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And in case shoes aren't your thing, here are some pictures of his very large head.
He is Mahir! He kiss you!
(PS. I can SO still string a complete sentence together! Nyah! Behold: the Wednesday Advice Smackdown.)
(PPS. What? I didn't say they were GOOD complete sentences.)
So. It's been almost two whole weeks since I set foot in an office.
I still haven't unpacked any of the crap I dragged home with me and there are still three picture frames and two desk lamps in the trunk of my car. I still check my work email every day.
I still haven't taken the dog to the vet for a way-overdue checkup and I haven't mailed the boxes of baby clothes to my sister. I haven't taken Noah to the park once and haven't even started looking for a playgroup.
I still don't get enough sleep or drink enough water. I forget to eat lunch a lot. I still can't get Noah to eat anything besides fruit. I leave the Food Network on all day for company.
I still haven't worked out a regular schedule with a part-time nanny, and I still feel really weak admitting that I need a part-time nanny. Noah still watches Baby Einstein at least once a day.
I love writing for Alpha Mom. I love writing the ClubMom blog. I still haven't gotten used to surfing blogrolls beyond my own. I'm not used to seeing myself discussed on other blogs like a character in a book instead of a real person. I'm not accustomed to the turn my blogging fortunes have taken. About the high expectations and the fact that my words -- words which are never good enough, words which I can never bend and hammer into my exact meaning -- are all some people see. I wonder if I'll ever be okay with the speed at which some people pass judgement.
I'm overwhelmed by my unanswered emails and what those people must think of me. I'm irritated at how I can't seem to write anything substantial for this site anymore. I read other sites that blow me away with their brilliance and humor and I am too shy to email or comment because I figure they must think I'm annoying and overrated and tacky.
I'm not used to this devastating lack of confidence.
I still can't believe Noah is crawling. Or standing. That he can take a lid off of a shoebox and bang blocks together and pick up dog kibble and drink juice from a sippy cup. I can't believe I was right there when he started doing all of those things.
I'm already used to cuddling with him every morning. I don't mind banging blocks together or prying dog kibble out of his fingers. I'm okay with the most astute and pithy observation I make in a day being that Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Baa Baa Black Sheep and the ABC song have the exact same melody and how in the world did I go 28 years without ever noticing that? I'm okay with cutting myself some damn slack already.
And I'm okay with just shutting up and posting this already because I'd rather go play with my son and some plastic measuring spoons.
First, I wish someone had alerted me to this Mother's Day business earlier. It's like a whole other birthday! Or Christmas, without having to buy anything for somebody else, which is such a drag.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.
Jason said Noah tried to lick this one in the store, so he guessed that meant he liked it.
He has lovely penmanship for a seven-and-a-half-month old.
And looks aside, I can now prove that he is indeed my child by the red ink on his nose.
I've been there, baby. At least no one was trying to wipe it off with their own spit.
(This time, anyway. Mama was too busy eating donuts to clean you properly.)
The rest of my first Mother's Day weekend was chock full of examples of Really Fine Parenting, like the following:
1. I changed a very very VERY poopy diaper in the Smallest Restaurant Bathroom Ever, like it was seriously four square feet wide and I whacked Noah's head on the sink. Twice.
2. I spilled a hot latte on him in the middle of a crowded Starbucks.
Oh yes, I did.
This would probably be vaguely forgiveable if it had just been a result of me being a stupid dumbass klutz, but it happened while I was 1) shopping for Mother's Day gifts for MYSELF, 2) trying to condense my multiple purchases (for MYSELF) into one oversized Barney's bag, 2) too busy trying to convince Jason that pink Manolo Blahniks are not only a necessity, they are an INVESTMENT, to notice that I'd knocked my coffee off the table and onto Noah's lap, and 3) vaguely aware that after Incident #1, we were out shopping with no change of clothes for the baby, who was a) sleeping, b) not at all pleased by the sensation of a hot overpriced beverage all over his thighs, despite earlier repeated attempts to dunk them in a cappuccino and eat them like biscotti.
