365 Days

There are days when I look at his face and wrinkle my brow. My God, how he's changed. What happened to my baby?  When he was born, he had brown hair and an impossibly round face. I never remember how dark his hair once was, or how delicate his body once seemed. Sometimes I feel so sad at how quickly it all went by, and I pledge to remember more, to videotape more, and then I clench my fists and close my eyes and try to forcibly burn this moment into my brain: how he looks and sounds and smells in this very moment, even though I know the memory will morph into a thousand tomorrows, and I will one day look at photos of his downy blond head and chubby thighs in surprise, because they are long gone.

There are days when I look at his face and see glimpses of the little boy...the big boy...the teenager...the man he'll become. And the enormity of my task as his mother takes my breath away. My task is more than providing love and sustenance and dry diapers -- I am raising a man, a human being, who may one day change the world, who may one day love and complete the life of someone else. One day my arms won't be enough to comfort him, one day my applause will no longer be enough to satisfy his ambition. And that's as it should be. His potential is limitless -- far greater than my own. I am raising a man who can make the world a better place simply by his continued presence in it.

There are days when I look at his face and see his father. And I smile, because his father is a good man -- a wonderfully loving, kind man -- who loves his child more than anything on earth; who knits his brow in confusion and hurt while relating a story of a friend's ex-husband who no longer cares to see his children much anymore (does.not.compute); who sits in a darkened room long after his child has fallen asleep in his arms, just to spend a few more minutes together. I see the little family I've made and I fall in love with him all over again.

There are days when I look at his face and see myself.  And I worry. What faults will he inherit? What fears and neuroses will I unwittingly pass along? Will he be relentlessly hard on himself? Will he be anxious and timid and crumble under the slightest criticism? No. No, he will not. Because I will no longer be those things. I will be better, for him. I have taken to motherhood like a duck to water -- even on the worst of days (and oh, those days can be frustrating and alienating) I always know that my life is so much better because he is a part of it. I can be the mother he needs me to be. We are all meant to go together, like a jigsaw puzzle, each complimenting each other to make a beautiful picture.

There are days when I look at his face and see the unborn baby we saw on the 3D ultrasound, back before he had a name, before the reality of how our lives would change. He was wanted and planned and prayed for, yet his birth still felt like a car crash -- so sudden and violent, with no way to truly prepare for it. We were two. And then we were three. And we will always be three. And thank God (thank God!) for that.

365 days down. So many, many more to go. Happy birthday, my sweet son.

Noah's Birthday on Vimeo
Music: So Damn Lucky by Dave Matthews
Professional portraits by Kaileen Galhouse Photography

God Hates Gymboree

Or maybe just me. But maybe we'll give it one more week to be sure.

We did indeed make it to Gymboree yesterday, and the whole getting-there-and-back-again only cost me about four hours.

FOUR HOURS. And I swear to God, that doesn't include a single minute it can be blamed on my signature brand of must-get-there-several-years-early crazy.

THINGS WE CAN AND DAMNED WELL WILL BLAME IT ON:

• No morning nap.
• Nooooooo morning nap.
• Why nap, when grabbing Mama's coffee cup and shaking it like a maraca is so much fun?
• Cold, stale coffee on carpet, couch, wall.
• Also on baby's outfit and head.
• Mad dash for paper towels that resulted in me knocking a half-full baby bottle (I know. But I was DESPERATE for that nap.) onto tile floor.
• Did I mention it was a glass baby bottle? Because of course it was.
• Walking.
• Sidewalks.
• Other damn people.
• Broken elevators at Metro stations.
• Construction.
• Closed sidewalks.
• Republicans.
• El Nino.
• Mel Gibson.
• Gymbo, that fucking clown, who I am considering buying just to have it around the house to randomly kick the shit out of.

And of course, while the one redeeming aspect of last week's experience was that Noah had a great time, this week he howled in terror and clutched my legs the entire time.

