I Never Told You This, But the Photographer Asked If I Was Sort Of Like JenniCam

Hey, remember when I was in a magazine?

Remember when I promised I would scan and post the article after the magazine was off the newstands?

Remember when I actually scanned and posted the article in a timely manner after the magazine was off the newstands?

Oh.

There! Now you can remember when I did that. Please look back on this past minute very fondly.

(Here is a close-up of the actual article, if you can break yourselves free of the hypnotic belly and would like to read the stupid things I said.)

(The ex-boyfriend-Google thing was a joke.)

(Except not really.)

(None of them have Googled me. None!)

(I believe they are all too busy weeping over their sad and pathetic Amy-less existence to get around to it.)

A few minor updates, of course: I am now 28. My hair is about six inches longer and Ceiba ate those shoes back in September. The site now gets about 4,500 unique visitors a day, many of whom seem to REALLY LIKE the refresh button. And that whole novel thing? Turns out that I have the attention span of an MTV-generation gnat and cannot seem to get past chapter five before tossing the whole draft into the fireplace, figuratively speaking, since I type it on my non-tossable laptop and also do not have a fireplace.

Oh, and I'm not pregnant anymore. That's a really good thing. Because damn, girl.

Attack of the Blog Babies!

Or, Too Much Cuteness For Just One Lap:

Today I had lunch with the gorgeous Cagey and Arun, The Child With All That Hair.

Arun screamed, Noah puked, Cagey and I maybe possibly managed to eat an entire piece of pizza between the two of us, and then we chugged our wine and got the hell out of Dodge in a terrifying display of Why Single Mothers Deserve Medals, what with the carseats and the diaper bags and the leftover pizza boxes and the blocking of the fire exits.

It was a SMASHING SUCCESS, I'd say, since I did not seem to alarm Cagey with my complete and utter loserness, like when she asked me what Jason and I do "for fun" and I just stared at her and thought about telling her about my many TiVo Season Passes.

But holy crap, y'all. I got to hold TWO BABIES today. Two! Why didn't I ever think of having two?

The small ones, they conspire against us, and we like it.

EDITED TO ADD: You know what?

Never mind. Let's just forget the whole sad, stupid thing. I'm irritated with myself for even wasting keystrokes on it, because again: Sad. Stupid. Whatever.

Instead? I present The Turtle in Winter.

(Accompanied by The Mother in No Makeup.)

Intermission

Oh Internetweb, I know. I know!

Work is crazy, home is crazy, and today I'm home with the boy in some kind of horrific work-from-home scenario that combines the craziness of both home AND work to create a SUPER CRAZY, and the crazy, she is me.

For example, I call this photo Me Learning My Damn Lesson:

Parenting Lesson #2847997: Three seconds after you lay your child down on a specially-created expanse of blankets and surround him with toys, he will immediately hurl himself in the opposite direction towards the hardwood floors, upon which he will smash his head and scream. And screeeeeam, and his screams will hurt your HEART because you are a very, very stupid person.

Solution: couch cushions! There is no way he will break through their impenetrable seal, leaving you free to hit the bottle in another room.

(Now, if anyone has a solution to Parenting Lesson #2847998, which is that three seconds after your child smashes his head on the floor, you will smash his head on the refrigerator handle in a frantic dash for a bottle, causing more screaming and the feeling that Jesus Christ, this kid is really better off in daycare, I would be grateful.)

In sum: The Advice Smackdown is coming, but probably not today. Because I'm too busy crackin' skulls and takin' names over here.

In the interim, please to enjoy the delicious yet sort-of disturbing Turtle Crawl.

His head-holding-up skillz, they are mad.

Although he would kind of like to smear mucus on that toy over yonder.

The turtle, having spotted a delicious firefly, attempts to move towards it.

There is no need for him to look at his prey, for he moves entirely on instinct.

With much effort comes much drooling.

So close, yet so far.

Defeat.

And for a nearby hyena, dinner.

Noah's Birth Story: The Director's Cut

Part One!

Part Two!

And now, the extra-special bonus edition, which came to be after Amy finally got up the nerve to watch all (ALLLLL) the footage Jason shot at the hospital and realized that she got some stuff wrong and/or out of order, so today we present the Definitive Edition With All-New Appendices and Nitpicky Details.

(At least up until the part where Amy started taping over things and we abruptly cut to dorky family members in dorky Christmas sweaters awkwardly waving at the camera. Basically: Amy decided she better recap whatever footage is left before she tapes over things AGAIN, perhaps with footage of her swinging an IKEA floor lamp around in order to show off her kickass lightsaber skills.)

