Curtains

Hi! Good morning. Welcome to the most depressing day of the year!

Also: amalah.com is going on hiatus for a little bit.

Sorry this is abrupt (and probably stinking of dramatics) (I promise it's nothing more exciting than some run-of-the mill burnout, an overwhelming desire to punch myself in the damn face after every sentence I write, plus WAY TOO MUCH WOW WOW WUBBZY, WHICH IS TO SAY, FOUR MINUTES OF IT), but I just need some time off. Maybe leave the house, or something crazy like that.

I'll still be posting at AlphaMom and ClubMom, and I'll be back here in a week-ish. Or so.

Have a good week, and by the way, your ass looks fantastic in those pants.

More than words

Noah doesn't smell like a baby anymore.

I don't know when it happened -- but at some point, despite using the same old lavendar soap and powder and Desitin, he lost that baby smell. His head smells like hair, and his skin has taken on a new scent -- one I can't describe, because it's just his smell now, a combination of lotion and detergent and body chemistry. In a way it's even better than that baby smell, because it's Noah, the fully-formed little person version. It's like the way I can sort of smell Jason just by thinking about him, and the way I remember what my mom and dad smell like, and exactly three of my ex-boyfriends.

He doesn't look like a baby anymore either.

He's still got a round little belly and dimples on his fingers and elbows, but everything else is lean and undeniably boyish. His little bow legs have straightened out and the chubby thighs have vanished into muscle, and a thin coat of blond hair is growing in. I look at photos from just a few months ago and am floored by how different he looks now.

I want to dress him in feetie pajamas and onesies with teddy bears on him, but the only things that fit him have monster trucks and dinosaurs on them. So I let him run around naked instead, just so I can be reminded that his butt still has dimples on it.

He points at everything, and talks non-stop, but I never know whether he's trying to tell me if he wants something or if he just wants me to help label his world. "Mmmmeh! Eeennnneh!" he shrieks, pointing at some vague spot above my head, as I flip through the possibilities:  You want up? You want to go over there? Upstairs? Ceiling? Light? Crown molding?

I don't think I ever get it right. He'll stand before me and talk very emphatically, with hand gestures and everything, and I hand him some juice and hope I was close. He'll sigh and accept it, while his eyes remain fixed on the refrigerator, envisioning the thing he really wanted instead.

I've never been good at understanding little kids -- to me even the Bilingual Sign Language Genius Child at Gymboree sounds like "Be ba be uh," and everyone around me shrieks and translates it as "Bye bye baby," and then I wonder if I'm missing words in all of Noah's chatter.  I've heard mothers brag that they're the only ones who can understand their toddler's speech, and I always hoped it was one of those things that you just instinctually figure out, so in a way it's comforting to tell myself that he's just not talking yet.

The other night he woke up around midnight. I went into his room expecting some cranky crocodile tears but found the real thing. His face was wet and his shoulders shook while he sobbed. As usual, I didn't have a clue and flipped through the possibilities -- bad dream? teeth? fever?  -- until I just gave up on the whys and took him back to bed with me.

He curled up next to me and sniffled and sighed for a bit. He didn't want me to sing or speak, but after a few minutes of spooning together he went back to sleep. I smelled his hair and fell asleep.

One day, very soon, it will take a lot more than that. I'll have to explain why we have bad dreams and why we get sick; why people are cruel and why people we love sometimes die. I'll have to explain why we don't say certain words and figure out what to tell him about the book of Bible stories on his shelf.

I don't what I'm going to say when that day comes, so in a way it's comforting to tell myself that he's just not talking yet.

Chatter on Vimeo

From the Management

Hi! Guess what! I'm not posting anything here today. Because I have decided to move all of Noah's furniture from the small green bedroom with two windows to the not-quite-as-small blue bedroom with one window. By myself. Because I have decided that this is terribly important and must be done immediately and I know Jason will totally argue with me and say that Noah is FINE in the green bedroom and that we are NOT moving his furniture when we just paid people to put it there less than a month ago, so this way, I'll have all the furniture moved before he gets home and then he will have no choice but to help me paint over the blue this weekend.

I'm thinking a soft green would look nice.

Anyway, that's what I'm busy doing right now, but I'm taking a break because the changing table is currently stuck between the doorway and the stairway banister and I am kind of not sure what the hell I'm supposed to do about that.

However! There are nice long personally-type posts over at ClubMom (the three-day-a-week posting schedule? is nice. lets me wait until I actually get sort-of inspired to post. muy happier). AlphaMom is doing some server-maintenance stuff but hopefully the Advice Smackdown will resume later this week for all your most desperate queries, and hey! Tonight I'm going to liveblog the American Idol premiere for MamaPop.

