Look! Posting! Happy now? FINE. Etc.

Absolutely nothing of note has happened to me since I fell down the stairs. Perhaps it was a symbolic fall! Symbolizing the general interestingness of my life and the quality of my website!

Oh. My GOD. My stupid website. That reminds me:

Yesterday, 3:15 pm: I caved to the peer pressure and registered for BlogHer '06.

Yesterday, 3:17 pm: Panic! PANIIIIIC.

I have actually been panicking for a good 22 hours now, up until about five minutes ago when I succeeding in convincing Zoot to sign up and be my roommate and person to hide behind and translator for whenever I meet someone fabulous.

Amy: Bwa fff grrapp gah!

Zoot: She says she loves your website. Or possibly that she needs to pee. I didn't quite catch her inflection on "grrapp."

Alice: Jesus God. (Backs away slowly.)

I am panicking because I went to JournalCon once, and...did not really enjoy myself. I didn't feel like I fit in or that anybody liked me. So I just stayed with my own little clique of friends and I knew this was obnoxious, but I just couldn't seem to get conversations going with anyone else.

And that was here in DC, just a cab ride away, and I was drunk the whole time, and yet now I am flying across the damn country for the opportunity for mass social awkwardness of Scalia-like proportions.

Here's the thing: I consider myself pretty extroverted and chatty, and I like to think this is a good thing. But sometimes when I meet new people I get RIDICULOUSLY EXTROVERTED AND HI HI HI LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE SKIN RASH I HAD THIS ONE TIME and I completely freak people out.

(Every DC reader who has recognized me out in public and introduced themselves just nodded in agreement so hard they may have pulled something. I'm...just not very cool in person. And I'm sorry. Especially to that poor girl I spilled wine on.)

So to anyone going to BlogHer, I will be the girl hiding behind a decorative planter who will probably try to hug you at inappropriate times. While spilling wine on you.

Don't look at me. My idea of a good first impression is puking on your shoes.

Well, that and being CRIMINALLY ADORABLE.

Drop in the Name of Love

One of my biggest parenting fears (besides SIDS, autism and dropping the baby into a volcano) has always been what would happen if I fell while holding Noah.

It's a valid fear, because I fall down a lot. Ahem. Cough. Yes.

After my c-section, I was given strict orders not to carry the baby while walking for a week. And no carrying the baby up and down stairs for a couple more weeks after that. I followed these instructions the best that I could, which is to say, not at all, because I determined pretty much five minutes after the surgery that I was Super Abdominal Surgery Recovery Woman, give me a couple Advil and I HAVE NO LIMITS, THOSE AREA RUGS WILL NOT VACUUM THEMSELVES.

When Noah was just a few days old, Lactaction Consultant v.1.0 told me to always keep a grip on his thigh when I carried him, because this would keep him secure if I fell. I followed these instructions to the letter and walked around with a vise grip on my son's chubby thigh for weeks, although I could never quite work out a falling-down-the-stairs scenario in my head that didn't involve me swinging Noah around like a cartoon, whacking his head a few times and then triumphantly holding him upside-down by one leg at the bottom of the stairs.

I also refused to ever hold him in the kitchen, what with all that hard ceramic tile and Siletone countertops and food processor blades and other assorted hard surfaces that I could smash his head wide open on.

I'm much better about that now, although I'm sure you see where I'm going with this.

I fell down the stairs this morning with Noah in my arms.

Also in my arms: a tote full of bottles, a shopping bag full of bibs and extra baby clothes, my purse and my damn breast pump.

It wasn't a full ass-over-teakettle fall, but my heel got caught in my pants hem as I walked down our building's stairs. I saw the landing a few steps down and realized there was no way I could grab anything or put my hands out to break my fall, but it was monumentally important that I not fall flat on my face and crush the baby (who, looking back on it, was wearing his ridiculously puffy jacket and probably would have been just fine even if I'd just tossed him blindly on the landing)...so I just sort of gritted my teeth and bent my knees and BAM.

Full force, right on my knees. And then I was so top heavy with everything I was carrying I lost my balance and fell forward, so I stuck my elbows out and BAM.

And I lay there for a minute, propped up on my throbbing elbows, with the breast pump bag now sort of on top of my head, wondering WHO THE HELL TAUGHT ME TO DO THAT.

Noah just sort of looked at me, like why are we on the floor, Mom? And then he farted and sighed contentedly.

Kids. I SWEAR.

Who's paying for Mommy's kneecap replacement surgery in 30 years? Who? Is it Noah? Yes! It is Noah! What a good boy you are, Noah!

And now, I present Noah Storch: The Hugh Hefner of Infant Room C.

Noah would like to invite you to a party at his mansion. Perhaps you would like to meet him in the Grotto? With sexy results?

Noah may have had a few too many champagne cocktails.

However, nothing gets in the way of Noah's swingin', relaxin' good time.

Oh dear. Where is Noah's blonde companion who is tasked with keeping him upright and dignified at all times? Perhaps he should hire four or five more.

The party is now over. Please get the fuck out, you freeloading bunch of losers.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

To anyone who witnessed my late-night freak-out in yesterday's comments section: Noah does not have the chicken pox. He has a little cold (goddangdingdamndaycare) and a poorly-timed, yet ultimately unrelated rash. He is also teething, and this angers him greatly, so he screamed for SIX HOURS last night, well past my bedtime, so I got a little bleary-eyed and paranoid and turned a couple little red bumps on his elbow into OH MY GOD, A POX IS ON THEE.

And me, since as I've mentioned before, I never had the chicken pox and learned when I was pregnant that the vaccine I got seven years ago has worn off completely. And I can't get re-vaccinated until I completely quit with this delusional breastfeeding thing I do. So...stay away from kids! Kids with rashes!

Anyway, I was wrong and insane, just like I asked you to pray for. Not that there should have been much of a doubt about my insanity.

To wit:

I can't get up! But I can poop the minute you zip this thing up, so there.

Aw. I'm fairly mean.

ANYWAY. LET'S DO A SMACKDOWN. FEATURED THIS WEEK, QUESTIONS I RECEIVED BACK IN JULY.

JUUUULLLLYYYY.

What are the odds that any of these people are still reading? I would say none-to-nonexistent.

Dear Oh Wise Amalah,

We're closing in on 2 years of infertility and am transferring, well, not all, but a lot, of my baby-longing towards the idea of getting a dog. But my husband is being very annoying and pointing out that no one's home 11 hours a day and I? Am La. Zy. I promise to walk the poor thing, three times a day and more on weekends, Dad, I swear! But the truth is, I probably won't, and he knows it.

