Confessions of a Wise Old Daycare Veteran, Who Has Been Using Daycare for Three Whole Half Days Now

Oh Internet, how I've neglected you. You're all probably wondering if, on my second day of work, I decided to blow past the daycare center and hightail it to Mexico, with Noah in one hand and my breast pump in the other, laughing maniacally because I left the extra diapers in his cubby at daycare and now I have no money to buy new diapers BUT HE DOESN'T NEED DIAPERS BECAUSE HE HAS MY LOVE, MWA HA HA, and then maybe I fell into some kind of ditch.

Hint: That is not what happened!

What really happened is much less interesting but much more not insane.

I drop Noah off in the morning, usually much later than I intend to, I get big dimply smiles and he gets big kisses, the teachers all smile and indulge me for many, many minutes before they remind me that I should maybe get to that fancy job of mine, I get to work and pout for a little bit, drink some coffee and eat some of the endless parade of leftover holiday goodness in the kitchen, then I work and then I pump milk (with not one, but two chairs and several heavy binders propped against my office door because the lock will not be installed until next week) and then I leave around 1 pm and plow through anyone who tries to stop me and I drive like a maniac back to Noah, my BOY my BOY my PRECIOUS BOY, and he totally ignores me and his teachers all tell me how awesome he is, which DUH PEOPLE, and then I drive home and Noah realizes that hey, it's the chick with the rack and he stage-dives for my boobs and stays attached for the rest of the day and then we play for awhile and then take a little nap together until Jason gets home.
 

So. Day three.

Is it getting easier? No. I still have those awful Oh God, what am I doing? moments out in the parking lot after I've dropped him off, seething with jealousy over the nice ladies who get to spend the day with my son and feeling my chest tighten in panic, before I pull myself together and make the five-minute drive to my office.

But I will not lie. I enjoy my job. I like my office. I love my coworkers. I missed it here.

To spend a few hours wearing Actual Clothes with Actual Shoes is nice, as is knowing that there is only a very, VERY remote chance that someone will vomit on your sweater. I'm very much needed at my job, but it's not that exhausting, constant kind of NEEEEED that comes from a non-potty-trained and floppy-limbed individual. 

(And can I tell you how secretly delighted I am that everything did, in fact, go to absolute hell in a handbasket while I was gone?)

(Am so beyond delighted.)

I'm only working half days this week, so we'll see how I feel next week once I'm back full-time, but I feel like I'm taking better care of Noah in the hours I have with him. Maybe it's guilt, or a cop-out, or a total cliche, but a few hours away from him mean I no longer mind that he wants to be held every blessed moment of the day and will scream if I attempt to put him down for a few minutes to pee or microwave some damn macaroni for lunch.

How could I mind? Every delicious Noah moment makes me feel like I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

And now, the Big Annoying Issue:

Pumping is not going well. Pumping has never gone especially well, so why I thought pumping would magically become easy and fantastic once I went back to work is probably a sign that I am sort of stupid.

Supplementing with formula is nothing new for us, because despite what certain lactation consultants will tell you, there IS such a thing as chronic low supply and I'm sorry, but there's a limit to how much fenugreek I can take and how long I can stand smelling like maple syrup, so Noah usually gets a bottle of formula about once a day, because damn, my boobs get TAPPED OUT.

I haven't written about breastfeeding in awhile, because in True Amalah Fashion, I wrote gobs about it when it was a crisis!crisis!crisis! and then abruptly stopped writing when things sort of calmed down.

(This is kind of a bad habit of mine, which is why the archives are riddled with plot holes.)

(Judith Light Brigade, anyone?)

Anyway, I just wrote this whole long thing about my boobs and how only one really works and the other doesn't and went into way too much detail when really, the only things you need to know are that I cannot keep up with Noah's feeding schedule through pumping, I'm already out of the frozen milk I worked so hard to hoard during my leave, and I'm going to have to send formula with him tomorrow unless I can magically produce about 10 more ounces in the next half hour.

(Guess what I'm doing RIGHT NOW! Yes, am multi-tasking. And typing with one hand.)

I'm only sharing this so y'all can get the full sense of my hypocrisy: I've supplemented with formula since Noah was five days old. But I didn't want the daycare people to know this. I wanted them to think Noah was the 100% exclusively breastfed baby I wanted him to be, because...why?