I haven't watched the show in a couple seasons, but I am flipping OBSESSED this year, because a girl from my high school graduating class keeps showing up in all the commercials for the new season, and I am SERIOUSLY hoping she gets some additional airtime or makes it to Hollywood. Why? I have no idea. It's not like we're still friends or anything, since I don't think we even acknowledged each other at the reunion, and Google tells me she went on to achieve moderate success in the Central Pennsylvania beauty pageant circuit, while I clearly have found my calling as a combination Internet Rock Star and Bored Furniture Moving Housewife.

You know what? Screw her. I hope Simon makes fun of how tall and skinny and blond she is. And tells her to eat a sandwich. Which I'm going to do now. Anything besides deal with that changing table debacle I've gone and created upstairs.

(Seriously, stop by MamaPop tonight. Or at least submit some ideas for the Official Drinking Game, because dude, I'll need to be at LEAST as high as Paula to sit through two solid hours of this horseshit.)

Weekend Report: I Just Never Learn

AAEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII.

No wait, let's try that in Swedish:

IIIIIIKEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAA!

Enough said.

Except that I got a pot rack for $9.99, a really cute clock that ticks SO! FREAKING! LOUD! and a dozen picture frames in a size I do not have any pictures for, like fuck, dude.

Oh. And did you know the post office sends you coupons when you move? Including a 20% off coupon for IKEA?

Did you know that coupon does you no good if you leave it at home?

Oh. And we bought Noah a giant inflatable turtle. Because we really, really suck at the whole "OMG HE LIKES IT LOOK HE SMILED AT IT WE MUST BUY IT SO HE MAY IGNORE IT COMPLETELY ONCE IT IS TAKING UP COPIOUS SPACE IN OUR LIVING ROOM" thing.

Still, is pretty cute, no?

Hint! It inflates with a hair dryer and not by blowing into it for 20 minutes, dumbass.

Status Report re: Operation Best Parents Ever

In light of our renewed pledge to provide our toddler with the best and most-watchful parenting available on the market today, please allow me to document his activities over the last 48 hours or so :

1) Climbed upstairs without either of us noticing until we heard the sound of a toilet flushing repeatedly.

2) Threw Jason's wedding ring into a floor vent.

3) Ate dog kibble. Twice. Because hey! It's better than pizza and chicken fingers and spaghetti and cheese and beans and peanut butter & jelly and all the other vile things we tried to feed him.

4) Ate rice crispie treats for dinner, because hey! Rice is healthy!

5) Found that damn box cutter I've been looking for for WEEKS now.

6) Got bodyslammed by a 13-month-old on a playdate.

7) Threw the mother of all holy terror tantrums at Gymboree over a plastic maraca; please note that he got a set of maracas for Christmas that he remains wholly unimpressed by; and also that Bilingual Sign Language Genius Child's mother was nearby to give me a very sympathetic cluck of her tongue.

8) Watched Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Thought it was rad.

9) Chewed on a Netflix DVD of X3: The Last Stand. Thought it was crappy.

10) Threw a glass of red wine at the couch.

11) Sliced open his nose with his own overgrown fingernails.

12) Been vaguely sticky and definitively unbathed, meh.

13)  Given Mama kisses, given Big Hugs, shown Mama his belly, pooped on the potty, cut two more teeth, laughed up a storm, shown zero fear and delighted us to no end, because dude, where did this whole little PERSON come from and how did he get to be so freaking awesome?

(Taken before the fall down the stairs, yes. This website is enough of a testament to my non-stop parade of shame, thank you very much, so we don't need to illustrate what high-speed rug burns look like three days later.)

Babygate

(Yes! Still talking about it. Like anyone is surprised.)

(Overreaction: It's what's for dinner.)

I'm feeling much better today, thanks to your comments and generous doses of brackets, and also all the wine I drank last night. Which was probably a little much for a Monday. Or a Friday. Or for the average human liver.

I still can't stop reliving it: the metal clang, the mysterious thumps, the terrified wails, the feeling of my feet skidding on the Pergo as I dashed around the corner, the sickening sight of that open gate and then...oh god oh god...my little boy lying facedown at the bottom of the stairs.

I know, I know. "BOY" is the operative word there. He's going to fall down the stairs and off his bike and the roof and trees and roller coasters and God knows what else. But you know, indulge me here, since I'm not used to this injury shit yet. Or the sensation of my heart leaking out my ears. That's definitely a new one.