But....I want something to snuggle. Cats aren't possible, he's allergic. I think you went through something similar when you got Ceiba. How did you finally win him over? Is there any hope for me, or should I give up and start treating my stuffed dog like it is real? And then be ostracized as the Crazy Lady in the Neighborhood dragging my stuffed dog around on a least?

Thanks,
Jamila

Jason caved and agreed to get a dog because he was sick of all the weeping. Yes.

Well, it's a little more complicated than that, but yes, Ceiba is our Obligatory Infertility Dog, adopted right when we were feeling especially beaten down and hopeless. We'd just failed spectacularly with Clomid four straight months in a row and were learning that a unfortunate side effect of this relatively mild fertility drug is that it MAKES AMY LOSE HER DAMN MIND. Like split from reality, even Tom Cruise is tossing starter packs of Zoloft at her and backing slowly out of the room brand crazy.

And I weepily told Jason that I wanted a dog. Max is great and cuddly and all, but...too low maintenance to be a real substitute baby, if that makes any sense. Plus a dog would be something new and shiny and would get me outside on long walks where I might actually talk with people and maybe realize that I would not automatically die if I left the house sometimes.

And Jason said that yes, we should get a dog. And a dog, we did get, and lo, she is SUCH A PAIN IN THE ASS.

We love her to death, don't get me wrong. She's our baby girl and we try to do right by her. But it's tough, since we don't have a fenced yard and have to walk her and she's gotten very poorly socialized in the wake of her broken leg confinement, and as a result she HAAAATES strangers and needs to be retrained. (Although I won't lie, I find her aggressive grandstanding hilarious, because it's such an IMPOTENT FURY. Like a pissed-off ferret.)

But Ceiba saved my life last fall, and that's not an exaggeration. She brought Jason and I closer together and calmed me down and is just SO CONFUSED about who Noah is and why I don't let her lick his puke. And who knows, maybe focusing my energies on her had something to do with the mysterious and against-all-odds "natural" ovulation that allowed me to conceive Noah without the aid of Clomid or an IUI (our next step in the baby quest).

But...you both need to want a dog. They are a huge responsibility and a lot of work. Just like...a baby! How about that. 

So I guess I don't really have any actual advice. Which is why this question sat in my Inbox for months while I scratched my head and tried to think of a way to say that yes, dogs are really great but also huge pains so be really really sure you want one and will still want one once you have the baby but dogs ARE great practice for babies but they don't magically walk themselves and need less attention once there's an infant in the house.

Huh. I guess I just said what I thought. Although maybe I'll add that you could also consider getting a bunny or one of those weird hairless cats instead, you know, for the litter-box benefit.

(Ceiba used a litter box for a few weeks. It did...not really work out too well.)

Rat Dog On Linoleum, circa October 2004

I have 12-year-old boy hair and I'm a girl. Of nearly 25. Stupid hair cuttery. I wanted a pixie cut; the lady gave me the same haircut I see on preteen boys everywhere. Including the fade up the side. Now, this was a few weeks ago, and it's now starting to grow, but now it looks all WEIRD and SHAGGY. I want it to grow, and be longlonglong, because I'm tired of looking like the lead singer from Weezer, but I don't know what to do with it in the interim stage. So...hmm? Any ideas?

Heather

Well. Considering poor Heather wrote this question back in, again, JULY, I'm guessing her hair is well on its way out of Bad-pixie-cutville and hopefully looking more respectable. But I will answer this question anyway, for the annals of history.

1) Pixie cuts? Are very difficult to pull off. And about 75% of the women who request them should...not.

2) THEREFORE: A pixie cut at the Hair Cuttery? Not to pile on with what you already know, but please stand still while I throw bottles of Pantene at you for a minute.

3) ERGO: The only solutions to a bad haircut are:

    a) Get a better haircut.
    b) Buy hats.

I've gotten bad haircuts. I've gotten bad haircuts topped with bad at-home dye jobs followed by another bad haircut to cut as much of the bad at-home dye job off as possible. This is why I own Coach crusher hats and an adorable little beret. And maybe a straw cowboy hat that SHUT UP, I look totally cute in it.

A pixie cut is hard to correct immediately after because...well, there's just not much left to work with. So while you wait, you can mess around with funky styling products like fibers and pomades and try to find a workable look, or you can wear a hat.

But regardless, you get yourself a good stylist. GOOD. Non-discount-chain good. And you start seeing him or her every six to eight weeks to shape and trim your hair. Yes, it will be a long time before you have longlonglong hair again, but super-short hair left to just GROW, like unattended weeds?

Forget Weezer. Think Dudley Moore. GAH.

The boy, his hair came out of the womb looking this good.

Amalah,

I need some advice about my working wardrobe.  I'm starting a business where I will be going into people's homes to provide computer support.  What would be appropriate to wear so that I look:  professional, but not matronly; friendly, but not like I'm there to clean the garage; knowledgeable, but not [too] geek-like?

To add to my dilemma, I'm a woman who is 5'11", so I don't want to emphasize my already intimidating height.  (My target market is senior citizens, who tend to be short.  Why is that, btw?  Why don't you ever see a really tall old lady?)  I really am quite nice and harmless, but at this height, it can be hard to project that "I'm not going to hurt you" image.  Also, since I may have to actually crawl around on the floor to reach all those computer wires, I obviously have to wear pants.

I've thought that khaki pants with a nice-ish polo shirt or something would be acceptable (although boring), but then I saw that horrible Merry Maids commercial featuring the two khaki-clad maids merrily dancing around with their vacuum cleaners and whooping it up, and I vowed to never let khaki near my body again.  (Maybe I'm being too extreme?)

I generally can manage to clothe myself adequately, if not super-stylishly, for most occasions, but this has got me a bit stumped.  I'd like to be at least a WEE bit stylish!

Thanks for any advice, except the kind like my mother offers, which would involve polyester.

Pam

While yes, it's really not the best look, a polo shirt and khakis have sort of become the uniform of professionals of the non-suit-wearing variety who still don't want to wear jeans. It's acceptable for casual Friday and trade show booth staffers and IT workers who spend a lot of time crawling around on the floor to make sure your Internet connection is even PLUGGED THE FUCK IN, YOU MORON, CHECK THAT NEXT TIME YOU PAGE ME.

Most old people would think you are extremely lovely and non-scary if you show up wearing neatly pressed khakis and a tucked-in polo shirt. Most young people would just think you're wearing a work uniform, particularly if you get your company's logo stiched on your shirt. (Which is a great way to beg absolution for wearing something you otherwise wouldn't. "See the logo? It's for work! Not a conscientious fashion choice here!")