*pinches nose, sighs loudly, reaches for corkscrew and wine pint glass*

But! There were more moms this week, and Ms. Spanish For Toddlers actually seems very nice and down-to-earth, and frankly just desperate for reasons to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.

So I guess she IS a little crazy, as I plan on never leaving the house again.

Now I must go, for I'm not sure if you noticed, but I've got a birthday party to plan. OH MY GOD.

Goddamned Hassle 2.0

So today is Gymboree day, and guess what! My car! Is dead! Again! And I am overusing! Exclamation! Points!

The battery keeps dying blah blah blah new battery or alternator problems blah blaaaah. Whatever. The point is, POOR ME.

So I will once again be relying on public transportation to get me to a spot that is not ultra-convenient for public transportation (See: bus transfers, burning hatred of), which brings out the Crazy Hysterical Traveler in me, which means I will have my ass out at that bus stop no less than three hours before Gymboree starts because what if I miss the first seven connecting buses? WHAT THEN, INTERNET?

(It's a 15-minute car ride, by the way. FIFTEEN MINUTES. And I could so make it in 10 if I had too.)

In the meantime, if any of y'all would have any interest in seeing me make an absolute dithering fool of myself in front of an audience, perhaps you could stop by the SXSW panel picker and, as Sweetney puts it, pick the hell out of the panel "Parent Bloggers 2.0: Diaper Diarists or the New Blogebrities?" under the category "Blogging." You don't even have to be going to the conference to vote, but hey! You should totally go to the conference, what with all these totally awesome panels and all. This one, which you should go vote for omg, would consist of me (duh), Sweetney and Marrit. They will be talking about stuff that is NOT the same boring crap about mommybloggers that we've all heard a million times.

I will be handling the comic relief, who-the-fuck-gave-that-one-a-microphone portion of the program.

Now if you'll excuse me, it is 9:10 am and I only have four-and-a-half hours to get to Gymboree. Shit!

Flush With Pride

Well, I totally can't move now.

Our toilet paper holder broke ages ago. I think I was still pregnant. We made a couple half-hearted attempts at replacing it, only to find that we needed some kind of specially-sized plastic tubey rod thing that did not exist at Lowe's or Home Depot (Regular AND Expo-Snob Strength). So we gave up and just kept the toilet paper on the back of the toilet, all classy like.

Of course, our realtor kind of pointed out that most of today's discriminating condo buyers are fans of the toilet paper holder, and also enjoy light sockets where you just pull on a chain instead of screwing the lightbulb in and out by hand, which kind of sparks when you touch it and also burns and sears your flesh a little bit. So FINE. We'll try Ace Hardware.

$3.89 later we have a working toilet paper holder. And a new toilet seat, just for the hell of it. Just for the sheer LUXURY of it.

I could sit in there ALL DAY.

ALSO: CHECK OUT THIS INSANITY...

On Saturday morning the child just stood the hell up and starting walking all over the place.

Yes, blah, he took his first steps ages ago. Three or four wobbly, hesitant steps into my arms. Aww! Yay! Now sit your diapered butt down.

This is like, walking. Like a person does. Well, like a person who is the motion-capture model for a Godzilla vs. Frankenstein movie, or someone who needs his tongue out for forward balance, but still. He's unstoppable.

And don't even ask me about the "Soooo Big!" game he suddenly knows how to play. Or how he'll pick up a book and turn the pages while babbling to himself. Or how he responds to "Where's Mama?" by smacking me in the face.

And don't ask me about his birthday this Saturday. Don't. Even. Thinkaboutit.

Don't ask me where my baby went, because I sure as hell don't know.

But feel free to ask me how totally awesome this little boy is. Because oh my God, he's so awesome.

Are You Ready For Some Real Estate?

I'm sorry I didn't post very much this week, but I've been too busy KICKING THE SHIT OUT OF MY HOUSE.

So not ready for its 360-degree virtual-tour close-up.

The tire would like someone to send help. And donuts.

Stressoree

Could someone please tell me why everything has to be such a goddamn hassle all the time?

