Nothing Happened Today. Let Me Tell You Allllllll About It.

I knew it was going to be One of Those Days when the baby woke up at 5 am. I need him to sleep until at least 5:30 am to avoid his second, for-real-and-serious waking two hours later happening smack-dab in the middle of my window to get Noah out of bed and dressed and eating breakfast. 

Now, I have never, ever been one to brag about my time management skills, because prior to having all these children I never HAD any time management skills. I was someone who routinely lied to her dayplanner to give herself an extra crucial 20 minutes of lead time for meetings and who, back when I had one teeny tiny solitary little baby, it once took over two hours to get to a Starbucks less than six blocks away. So while I don't know EXACTLY what it means that now my days are so hyper-regimented that I can basically predict that a day is completely fuxxored by 5:03 in the morning, but let's just call it "personal growth" and get on with things already. 

Anyway. 5 am. I nurse the baby and put him back down and briefly debate just staying up and showering and getting a head start on work and haaaaaaaaaaa as fucking if I totally go back to bed.

The morning went exactly as expected. Ike started howling for second breakfast the minute Jason got in the shower (WHATEVER, MR. FANCY WORKING IN AN OFFICE PANTS) and I was trying to get Noah's breakfast on the table, which I know, doesn't sound that hard, but considering Noah's breakfast consists of...

1) Dark blue bowl (NOT TURQUOISE) of dry Cheerios

2) Yellow spoon

3) Banana, peeled, on yellow plate

4) Waffle with honey, on any color plate because he's JUST SO SUPER FLEXIBLE 

5) Green fork

6) SpongeBob sippy cup of fruity milk (milk, plain yogurt, frozen fruit and vegetables, blended, mixed with a bunch of overpriced hippie herbal serums that are supposed to keep him calm, focused and from like, losing his shit over the wrong color spoon)

7) Trader Joe's multi-vitamin, please be a lion shape please be a lion shape oh it's a hippo EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE

...there's actually quite a prep work involved, and it takes him approximately two-and-a-half hours to eat all that. If I can get everything on the table by 7:30 am and keep him from launching into long-winded recaps of the Smurfs movie, he has 45 minutes before we have to leave for the bus stop.

Back upstairs, feed Ike. Check on Ezra, still asleep. Go downstairs, make coffee. Back upstairs, put on pants. Jason leaves, babysitter arrives, probably immediately finds seventeen things to silently judge me for but AT LEAST I AM WEARING PANTS. TODAY. THIS TIME. 

I put Noah's second-string lunch bag in his backpack and remind him to please please please check the lost-and-found for the one he lost yesterday, then head out to the bus stop with him, quietly panicking every few seconds because it's garbage pick-up day and EVERY. FREAKING. TIME. I hear the garbage truck somewhere in the neighborhood I think it's the school bus and that we are missing it.

We do not miss the bus, but right as it turns the corner into view, someone points out that Noah's backpack is leaking. I open it to discover that I didn't screw the top of his water bottle on correctly and the entire thing has flooded both his lunch box and backpack. I dump as much water out as I can into the grass and tell Noah his backpack will dry and luckily everything else in there was encased in plastic containers or laminated.

One of the fifth graders snottily informs me that "there are water fountains at our school, you know." I shoot them a look, because I am an asshole. 

Back home, upstairs. Ike is sleeping again. Advice column. Kind of a sad one. Require consolation nacho chips at 9:15 am. An interview with Carla Hall for Mamapop at 9:45, and probably the main reason I put on pants, because I think that kind of professionalism comes through over the phone. Approve mass of moderated comments at Amalah's West, attempt to get email under control and make sense of half-written notes I took during the call with Carla.

Babysitter and Ezra head out to the playground -- she asks if I want her to take Ike too, but oh, he's sleeping so nicely, we're fine, have fun, wear sunscreen, etc.

Front door closes, Ike wakes up. Okay. I type the rest of the interview one-handed while nursing. Then more nursing. Change his diaper. Put him down on the bed next to me for some song-singing and tummy-tickling and...

Oh. Time to wash the bedspread. And...the sheet. And the sheet under that. Probably the mattress pad too, just to be safe. And give the baby a bath. And never speak of that particular diaper again. 

Babysitter leaves.

Ezra goes down for a nap.

Ezra gets up from his nap.

Ezra goes down for a nap, DUDE, I MEAN IT.