It's also a very low-maintenance look, what with the no dry cleaning and the easy ironing.

Although I hear you. Boring. And those Merry Maids scare me with their zest for vacuuming and blindingly white sneakers.

But...I generally don't get too worked up about my own work wardrobe. I have to wear suits. And hose. And heels. And blah, whatever. I buy perfectly acceptable suits and maybe dress them up with a cute top and I try to keep my shoes sort-of fashionable, but I am not killing myself to make a bold statement at an office where I am bound to a dress code that bugs me, because why do I have to wear a suit? We have no clients! We publish things! We have websites! No one cares about my appropriate hosiery!

So here's what I would wear, if I were you: yes, some type of easy-iron, non-dry-clean-only khakis. I mean, jeans are just not professional, black pants will be a lint-and-other-people's-pet-hair NIGHTMARE, skirts are out, so...yup, khakis are it.  But I'd try to find a flattering lower-waist cut with NO FRONT PLEATS, MY LORD and a boot-cut leg. Try the Gap, which makes pants just for the tall girls, and curvy girls, and short girls, and even the pregnant girls, THANK GOD.

(Whoa, really doling out the little-known shopping secrets here, aren't I?)

High-waisted chinos with pleats and tapered legs are NOT your friend. They are not anyone's friend. They should die and go to hell. Or JC Penneys.

As for a top, I'd wear a slim-fit polo. You know, the girlie style that you don't really need to tuck in. Like Lacoste, or Ralph Lauren. (And places like American Eagle and Gap will have cheaper versions, of course.) It's preppy and neat without being the total IT geek cliche style polo.

Also nice: a button-front collared shirt, especially with the three-quarter-length sleeves.

Oh, and no white sneakers. You buy cute leather flats. They should match your nice leather belt. And you're done. Basic, a little boring but absolutely not scary to any little old people, who will at least be a good regular reminder to take your calcium every day, tall pretty girl.

Also recommended: houndstooth with owl socks.

Dear Wise and Compassionate Queen Amalah,

I have a little issue at work, and I thought you, in your infinite wisdom and knowyness might have some valuable advice for me. See, I have this corker, who is generally nice, and trained me very well when I joined the team and all, and everything seemed good and happy. As time went on and I learned more and took on more responsibility, she...stopped working. Then, I did mostly everything. Eventually, my lovely supervisor (I mean that, she's great) had a talk with the slacker, and instead of things changing, she became petulant, whiny, and given to making excuses for anything and everything while giving everyone puppydog eyes and acting kind of beaten down. Very "poor me" with passive-aggressive baloney mixed in.

So, management has been dealing with the situation, and either she will take care of business, or eventually she'll be gone. That's fine. In the meantime, she's suddenly started to try to bribe me, I think, mostly with food and Starbucks. I like food and Starbucks, don't get me wrong, but she's making me really uncomfortable - I don't want these things from her. We have to all be friendly, as my team consists of only four people, and we all depend on each other, so I really can't just come out and tell her to cut it out. She won't take no for an answer; in fact she rebuffs it with a declaration that we are "friends."

She is 25 years my senior, acts like a child, and I have never, ever, indicated that we were more than congenial coworkers. She's ridiculously sensitive, so telling her that splitting her lunch with me gives me the heebies will result in major fallout. Thank you for any advice, even though I don't think I've adequately expressed the weirdness of this coworker and her food gifts.

Pea

(I bet you good cash money that this woman's ass has been canned since Pea sent me this question, but since I am determined to get to every question possible and not get distracted by new shiny ones coming in [the question queue is closed, by the way], I will answer this question anyway, and Pea is free to tell me that I am completely useless in the comments section.)

Obviously there's a lot more going on than just unwanted food and coffees here: this woman is useless, she's dragging your team down and it's obvious that she's trying to get an "in" with you because friends don't fire friends, or because she wants someone to wallow in the whole put-upon-ness pity routine she's got going on. "See what a nice person I am? Can you believe how they treat me? Tell me you can't believe how they treat me, because I am nice."

It's sad. You know it's sad. You've correctly called a bribe a spade here, or something.

The whole "she's a big baby and I want nothing to do with her" business is one issue, because you can't force management to get off the pot and fire her already, and with a four-person team there's not much room to just hit the big old IGNORE button in the meantime. It sucks, but...it's work, and I think every office has someone like this -- someone who makes you want to punch yourself in the damn face -- and this is why God created the half-price happy hour special.

Which leaves us with trying to solve the whole "No thanks, I'm not really thinkin' Arby's" business.

I'm trying to envision the exchange here -- does she go out and buy lunch that you didn't order, or is she cutting her tuna fish sandwich in half and forcing it on you? Is she saying, "Hey, I'm off to Starbucks, can I bring you something?" Or just showing up, white chocolate mocha in hand?

If she's just showing up with Starbucks, it's annoying, but there's not much you can do, other than say you aren't drinking caffeine or only take skim milk or whatever. But that would probably only work for one day, and she'd pull the puppy-dog eyes because SHE IS YOUR FRIEND, YOU SHOULD TELL HER THESE THINGS.

It's like when Krispy Kremes show up at my office. I don't really want donuts, I really don't need donuts, but...I eat the donuts. But I don't bring in donuts to reciprocate. Because...well, I didn't ask for the donuts, and honestly, the last thing this office needs is more donuts. So take the coffee, assert that she really shouldn't have done it, but thank you, and be done with it. Don't feel guilty about not bringing her coffee ever, because...you didn't ask for the coffee, and it will just further fuel Ms.CrazyPants' belief that you are friends.

As for the sharing of the lunch? Or buying you lunch? I can see why that skeeves you out. A cup of coffee is a friendly gesture, but lunch? Thanks, I've got my own. And that's just what you've got to say. Bring your lunch from home every day, even if it kills you.

When she offers food, pull out your little brown bag and say NO THANK YOU. If she insists and puts food on your desk, tell her that seriously, you packed a generous lunch and you just aren't going to eat that, and hand it back. If she refuses, just leave it on your desk and then put it back on her desk at the first possible occasion, with another firm, "Thank you, but I'm full, and this will just go to waste."

If she's going out and buying you a sandwich that you didn't ask for, try to beat her to the punch and go buy your own lunch -- and only YOUR lunch.

And of course, you can try countering the passive-aggressiveness with your own: you're on a diet, you've developed a food allergy, you've become irrationally particular about food, blah blah blah, but...

In the end, it comes down to saying no. You have to frame it nicely because it's work, but...no.

I don't want your stupid food! Your stupid food is stupid and I stick my tongue out at your stupid food!