(takes deep breath)

(Internet rolls eyes, refills coffee and sits down, because HERE WE GO AGAIN)

So I signed Noah up for Gymboree. I don't think I can adequately describe just how jazzed I was about starting Gymboree. It just sounded so...parental, you know? So very responsible. So very concerned about my child's enrichment activities, which prior to Gymboree have involved chewing on books and breaking into child-proofed cabinets.

Also a pantsload of television.

But Gymboree! Fun! Socialization! And...I didn't really know what else, because the Gymboree website wasn't exactly helpful. It placed Noah in the Level 3 class, which is described as follows:

Children this age are adept communicators. They show what they want or need through actions, such as pointing at a toy or leading you by the hand to open a door for them.

Um. They do? Noah still takes a more...vocal approach to demonstrating his needs, although I suppose his ability to throw his arms up in the air so his armpits or any other grippable part of his body disappears into a single slippery, dead-weight torso is a form of communicating through body language. (TRANSLATION: WOE. MISERY. I HATE YOU.)

Level 3 it is!

Anyway, all week I kept telling everybody about Gymboree. "I signed up for Gymboree! We're going to Gymboree!"

(TRANSLATION: WE'RE GOING TO LEAVE THE HOUSE AND GO PLACES! OUTSIDE PLACES! WHERE THE OTHER GROWN-UPS LIVE!)

If Noah understood a single word I said, he probably expected Gymboree to be some kind of magical candy boat ride to outer space, where both Steve and Joe from Blue's Clues live, where every bath is a bubble bath and no one ever makes you get out because you are pruney and the apple juice flows like wine.

So I hope you can understand my state of mind when earlier this afternoon, when we were ready to depart for our very first class, my car wouldn't start.

My car (WHICH I JUST PAID OFF, BY THE WAY, HOW AWESOME) is dead. I don't know if it's the battery or the oil or the engine or the hooziwhatsit manifold, but it is supremely dead.

So after attempting to start the car (WHICH I JUST PAID OFF, ALL FISCALLY-RESPONSIBLE AND DEBT-FREE AND SHIT) several dozen times, I finally gave up and got out of the car (THE CAR I JUST PAID OFF, IF I DID NOT MENTION THAT PART).

I looked at my watch and realized that Gymboree started in 15 minutes.

A normal person would probably just skip fucking Gymboree that day, right? Call and bump her enrollment to the next week? Take the baby inside for an afternoon of Noggin and Cheerios?

It would take at least a half hour to get there by Metro and required two bus transfers. So instead I hauled Noah to the street corner and hailed a damn cab, because I am determined (TRANSLATION: INSANE).

$8.50 later, I released my white-knuckled grip on Noah and extricated us from the elaborate seat-belt set-up I'd rigged around our bodies, and got to Gymboree just in time. I was sweaty and disheveled, and the outfit I'd carefully selected (yeah...shut up) was really just super gross by now.

BUT GODDAMMIT. I WAS AT GYMBOREE. LET THE MAGIC BEGIN.

The good news is that Noah had an amazing time. He smiled and laughed and rolled balls and climbed slides. There were bubbles. He's clearly a little behind the experienced playgroupers in his socialization, since every other baby there was indeed using hand gestures. The pace is fun yet frenetic, so I thought he did really well despite being a bit overwhelmed at times.

(I mean, I was freaking overwhelmed, what with all the songs I didn't know the words to and apparently I do the hand motions for Itsy-Bitsy Spider TOTALLY WRONG, so I guess we both have a little catching up to do.)

(And of course, there was the inevitable encounter with a little girl who smacked Noah across the face when he tried to give her a hug.)

(Whatever, it was totally just a pity hug, as she was one homely looking child. He can do better and he knows it.)

(Yep. I'm about ready for Noah to bring home a girlfriend. Meow!)

The bad news is that as an actual mother there with her actual child, I was clearly in the minority. (This is bad news because you KNOW I was hoping the Gymboree tuition money would also buy me a brand-new BFF.) Most of the women were nannies and babysitters, and the only other woman there with her own son mentioned that he had a Spanish class the next day and I thought she was joking and laughed, because haaaaa those crazy overachieving types.