Realize there's a series of increasingly-annoyed voicemails on my phone from an appliance repairman who was supposed to come to look at our non-freezing freezer today but I forgot about it and didn't hear the phone and now he is leaving the neighborhood and we need to call to reschedule and why didn't he just knock on the damn door? Whatever, FLOUNCE CAT. And whatever, three-year-old malfunctioning WHIRLPOOL PIECE OF CRAP. 

Nurse. Sense that I have forgotten to do something, as usual.

Ike goes down for a nap. Oh my God, the impossible dream. Achieved in my lifetime and...

Ezra gets up from his nap.

I find myself explaining -- in great detail, too -- why we don't wipe our butts with paper towels. 

Ezra goes down for "I don't care what you do, but you will do it in your room, and you will do it QUIETLY."

The toilet gets a good plunging. 

Text Jason about the repairman snafu and that we will probably need to by a new bedspread, or else buy another decorative pillow that brings a delightful shade of mustard yellow into the room. Also we should probably not talk about the hallway bathroom for awhile.

Try to finish up assorted odds and ends, start this blog entry...and realize that hey. If I can wrap this up within the next 10 minutes before Noah comes home, I'll have gotten everything done after all! Unbelievable. See, self? This three-kids thing really isn't that bad, provided you have help when you need it and prioritize and don't let little things rattle you too badly. I mean, going back and re-reading this I'm actually not seeing anything that went too neglected or...oh. 

MORAL OF THE STORY: Hire part-time babysitting help. Then skip every last basic aspect of your personal hygiene, from showering to brushing your teeth, and eat nothing except a handful of nacho chips at 9:15 in the morning. You'll be fine.

EPILOGUE: OH MY GOD I AM SO HUNGRY.

And also you smell like poop, a little bit. 

Kindergarten, Day One

For the record:

1) He did great.

2) Dude Teacher is a bona fide rockstar hit.

3) Lady Teacher has "Kill" in her name (Killian) and thus requires more time to determine if she is a Bad Guy or not.

    3a) This may a job for the Spy Kids. 

    3b) If you want to be a Spy Kid, you just need to wear a belt. Duh.

    3c) It sounds to me like the Spy Kids' recruitment requirements may have gone downhill over the course of four movies and the advent of Aroma-Scope, but I'm clearly not the expert here.

4) He is a little bummed that he isn't able to read fluently yet, since the fifth graders corrected his reading of the words BUS STOP this morning. "Actually, that says STORM DRAIN," they said. "But good try!"

5) I still get hugs.

    5a) And kisses.

    5b) Even in front of the fifth graders. 

The Road To Here

I woke up this morning to discover that a big giant kid crept in and ate Noah up last night.

I was pretty annoyed, so I walked him to the neighborhood bus stop and sent him off to school with a bunch of other big kids. Whatever.

***

The other parents snapped pictures as their kids lined up and boarded the bus. I just stood there. I'd abandoned my camera on our front step because Noah was having a hard morning and me standing around trying to capture the preshus memories of childhood rites of passage was clearly NOT HELPING. He didn't want to get out of bed, he didn't want to get dressed, he didn't want a shirt with too many buttons and he didn't want breakfast and he CERTAINLY didn't want to walk to the bus stop. 

But of course the minute we rounded the corner and he spotted other kids at the bus stop his anxiety melted. He cheerfully climbed on the bus and stopped mid-step to turn around and give me the most picture-perfect first-day-of-school wave in the HISTORY of first-day-of-school waves. 

I waved back. I bit my lip. I turned around and walked home. 

Noah will spend part of his day in the mainstream kindergarten classroom. Mostly the "easy" stuff like homeroom, lunch, art, recess. Close to 30 kids with one teacher. (Who, okay, is a dude. And Ezra's preschool teacher [he starts next week] is a dude. Lots of dudes all of a sudden!) The rest of the day he'll be in a smaller special education class. He'll get one-on-one OT once a week and other support services as-needed for issues related to attention, behavior, anxiety, sensory stuff. It's all good. We're extremely pleased and are hoping for a mostly-smooth year. We're also continuing to take Noah to private services every week to plug the holes in his IEP, because we still aren't that idealistic. Ain't our first rodeo, and all.

I get asked from time to time about the whole blogging-about-Noah thing, and it's a totally fair question. (Provided it's asked in a way that doesn't assume 1) that it's something that has NEVER EVER OCCURRED TO ME TO THINK ABOUT, and 2) that there's only one right answer, and that it is not the one I've come up with.) 

