On having a boy

I wanted a girl.

Oh, God. It HURTS to type that. To admit that. It's one those big secrets of motherhood that nobody ever talks about, right up there with pooping on the delivery table. That you even had a preference in the first place, much less that you had a strong preference and cried when you found out you weren't getting what you wanted. Like I did. Oh, God.

And then I spent the rest of my pregnancy feeling so guilty about it and alternating between "oh shit, I'm having a boy" and "oh shit, I don't deserve to have this boy because what kind of horrible mother thinks that way?"

I wanted a girl for all the normal stupid reasons -- the clothes! the hairbows! she'll be my best friend and we'll go shopping! -- and because I felt so incredibly incapable of raising a boy. A BOY. With sports and bugs and aiming at Cheerios in the potty and...yeah. That was about the extent of my boy-raising knowledge.

Probably still is, actually.

My friends tried to tell me how amazing little boys were -- how incredibly precious and special the mother-son bond can be -- and I smiled wanly but secretly remained entirely unconvinced. Not because I didn't like little boys or anything, or because I doubted that my son would be precious and special -- but because I just doubted myself, plain and simple. I doubted my ability to love and adapt and just DO this motherhood thing.

I probably would have done the same thing if I knew I was having a girl, too. I would have just found something else to fixate on. I was wholeheartedly committed to allowing anxiety to rule my pregnancy, pretty much.

And then Noah was born. And they put him in my arms and every cliche in the book hit me like a ton of bricks. A ton of bricks cemented to the grill of a Mack truck. A Mack truck that was towing the Empire State Building.

Just...love. Primal, crazy love. And it was like someone let me in on this Great Big Secret. Little boys! The mother-son bond! It's so precious and special!

Why didn't anyone TELL me?

Ha.

Noah is such a boy. SUCH a boy. He owns dolls and sweet fluffy stuffed animals. He tosses them aside in favor of toy cars and blocks and soccer balls. We go on nature walks and I show him flowers and butterflies. And he couldn't care less, because look! Dirt! Rocks! Trucks! Yanes!

And it all delights me to no end. This boy! This amazing little boy. My buddy, my clown, my sweet son who climbs into my lap for kisses and gives the best hugs in the world. And then begs me to chase him around the house while making stompy dinosaur noises.

I know one day we probably won't be so close. Mothers and sons aren't supposed to be too close, right? Nobody wants a mama's boy. Nobody trusts a man who still worships his mother. He needs to grow up and away from me, even though I doubt I will ever stop craving everything about him. His face. His dimple. His laugh. His chubby body and his full-tilt-boogie bear hugs that come at 100 toddler miles an hour.

Having a boy is the most amazing, precious and special thing. You can see the years stretch out before you, full of sports and bugs and inevitable heartbreak, and you know it will all be over in the blink of an eye. But it doesn't matter. I don't doubt my ability to love and adapt anymore. He's my son, and he's everything I ever wanted in the world.

Friends of ours are expecting their first baby in August and just found out it's a boy. I clapped my hands with joy when I heard, because oh, they're in for the best time.

(Totally Random PS: Any DC locals attending or thinking of attending the Taste of the Nation event on Monday? You should TOTALLY go. Good food, a great cause -- and I'll be there and probably drunk off my ass in a most undignified fashion. What more could you want on a Monday night?)

Letters to Grocery Stores are a Sign That Perhaps a Small Part of Your Soul Has Died

Dear Trader Joe's:

FINE.

You have won both the battle AND the war.

I cannot deal with your wafer-thin shopping bags with the handles attached by Post-It glue. I cannot deal with begging you to double-bag my groceries, with watching the face of the perky cashier (who was just raving about your delicious store-brand pear sauce!) go dark and angry when I out myself as an  earth-raping double-bagger (who does not DESERVE your delicious store-brand pear sauce!), when all I want in the world is to get my groceries to the car before the handles break off and the bottom gives and the pear sauce goes splat.

I cannot quit you, Trader Joe's, and I think you know that. You know I am a hopeless yippie (huppie?) who cannot bear the thought of my child consuming partially hydrogenated oils or high-fructose corn syrup or non-organic milk. You also know that I cannot live in a house that does not contain at least one full bag of potato chips. You know I cannot live without your pizza bagels and you know my child would have a wicked case of scurvy by now if it were not for your gross-looking (yet delicious-tasting!) green plant juice. You know how I tremble in fear that you will discontinue that juice and panic every time you move it to a lower shelf or stock slightly less of it, causing me to buy three or four bottles just in case it's gone next week.

I know that you move that juice every week just to fuck with me. 

Anyway. I give up. I now own your stupid 99-cent reusable grocery bags that I will carry with me to Gymboree, because THAT'S not weird at all, except on the weeks when I will forget them at home. 

I'm glad we had this talk, Trader Joe's. See u next Wednesday squee!

Love,
Amy

PS PLEASE DO NOT DISCONTINUE THE GREEN PLANT JUICE EVER OH MY GOD.

PPS ALSO PLEASE DO NOT OFFER MY CHILD STICKERS. HE STILL HAS NOT POOPED OUT THE ONES YOU GAVE HIM LAST WEEK.

(To say that my life has been slightly boring -- so boring that reusable grocery bags are seriously the only topic I could come up with; so boring that you need to pronounce it borrrrRINNNNG like a shrill old-timey telephone -- would be quite an understatement. I went to Gymboree and two different grocery stores, I picked up the drycleaning, I used a coupon for paper towels and I gained 5 pounds. That is it. That is all my news.)

(Oh, and I lost my engagement ring AND wedding ring, and then while I was looking for them I found Jason's wedding ring. The one we thought was gone forever and I already replaced for Valentine's Day. Gargh. And also: I am so fucking dead if I don't find my rings, because guess who was supposed to add them to our insurance policy? A TOTAL FREAKING IDIOT, THAT'S WHO.)   

(There are some totally pointless photos of my kid after the jump, for those of you who have not lost interest now that he's all big and boy now. He still melts my heart, is all.)

Where iz ur cat be at?

 Several readers have expressed concerns re: Max's whereabouts.

Poor Max. He is fine. And to prove his fineness, we had a little photo session in our bathroom this morning, because that's exactly the sort of classy operation we run here.

He's a liar. Also smooshable and purry.

He's finally at a healthy weight, and it only took eight years of dieting. And a little help from Ceiba, who figured out that Max likes to take two or three bites of food, go poop, then return and eat the rest of his meal. EVERY TIME.

And no matter how many times he returns from the litter box to an empty bowl, he will not alter his poop schedule in the slightest. Then he eats Ceiba's food instead. I vaguely remember a time when I used to give a shit, but at this point it's hard to even care whether it's Noah or Ceiba who actually eats Noah's waffle, and seriously at this point I am ready to throw all of their food into a big trough every morning and let them duke it out.

Puppy made it through the move intact, and I still hear Max singing to it every morning. MRRREOW, REEEOWWW, EEERRROW.

It's not great, cat, but he does his thing and gets points for his beautiful spirit and soul.

Yes. You can has headscritch. But you cannot has cheezburger.

(By the way, does anybody else think that site should be required reading for anybody who is all gung-ho about Web 2.0 and user-generated content, because BEHOLD WHAT THE USERS GENERATE! LOLCAT ARMY! God, I love it.)