Of course, she wasn't joking. God, I'm such an asshole.

(An asshole who took a taxi to Gymboree and then had to figure out how to get home now, and you know damn well she wasn't getting a ride offer from Ms. Perfectly-Coiffed-and-Manicured-Latin-for-Toddlers.)

Luckily, while I typically don't demonstrate the good sense God gave a fly, I at least had the presence of mind to grab Noah's stroller from the car (THAT IS DEAD) (YET PAID FOR!) before hailing the cab.

So I got a lot of exercise walking back to where I could catch a transferless bus (I don't do transfers, although I have no idea why), although the exercise was probably rendered moot by the Frappuccino I stopped for halfway through, especially since I ordered a tall (TRANSLATION: GRANDE) and they made me a venti. Which I took. And drank. Because the universe owed me.

Sigh.

I prepaid for 12 more weeks of this. We are all super excited.

THREE CHEERS FOR GYMBOREE!

My Weekend, Or Why I Am Still Very Cranky On Tuesday

We went to Jason's company picnic on Saturday.

It was raining.

It was alcohol-free.

It was at the fucking zoo.

Soaking wet and sober is no way to spend a weekend. When you add in the smell of monkeys and forcible posing with a giant stuffed panda, well, hello! Welcome to hell. Please to enjoy this commemorative Polaroid of your visit.

(On the plus side, how styling does Noah look? He's wearing head-to-toe gifts from Miss Zoot, who alone ensures that my son has something else to wear besides prune-juice-stained onesies.)

Exhibit A: Chug! Chug! Chug!

By the way, do you see that? THAT RIGHT THERE? With the sippy cup?

That is a child who is breaking my heart, is what that is. No more bottles. AT ALL. Not even before naps or bedtime anymore. He's done.

I had a full-on freak-out about a month ago when I thought about even attempting to wean Noah off bottles. He switched to mostly whole milk around 10 months old, but he would have NOTHING to do with sippy cups. Formula, milk, juice, water -- all were met with a dribbly open mouth of disgust and then hurled across the room. Bottles were greeted with screams of JOY JOY JOY and carried around the house empty and attempts to take them away were greeted with screams of HATRED HATRED HATRED.

In other words, Noah did not seem like he was ready to give up his bottles any time this decade.

Then one day, on a whim, I picked up some YoBaby drinkable yogurt at the grocery store. I poured some in a cup, handed it to Noah and got ready to receive a sippy-cup-shaped bruise on my forehead.

Instead, Noah downed every drop, all the while looking at me like, now THIS is yogurt! What the hell was with that SPOON business, woman? God.

And then every few days after that it seemed like we were eliminating yet another bottle, adding another meal or snack, another new food was met with approval, another blow to the happy little routine I worked so hard to carve out. Another step away from babyhood.

(Oh crap, she's about to go off on some hardcore mommyblog shit, I can just sense it.)

He eats Indian food and pasta and pizza. He loves peas and broccoli and cheese and waffles and yogurt and every fruit in existance.  He sorts shapes and invents games and plays fetch with the dog. Everything in the world is called da-da. He still won't wave or clap or point. Baby sign language goes over with a skeptical thud. He walks unassisted, but only when he forgets to think about it.

He is hitting milestones at a rate I can't keep up with. I look back on his newborn days and the care I would take to obsessively report on his every eye movement or the tiniest change in his flailing limbs. Now it seems indulgent and tiresome to even try to document all the changes I notice every day. Sippy cups! How about that! How utterly fascinating! Please tell us the exact nature and consistency of his "big boy poops" while you're at it!

When compared to every other child out there, he is not unique or brilliant or special. He is just another kid, growing up, and of little interest to anyone except his parents, who naturally think he is the MOST unique, the MOST brilliant, the MOST special kid on earth.

All because he knows how to use a stupid sippy cup. But you know what?