I DON'T KNOW WHY. I AM NEUROTIC AND STRANGE.

I am also going to pick my baby up from daycare RIGHT THIS MINUTE and take him home and spend the rest of the day marveling at his brilliant new ability to reach out and grab things, like his squeaky toys or Mama's hair, and so longsuckersIamnoteven going to takethetimeto punctuatethislastsentence

Edited to add: Am home now, and here's your precious baby photo, you needy, demanding whores.*

*I LOVE whores. I think whores are FANTASTIC.

Oh Yes, Today Is Also My Birthday

So far today, I have ripped two pairs of pantyhose, left the house 47 minutes later than I intended to, stalled my car because I don't remember how to shift in heels, thrown out three very dead office plants and spent 20 minutes trying to figure out what the hell my network password is.

I also left Noah at daycare.

It hurts so bad, I can't hear.

Mighty Baby of the Amazon (Dot Com)

You know, while I kind of hate being called a mommy blog...

...I honestly can't think of a better use of bandwidth.

Happy Holidays, y'all. Go eat lots of cookies.

(Special gooey thanks to Rockstar Mommy for the onesie.)

Booger

Noah has a cold. AGAIN.

But this the ultra-liquidy version. My God, we are awash in snot.

He leaves smears of mucus on my boobs after I nurse him and has blown some of the most impressive nose bubbles I've ever seen. I've spent all morning with wadded up tissues at the ready and have been diving in there with the nasal bulb thing at every occasion, usually shrieking I'M GONNA STEAL YOUR BOOOOOOOGERS or some variant thereof, and for anyone who thinks that I am going back to work simply because I cannot handle the MIND-BLOWING GLAMOR of motherhood is wrong, because I have dried baby snot on my neck and am PROUD OF IT, COME GIVE ME A CUDDLE.

Poor guy. While it's highly likely that I simply gave him the cold I've been suffering from for the past couple weeks, I'm blaming the three hours he spent in daycare on Monday. Gaarrrrghhhhh.

Anyway. The Wednesday Advice Smackdown is taking a brief holiday hiatus so that I may focus my energies on Nasal Cavity Watch 2005.

Now watch me distract the Internet with random shiny baby photos!

You want to talk about daycare? Pshaw! That's like, sooooo yesterday.

Instead, let's debate whether I am staring at an age-appropriate, developmentally-stimulating toy or the bad, bad television in this picture.

 

 

Well, okay, it was the television. But look! Here I am pondering some plastic fish and thinking that I would like some sushi.

 

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.....

 

 

CHOO!

And now, apropos of nothing, we present the Noah Storch American Idol Audition...

AND I'LLLLLLLLLLL BE YOUR CRYING SHOULDER....

I'LLLLL BE LOVES SUICIDE.

AND I'LLLLLLL BEEEE BETTER WHEN I'M OLDER....

(And here's where I had the big plan to take a picture of the two of us together, all "I'm the greatest fan of your li-ii-ife," or whatever, but I think it would lose some of its impact today, what with all the snot. Also, that would be so totally lame.)

 

 

The Post After The Post I've Been Dreading

First, let's tally up the responses to yesterday's post...

Hateful, judgmental or otherwise assvicey emails: ZERO
Loving, understanding or otherwise supportive emails: 300 and counting

Gold star for the Internet! 'Tis a Christmas miracle!

I hate when I get all defensive like that. You'd think that no one ever says anything nice to me, ever, which is not true. Probably 95% of the comments and emails I get are positive, but it's just that the people who take the time to write hate mail tend to fucking eviscerate me.

And while it's one thing when people tell me I have stupid hair, or that I'm a spoiled materialistic whore because I put a link to my baby registry in the stupid sidebar, it's quite another thing entirely when Noah is involved.

Possibly because it makes me overthink the kind of squishy ground we online writers tread when we post the pictures and real names and bowel functions of our children, and partly because I sooner would chew my own arm off than have him hurt, and if you hurt him I'm thinking that it's only fair if I chew YOUR arm off.

Also, my wafer-thin motherhood skin hasn't yet developed any kind of fuck-you-and-what-you-think-of-my-parenting callous, and yeah, I've been working on that metaphor all damn day.

