A Million Points of Light. Or Maybe Just Eight.
December 10, 2008
POINT THE FIRST:
I have absolutely no idea what today's entry is going to be about. Topics are a luxury I cannot afford anymore. Instead, I'm taking the "toddler is at school baby is asleep grab laptop and GO GO GO" approach. Where I will just sit down and type whatever words occur to me at the time. Perhaps grammar will go next. Perhaps this blog will simply disintegrate into a Jabberwockian stream of nonsense apple tissue box bacon ham.
POINT THE SECOND:
We are out of coffee. I am drinking tea. I do not like tea. Well, I like tea, the way other people make tea, with the kettles and the loose leaves and the tiny little tea accessories I see at Crate & Barrel but am unsure of what they do. I have a microwave and Target-brand tea bags. This is not good tea. Therefore, I am in a terrible, terrible mood because my life is very hard wah wah wah etc.
POINT THE THIRD:
Some good news to report, however, is that we seem to have avoided another wave of sickness. Either the Zicam killed my cold dead or the whole thing was just another sleep-deprived hallucination. Which wouldn't surprise me. Last night I dreamt that a local 4H fair turned into an Indiana Jones movie, with Nazis showing up and then everybody started melting into the hay and sinking into some underground hell layer, and when the evil pigs showed up I said to myself: Self, you need to fucking wake up right now, because this is ridiculous.
Noah was not sick either, by the way. A three-year-old saying, "Mama, I sick" CERTAINLY cannot be trusted, as "sick" can mean anything from vomit to a leaky pull-up to a bad dream to his ruminations on mortality and the concept of Original Sin.
(It was the leaky pull-up this time. In case you were wondering.)
POINT THE FOURTH:
I had a baby eight goddamn weeks ago. Eight! A couple weeks ago I was within spitting distance of my pre-pregnancy weight (the five or so extra pounds were clearly housed IN MAH BRA), and then I started doing this thing where I eat dinner, and then...sort of...keep on eating dinner until it's time to go to bed. At which point I eat some dessert. Because of the BABY. Who needs more MILK. I do this for HIM.
Needless to say, I can no longer spit at my pre-pregnancy weight. I could probably shoot at it with a potato cannon though.
Ezra has left his birth weight in the DUST, by the way. Despite being three whole pounds lighter than Noah, I fully expect their weight stats to be pretty similar at his two-month visit next week. The boy is a tank. A soft, sweet-smelling tank covered in rubber-band fat rolls and chins. The kind of tank you just cannot stop pinching and kissing and making an idiot of yourself about because NOMMY NOM NOM.
(Yes, EXACTLY like a tank. Eyeroll! No time to redo metaphors, though. So onward!)
He smiles a lot these days, mostly at the miniblinds and the ceiling fan, but occasionally at me. His hair is lightening up, he's starting to coo, and oh my God, Becky, there is nothing better in the world than Naked Tummy Time, even if it does have the tendency to get thing a little...damp, sometimes.
POINT THE FIFTH:
This tea is really terrible.
POINT THE SIXTH:
Noah has finally started up with the questions. We don't have the dreaded "Whyyyyy" yet, but he's suddenly erupted into a non-stop stream of "What dat? What dose? What his name? What dat what dat what dat WHAT DAT?"
While we obviously celebrate each and every precious, momentous milestone around here, particularly the hard-fought speech-related ones, I have to confess that the questions make me want to drive fondue forks into my ears, especially after the 20th totally-vague WHAT DAT, complete with insistent pointing into a totally-vague point on the horizon, usually while I'm trying to get that pointin' arm into pajamas or a jacket while I list every possible thing that I see (door? window? picture frame? chair? pillow? atoms? cell nuclei?). If I ask him to be more specific about WHAT DAT, like maybe go a little closer? Show me what it is exactly that you're pointing at?, he simply points HARDER, pulling his hand back to his shoulder and then forcefully shoving it back in the direction of...the still totally-vague point on the horizon that CHANCES ARE he already fucking knows WHAT DAT, he is just trying to kill me with fondue forks and make it look like a suicide.
POINT THE SEVENTH:
We brought our Christmas tree home two days ago but have not decorated it. We bought Noah's presents three days ago which are still in the trunk of the car. I ordered absolutely gorgeous birth announcements for Ezra but haven't taken them out of the shrink-wrap. I have 24343240490 thank-you notes to send out, I've missed three birthdays, need a haircut, should really consider removing the terribly chipped toenail polish I've been sporting for eight weeks and I think that load of laundry has been sitting in the washer for two days now, ew.
But. The baby is awake. So...
POINT THE EIGHTH:
PS New post over at the Luvs/Momspeak site. Yeah, I'm pretty tapped out of fantastic time and money-saving tips already, so it's similar nonsense over there, too.