We didn't start videotaping until after my epidural, mostly because I didn't have a room during the more tolerable, camera-friendly part of labor. And even when the video starts, I'm on my side, facing away from the camera and only manage a lame thumbs-up when Jason tells me he's recording, although I distinctly remember going to give him the finger and then changing my mind at the last minute, because of the posterity of the whole thing.

(Although given the horrifically graphic vagina shots and then the whole slicing-me-open thing that would come later, it's probably safe to say that no one else will ever view this video and I could have flipped the bird all I wanted.)

Jason fusses with the camera and the tripod for a few minutes while I casually reach behind me to make sure my ass is covered, or perhaps to scratch it. The footage is inconclusive.

Then: pushing time. I am not happy with Jason's camera placement, as at the time of the camcorder purchase I AM SURE I DICTATED THAT I WANTED TASTEFUL. As in, a discreet over-the-shoulder angle and not a hellooooo-birth-canal angle.

Guess which angle Jason set the tripod up for.

The clock on the camera says I started pushing at 8:43 am, which means it was really 9:43 am, because we lost the owner's manual and have no idea how to change the damn thing.

"Okay, we're going to wait for a contraction," the nurse tells me. "You just finished one so...oh! You're having one again! Let's go!"

I start pushing. The nurse keeps saying to push down like I am extremely constipated. Jason holds my leg back with one hand and strokes my hair with the other. The look on his face makes me fall deeply, deeply in love with him.

I push three times and then rest. We make some small talk about baby names and I timidly tell the nurse that the baby's name is Noah, even though I was still worried about jinxes and the Evil Eye and the possibility that he wouldn't "look" like a Noah or even an Elijah, our back-up name, but enough of that, it was time to push again.

"I don't think Noah is a little peewee," the nurse observes to my doctor, who has come in to check on my progress. "I think we've got a nice-sized baby."

My doctor tells us all about the 9 pound, 10 ounce baby he just delivered by c-section. We all laugh and gasp and the look on my face clearly says, "Um, freak? Who gestates a mutant baby like that? Not me, that's for fucking sure."

(I love the smell of hubris in the morning.)

My doctor tells us about the meconium in the fluid and the need for a pediatrician to be present for the birth and I nod and say (in the most IRRITATING, KNOW-IT-ALL voice I have ever heard), "Oh I know, I've seen it on TLC all the time."

My doctor leaves, probably to go roll his eyes out in the hallway.

I push again.

And while we didn't notice it at the time, it's terribly clear when watching the video that my pushing was causing a lot of distress for the baby. The rythmic thump thump thump of Noah's heartrate absolutely stops dead during my contractions. Alarms are going off, and I am oblivious to them.

The nurse leaves (probably to alert my doctor to the situation) and I glance at the camera and snap my legs together.

She comes backs in and there's more discussion about Noah's size and how high he still is, and how it's going to take a lot of pushing and different positions and motivation on my part to get him out.

I smile cheerfully, because seriously, how big could he be? Also, epidural! Love! AngelMusicBabyJoy!

She elevates my bed so I'm sitting upright and I push again. She tells me I'm doing great and that I am moving him, but my pelvic bones are in the way.

My doctor comes back in to watch me push and decides he wants an internal heartrate monitor on the baby. The nurse assures me they do this all the time, "Especially with a little meconium baby."

We all talk about the 9 pound, 10 ounce freak baby some more and I roll my eyes like, GOD, what did that woman EAT?

I push again and an alarm goes off. And it's clear from my nurse's reaction that my fantastic pushing progress has stalled.

She rolls me onto my side for the next round of pushing. The alarm goes off again. My ass, she is very white.

And I decide at this point to tell Jason to turn the camera off, because hours of this is going to be really boring, and why don't we save the battery and turn it on again when I'm closer to delivering?

The next shot is of my face on the operating table.

I look teary-eyed yet resigned, like I always knew it would end like this.

The clock says 9:26 am, so it was really 10:26 am, which means I pushed for less than 45 minutes before being rushed into surgery.

Jason gets a few shots of the actual surgery before being told to turn the camera off at 10:30 (we did have permission to tape but some random nurse thought we didn't), so we don't have Noah's actual birth at 10:32 am.

The surgery footage is just that: surgery. A big white belly being sliced into, blood, cutting, suction and more blood. I can watch it with a detached fascination -- like it's somebody else's body and bears no relevance to the long scar on my own abdomen.

The camera comes back on and Noah is there. Somewhere. He's wailing behind a wall of nurses as Jason keeps the camera steady, waiting to catch a glimpse. So mostly: footage of this one nurse's rather ginormous ass.