Anyway.

So whenever I thought about how to approach the whole I'm-going-back-to-work topic, I kept composing the possible hate mail I would get with each one. Like this!

Approach #1: Waaah, I'm so sad I'm going back to work and wish I could afford to stay home but I can't, feel sorry for me and my snuffling sadness.

Dear Amy,

Whatever! You so could afford to stay home! I'm staying home! I just decided that my child is more important than expensive diaper bags and got rid of TiVo. Perhaps you don't really want to stay home, because anyone can stay home if they really love their child enough.

I hope your job pays for a really nice concealer, because otherwise all you'll see is your cold, shriveled and ugly heart when you look in the mirror, like Dorian Gray of the bad parenting world.

Love,
Imaginary Hatemailer #1, Who We'll Call Agnes

PS. Also, we moved to Kansas.

Approach #2: Did I mention that I'm going back to work? No? Oh, well, I am, and I feel just fine, let's talk about something else now.

Dear Amy,

OMG YOU MONSTER. HOW CAN U LEAVE THAT PRECIOUS BABY?> AND NOT CARE? I BET GOD MADE U INFERTILE FOR A REASON.

HATE,
IMAGINARY HATEMAILER #2, WHO IS CALLED CAPPY MCCAPSLOCK

PS. IF U LOVED NOAH YOU'D MOVE TO KANSAS.

Approach #3: 404: Page Not Found.

Dear Amy,

God, your site sucks now. It won't even load. You're so lame and boring.

Love,
The Internet

PS. We heard you moved to Kansas. That's lame and boring.

Don't I write interesting hate mail to myself? I should try sending some real hate mail sometime. Except, I never would, because GOD. JUST HIT THE BACK BUTTON AND CALM DOWN. Just because you're anonymous doesn't mean karma can't find you and drop a goddamned anvil on you, or something.

Hatemailers: the asshole roadragers of the Internet, and yeah, I've been working on that metaphor all year.

ANYWAY.

My point is that I have not gotten any hate mail, other than a couple of Philadelphians who were all, "Wait, what'd we do?"

(Nothing, except tempt us with gorgeous brownstones in our price range and then dash our hopes with the wage tax and property taxes of like, $15,000 a year. And you made my mother-in-law cry, because she was SO HOPING we'd move to Philly so she could be near Noah and I could stay home, and yeah, my own family hasn't been exactly supportive of my decision to go back to work, so why would I expect the Internet to be any different?)

After hitting the "publish" button on yesterday's entry, I took Noah to his daycare and spent a few hours there with him, getting to know the teachers and the other snotty-nosed brats whose parents work and don't love them very much.

And really, it was very nice. The teachers are affectionate and gentle. They tell the babies they love them. And they work with an eerie precision and efficiency to make sure that no baby is fussing or upset or even left glassy-eyed and bored in a bouncy seat. Honestly, I'm lucky if I can keep Noah that entertained and content for half the day.

And Noah did great. When we first arrived, he kept looking for me, whether he was on the floor or in the teacher's arms. After an hour, he no longer seemed concerned. He smiled at his teacher, seriously studied a pretty little nine-month-old girl and shrieked with delight over a handmade mobile of Mardi Gras beads that hung from the ceiling.

He'll be fine. I'll just miss him, is all.

The Post I've Been Dreading

When I was in the first grade, my classmate April's father was killed in a car accident.

A year or so later, I went to her house after school and met her nanny and her two-year-old brother. Their mother came home after a few hours, and I listened to her brother scream and cry as the nanny put her coat on. And he wailed. And he howled.

April shrugged. "He hates it when she leaves."

Finally, the nanny snapped: "I'm not your mother. She is!"

And in that moment, my heart broke. And that scene burned itself into my memory like it happened yesterday.

My eight-year-old self knew nothing about having a working mother. My mom stayed home and made both my chocolate-chip cookies and my Halloween costumes from scratch. We were poor and I wore homemade clothes and one year my mom made me a Care Bear for Christmas, but I couldn't imagine how you could be confused about which lady was your mommy.

I'm not your mother. She is.