The Advice Smackdown question queue is CLOSED. New questions are no longer being accepted, as I still didn't answer the remaining July questions, and then there's August, and September, and months after that, and I really suck, so here, have another baby picture to distract you from the suckage.

What? We're very proud of his tongue-sticking-out skills. We are looking into getting him a scholarship in smartassery.

More Ponderous Pontificating on Mommyhood

I know! You are so welcome.

(And while I do need to fact check this, I'm writing from the assumption that no one has ever had a baby except for me in the history of the universe.)

Jason and I were having a discussion (over dinner) (in a restaurant) (eating food that we could cook at home, but why, when paying for it is so much fun?) (and also when it inspires the wrath of the U WENT BACK 2 WORK BECAUSE U R A SELFISH WHORE people) (and let's not forget the wine, the delicious delicious wine) about whether or not we feel "different" since Noah was born.

I immediately chimed in with a Raising-Arizona-like "I LOVE HIM SO MU-UU-UCH!" and said that yes, I feel like a completely different person now and my LANDS, the differences, they are many in number, although I can't really think of any right now beyond a heightened tolerance for another human being's bodily fluids.

Jason shrugged and said he didn't feel that different.

And while I went all Precious-Moments-eyeballs on him for a moment, because if he didn't feel different, that must mean he doesn't love Noah, because again, the multitude of differences! Like...there are soggy burp cloths in my Coach bag! THAT'S A LIFE TURNED UPSIDE DOWN, I TELL YOU.

Jason tried to explain, ignoring my weirdness like he has ignored my weirdness for the past eight years now, that while yes, our day-to-day lives are very different, he doesn't feel like he as a person has changed at all. Having Noah hasn't made him a better person who always gives change to homeless people or who has any deep insight into the human condition. It hasn't even changed how fast he drives.

And other than me still not being quite up to par in the seduction department, we as a couple haven't changed much either. We still talk about non-Noah things, like the pets and our jobs and people who bug us and man, a vacation would be nice soon but man, this thing at work, like, man, it's probably going to kill me dead. Please pour me another glass of wine.

(Yes, we've always been this exciting. And eloquent!)

Jason summed up his feelings:  Now we have Noah. He is here and we need to take care of him, but taking care of him is fun, so therefore Noah makes our lives more fun and wow, so glad we finally got knocked up and that we got knocked up with this particular little person, but being a dad is not the earth-shattering, ground-swelling, clouds-parting, surging-Bellagio-fountains kind of life change he thought it would be.

"Like when we got married," he said. "Everyone kept asking if I felt different. And I didn't. We were just married, and it was great, but...not that different."

I responded by telling him that this was the craziest crazy talk I had ever heard, you big fat crazy, and spent the rest of our dinner contemplating my sleeping son, my incredibly delicious rockfish and how all the ways motherhood has changed me.

(WHICH I WILL NOW TELL YOU ABOUT. DON'T YOU LIKE HOW I SET THAT UP? RESPECT THE SEGUE, PEOPLE.)

There's the aforementioned skin issue. It's really the only way I can describe it: Noah is walking around (okay, more like lolling around like a floppy rockfish) with my top layer of skin. I'm extremely sensitive now. I feel hurts and slights very deeply and it doesn't take much to get me irreparably bent out of shape.

I spent a weekend recently stomping around my house and threatening to pull down my whole damn stupid website because what am I DOING, putting myself and my son out there so freaks and weirdos and mean people can be freaky and weird and mean to us and I DON'T NEED THIS SHIT, DO NOT FUCK WITH THE MAMA BEAR.

So that's a change. Probably not a good change. Probably a change I should discuss with my therapist, had I not fired my therapist because I cannot afford emotional health right now; I have to buy diapers.

(And formula. Stupid boobs. I spend all that money on nursing bras and rented pumps and Soothies and lanolin and twee breastmilk storage containers and four months later I've got enough powdered Similac Advance in my cupboards to create a powerful DHA- and ARA-fueled army of confused flour beetles.)

One thing my therapist WOULD be proud of me for is my sort-of overcoming of the thing about the phone. (That's what we called it. The Thing About the Phone. Not strong enough to be considered a phobia [volcanoes!], but intrusive enough to be a definite Thing.)

I hate the phone. HAAAATE it. I've hated it ever since I was in the first grade and could never remember my phone number, and every time I tried to call home from my friend Missy's house I dialed wrong, and one time this really mean lady yelled at me because she thought I was some punk kid when I just needed to ask my mom if I could stay for dinner.

(AND THIS SCARRED ME FOR LIFE. MY NEUROSES ARE SO FUCKING LAME.)

(And I didn't even LIKE eating dinner at Missy's house, because her mom made canned green beans instead of frozen green beans and put onions IN the hamburgers. So not worth a lifelong Thing, is all I'm saying.)

But Noah can't make his own pediatrician appointments, nor could he sweet talk his way to the top of daycare waiting lists, so I use the phone now.

I even called some random guy who left a Post-it on my car window asking where I'd gotten my leather interior done to tell him (we did it ourselves, and by "we" I mean "Jason") because it seemed like a nice, normal-phone-using thing to do. Also, I respect anyone who has a Post-it handy in a parking garage.

I still have not called to order Indian food though, because the woman who answers the phone at the restaurant is snippy, and snippy stills makes me nervous and when I'm nervous I give them the wrong street address.

I feel badly for when I judged people for their screaming babies ("Just give the damn thing a pacifier already, GOD. All babies like pacifiers, right?"), or for buying an SUV after having one child ("What, like you need all that room for a seven-pound infant? GOD."), or got angry because someone didn't call me or repeatedly canceled lunch plans while on maternity leave ("She's sitting at home eating bon bons in her jammies! She's totally going to spoil that damn baby and have no friends or life ever again and it'll be all her fault.") ("GOD.")

And I'm suddenly aware of money. Before Noah, we never worried about money. We never THOUGHT about money. If we ended up with some money for the savings account at the end of the month, that was GREAT, but if not, WHO CARES, look at the pretty things we bought! We'll think about retirement tomorrow or the day after that.

We're still doing just fine. We can pay our bills and have money left over, despite the insane amount of money I pay to Noah's daycare every week (and you would not believe it if I told you, and I mean that, because I've told people who were firmly convinced that they lived in the High Cost of Living Epicenter of the Universe how much I pay for daycare and they have gone blind from shock. And then, just to be mean, I tell them how much the more expensive centers cost, the centers that we did not get a spot in because I did not get on the waitlist two years ago or offer them my kidney, and then they ACTUALLY DIED. THE POLICE ARE INVESTIGATING ME).