The APGARs are scored (8 on the first, 9 on the second) and my doctor says something about it being National Big Baby Day. Jason pans the camera to my face and I smile the most forced, pained-looking smile in the history of ever. I ask if he's going to cut the cord, and am saddened to hear that the doctors already cut it.

Then, in a hilarious little shot, a nurse looks over to the scale where Noah had been weighed and does a double take.

"Is this the baby's weight?" she asks incredulously.

My doctor looks over at the scale and says no, that can't be the baby's weight.

They weigh him again.

"Nine Fifteen," the nurse announces with a snort, and the whole room dissolves into shocked laughter.

Jason says, "There was no way you were delivering THAT."

I say, "Holy shit."

I think, "Oh my GOD, I have brought forth a MUTANT."

I mention SEVERAL TIMES that I'm shaking all over -- am clearly terrified that I'm going into shock or something and nobody is paying attention. Jason tells me its nerves, then adrenaline, then the epidural, because he really has no idea but decides that making shit up is probably more comforting.

And we wait.

And wait.

Noah's cries are loud and delicious, but he's still being fussed over by the pediatrician and nurses. I'm nervous that something is wrong. Jason tries to crack jokes about how our neighbors are going to love him, what with all that screaming, but when the nurse finally says that "Dad can come see the baby," he all but sprints over.

And then Noah fills the screen. He's bright red and fat and wide awake. He's swaddled and no longer crying. The nurse snaps a bracelet on Jason's wrist and tells him about the numbers that "match your daughter's bracelet."

"Um," says Jason.

The nurse laughs and corrects herself. And then gently tells Jason that he can take the baby over to me, but he really needs to put the camcorder down.

"Oh!" says Jason, and he fumbles a bit and manages to put the lens cap on without turning the camera off.

There's a few minutes of darkness, and then a shot of me being wheeled away, with Noah nestled snugly between my legs.

That's the final shot.

But it's okay, because that's exactly the moment when life with my amazing Noah -- real life, the stuff that matters, the stuff beyond pregnancy anxieties and fears, beyond natural vs. epidural, vaginal vs. c-section -- really started, and I will never, ever forget a single blessed minute of it.

Yes, I'm a Dork Who Likes To Outline Her Entries

My middle school composition teacher would be so proud! Except that this entry never made it past the outline stage, because I got bored.

I. My Weekend, Which Interests You Because I Said So.

    A. Two amazing new tricks that Noah learned how to do, both of which caused my mother to remark that he is a much smarter baby than I ever was.

        1. While I was attempting to use the dreaded Snot Sucker on him, he rolled over and away from me, while distinctly howling "MA MA MA MA MA." This probably means:

            a. NO NO NO NO NO, or:
            b. MAMA, I HATE YOU NOW AND FOREVER.

        2. While surrounded by his parents and both sets of grandparents, he rolled over, pulled his knees up under himself and to everyone's horror and amazement, propelled himself forward a good six inches towards his favorite rattle in some kind of armless tadpole-crawl.

            a. I may have cried.
            b. Jason too.
            c. We're doomed. DOOOOMED.

    B. The stupid new trick that I learned how to do.

        1. I recorded over most of the tape of Noah's birth and first day at the hospital with hours of exciting footage of Noah staring blankly at the camera while I try to convince the folks at home that seriously, he WAS just laughing and smiling and being adorable, despite the fact that he is now just  lying there like a slug.

            a. I hate my voice.
            b. But I hated the footage of me at the hospital more.
            c. Still. Crap. Now I have to have another baby just for the video.

C. The stupid thing we are not talking about.
   
    1. Hey, remember my kitchen?
        a. Guess what! It was finally finished this weekend. We think.
        b. Grrr.
       c. Hate.

C. And now, a tip for the guys in the audience, who may need ideas as to what to get their woman for Valentine's Day.

    1. Agree to rearrange the living room furniture with her. She will love you:
        a. Long time.
        b. Or at least until she trips on the corner of the area rug for the fifth time and wants to move it all back to the way it was before.

This is Not the Post You're Looking For

Wait, did I say something about a Friday Advice Smackdown?

Um. No. No, I really don't think I did. That doesn't sound like something I would say.

GAH.

Noah's daycare just called and for some reason, their power is out. They've been told it will probably be back on within an hour, and right now the crockpots are still hot and the refrigerators are still cool, but if power ISN'T restored they won't be able to heat bottles or keep them cool and the babies will need to go home.  I'm picturing mass hysteria, with babies crawling unnoticed from darkened rooms while warm formula festers and bubbles in the mini-fridge and teachers desperately trying to save the breastmilk and diaper pails overflowing like no-longer-dormant volcanoes because for some reason I always forget that you don't have to plug the Diaper Genie in.