Here's the thing: Yes, I suppose it is possible that Noah's classmates might one day read this blog and learn that he experienced developmental delays. It is possible. Likely? I dunno. I imagine by the time they're of the age where they're Googling each other and allowed to visit random blogs with R-rated langauge unsupervised, Noah will have his own online presence that will supercede this one in the search results, or this blog will be offline or entries will have been removed (I do that, sneakily like, sometimes) and hey, if kids really want to spend hours and hours tracking down an unformatted cache of overwrought ramblings from somebody's boring old MOM on Wayback Machine, well...Noah has my blessing to mock the SHIT out of them right back. 

(I also own the possibility that any of my children might one day look at me and say, "Wow, I really wish you hadn't done that," about blogging or posting pictures or hell, any number of parenting choices we make that might, in hindsight, suck.)

But the fact is, other kids don't need to do all that much to figure out some of the things I've shared here, if they want to. They just need an older sibling with a yearbook, because Noah's name and picture have been in there for the past two years, as part of the district's preschool program. 

And they'll see him leave the classroom every day. That part worried me, as hypocritical as that probably sounds.

I asked the special education teacher about it on Friday: Do the other kids...notice? Do they ask? Do they figure it out? 

No, she assured me. Just about every kid gets "pulled out" at some point during the day or week. There's a large ESOL population and those kids go to their own classroom too. Some kids need handwriting help, or speech therapy for lisps or stutters. Others go to special reading groups -- both remedial and gifted. Some kids see the school pyschologist, some get tutoring, and all of this happens in mysterious "other" rooms than the homerooms, so no one knows why anyone is leaving. When everyone is special...no one is. Huh.

"Mostly, the kids who stay behind think the ones who leave are lucky," she said. 

And really, Noah IS lucky. He has an amazing barrage of services being made available to him, even in an age of crazy district budget cuts and school overcrowding. He has received great services from this school already, in addition to all the private therapy and camps and whatnot. 

And he is lucky because once upon a time, his mother poured her heart out to the Internet when she feared her baby might be speech delayed. And when she found out that he was. And when she first heard of "Sensory Processing Disorder" and "Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified" and Asperger's and dyspraxia and ADHD and any number of acronyms and diagnosis codes that have shown up in paperwork or conversations. 

He is lucky because when I did that, people listened. And they helped. They left comments and emails and sent me book and website recommendations and phone numbers and taught me how to be his advocate and let me cry on their shoulders both virtually and in real life. They taught me how to write social stories and that visual schedules help and have you talked to the miracle workers at The Treatment & Learning Centers? They donated money and a kick in the pants when I was stressed and hesitant about an insanely expensive private school tuition bill. They told me I would never, ever regret spending that money and they were 100% right. They taught me not to be afraid or ashamed, but let me know that it was okay to feel that way sometimes.

You listened. You shared. You taught. You helped.

Thank you.

I don't really feel compelled to share the daily ups and downs of raising a challenging child quite the way I used to, when Noah was little and baffling and I felt so lost and overwhelmed all the time. He's big and still baffling but...we got this. More or less. Some days are better than others, just like always. We're trying some new things and re-introducing some old things that stopped working so well but seem to help again but mostly we just...enjoy being around our boy. Who enjoys going places and doing things except for the places and things that he doesn't. We just have to try to keep it all straight, and then be prepared when he changes the rules on us again. No biggie. 

But, you know. I'll still keep you posted. Don't worry. 

In the meantime, though, one small favor: If your child comes home from school and tells you about how some kids talk funny or can't sit still or can't keep quiet or don't like to be touched and those kids get pulled out of the classroom during math and reading and science and asks you where do those kids go? And why? 

Tell them that gee, you can't say for sure. But those kids sound pretty lucky. 

Back With a Bang & a Whimper

For the record, yes. I am ashamed over how I neglected my blog this week, and how I will continue to neglect it, because all I can think to write about today is Noah's kindergarten orientation, which is happening in a couple hours. 

BRAIN: That's...um, really not interesting to anybody else but you.

SMALLER LUMPY SUB-BRAIN: Hello, I'm not sure we've met. When has that EVER stopped me from writing about a specific topic before, ever?

BRAIN: Well...never, but...

SUB-BRAIN: Also, could you do us all a favor and Google the usage distinction of anyone vs. anybody? Because I suspect you're doing it wrong.