What the hell was I saying before that tangent? Wait, let me SCROLL UP AND CHECK.

Oh right. We're doing okay. Things are definitely tighter than before, but you know, the mortgage gets paid and we can afford to go out for dinner and after consulting our budget spreadsheet I have decided that I can, in fact, continue to pay $12 a month for XM Radio because I no longer grocery shop while pregnant (i.e. seven pints of Ben & Jerry's, family size tub of pudding, etc.).

But I'm just...kind of obsessed with money anyway. I won't spend anything on myself, like AT ALL. Every day at work, I scavenge around the kitchen and put together a free lunch of leftover lunch trays from meetings and free birthday cake and even some mysterious Jell-o snack cups that appeared the other morning. Today I used a Sharpie to color the heel of a shoe that Ceiba chewed all to hell and I don't think you can notice at all, unless you look directly at it.

I went to buy cat food this weekend and pitched a damn FIT because MY GOD, did we not realize we were paying $22.45 for a case of canned light food versus $19.78 for this other brand? That's a cost savings of...more than a whole DOLLAR at LEAST, don't make me to the math, but honestly, that's ridiculous of us to have never noticed that.

Although I'm not forgoing simple pleasures like lunch and new shoes while lavishing hundreds of dollars on Noah either. I almost bought him generic formula ON PRINCIPLE, but got scared of it, like what if it's the Hydrox equivalent to Oreos? Hydrox cookies are gross. And the generic diapers gave him a rash. 

I plan to make homemade baby food, not so I can ensure that he will only ever poop out the finest organic produce money can buy, but because those twee little jars are a fucking rip off.

(I'm sure many people out there are screaming WELCOME TO PLANET EARTH, BITCH at their computer screens right now. To them I say, THANK YOU. I ENJOY YOUR OXYGEN-RICH ATMOSPHERE AND VARIOUS CARBON-BASED LIFE FORMS. MAY I CLIP THAT COUPON FOR ALL-BEEF HOT DOGS IF YOU DO NOT PLAN TO UTILIZE IT FOR YOUR OWN NUCLEAR HOUSEHOLD?)

I am fairly sure, however, that my recent decent into miserhood is definitely temporary and will end sometime around the same time I run out of my good facial moisturizer.

I'm also trying to watch my language, surprise surprise. I'm also having a tough time doing it, duh duh duh duh DUH. When I dropped the damn baby-food-making mixer attachment on my toe and broke it, I screamed the f-word several times, only to see Jason standing in the doorway, precious babe in arms. Later that night I broke a jar of red pepper flakes (from BALDUCCI'S, like, are we just throwing money out the window here?) and let a few more choice words fly.

The other night we realized that Noah was staring at the TV while a commercial for Hostel was on. Jason casually turned him around and started talking to him VERY LOUDLY while I fumbled for the remote.

But then yesterday I stumbled onto the Radio Disney channel on XM, only to hear them edit "piece of crap" out of a Weezer song. Seriously? Like, are you fucking kidding me?

And it threw me into an existential dilemma. We all want to be the cool parents who don't freak out about a bit of potty language and buy the stupid edited versions of CDs at Wal-Mart and whatever, but no one wants to be the parent of the kid who calls their preschool teacher a fucking douche.

Or even a piece of crap. Hmm.

I guess I'm not really different either, except that I think about a lot of weird things now. Like when to learn how to use the parental controls on the TiVo. Or whether a subscription to the Sunday paper would be worth it for the coupons, and would I really remember to use the coupons, BECAUSE WHO AM I KIDDING?

I can tell you this much: Parenthood is not sainthood and I am not a better person for fulfilling a base evolutionary urge to reproduce and pass on my clearly superior genetic code. Mostly I just feel like I'm just trying not to mess this kid up too badly.

If anything, being a parent just magnifies my insecurities and makes my bad habits more obvious. It would be really great if having a child automatically made me a kinder, gentler, more fiscally-responsible, phone-using person who watches her goddamn motherfucking mouth sometimes, but it didn't. 

I guess the only real life-changing difference is this: Now we have Noah.

 

Too bad the "we" part of the equation hasn't changed a damn bit, except that we're playing like it counts now.

In Which Words Fail Me

Before Noah was born, people used to tell me that having a child is like having your heart living outside of your body.

And I would nod because, yeah, I can totally see that. Their joy is your joy, their hurt is your hurt, blah blah weepcakes.

But then Noah was born, and this sentiment doesn't even come close.

My love for him is so visceral and deep that it's almost violent. It consumes me. It makes me want to swallow him whole. To put him back in my womb where he belonged exclusively to me, where I could keep him safe and secure.

Now that Noah is here, I feel like someone scraped off the top layer of my skin and created a little person with it.

I feel everything that he feels -- every hug, kiss and mean old needle prick.  And I'm standing over here with no skin at all -- raw, exposed and vulnerable.

Being Noah's mom is like nothing I ever expected.

I expected to be sleep deprived, since that's the favorite horror story people love to tell pregnant women. (YOU WILL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN. YOU WILL PRAY FOR DEATH INSTEAD.)  I figured I'd get maybe two hours of sleep a day and be grateful for it. Instead, I got a baby who sleeps through the night 90% of the time. (The 3 am feeding snafu of last week has been rendered moot by the irresponsible introduction of the abusive rice cereal.) He lets us sleep in on the weekends as long as he's in bed with us in the morning, spooned against my chest, with his arms outstretched and his fingers curled around his daddy's hands.

I never expected to find the sounds of two snoring men in my bed to be so damn comforting.

I expected to never leave the house again. Instead, we found a great babysitter almost immediately. And we got a baby with such predictable eating and sleeping patterns that we can take him out to (appropriate) restaurants knowing he'll sleep the entire time, and even if he does wake up, he loves watching people and is so damn smiley and good-natured that the waitstaff and people at the next table over routinely ask to hold him and fuss over him, even if they gave us dirty looks when we walked in, carseat in tow.

I expected a small chubby baby. Instead, I got a humongous boy, all lean and muscular, who wears six- to nine-month sized clothing already and looks just like a little man when we dress him in jeans and hoodies and MY GOD, I can't keep his feet out of my mouth.

I didn't expect my baby to be kind of gross. I thought babies just kind of stayed perfectly smooth and white and sweet on their own. Instead, I spend hours mopping up big lines of drool and clipping his talon-like nails and cleaning his ear wax and digging out boogers and picking lint out of his toes and scrubbing his underarms and wiping dried spit-up out of his neck rolls.  Other women talk about how they don't even think their babies' poop smells. My baby's poop smells. Bad. And I'm always a little relieved when he has his daily diaper-rattling poop at daycare and I don't have to deal with it.