What hurts most about this memory these days is the realization that I had the gall to judge April's mother. She'd lost her husband and her child's loyalty and yet I sat there among her daughter's Barbies and thought that if she really loved her little boy she'd get remarried and stay home.

This is my last week of maternity leave. I go back to work next Tuesday.

I've dreaded typing those words. Not only because the thought of leaving Noah makes me physically ill, but because I'm just not ready to handle any feedback about the whole thing. The endless recommendations of different books about staying home, the stupidly obvious questions about working part-time or from home, and of course, the blatant judgment about how much we spend.

I know a lot of readers think I am spoiled and extravagant, and they're probably right. But if they think that the key to my staying home is an unwillingness to cut back on my Sephora visits, they're wrong.

I've dreaded typing those words because I'm afraid someone will lash out and hurt me, not understanding that I'm already hurting. I have to go back to work. I sort of want to go back to work. I'm not sure which circumstance makes me feel worse.

Listen: I'm not really that shallow. Amalah? Kind of a sarcastic little persona-alter-ego-thing. My friends and I all laugh at the idea that I'm some kind of Internet fashion and beauty "expert," because my favorite store in the world is Filene's Basement and I look like crap a lot of the time.

I shop the sale rack and am notorious for wearing clothes until they disintegrate instead of buying new ones. I work in finance and know how to stick to a goddamned budget. Most of Noah's clothes are gifts or hand-me-downs from my hairdresser. And I am ready to sacrifice anything for him, much to the dismay of certain hatemailers who seemed to revel in the idea of how miserable I was going to be after having a baby and realizing that I wouldn't be getting a Tiffany's necklace again anytime soon.

(Yes, my husband got a little sports car this summer and I got diamond earrings. They're called stock options, and we've been very fortunate, and the biggest chunk of money still went to Noah's college fund.)

We live in a very expensive area, with a very expensive mortgage. We're currently looking for something cheaper and even spent a weekend in a different city looking at houses there. (Fuck you, Philly, with your stupid high property taxes and stupid no jobs for Jason.) But at this point in time, there's nothing else to do but hand over half my salary to daycare and go back to work.

A 50% pay cut means no more Coach bags, HBO or satellite radio. A 100% pay cut means no retirement account, groceries or knee surgery for the dog.

I've dreaded typing those words because I shouldn't have to tell you all this.

The life we've imagined for Noah is (I hope) a happy one. We want to raise him in a city we love -- where there's more to do than hang out at the mall or play XBox. We want to raise him in our safe, leafy and park-filled neighborhood with the playgrounds and the pool. We want him to eat ethnic foods and understand that the homeless man on the corner is not necessarily bad or lazy and not everyone is as lucky as he is. We want Disneyworld and the seashore. We want him to save up his allowance and understand what things cost, but we still want to be able to meet him halfway or surprise him with that one special toy and create another in a long line of Best Christmases Ever.

If he wants cargo pants from the Gap, I want to be able to buy him a damn pair of cargo pants from the Gap.

And this is just me. If you gave up absolutely everything to stay home with your children, I admire you completely. If you gave up nothing and went back to work simply because you wanted to, I think that's fantastic too.

I dreaded typing those words because no matter what decision you make, there's somebody out there thinking that you are selfish or lazy or useless or heartless.

And I am looking forward to, you know, getting dressed every day and talking to adults again. And I know there are upsides to daycare. Like socialization, a better immune system and a child who understands from a young age that they are not the center of the universe.

But he's the center of my universe, and I'm so afraid he won't know that.

I'm your mother, baby, and don't you ever forget that.

Um, Hi?

Typepad?

Are you working again?

Can you tell the nice Internet people that I am not dead? And that it is ALL YOUR FAULT that I did not post today, because I totally intended to? And that I would post now except that I have to decorate my goddamned Christmas tree, which we have had for a WEEK, yet sits forlornly unornamented because we are lazy, and also maybe a little drunk, and anyway, what was I talking about?

Oh. Right. Typepad was down all day today. Pfft.

Noah thinks that he is SO OVER my excuses for not posting, and also this whole damn Christmas thing, like what, do we expect him to CARE that we waited for 40 minutes in the stupid Santa Claus line in order to give him a magical special childhood? Because he DOES NOT CARE IN THE SLIGHTEST. YAWN.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Hey Amalah,

So how is that two-month-old Amazon baby of yours scaring the shit out of you today?