BRAIN: You know if I do that we'll never get anything posted today, because we'll get lost in a Wikipedia wormhole and the next thing we know it'll be 2:15 and time to leave for the kindergarten orientation and she'll freak out about still being in her pajamas because that article about European serial killers of the 1800s was just soooooo interesting.

SUB-BRAIN: Kindergarten orientation! Oh, God. Can you believe it?

BRAIN: Indeed. I cannot.

SUB-BRAIN: I'm really having a hard time with it. And I would really like the opportunity to get all maudlin about it on the Internet. So why no-o-ot?

BRAIN: But if you do that TODAY, over an orientation that 1) is really just an hour-long open house, and 2) hasn't even happened yet, what the hell are you going to write about on MONDAY, the actual first day of actual kindergarten?

SUB-BRAIN: *barely audible pneumatic-sounding sputters*

BRAIN: Shit. You're totally overheating now, aren't you?

SUB-BRAIN: Gah. You know that happens if you make me think too hard.

BRAIN: Sorry. 

SUB-BRAIN: Why does it smell like burnt hair in here?

BRAIN: Shh. You're overdoing it. Hey look, turns out "anybody" and "anyone" are synonymous, and the Oxford usage guide says the choice comes down to euphony; which one sounds better.

SUB-BRAIN: Buzz! You're pretty. Let's have a popsicle and take a nap. 

If The Beach House Is Rocking...

Oh, did I say something about posting more tomorrow? As in, yesterday, the day I did not post anything because...well, I don't know. Was busy. 

OBVIOUSLY.

Planning on being similarly busy today as well, although we're leaving tonight because Noah has his kindergarten orientation (WHUT HELL NO) and Ezra needs school shoes (NOT MAH BABY) and Ike...well, Ike just kinda needs a bath.

I'm sure I could find an acceptably-sized sink to bathe him in around here, but...eh. I never claimed to not be completely ridiculous. 

OBVIOUSLY. 

PS. Yes, we totally felt the earthquake. I mean, poor Tracey did, since she was alone in the house and everything shook and wobbled like crazy and she ran out right when Ezra and I were returning from the beach for a potty break and was all, "Holy shit, earthquake!" and I was all, "Oh, I thought that was like, a truck," and Ezra was all, "I HAVE TO PEE AND SHE TRIED TO GET ME TO PEE IN THE OCEAN AND I HAVE BEEN POTTY TRAINED FOR WHOLE ENTIRE WEEKS NOW AND THEREFORE REFUSE TO PEE IN THE OCEAN BECAUSE I NOW SUDDENLY HAVE STANDARDS." 

PPS. Yeah. It's pretty metal around here. OBVIOUSLY.

PPPS. I am mostly just really glad it wasn't a volcano.

The Beach House, So Far

A few Instragram favorites...apologies if you already saw these on Twitter, but you know. I'll post something more new-ish tomorrow. Right now I have to go see a couple boys about a sandcastle. 

Voices Babbling

So you know what I decided I needed? I needed another blog. Or maybe it was a hole in the head. From which even MORE of my every vapid, passing thought could flow more freely out of.

Anyway, I done got my arm twisted into blogging about...oh my God, you guys, I have NO IDEA WHAT I'M GOING TO BLOG ABOUT. I was actually sold on the idea of these salon-style conversational things we'll be doing with all the Babble bloggers, but we aren't actually doing those yet, so in the meantime I have nothing to talk about. So I'm getting all kinds of weirdly meta over there about blogging and IT'S WEIRD, Y'ALL. Also kind of cricket-y. But! Samantha Bee! And Dino Dan's Mom, whose presence has officially (though surely temporarily) made me the absolute coolest, in Noah's opinion. 

But yeah. If anybody has any topic ideas they want to throw into consideration, go right ahead. I clearly don't know what the hell I'm doing over there yet. (Just don't say cloth diapers, because I KNOW I KNOW I'M WORKING ON IT, and don't say anything about baby food or kid food or gardening, because I have another plan for those subjects, because I will not be happy until I have chopped up every possibly distinct part of my life into the most jacked-up million-slice piechart of blogs EVER. 

Anyway. I'm exhausted now from all this thinking. Here, allow me to kind of freak your shit out a little bit:

Noah, at 10 weeks:

Ike, at 11 weeks:

Noah, at 11 weeks:

And Ike:

Hmm. So maybe it is a good thing I'm adding another blog. This one is clearly stuck in reruns, anyway. 