It's good enough for me. Alert Harvard.

(Well, okay, Maybe give him a few more years to work on his cooperation skills.)

Dispatches From Right Now

(Hint! "Right Now" equals 1:32 a.m.)

We both fell asleep on the couch. We do that a lot. We're either very lazy about that damned flight of steps, closet narcoleptics or just hopeless drunks.

Suddenly, Jason gets up and enters the nursery. There is much stomping. Possibly some glomping. He exits, slamming the door behind him and comes back to the couch just as the first screams erupt.

I ask him what in the sam bloody hill he was doing in there.

"What?" He looks at me like I'm crazy.

I get up and enter the nursery. Noah is standing up in his crib, howling. I pat his back until he calms down. As I creep back out, I trip over Jason's shoes.

I go back to the living room and repeat my question. What in the sam bloody fucking hill was he doing in there? And what's with the shoes?

"What?" His face is all, "CRAZY TALK. GOING BACK TO SLEEP. MARRIAGE EQUALS CONSTANT STRIFE."

Noah is screaming again. I brush my teeth and wait the Ferber-approved five minutes before re-entering to comfort him again.

Jason still hasn't moved from the couch. I shake him.

"What?"

"Dude. What the hell?"

"What?"

I repeat my accusation (YOU ARE A CRAZY LOUD SHOE-TAKER-OFFER WHO WOKE THAT BABY AND IN SOME CULTURES THAT IS GROUNDS FOR RUNNING YOU OVER WITH A CAR OR BUS OR HORSE-DRAWN CHARIOT OF SOME KIND) several times. I hear Noah turn on his crib aquarium and finally settle down to the strains of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, as played by the Dying C Battery Orchestra.

Jason finally wakes up. I may or may not have kicked him. He starts muttering some nonsense about a contract. A customer contract. Don't argue with the contact, because he got it signed and everything.

I shake him and repeat my nagging tale of FIFTEEN WHOLE MINUTES OF CRYING BABY WOE one last time and point to his bare feet, like AH HA! LATE-NIGHT SHERLOCK STRIKES AGAIN and then I throw up my hands and go upstairs to bed.

Five minutes later, he wakes up.

"Hey." he calls up. "Where are my shoes?"

Bubbles the Chimp

Hey, remember the time I posted a little video clip of Noah laughing his little head off? Remember how mildly amusing that was? You think I could get away with posting another little video clip of Noah laughing his little head off without seeming repetitive and indulgent and lazy?

No?

Well. Fuck you then. I could listen to that laugh ALL DAY. Plus, this one has fancy dissolve-y TRANSITIONS and shit. I totally could have done a star wipe but, you know. I wouldn't want to blow your minds too hard with my crazy mad skills or anything.

Bubbles on Vimeo

We were watching some bizarre little intershow short on Noggin involving handpuppets (no, seriously, they are actual hands with plastic eyeballs) who were blowing bubbles. Noah was a big fan of the bubbles. He is clearly less of a fan of the big punchline, which was another handpuppet coming up and being all, "Bubbles! Bubble BATH!" And then he splashes in the soap while the other handpuppets shake their heads at this poor stupid puppet, even though none of them really strike me as the roundest wands in the bubble dish, you know?

Um. Anyway. Noah thought it was funny, and it prompted me to break out Actual Real Life Bubbles, of which Noah was vaguely a fan.

Please note my own attempt to mimic Oobi the Mentally Challenged Handpuppet and remember this moment when you inevitably wonder why it seems like some days I can barely string more than two sentences together without sounding like...well...a mentally challenged handpuppet.

Moving On Up...Or Over...Or Just Slightly Due South. No, North! Fuck.

We bought our little condo five years ago, back when the real estate market had fully lost its goddamned mind. Places went under contract within hours of being listed or while we were looking at them. Everything sparked a bidding war and went for thousands above the asking price. You didn't dare ask for an inspection.

"Termites? Who cares about termites? They just mean your house is delicious."

"We'll take it!"