3. Finally, I realized that I should listen to people when they try to warn me about things. Like lowering the crib mattress, which I TOTALLY INTENDED TO DO, eventually, but I couldn't find the screwdriver and then I found the screwdriver, only to discover that I actually needed a hex key, but honestly, whatever, it's not like he can sit up in bed or pull himself to a stand yet, that's like, a good two months away from happening, right?
I am kind of the worst mother in the entire world, I think.
My whole life, I wanted a baby with hair. Hair I could play with. My Little Pony habits die hard, apparently.
The dream of braids and ribbons and wee plastic combs took a bit of a hit when I found out I was having a boy, but was revived with the thought of having a little hippie baby with long flowing hair -- hair that would drive his grandparents nuts because I should cut it off, he looks like a girl, and instead I would dress him in organic cotton tie-dye and teach him to pluck a single daisy from behind his ear and hand it to his grandpa while making a little peace sign with the other hand. Then maybe he could say something inflammatory about Bill O'Reilly.
Or! Or! Maybe he'd be a Mohawk Baby and I'd dress him in little punk rock onesies with bad words on them and he'd have a pair of tiny high-top Vans and his first word would be "anti-establishment."
Sigh.
Instead, I got a baby with a hairline so groomed and perfect it looked like he'd gotten a buzzcut in utero. It naturally parts on the side. It won't grow past his ears. He doesn't even have a damn cowlick. And for whatever reason, we seem to own a LOT of baby polo shirts and cargo pants.
However, the lesson here is that you should never let go of your dreams, because pureed apricots provide really exceptional volume and hold.
First and foremost, Internet People, I really owe you an apology. The stuff I've been posting the past week has been shameful. Horrible. It's the kind of stuff I get tempted to sneakily delete from the archives after a couple months go by and I think no one is looking. It's the kind of stuff that makes me deeply embarrassed by the number of comments I get, because eeesh. There is hella better stuff out there.
I had all these grand plans for once I became a real-live "writer" (or writeur, to be said in a snooty accent while pinching a monocle), and instead I've been like, "Durrrrr...Flickr?"
The truth is I'm having some trouble adjusting to this new life.
Which: duh. You just can't go from merrily trotting off to work, to a career, to a place that was like a familar little groove in your sofa, year after year, to suddenly trying to get just as much work done at home where there is no accountability other than NOT GETTING PAID, while trying to keep a suddenly ridiculously mobile and demanding child (a child! a child who ate my baby!) entertained and non-injured, without having a few moments of OH MY GOD, I CANNOT DO THIS. REWIND. REWIND.
But I've been hesistant to tell you this, because I can already FEEL the force of the big collective eyeroll. Good Christ, doesn't she ever stop complaining?
And I don't want to complain. Because I am grateful. Because I am happy.
I guess I just need a little more time to get used to being this happy.
And with that, I relinguish my status as Last Blogger Standing, or perhaps Last Blogger Who Was Too Damn Lazy and Possibly Too Embarrassed To Admit That She Just Didn't Really Understand How Flickr Worked Because She Is A Big Stupid Dumbass Moron.
Lists! Am writing lists! Oh my hell.
Highlights from my first day home included:
1) The babysitter never showing up. Awesome.
2) A creamed spinach raspberry blown square in my face, hitting my eye, which taught me the REAL reason they tell you not to add seasonings like onion powder to baby food.
3) A business call where the person on the other end asked, "Could you turn down the Baby Einstein? It's kind of making my teeth rattle."
4) Meeting a lead for MORE freelance work while walking the dog. Honestly, if I knew paid writing jobs were being handed out on the street like free shampoo samples I would have done this ages ago.
5) More mucus and drool than I ever thought possible.
While the appetizer of plastic fishballs is indeed delicious, Noah eyes the main course of sauteed ratdog and salivates profusely.
Spring Break 2006: Wet Onesie Contest 