As I tried to comfort Noah and convince him that everything was okay (even though I had no idea myself and was desperately trying to squeeze various body parts and check his pupils and feel for his teeth while his nose leaked snotty blood all over my shoulder), I babbled on about getting his Boo Boo Bear, which is an ice pack. (Which is actually shaped like a dog.) (Don't ask. I'm a moron.) After hearing the word "boo boo," Noah obediently and miserably put his hands over his face for the most pathetic game of peekaboo in the history of the entire world. So it was okay. He was okay.

Jason walked in the door right as I was administering a sippy cup of juice and the ice pack, and this was my signal to completely melt down and cry as I told him what had just happened. Jason was, of course, infinitely NOT HELPFUL, since he refused to believe me that the gate was latched ("You must not have closed it right") and quizzed me on my medical training ("You know not to move him, right? If his neck was broken and you moved him you COULD HAVE KILLED HIM"), and that's when I left the room, because we were in the kitchen and THAT'S WHERE ALL THE KNIVES ARE.

Anyway, Jomama requested that I share the brand of the baby gate Noah opened, and this is one of those moments where I really wonder why I compulsively invite the Internet to witness my endless supply of idiocy, because OH MY GOD. This is so embarrassing.

At our old place, we had one whopping baby gate, blocking the stairs up to the loft. When we moved here, we realized we'd need at least three more to block off both flights of stairs in every direction. So when we noticed the previous owners had one at the top of the basement steps, we asked if they'd mind leaving it. You know, to save ourselves 50 bucks or so. It's nothing great and is, in fact, totally ghetto, since it's all jury-rigged with extra blocks of wood and nylon ties.

BLOCKS OF WOOD. AND NYLON TIES.

They used this gate to keep their dog out of the basement. And we, in our infinite laziness, thought this would be sufficient for our child. Our child who can, at 15 months old, operate our TV remotes, remove batteries from his toys and jump start our car.

Oh, and only the top part latches. Yeah.

We actually bought two retractable gates, but after installing one at the top of the other stairs we discovered that it is a royal pain in the ass to open and close, since it requires two hands and coordination and thinking. So we returned the other one and decided to stick with the ghetto-ass gate. Because the other gate was hard to open. Which. You know. IS KIND OF THE FUCKING POINT.

But! But! Before you pelt me with batteries, let me explain! Noah really knows how to go up and down stairs! He knows to climb down backwards! We wanted a gate here more for just a general deterrent than a safety thing, since the basement is currently the most un-baby-proofed area of the house since we've pretty much just been chucking boxes and Random Things We Don't Know What To Do With Yet down there.

So okay, that explanation is still totally devoid of logic, since Noah opened the gate by accident. (I think. Because I was not watching him. Because...I had...stuff to do. On the...Internet. Yeah.) I'm pretty sure he was leaning on the gate and noticed that the latch is very button-like, and if there is one thing Noah loves more than peanut butter crackers, it is a good button to push. So he pushed it, and the weight of his body was enough to push the gate out of the groove and swing open. And ta-DA! Headfirst down the stairs.

Anyway. That's the entire, overly-detailed story of The Time My Kid Fell Down The Stairs, Which Will Now Never Happen Again Because I've Learned Lessons And Shit, And In Fact, I Am Fairly Confident That He Will Never Injure Himself In Any Way Again.

Right? RIGHT?

Right.

Eyeronee

So I was working on another entry -- one I've been bashing around for awhile, one about motherhood and the fears and feelings of inadequacy I used to have, and oh, how SILLY those fears seem now, in the thick of the glorious love I feel for my sweet little son, a love that gives me confidence and a remarkable feeling of ease in my own skin -- when I heard a tremendous crash.

Noah figured out how to open one of our baby gates (TAKE THAT, BILINGUAL GENIUS GYMBOREE CHILD) and fell all the way down the basement steps. There was much screaming and a bloody nose and another black eye.

He's fine now. But I think I need a hug.

And maybe a boost so I can get back up on my damn parenting high horse. Thanks.

*whimpers*

Edited to add, now that I've stopped shaking too much to hold the camera steady:

Basking in the warm healing glow of the television. Because there is NO END to the fabulous parenting around here. But hey, you shoulda seen the other guy.