I don't think it's that bad (YET!), but I will probably have to leave work soon and take Noah home, which LORDY, WHAT A SHAME.

To make up for it, I give you this...

I'm Sweet Potato Clownface Baby! Give me some starch!

We tried prunes first. Prunes did not go over well. Sorry, Dr. Poop.

But sweet potatoes with black pepper and garlic powder? Self-feedingly delicious!
 

Also, do you like how the spoon matches the food? I wish I could tell you that this was a coincidence. I wish I could tell you that I do not have a problem. I also wish that I had an orange bib, because while yellow is close, it is not close enough.

*twitches*

MoveOn.Now

I am posting just so we can all move on and talk about something besides the dress. (From BCBG.) (Ta da!) I am very tired of talking about the dress.

This happens to me a lot -- I post something, anything, whatever stream-of-consciousness claptrap that occurs to me, without really thinking it through and within 15 minutes of go-live time, I'm sick of it. So I'm all, "Okay! Shut up now!" But the Internet does not WANT to shut up, and why should it, because hell, I started it.

I need a little pre-post checklist, I think.

Do I really want to think about this topic over and over when I monitor comments?
Do I really want to read what a hundred other people think about this topic?
And then what another hundred people think about what the first hundred people think?
Am I, in fact, writing a check my body can't cash?

And another good question in life: Is it really a good idea to stay up until 1:30 am the night before an 8:30 am pediatrician appointment, and WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK was I thinking ordering a nine-course tasting menu with the wine pairing, which: NINE. NIIIINE.

I am on about three hours of sleep, and have approximately 13 more hours of hangover to go.

I also have no clever transition to Noah's four-month appointment stats, so...

Do-it-yourself Amalah: Insert your own witty segue here!

Noah weighs 15 pounds and is (wait for it) 27.5 inches long.

TWENTY. SEVEN. AND A HALF!

If you're anything like me, you will see that number and shrug, because...well, it's inches, and inches are small.

And then the doctor will show up and make the nurse RE-MEASURE because "that can't be right," which is exactly what my OB said when he saw 9 pounds, 15 ounces on the delivery room scale.

So there's this growth curve chart, and...I don't know, it curves, and they plot your baby's growth on it, and then they talk about percentiles and stuff. Noah is smack dab in the 50th percentile for weight and head circumfrence, and way, WAY off the curve for height, and will probably be seven feet tall in preschool.

There is no growth curve chart for foot size, and you know that I totally asked, because his feet are enormous and I am so proud of their enormity.

My pediatrician also ordered me not to tell other mothers about Noah's sleeping habits.

*smiles smugly and annoyingly, yet does not say a word*

I also returned my rented hospital-grade breast pump. I prefer the Avent Isis manual pump and never saw a bit of difference in what I could pump between the two, except that the Avent pumps faster and is way, WAY easier to carry around and deal with, plus I can pump with one hand while cutting lines of cocaine with the other. The entire world disagrees with me on this, and I'm not talking about the cocaine part. You are fine with the cocaine, but the fact that I am not using a $300 Pump In Style shocks you to your very CORE.

AND, since I enjoy the drama of a good motherhood hissyfit, I present to y'all this article, sent to me by alert reader Kathleen. Which I discussed with the doctor, and he wholeheartedly agrees with it and thinks that rice cereal, applesauce and bananas are about the WORST foods you can start a baby on, because they digest too quickly and can cause constipation.

(He's known in the practice as Dr. Poop, because he thinks the whole "it's okay if your baby only poops once a day or every other day" theory is a crock of well, shit, and that we're just breeding an army of chronically constipated kids, but he admits that he's alone in his belief that all babies, regardless of age, should be pooping several times a day and we shouldn't put up with the BIG HUGE BLOW OUT AND BEYOND THE DIAPER POOPS. He's...kind of crazy about the poop, but I love him.)

Anyway. He wants Noah eating more solids, since the kid clearly is growing like a damn weed, nursing and chugging bottles like they are going out of style, and came out of the womb about a month ahead developmentally. (My uterus grows babies in dog years, apparently.)

His words: "You feed this baby whatever the hell you want to feed this baby. You aren't going to hurt him with FOOD."

(We have no family history of food allergies, however, so it's obviously a different story for anyone who does.)