I didn't realize it was possible to be so intimately acquainted with someone's hind-end business and still think that they are the most beautiful and delicious person on the entire planet.

I didn't expect my baby to be so smart. I didn't expect it to take every fiber of my being to not be one of those parents who won't shut up about how advanced their baby is. Babies develop at their own pace. Delays are not the end of the world. I didn't ask about his APGARs until he was three days old  because honestly, who the fuck cares?  But oh my GOD, this child has the verbal skills of a six-month-old and can sit unsupported momentarily and balances on his legs like a real live person and reaches for toys and rolls over in both directions and blows bubbles and opens his mouth for a spoonful of cereal and plays with his feet and amuses himself with rattles and seriously, when you look in his eyes he's just trying to figure you out and the little wheels are turning and...wow. Where did this big giant brain of his come from, and how do I not fuck him up with my own numbskullness and reality TV habit?

I expected to be able to make my baby laugh. Babies have always liked me, and I am the creator of the famous "OOPS" game, a game that has gone down in my family's history as one of the most hilarious things ever. To play, you will need: one ultra-patient Aunt Amy, one little baby niece named Allie, one of those plastic stacking rings. Put ring on baby's head. Wait for ring to fall off baby's head. Say "OOPS" when ring falls off baby's head. Wait for baby's hysterical laughter to die down, put ring back on baby's head. REPEAT ONE FRILLION MILLION TIMES.

Jason can make Noah laugh. His daycare teachers make him laugh deep, ringing belly laughs just by talking to him. It's absolutely amazing to witness. But I cannot make him laugh. I can evoke beautiful and beaming smiles -- full-body smiles that involve the flailing and drawing in of limbs, but he won't laugh at me, no matter how stupid I act for him.

I expected to maybe feel weird about being a mom sometimes. To fight the tendency to let it define me. I never expected that, on my very first night out with a girlfriend at a bar last week, I'd whip out the camera phone to show off pictures of Noah to every single person who spoke to me because I simply could not help it, BEHOLD WHAT I HAVE WAITING FOR ME BACK AT HOME.

I expected breastfeeding to suck. And...well, it does. It certainly never went like I wanted it to, although I kind of always expected my supply to suck absurd amounts of ass. But I never expected breastfeeding, in the rare, precious moments when it works just fine, to be such a powerful bonding experience. Nursing is no longer about food. When he's hungry, he wants eight solid ounces of milk and has no patience for the four ounces or so that I can provide. But when he wakes up in the night or early morning, or when we arrive home after a long day apart, or when I accidentally ding his head on the door frame, or when the dog jumps on his chest and scares him, he immediately reaches for my shirt, mouth open and panting, his eyes searching my face in a plaintive plea for boob, Mama, boooob.

I never, ever expected to love him so damn much.

Not So Much Boring As Brain-Numbing Tedium

So one thing was resoundingly clear from your comments: the only thing that is DEFINITELY boring around here is a lack of regular updates.

So I proceeded to not update! At all! Take THAT, loyal readers! Contempt! Fie!

(There is a new Snarkywood, however, which includes about 43 whole words that I wrote.)

(By the way, I really did not write that last entry for "validation" that I am not boring. I KNOW that I am boring. The whole point of that entry was that I ENJOY being boring. That I am FINE with being boring, because it's a FULFILLING kind of boring. Then again, maybe that point got lost because I'm just not a very good writer and I used the word "boring" three hundred thousand times.)

(And now everyone will pile on with the compliments on my writing until someone snarks that GOD, I clearly wrote that just so people would disagree with me, blah blah blah, am so full of myself, and this is why the comments section gives me a headache sometimes.)

ANYWAY.

Here's the thing: I usually write the bulk of my entries the night before, at home, like a responsible person who does not waste time at work. Then I clean it up, fix my atrocious speling and tpying, drop in some pictures and publish it at some point the next day.

This week, that schedule has not been working, because there have been, no lie, about seventeen hundred hours of new 24 episodes on every night, plus Gilmore Girls (with New Youthful Indiscretion Bastard Daughter v.2), and then Lost, and maybe I occasionally like to sort of watch some American Idol auditions, is that some sort of crime, and Noah needs to have the daycare funksmell scrubbed off him every night, plus cereal and stimulation and a lesson in why Jack Bauer is a really excellent role model in life, and there's also this little thing about how he won't sleep through the night anymore.

Oh NO. Waking up at 3 am every night is MUCH BETTER. And 5 am is also an excellent time to wake up AGAIN, because it's precisely 20 minutes after I've managed to fall back asleep after the 3 am incident, and I am now so damn tired during the day that my eyeballs actually hurt and I'm afraid that an extra-long blink will leave me sprawled facedown in the office hallway, sound asleep.

I swear, the child has been reading too many parenting blogs, because how else would he know that all the other four-month-old babies out there are pulling this same shit? STOP CAVING TO PEER PRESSURE, NOAH. BE YOUR OWN PERSON.

A SLEEPY PERSON PREFERABLY.

I Photoshopped out his runny nose. That's love, people.

So damn tired.

Anyway, we just had Corporate Love Fest Rah-Rah Day, and there was much love, and many pieces of flair were distributed, and I displayed my mental age by sticking my tongue out at the new employees while they were introduced, including one who may very well blog about it, had he found me amusing or clever or...noticed me doing it at all.

Now there is lukewarm pizza that I am picking the mushrooms off of.

See? Don't you wish I had maybe decided to talk non-stop about the baby instead?

Daycare funksmell? Pshaw. Even my Diaper Genie smells like freshly baked cinnamon buns, for I am that awesome.

I'm adding a midnight feeding tonight, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

All Your Chins Are Belong To Us.

Babies Are Boring

Or, more accurately, the parents of babies are boring.

Seriously, when this equals big-time photo-op excitement at your house...

...you are boring. Congratulations.

You can't really help being boring, because while babies are cute and all, they just don't DO very much. You spend your days wiping up spit-up and changing their clothes because poop shot out the leg holes of their diaper because they're right in between diaper sizes and can you believe he's wearing size two diapers now? But he's got skinny thighs so the leg holes kind of gap so yeah, he pooped on his outfit and maybe a little on the couch too and the next thing you know, you've just spent 10 minutes discussing the intricacies of disposable diaper leg holes with the cashier at the grocery store.

Having a baby means that your big Friday night plans involved a small bowl of rice cereal and this was ridiculously exciting to you.

So exciting that you probably spent the rest of the weekend telling everyone you knew about this small bowl of rice cereal.

Being a parent means you KNOW nobody cares, but you tell them anyway.