We finally lucked out on our place because the sign for the open house had been knocked over and nobody could find the listing. We spotted the lock box on the door and wandered in. We met a very confused-looking realtor. "I don't know where all the foot traffic is today," she clucked as we signed her completely empty guest log. "Usually these open houses are wall-to-wall people."

We murmured in fake amazement, took a quick lap around the unit and went outside to call our agent while casually sitting on top of the flattened sign and glaring at some young couples who were wandering around with realtor.com printouts and staring at the maze of identical buildings and doorways in confusion.

We had every intention of staying here until Noah started school -- maybe even longer, since the neighborhood elementary schools are shockingly decent for the District. We're city people! We love cement! We hate yardwork! And houses! And strip malls! And easy accessibility to Target! We're hardcore, man!

Then our friends sold their condo and bought a little brick house in the suburbs. As they gave us a tour, we realized we were drooling. A driveway! A grill! A basement! More than one toilet! A place to keep the ironing board!

We watched Ceiba run around the backyard in pure doggie joy as Noah squealed and laughed, and I took Jason's hand and squeezed it knowingly.

"You're imagining a swing set over there, aren't you?"

"What? No, I was thinking about what a kickass wine cellar we could build in that basement."

Close enough.

And also: TOTALLY KICKASS.

We've been kind of dragging our feet ever since. Our real estate agent royally sucked last time (she didn't show up for our closing because, as she told Jason on the phone, she had "the runs") and we've been a little gunshy about picking someone this time. We also keep changing our minds about the neighborhood we want. And then this weekend I think we changed our mind about which STATE we want.

We're staying as close to the city as possible (I keep joking that our big move to the burbs is actually just a move down the street and across a bridge, which is not really that big of an exaggeration), and there are literally about fourteen million listings in our price range. Which is a big jump from five years ago, when we made out our wish list of features and locations and prices and ended up with a place that cost more than we wanted to pay and met exactly one criteria from our list: IT SHOULD HAVE A ROOF. (We wrote NON-LEAKING in the "bonus" column.)

So this Sunday we drove around, toddlet in tow, to look at open houses. The real estate agents eyed us hungrily -- they were bored and lonely and kept offering us candy and cookies if we'd just stick around and talk to them. One open house had a full ice cream sundae bar. We stomped around the houses, sighing at hideous outdated kitchens and poking walls of knotty-pine paneling to see how easily we could rip that shit off.

We attempted to stop for lunch at a Panera but the parking lot was full. There was even a line to GET OUT of the parking lot, composed entirely of cars who'd foolishly decided to pull in and circle around and were now trapped. Including us. I started to get that shallow-breathy feeling I only seem to get in suburban parking lots when some guy started knocking on Jason's window.

"OH MY GOD." I whispered. "LOCK YOUR DOOR. HE PROBABLY HAS A GUN. OH MY GOD PLEASE WE HAVE A BABY."

Jason shot me a look and lowered his window. The guy liked Jason's car and wanted to know what make and model it was. He was especially impressed at how well Noah's carseat fit into the back.

"Why would he have a gun? He's just on his way to Starbucks."

"I thought he wanted to carjack us."

"Oh yes, he'd steal our car and then continue to inch his way to the exit. He could probably make a clean getaway in under 40 minutes!"

"Normal people don't just rap on people's car windows. It's not...natural."

"People are friendlier out here."

"LOOK, I DON'T UNDERSTAND THE RULES OUT HERE. LET'S GO EAT AT CHIPOTLE INSTEAD."

Anyway. I am sort of nuts. But I am still confident we're making the right choice by moving, even though we certainly didn't find our dream home. Yet. Oddly, our favorite house was the one that needed the most work, despite my insistence that as God is my witness, I would never renovate a kitchen again. A house that had been completely and beautifully remodeled felt too much like someone else's home. I don't know. I think we'll know our house when we find it.

Although I am pretty sure it wasn't the house with the next-door neighbors who repeatedly shot their potato cannon into the backyard.

Tire: Does Not Convey.