Also, get a haircut. GOD.

Love,
Amalah

Y'all! The child ROLLED THE FUCK OVER. WHEN I WAS NOT PRESENT, BECAUSE I AM NEGLECTFUL AND NEED MY COFFEE.

So Noah and I were hanging out in bed, watching The Price Is Right, which he loves, and I refuse to feel badly about that, because I make it educational, what with the prices and the capitalism, and we do this great little COME ON DOWN dance and ANYWAY, I AM NOT THE ONE ON TRIAL HERE.

So there was a commercial break, and I realized that I hadn't put kibble down for Ceiba yet, the poor downgraded baby, and also that I would like some coffee. So I left Noah squarely in the center of the bed and dashed downstairs to feed the dog and make a 30-second cup of pod coffee.

And lo, in that timeframe, the genius child had rolled over onto his tummy and was working VERY HARD on flipping back over again.

Am doomed. Doomed!

Anyway, let's take some of your questions before Noah learns to type and takes over this whole stupid operation.

Dearest Amalah,

Oh Queen of the Internet, who do I love thee? Let me count the ways!  First of all, I love your totally zany style of writing.  How is it possible you write for a financial publication?!  Second, I love that you have absolutely no shame about what you write up on your blog, even though you know your coworkers read it.  You are my hero!

So, Queen Bee, I do pretty please need your help.  I have recently been transplanted from New York City to Amsterdam.  I know, awesome right? I am loving it.  (And feel free to come visit!)   Here's the thing:  I am a 25 year old chick and this move was the result of a fairly big promotion for me.  Translation: I am scared as shit and need to keep my shit together!   I am a young chick in a world of middle aged paunch-bellied white business men.  Seriously, on a commuter flight to Helsinki (!) recently, I realized I was the only woman as well as the only person under 45 on the flight.  Europe is old school like that.

OK, I am getting around to my question I promise.  I did what I have to do:  I improved my posture, pared down my make-up to the essentials, upgraded my wardrobe with fabulous slacks, belts, buttoned shirts, business suits and heels.  I look awesome!  But I have one big glitch: my bag!  I carry a cute tiny laptop, but I still carry it in the damned free black Dell shoulder bag.   Ew, it is SO ugly!   And so... ordinary.  So Amalah dear, Lady With An Eye For Lovely Purses, could you help me find a professional women's tote that is polished, professional (but young, not stuffy!) functional, not too heavy, and all in all wonderful in all its soft touchable professional goodness? 

Also, what color should I get?  I often wear brown and pink-ish combos as well as black and purple/wine combinations.  Also - it needs to be able to hold 1 -2 manila paper files as well without crushing them.

And kisses to that delicious baby of yours!

Love,
Joke (YES that is my name, for Pete's sake, it's not pronounced like the noun ok!)

Well, there's certainly no shortage of lovely, lovely totes out there. A nice, classic leather bag would be your best bet -- super professional, timeless and it'll last damn near forever so you can justify a bit of a splurge.

You didn't mention a price range, although I'm assuming a Hermes Birkin bag is out of the question, and if I'm wrong about that, then I hate you, like I hate Rory Gilmore. Also, starving people. Christ.

(See? My extravagance does have limits. Although my judging does not.)

Obviously, my first choice is the Coach Hamptons Leather Business Tote. If your laptop is small and your folders are not legal-sized, this should be the right size. Not huge, definitely professional, and despite the stupidness of Coach's website, is available in a wine-colored leather that will go with both brown and black outfits. (Dark red, cream or other warm-colored leathers are the way to go if you're trying to find one bag to go with everything.)

If $398 is out of your budget, this bag (or similar versions from past seasons) is generally available at Coach outlets or, with a little patience, on eBay for about half that price.

And for a cheaper option, I think that the right person (i.e. one with a more eclectic professional wardrobe) could pull off carrying this fun tote from Lacoste. It's not leather, but it's cute and simple and would double as a good weekend or travel bag. Also: perfect for the klutzy girls among us who routinely spill their Starbucks on their handbags.

Which I have never done. No. Not ever.