Having a baby means wall-to-wall plastic crap in primary colors.

Being a parent means you have no qualms whatsoever about sticking your finger up another human being's nose.

Being a parent means that sometime, someday, and no matter how strongly you swore you wouldn't, you will talk about yourself in the third person.

Probably in a really high-pitched voice, and you'll be doing something weird with your eyebrows too.

Being a parent means you spend SUBSTANTIAL chunks of your time trying to arrange the verses of "The Wheels on the Bus" into a logically pleasing order.

Like, obviously you start with the wheels going round and round. And then I like to sing all the other verses about inanimate parts of the bus first, like the wipers (swish swish swish) and the blinkers (on and off? left and right? blink blink blink?) and then I end with the doors (open and close) because I think this is a nice segue to the verse about the bus driver,  because he's who you see when the doors open and close, and you move on back, move on back, move on back to where the other passengers are, starting with the children and then the babies and then the mommies saying don't you fuss, and isn't there a verse about the daddies on the bus? Or are we to assume that daddies don't ride the bus because daddy is off having a mid-life crisis in his Corvette?

There should also be a verse about the no-good teenagers listening to their damn iPods on the bus or the homeless man with too many plastic shopping bags screaming about Whitey on the bus, but I haven't been able to come up with the right lyrics yet.

Being a parent means you are genetically unable to stop talking about how your three-and-a-half month old HELD HIS OWN BOTTLE, FOR LIKE, A MINUTE, or about how he found an old pacifier in his crib and mashed it into his mouth ALL BY HIMSELF, and these are the skills you are currently hanging your Ivy League hopes on and why does everybody look so bored?

Because you are a parent. And you are now boring.

Which is why it's probably a good thing that I don't get out much anymore, and why I have no idea what to tell people who leave comments about missing the "old" Amalah, because yeah, I miss her too, but I ALREADY KILLED HER WITH THE BORING.

Although she did sort-of make a reappearance this weekend, during a baby-less five-block walk in Chinatown on Saturday night, during which we got kind of trapped in a crowd of honest-to-God MONSTER TRUCK RALLY attendees, including one of the largest, craziest and most balls-out mullets I have EVER seen, which totally required a double-take from me, which totally caused the little kitten heel of my shoe to get stuck in a sidewalk grate, and then I caused all sorts of sidewalk traffic while I yanked it out of the grate and everybody was staring at me thinking, "Um, maybe wear sneakers next time? Moron."

Being a parent means there's only one person who finds you absolutely hilarious and fascinating.

Unfortunately, he also loves ugly plastic crap and farts.

But he totally gets your excitement about the cereal, and that's all that matters.

Not Quite a Year in the Life of Amy's Camera Phone

I made an extremely important discovery a few weeks ago.

I discovered how to get the photos I take with my camera phone OFF OF MY DAMN CAMERA PHONE.

Yes. I am not very bright.

I got the phone sometime last summer, and whee! Snappy! I figured out how to take pictures and store pictures and picturespicturespictures, but I could not ever get them off the phone. Emails timed out, text messages vanished, the USB cable taunted me and we are not even going to talk about that stupid Bluetooth bullshit.

To this day, I'm still not really sure what I was doing wrong or what I'm doing differently now, although I sort of suspect that I can only email a picture to myself if I shake the phone vigorously during the transmission process.

But the wait was WORTH IT, because now I have many MONTHS' worth of blurry, low-res camera phone images, ordered and captioned for your pleasure.

You can thank me anytime for my tenacity.

Here I present what may be the creepiest photo ever taken of my dog.

She glows with the white-hot light of hell, for you are kind of confusing her.  And me, because how can a four-pound dog look so much like a horse?

Neeeiiigggh!

Yes. That is a dog in a rain slicker. Shut up. I really, REALLY needed this baby, people. All of Ceiba's little jackets and sweaters were actually cries for help.

SOMEONE KNOCK ME UP. PLEASE. GOD.

Luckily, a certain someone in a striped polo shirt HAD knocked me up, and good.

I think, when I snapped this picture, I said something about the baby probably being the same size as Ceiba at this point.

I think I was wrong. I think was deeply in denial about the size of my baby, but that's what you do when you really think you're going to be pushing said baby out your crotch.

My baby will be seven pounds! Only freaks have 10-pound babies! And I am not a freak!

Except that I am, in fact, a freak.

A translucent, lumpy freak.

Also, I had that bruise on my knee for almost my entire pregnancy, because pregnancy rendered me ABSOLUTELY INCAPABLE of closing this one desk drawer in my office, even though I hit my fucking knee on that fucking drawer every fucking time I stood up to use the fucking bathroom, and I had to use the fucking bathroom all the fucking time.

The fucking knee and the fucking drawer today, in a reluctant stand-off.

These are the feet of a very pregnant woman. A woman who is still a good four weeks from giving birth.

You can close your eyes, but that will not stop the burning.

Max. Just cuz.

This is a picture of a big creepy hole in a ceiling.

But not just ANY ceiling! This is a picture of a ceiling in a public restroom, at a CARWASH where I actually PEED, taken a mere five days before Noah was born, in an attempt to document JUST HOW LOW PREGNANCY WILL BEAT YOU DOWN.

Anyway, then this whole other thing happened.

That's right. I got BANGS.

Oh, you thought I was talking about that baby thing?

Yeah, he pretty much rocks too.

Amy's Phone thinks, "Well, now that she has that baby, at least she's not taking pictures of damn FEET anymore."

Ha! But I am! Take THAT, Stupid Phone!

The Vomitorium Tour

I believe it goes without saying that there will be no Advice Smackdown today. I simply cannot deal with the thinking and the responsibility and the shampoo talk, and oh GOD, I smell shampoo now, and it's disgusting.

We are sort of emerging from Hell. We are sort of completely dehydrated and weak like weak baby kittens. The most grievious neglect of our son amounted to skipping his bath last night and dressing him in a red and GREY outfit today, instead of the requested red and WHITE for the Valentine's Day calendar photo bullshit at daycare, because RED and WHITE? That, by its very definition, would require TWO loads of laundry, and y'all can bite me.

I have not thrown up since Monday night. And in that timeframe I have managed to consume the following:

One banana
Two pieces of white bread
A half cup of rice
Two spoonfuls of vile, vile soup
17 Saltine crackers

So if anyone is looking to shed those last few pregnancy pounds, I highly recommend you go out and get yourself a raging case of staphylococcal food poisoning. You will lose 10 pounds, and also your dignity.

Anyway. I'm back at work today, if only to break the nasty habit of taking sick leave that I don't actually have.