The Week in Lists

Things My Child Can Say, Kinda:

1) OGGIE (doggie)
2) NI NI (nite nite)
3) NO NO NO (hell to the no, woman)

Injuries My Child Sustained When I Insisted on a Little Damn Privacy to Pee, Please:

1) Wipeout on step
2) Bruised cheek
3) Black eye

Things My Child Will Eat:

1) Yogurt
2) Peanut Butter Crackers
3) Board books

Things My Child Will Not Eat:

1) Anything else

Thing I Said In Emails To People This Week:

1) Um! Hi! Can I have your address again so I can send you a sympathy card? For your dog? Also, what up, homie?
2) I swear, that kid will get into Harvard one day and her mom will take all the credit for it because she took the scenic route before dropping her off at the SATs.
3) Did I birth a green bean?

Things I Ate In My Own Home, From My Own Kitchen:

1) Pear, endive & watercress salad
2) Fig balsamic-glazed duck with pearl onion and pear hash
3) Sea bass with Moroccan salsa
4) Super quick minestrone
5) An entire block of Vermont cheddar cheese

Things I Strongly Considered Purchasing:

1) An elliptical machine
2) Bigger pants

Mean Things I Thought While At Gymboree:

1) "If she mentions baby sign language one more fucking time..."
2) "Oh my God, we get it. SHE KNOWS THE SIGN FOR DUCK."
3) "OH, AND NOW SHE'S SPEAKING SPANISH? FINE. YOU WIN MOTHERHOOD."
4) "You know what? Shut up."

Things That I Ought Not To Have Done:

1) Insisted on a little damn privacy to pee, please
2) Eaten that entire block of Vermont cheddar cheese
3) Cut my hair
4) Myself
5) With the kitchen scissors

bum bum bumbumbum bumbumbumbum DOG PARK!

(The title of this post is how you are required to say "Dog Park" in our house, by the way. You are also permitted to rap on a nearby surface. However, so far I seem to be the only one following this rule.)

So. The dog park.

It's not really an OFFICIAL dog park...just a random open field that the Dog People have claimed as their own. There's actually a sign that says THIS IS NOT A DOG PARK, which everybody ignores. The flagrant law-breaking impresses me, actually, as you know I have a documented fear of Imaginary Authority Figures, so I always take Ceiba's leash with me, just in case the police show up to make examples of us all and we need to scatter, a frantic mob of dogs and tennis balls and plastic baggies full of poop. And I imagine the die-hard Dog People will be yelling about how it doesn't matter, they'll be back on the field in a couple hours, maaaan, and maybe a small crowd of die-hard Non-Dog People will show up to cheer the police on, and at this point I realize I've got my imaginary cops decked out in full riot gear for some reason.

THIS IS NOT A DOG PARK. AND THERE IS NO SPOON.

Anyway. I am not really sure which side I will be on, when the great Dog People vs. Non-Dog People war comes. Because I do not think I particularly like the Dog People.

vs.

Your illustrated guide to the Coming Conflict.

It's possibly due to the fact that out here, in the wild untamed 'burbs, Ceiba does not really count as a dog. I am constantly telling everybody that we just moved here from the District, you know, because that's the only possible explanation for why I'm taking my hamster out for a walk. I come from the city! From the Place of the Pursedog! The Land of the Teacup Poodle! Plus, I'm probably on drugs.

In our old neighborhood, there were no less than FOUR other Miniature Pinschers. Four! Poor Ceiba was the runt of that bunch too, but still. Everybody had little dogs, except for that one lady with the gigantic sheepdog, and seriously, NOBODY could look at her and not shudder a little bit at the thought of what her apartment must look like.

Out here, we're total freaks. We are in Labrador Retriever Land, and nobody knows what to make of Ceiba, and no, thank you, but my dog does not quiero Taco Bell.

We met one lady with a small little white fluffy thing of a dog, although she was really quick to let me know that this dog was a Katrina rescue. (Translation: NOT ON PURPOSE.) Oh, and also she used to do all the advertising and videos for PETA (Translation: OH SHIT, DON'T TELL HER WE DECLAWED THE CAT).

Some of the Dog People are a little...intense, is what I'm trying to say, I guess.

Plus: They only ever talk to your dog, as Rell aptly noted in the comments the other day. This means you never learn anyone's name, or anything about them, but you are properly introduced to Mugsy, who is four years old, yes she is, and who! got! a big! bone! in her Christmas stocking, because Mugsy is a very good girl.

Plus Plus: Are there rules for the Dog Park That Is Not A Dog Park? No one will tell me. Are only big dogs supposed to hang out with the other big dogs? Is there a small-dog kiddie pool area that I don't know about? Is it okay that we bring our kid? (Noah: OGGIE!) (Yes, it's official. I heard it myself and everything.) Is it frowned upon if you don't have one of those remote-control dog-zapping collars that everyone seems to have? Because seriously, I don't think they come that small. iPods don't even come that small yet. And am I the only person on the planet who doesn't have a North Face jacket?