(HA. MORE LIKE FOUR MILLION HUNDREDTY TIMES.)

More questions to come, but the baby is done recharging his scary, brilliant brain and is now awake and ready to terrify his mother some more.

Amalah,

I just broke up with my boyfriend of three years. I still love him but its obvious that we both want different things out of like and have different interests. The three years we were together we were on and off and this is the third and final time we're going our separate ways.  Over the last three years I've been to several colleges and now I am back home. It's hard to meet people in my one and only class (a nursing class at a community college)  because there are only five men who are older/not my type/and married. The problem is I've lost touch with the few and really good friends I had back home. I need advice on how to get out and get a life, meet new people, and get over the relationship that should have ended a long time ago.

Thanks for everything,
Anonymous

I always get a little twitchy when people send in questions about dating and breakups and whatnot, because I'm guessing they've missed the critical part of my biography where I've been with Jason since I was 19 years old, and pretty much decided that I was going to marry him by our second date. So all my dating experience is confined to high school and my freshmen semester of college -- hardly the most together and mature times in my life.

So my breakups tended to fall into one of the following categories:

1) I did the dumping, which meant I never really liked the guy anyway, but was just using him to make my best friend jealous and/or ensure a date to a formal function of some sort and/or he had a car and I needed a ride. When I broke up with him, I generally had someone new lined up, because I could not face life without a boyfriend, because life without a boyfriend was NOT WORTH LIVING and a clear sign that I was destined to DIE ALONE WITH TOO MANY CATS.

2) I was dumped, and usually in a relationship that was way, way past its expiration date anyway, but because life without a boyfriend was not worth living I stayed put and COMPLETELY LOST MY MIND when he dumped me. Like, I would cry all the time and even let him see me cry, because maybe he would take me back out of pity. Or I would stop eating and make sure he knew I'd stopped eating, because maybe he would take me back out of fear. Or I would take up with the first loser who showed any interest in me because maybe he would be jealous of me and my new loser, or something.

So my first advice would be to not do any of those things.

Overall, you sound like you have the right idea -- you know the relationship needed to end and while it's sad, you aren't in denial about it or trying to mash your life into a shape that would better fit into his.

One big glaring issue I have with your letter is that I think when you say you want to "meet people" you are really only interested in meeting people who are men. For example: Everybody in your nursing class is a person, and potentially a person you could be friends with and "get a life" with, but you're tossing the entire thing out as a viable social option because you've already sized up and rejected the five men in the room.

So are you really interested in a social life -- one with friends and new interests and independence -- or are you really just looking to meet a new guy to plug the big relationship hole?  Because the first one is easier, and healthier, and I find that people who get all desperate and attend clubs and activities for the express purpose of meeting someone to date are usually left disappointed because there's just this whole DESPERATION aspect to it all.

You know the types -- they show up at Habitat for Humanity or a young professionals association not really for the joy of being there or to "meet people" (OF BOTH SEXES), but with this not-so-secret agenda of sizing up every other attendee as a potential mate.

So listen -- even though you sound like you've got a handle on why the relationship ended and aren't holding onto any hopes of reconcilation, you've been through the wringer, emotionally speaking. Three years of an on-and-off relationship? Different schools and finally back at home? Those are tough things to deal with. Give yourself a break and throttle back on the "meeting people" anxiety and maybe try to find some girlfriends to go out dancing with.

Call those friends you've lost touch with and tell them you're back in town, how about catching up over a beer some night? Find a study partner in your class. Propose a happy hour. Head to the student union and look for some groups that interest you. (I spent a semester at a community college, and honestly? There were enough clubs and outings and events to rival the big universities.) Join a book club, attend a protest, do some volunteer work.

And you'll meet people, I promise. Just remember that those people don't all need to be cute boys.

More questions to come, but a certain cute boy in snowman jammies requires my attention.

Okay! Maybe not so much with the more questions thing.

Questions for future sure-to-be-similarly-truncated Smackdowns can be sent to advice@amalah.com.

(Please note that the question queue is...well, it's extremely long at this point. About two months-ish. So you may want to go elsewhere for your pertinent advice needs, like what to do if your hair is on fire.)

