arthritis meds, Vaseline, Fingerhut magazines, old photos from the fifties, the South Philly Review Social Scene, and other junk. I was awesome. And now I have a house dress that I'll never use again, just in case you need it let me know.
Jake is horribly distressed that there aren't bones and witches and "scawecwows" all over the neighborhood, but I think he'll change his tune pretty quickly when people start putting up the Christmas junk. Which should be any day now. I think there is some sort of ordinance in my town that says that it should be all up by Election Day.
We are firming up the richkid plans for Thanksgiving that we happened to stumble on to. Last year was the cutest damned Thanksgiving ever, but this year should be nice and relaxing and we may even get to wear shorts. Fingers crossed.
Christmas is never crazy at our house, we make sure of that. We are hosting the big party on the fifteenth, then we'll do some family stuff on the Eve, and Christmas morning is spent eating cookies and opening presents. We take in holiday refugees who can't stomach spending any more time with their loved ones in the afternoon. Chinese food, football, movies, cookies, and lots and lots of booze to drown out the Ghosts of Christmas Past will be made available to those in need. It's really a great day and there is never any pressure to do anything or be nice to anyone. Tell your mom that you are going to your mother-in-law's house. Tell your mother-in-law that you are going to your mom's house. But instead of all that, just come over to my house. Don't have any in-laws? Just tell your mom that you will be volunteering your time in as a gift to mankind. There is no better day to lie to your family than Christmas Day. You've already got all your presents for the year, and Santa takes the day off from seeing you when you are sleeping and awake and knowing if you are bad or good.
Genius.
I didn't think Jake would be 100% in love with his costume, but he wore it like a champ for almost five hours, hood on. You could host a chicken fight on that child if you stood around him and told him he looked cute under all the flapping and feathers and squawking and pecking and death. "I cute" is one of Jake's favorite things to tell you when you are looking at pictures of him.
Dave and I went to the best-decorated Halloween party ever last Friday night. Spiderwebs and candles and black mums and spiders and apothecary jars full of eyeballs and candy corn all outdoors in Frank and Hope's courtyard in Rittenhouse. Hope was even smart enough to rent one of those propane heaters. Dave went as Father Guido Sarducci and I dressed up like your grandmother, complete with curlers and a hairpiece and saggy kneehighs under my slippersocks and slippers and pockets full of gross candy, pennies, arthritis meds, Vaseline, Fingerhut magazines, old photos from the fifties, the South Philly Review Social Scene, and other junk. I was awesome. And now I have a house dress that I'll never use again, just in case you need it let me know.
Jake is horribly distressed that there aren't bones and witches and "scawecwows" all over the neighborhood, but I think he'll change his tune pretty quickly when people start putting up the Christmas junk. Which should be any day now. I think there is some sort of ordinance in my town that says that it should be all up by Election Day.
We are firming up the richkid plans for Thanksgiving that we happened to stumble on to. Last year was the cutest damned Thanksgiving ever, but this year should be nice and relaxing and we may even get to wear shorts. Fingers crossed.
Christmas is never crazy at our house, we make sure of that. We are hosting the big party on the fifteenth, then we'll do some family stuff on the Eve, and Christmas morning is spent eating cookies and opening presents. We take in holiday refugees who can't stomach spending any more time with their loved ones in the afternoon. Chinese food, football, movies, cookies, and lots and lots of booze to drown out the Ghosts of Christmas Past will be made available to those in need. It's really a great day and there is never any pressure to do anything or be nice to anyone. Tell your mom that you are going to your mother-in-law's house. Tell your mother-in-law that you are going to your mom's house. But instead of all that, just come over to my house. Don't have any in-laws? Just tell your mom that you will be volunteering your time in as a gift to mankind. There is no better day to lie to your family than Christmas Day. You've already got all your presents for the year, and Santa takes the day off from seeing you when you are sleeping and awake and knowing if you are bad or good.
Genius.
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