Plus Plus Plus: German Shepherds.

This one is totally my damage. I'm sure they are very nice dogs. Okay, no. I'm not sure. Since I'd been REPEATEDLY assured that the dog who attacked me was "a big baby" and "totally friendly," there's just no way I can take the word of some random person at the dog park that their dog is charging at me because he wants "to play" and not "to eat your delicious thigh flesh."

And I know it's really annoying when someone acts afraid of your beloved smushiekins. When Ceiba was younger she had this bad habit of jumping towards people we passed on the sidewalk. She never nipped or anything, and we were always there to snap the leash back. Most people just kind of laughed at her, but one time she startled a woman who screamed and jumped about three feet off the sidewalk. I apologized profusely and explained that we were still training her, but the woman just gave me a dirty look and kept walking. Like WHATEVER, lady. It's a three-pound puppy. Seriously.

And this was terribly unfair of me. Small dogs bite too. Maybe she'd been bitten as a kid or something. Or maybe she just thought DC's rat problem was seriously getting out of control.

Anyway. I can't help it. I'm scared of German Shepherds, big sweet softies or otherwise. And there are a lot of them at the dog park. And they are running around off leash and I try to act cool and even petted one the other day and then had to come home and have a drink, because I COULD HAVE DIED.

Ceiba came home and cowered under a chair for awhile too. Poor thing. She's all, "WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME HOW WEIRD I AM?"

Sigh. You are weird, little dog. Very, very weird.

Luckily, you're with the right people.

An Inauspicious Start

Don't you hate it when bloggers post apologies for not posting? Because what, like you have nothing better to do than come to their dusty little site and refresh constantly, looking for some drivel to relieve the unending boredom of your day? Like you are hanging on their every word and when they go a couple days without posting you start wondering if everything is okay, because if they are not writing on the Internet they simply cease to exist, because your personal view of reality involves a little too much YouTube and not enough fresh air? Please. Whatever, Miss Fancypants Blogger Person, whatever.

Sorry for not posting, everybody!

Everything is, duh, fine. I've just spent a few glorious days being extremely selfish and offline and mostly just not doing anything remotely post-worthy. I've been enjoying my little family and cooking some amazing food because the novelty of the new kitchen hasn't worn off yet, and holy crap, I would have eaten a bowl of those creamed leeks for breakfast this morning if I hadn't eaten them all last night. (We made them with fat free half & half instead of whipping cream, by the way, because good lord, did I ever manage to pack the pounds on this holiday season.) I've unpacked a few boxes and assembled some bookshelves and bought a coffee table at Target. I did not fall down or otherwise injure myself, although I do have some kind of blister on my tongue that's really getting on my nerves.

I also spent some time fretting over Noah's lack of talking, but luckily resisted posting my trademarked brand of overdramatic freakout about it, since now I believe he IS talking, I just can't understand a damn word he says.

He said "doggy" this weekend to some dogs at the local dog park. OR SO I'VE BEEN TOLD, BECAUSE HE SAID IT THE MINUTE I WAS OUT OF EARSHOT, TRYING TO MAKE SURE A GODDAMNED GERMAN SHEPHERD DID NOT EAT MY RATDOG. He has not said it since, although he has said "no" to me approximately thirty quajillion times.

I am not a fan of the local dog park, by the way, with all the people. And their dogs. But that's probably another post.

I am also not a fan of the children's clothing industry, which is not making a lick of sense to me anymore. To wit:

The shirt is size 9-12 months at H&M. The pants are 12-18 months from OshKosh. The suspenders? Well, they're from Baby Gap and I swear I'm not trying to do some kind of Lil'est Ironic Hipster look here, I'm just so tired of Noah's pants falling off. My family keeps asking for Noah's clothing size and the question is really stressing me out, because LOOK AT HIM. I THINK IT'S OBVIOUS THAT I DON'T KNOW.

However...

Green froggy slippers? FAN.

Especially since they cost like, $3 at Target, and if I can buy novelty baby clothes AND living room furniture AND paper towels in bulk at the same store? I don't know, but everything in the world just seems to make sense again, and I am ready to face the new year with courage and determination and a promise to maybe think about TOPICS and POINTS and THINGS instead of just randomly pecking at the keyboard for 20 minutes and posting whatever words I happen to spell correctly.