So we're ditching the rice cereal for barley, adding prunes and yellow vegetables, and getting out the Cuisinart to puree up anything else we feel like giving him. And yes, we're adding some damn spices, because if you had seen the look on Noah's face when I snuck him a couple tastes of grown-up polenta (gasp!) with garlic and herbs, you'd understand that the Noah, he loves the flavah.

Now. Everybody yell at everybody else about all the horrible things that will happen now. And I promise to not get sick of this topic for at least 10 minutes.

OMG! His face is totally going to get stuck like that! I blame the yams!

The Dress That Ate The Internet

167 comments about A DAMN DRESS. Y'all are materialistic whores, is all.

No. I suppose we are just girls.

DRUUUUUUUUUUNK GRILS. WOOOOO.

Anyway, I kept the stupid dress. Mostly because of Laura, who was all, "YOU CAN AFFORD TO STAY HOME IF YOU REALLY WANTED TO AND I HAVE LEFT THIS COMMENT 24 TIMES BEFORE, BLAH BLAH BLAH."

Maybe I could. Maybe it would involve long-term sacrifices that we have decided are not right for our family. Maybhe I am bone-tired of talking about it, and wish people would understand that even though I've made my decision I still reserve the right to second-guess it and wonder what things would be like if I made a different decision, and that I AM A HUMAN BEING AND DEEPLY FLAWED AND ALSO COMPLICATED, SOMEONE WRITE A DAMN POP SONG ABOUT ME ALREADY.

Anyway. FUck you, annoying people.

Yes. Taht is the dress. Disappointing, no? Boobs are remarkably covered, yes?

Also kind of flat. Fucking breastfeeding.

I would like to point out that the little sweater thing was on sale, for 40% off.

 

The dress was not on sale, but clearly, I can wear it all spring and summer, a hundred times at least, which will bring my pay-per-wear cost down to like, three dollars.

Also, I look skinny in it when I am standing up and sober. So there! Nyah!

Now I must go to bed. I have to take Noah to the pediatrician in like, five hours. Oh my GOD.

I Don't Care, the Dress is Totally Worth the Hatemail

So you know what sucks about being a working parent?

THE WORKING PART.

Like, I am not allowed to just show up and collect paychecks while spending my day telling people about How Awesome Noah Is, I Mean Really Ridiculously Awesome, Look At These Pictures, Wait, Where Are You Going?

I am expected to WORK. BASTARDS.

The Wednesday Advice Smackdown has been demoted to the Friday Advice Smackdown, because today and tomorrow are going to suck, work-wise, and if the vending machine guy doesn't get here soon and restock the Cokes, I may have to kill someone. Hard.

Tonight we are going out for a nice dinner to mark the eight-year anniversary of our first date, mashed together with first anniversary of when we found out I was pregnant (January 23rd, by the way; would it kill you to send a card?) and also Valentine's Day.

We are combining celebrations to save our babysitter's sanity, because just wait until she sees the poops this solid-food-eating baby is producing these days. HA HA!

Also to save money.

Except for the part where I got so excited about our nice dinner out that I bought a new dress that cost as much as a week of daycare.

Oh yes. I did.

Between this and BlogHer, my savings account is very, very mad at me. "Why? Why do you abuse me?" my saving account cries. "I wanted to see you through retirement! I wanted to buy you a house with a yard! You went back to work so you could leave me to grow and compound in peace! These credit card statements, they burn! They buuuurn!"

And I spit on my savings account, because sometimes, you just need to be stupid and buy a dress that will make your husband ogle your boobs.

There. That is my advice for today: Impending financial ruin is no match for a flouncy out-of-season dress, so long as you also buy a sensible sweater wrap to cover your shoulders.

My boobs cannot handle all this ogling.

EDITED TO ADD THE MELTDOWN THAT I WAS TRYING TO PRETEND THAT I AM TOO COOL AND CAREFREE TO HAVE:

OH MY GOD, I am freaking out about this dress. This dress that Jason FORCED me to buy for myself as a you-survived-a-whole-month-at-work present, and it was honestly the cheapest dress in the store, so I had no sense of CONTEXT, and the numbers on the price tag did not really turn into actual dollar numbers until I was at the register handing over my credit card. And I looked at Jason with big, frightened eyes and whispered that the Internet is going to KILL ME, and he said fuck the Internet, you don't have to tell them about it, and yet here I am, telling the fucking Internet, because perhaps I subconsciously believe that I deserve to be punished.

I am totally returning the dress after work. And I'm going to ask for my refund in PENNIES, and I shall put all the pennies in my bathtub, and I shall sit on top of my bathtub of pennies with a shotgun and stare suspiciously at the bathtowels and rant about the government trying to steal my precious, precious pennies.