Life, Such As It Is

PART ONE: In Which We Buy A Christmas Tree That Is Too Big For Our Christmas Tree Stand, Which Wouldn't Be Anything Of Note Except That This Is Like, The Fourth Year In A Row That We've Done That And Still Have Not Bought A Bigger Damn Tree Stand, Like, GOD.

That's our good chef's knife being put to inappropriate use, and yes, we caught our own tree this year, using our most festive fishnet.

PART TWO: In Which My Heart Both Bursts With Pride And Breaks With The Whole Sunrise, Sunset Aspect Of It All.

After procrastinating for WEEKS, I finally went through Noah's clothes and packed up all his little newborn stuff that fit him for like, a month.

If anyone needs any 0-3 month baby boy clothes, I suppose you could have these, except for that one little sleeper with Noah's Ark on it, and the teddy bear one he wore home from the hospital, and those funny striped PJs, and the onesie with the hippo, or the itty bitty cargo pants, or... BAAAAAHHHH MY PRECIOUSSSSSSSSSSSS

(Amy makes crazy bug-eyed face, grabs clothes and shoves them back into closet and hisses at Jason, who is so tired, because she's done this whole thing FOUR TIMES ALREADY AND THE CLOTHES ARE STILL HERE.)

PART THREE: In Which I Am Dumb.

In a sinus-congestion-fueled-stupor, I turned on the burner under the kettle to make my poor sick self some tea.

Quite some time later, I realized that I'd turned on the wrong burner, burned the shit out of our saucepan and stunk up the entire apartment with a truly horrific smell.

Apparently, anyway. I still can't smell anything, BECAUSE I NEVER GOT MY TEA, GODDAMMIT.

Fabulous prizes* will be awarded to the first person to correctly guess what that THING IN THE POT was before I cooked it to death.

*Fabulous prizes = my respect and bored admiration

PART FOUR: In Which I Level With The Internet Regarding What Maternity Leave Actually Looks Like.

Translation: Eye bags, flat stringy hair, zip-up sweater for easy boob access and a really dirty bathroom mirror.

PART FIVE: In Which I Give You What You Came For Already.

One day it will be considered inappropriate for me to nibble on my son's pudgy thighs, so you know I'm chowing down non-stop these days.

And now, the Parade of Noah Faces!

(Part Eleventy Hundred in a Gigitillion Part Series)

(Please don't judge me for all the face scratches. The baby, he's got nails that turn to talons over naptime. I swear the dog doesn't run across his face. Much.)

Enough Baby Pictures to Melt the Entire Internet

Hey y'all, Noah here. My mom's still sick, so she asked me to write today's entry. Which means lots of pictures of me, because Wednesday's post didn't have ANY, and WHAT IS UP WITH THAT, MOM?

Honestly. It's like she thinks people come to this stupid website to READ or something.

I know, right? My mom is funny.

But she is no match for me and my hilarious turtle faces.

Look! Am squirrel! Haaaaa!

And here I am doing my best impression of a post-collagen-injection Melanie Griffith.

But you know, I am more than just a edible bundle of snuggly deliciousness.

I actually have many important opinions.

Like I am strongly opposed to the continued career of Jennifer Love Hewitt.

And I think the world needs more baby smiles.

I mean, really. Don't you feel better already?

CEIBA! SAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYBaAAAAAA! PUPPY STILL HERE BITCHES! STILL CUTE TOO! LOOK HOW CUTE! LEG IS OKAY! COST PEOPLE LOTS OF DOLLARS! SERVES THEM RIGHT FOR BRINGING HOME SMELLY FARTY BABY!

Heh. Sorry about that. That silly dog-thing is just jealous. The big cat-thing loves me though, and one time? Smacked the dog-thing CLEAR ACROSS THE ROOM when she almost jumped on top of me on the couch by accident. Cat-thing was all, "Don't jump on the baby!" Dog-thing was all, "Huh?" Mom was all, "HA!" And I was all, "Poop?"

Anyway, this is boring, and I'm tired, and my mom says this whole thing is kind of lame, like, what's next? An entire post from the vantage point of the cat?  Narration by Amy's boobs? Entries written under the influence of Robitussin and Theraflu?

(Shit. Probably too late on that last one.)

snugly
snuggle
snuffly
smugly
snuggled
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