CONFIDENTIAL TO MY COWORKERS: Is it really necessary to make popcorn in the microwave at 9:45 in the morning? Really? Especially when there may be someone creeping into the kitchen for a harmless, odorless cup of water? Someone who is just coming off of a 48-hour food poisoning bender? IS POPCORN FOR BREAKFAST REALLY THE LIFESTYLE CHOICE YOU WANT TO MAKE?

HERE. EAT A DAMN BANANA INSTEAD.

Anyway. I have nothing. It's actually National De-Lurking Week, and has been since Monday, but I've been hesitant to encourage people to overcome The Shy and say hello when all I've been talking about is vomit, and not the cute hopeful pregnancy vomit either.

So now I will change the subject. Behold my skills!

Have any of you have seen this show called "Starting Over?" I mean, people, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS SHOW?

It's a lame self-help book crossed with an even lamer reality show, dumped right in the middle of your craptacular daytime TV lineup.

I might be in love. Just don't tell my TiVo.

Women with easily captionable problems and goals (like "Christina," who wants to "Drop the Hustle") live together (UNDER ONE ROOF!) and meet with various Life Coaches who spout inane psychobababullshit to help them achieve those goals, and then the woman all paint self portraits and...look for gold coins and...build backbones out of spools of thread. Or something.

(Now, I am no expert on this show, which is apparently in its THIRD SEASON, like, where have I been, so please forgive me if I get all the facts violently wrong. I watched exactly 20 minutes of it in a low-blood-sugar haze, but I swear to God, there was a BACKBONE MADE OUT OF SPOOLS OF THREAD.)

Anyway, I got to watch Christina (Goal: Become a Woman of Honor: Drop the Hustle, Break Hidden Addictions, Define Values, Discover new Path) try to sell a crepe paper flower she made for $500, so she could get naked pictures of herself off the Internet. This was actually terribly sad, because somebody (and I'm looking at the show's producer here) needs to explain the Internet to that poor girl. Also the going rate for crepe paper.

Oh, and Jill (Goal: Come out of Hiding: Build Personality Profile, Eliminate Chaos, Vision Correction, Claim Personal Power, Lift off) has a problem with all the "grocery shopping drama" that the newest housemate is causing! DUN DUN DUN.

Y'all, it's more suspenseful than Survivor! More real than The Real World!

At one point, Jason called out from his sofa of misery, "What the HELL are you watching?"

And I had to honestly answer, "I don't know. I just don't know."

But I could not turn away, because there was a Life Exercise involving handbags, and if there is a way to achieve emotional health and maturity through the power of purses, you know I am all up in dat. Life Coach Woman asked Lisa (Goal: Grow Up: Reality Check, Define Adulthood, Cut the Apron Strings, Walk without Crutches, Soar) to choose a purse that "best represented her" from a selection.

So she did. She chose a fairly cute one. She said it was fun. She was then asked to say what she didn't like about the other purses. She did.

And then Life Coach Woman had her open the purses to look for gold coins. The purse she'd selected had one, and the other purses had more and more, with the bag Lisa dismissed as "boring" holding the most coins.

"SEE?" Life Coach Woman shrieked triumphantly. "There is hidden value in someone YOU would call boring!"

Lisa's face said exactly what I was shouting at the television. "What the FUCK?"

But Lisa just hilariously kind of hmmm'ed and ohhhh'ed like her mind was totally blown away by this unbelievable life revelation. You know, the revelation that...she should have lied and purposely chosen the ugly purse so she could collect more Gold Coins of Personal Development? That a personal affinity for suede fringe makes you a useless, judgemental whore? That...ugly purses are people too?

And then the mixed metaphors came out of my TV and ate my eyeballs. The end.

It's probably kind of lame that I ask y'all to de-lurk today for no reason, when you've already come out of the woodwork by the hundreds several times since the last De-Lurking Day. You celebrated my big news, held my hand through some scary news, cheered for more big news and patted my head after I got some more scary news and then we celebrated the biggest news of all, ever.

(And you also de-lurked in record numbers to save the Smackdown, which apparently is even MORE exciting than a stupid old baby.)

But you know, if you'd like to say hi, today is a fine day for saying hi.

Vomitorium

When you find yourself flipping a coin with your husband to see who gets to go to the grocery store without the baby, it's safe to say that your weekend is not going as planned.

Also when you break your toe.

Oh, and the food poisoning. I definitely did not plan on the food poisoning.

So Saturday, Noah was sick. Another damn cold. This time with a little fever and some diarrhea, and my big plans for making Julie's homemade Pedialyte recipe disintegrated within minutes and (since he won the coin toss), I sent Jason to the store for the overpriced real stuff because I couldn't find my measuring spoons.

Later that night I dropped an attachment to my KitchenAid mixer (the very same attachment I purchased so I could make homemade baby food, HAR HAR HAR) on my middle toe, smashing it all the fuck up.

We didn't end up giving any Pedialyte to Noah, as the diarrhea was fleeting and temporary, and by Sunday afternoon he seemed to be well enough to take on a little errand to Babies R' Us, so we could make up for abandoning him at daycare with an overpriced exersaucer and lots of socks.

And then, in a decision I will rue for many, many years, we stopped for lunch at little Latin restaurant and ate SOMETHING BAD AND WRONG AND GOD, I DON'T EVEN KNOW, DON'T MAKE ME TALK ABOUT IT.

(Undercooked pork, we think.)

(Barf.)

I got sick first, a few hours later, and Jason soon followed suit. And THANK THE LORD, Noah went to sleep and stayed asleep, so he didn't have to witness the non-stop puke-a-thon his parents embarked on for the next 10 hours.

Jason and I jockeyed for position over who got to puke in the relative sanctuary of the bathroom and who had to use the kitchen sink, or the little trashcan by the bed, or a stray shopping bag, and sometime around 4 am I broke out the Pedialyte for my damn self, desperate to rehydrate and fighting a losing battle because despite toxic pork poison shooting out both ends, I continued to produce goddamn breastmilk all night. FUCK YOU, BIOLOGY.

So yes, it's been a great couple days.

Yesterday Noah stayed home with us because the mere thought of going out in the smelly world with all its worldy smells made us sick, although if there was ever a day the poor child should have been in the care of someone else, yesterday was it.

I was too weak to hold a bottle steady and Jason put his diaper on backwards. And OF COURSE, this was the diaper he chose to poop in, and it went everywhere and it took both of us together to work up the courage and energy to pull our asses off the couch and change him.

I took him to daycare today, if only to save him from his loving, adoring parents.

 

We are up to Saltines and water now, and I'm hoping to eat some soup later.

Also, Pedialyte is hella gross.