PS Ezra at 12 weeks, for reference and proof that occasionally I do indeed make a slightly different variety of baby.

SAHMayhem

I had big plans for today -- I really did. Today is -- was -- my last day with alllll my boys to myself before school starts. The babysitter comes tomorrow so I can pretend to be all business-y and important, and then the day after that we're heading back to the beach for a few days (with Tracey and Charlie! THERE WILL BE VELVEETA DIP AND LUGGAGE CART MAYHEM.). 

And then Noah's school starts like, five minutes after we get back. And then Ezra -- EZRA! BABY ZAH! -- starts school a few days later. Today was it. (Until the first random holiday or teacher in-service day that I will not be aware of, and will be all, SHIT NOW WHAT when I realize we're the only idiots out at the bus stop.) I was going to swallow my fear at being anywhere out in public with all three boys and MAKE SOME GODDAMN MEMORIES IF IT KILLED US ALL.

"Who wants to go to the pool?" I asked them, over breakfast, and then waited for my barrage of joyful, grateful, life-choices-affirming squeals. 

"Not me!" said Noah.

"No pool!" said Ezra.

"Okay, how about the...splash park?" I offered, even while I trembled in fear at the prospect of chasing them around a giant glorified water fountain all day with a baby strapped to my chest.

"No thanks," said Noah, as if I'd just offered him a complimentary toenail clipping.

"Uh-uh," said Ezra, with a similar level of enthusiasm. 

"Well, we could go to the mall? A playground? Go out for pizza? Ikea?" I was getting desperate. 

The boys had completely tuned me out by this point and were playing lightsaber battle with their cereal spoons. Finally, Ezra had an idea.

"I want to play in the BASEMENT!" he said, and Noah promptly agreed that this was a kickass, bitching idea, and off they went to basement playroom, a place I usually must beg and beg for them to pleeeeeease go amuse themselves for five measly minutes on any other day of the week.

(Ike's contribution to the proceedings: "Blarrrfffggh.") 

So. We haven't really done much today. Made some messes, ate some macaroni and cheese, sorted ourselves into Gryffindor...

Crossed the streams by flashing Star Trek hand signals while wearing Star Wars onesies...

Put our Paws Up...

Finally put on pants in an attempt to convince Mommy that we weren't at all tired...

Snuck out of our room while Mommy was showering to give a roll of toilet paper a bath in the sink...

Thus clogging the drain with disintegrated paper mush and overflowing the sink and flooding the floor...

Oops.

In the end, I think everybody* had fun after all. Other than the toilet paper.** 

*Noah is Not Pictured because he opted to remain sans pants most of the day.

**Perhaps we are dealing with a serial killer?

Helplessly Devoted

Allow me to come clean, albeit vaguely, for minute or two. 

I am fine -- Jason is fine, the boys are fine -- but several people I love are not. At all. I can't get into details about who and what and when, because these are not my stories to tell, but just to give you a basic sampling of ALL THE AWESOME THINGS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW, we have: inpatient rehab, depression, calls to a suicide hotline, impending financial doom, death, loss, suffocating grief, spread amongst several different friends and family members. All at once. BOOM.

Hi! You're welcome! Love, August. (P.S. Fuck you.)

I am not a "fixer." I kind of get bugged by "fixers." You know the type. You tell them your problems and they immediately pepper you with helpful, practical suggestions, and you're like: Wait. Did I make it sound like I was done wallowing? Because I'm pretty sure I'm not done wallowing. So could you please dial it back to sympathetic head pats and save your to-do list of Actionable Items To Better My Own Situation for later? 

(Note: Jason is a fixer, though I have successfully managed to make him recognize this as a character flaw, thanks to the many, many times I have completely freaked out at him for having the nerve to try to solve my problems before I was ready to have them solved.)

That said, when faced with my loved one's problems that I really and truly am powerless to "fix" in any way, I am floundering. And frustrated. I want to help. I want...no. More than that. I want to FIX IT ALL EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW MAGIC KAZAAM.

I know I can't. I know they know I can't, but still. 

On Sunday I promised someone just one thing that I could do. I promised to post, share and email photos of my children every day, for the next 28 days.

I hope that's enough. I hope that helps. 

Happy Spitter Valley

 

So it appears that puke is totally the new poop when it comes to mommyblogging. Or mommytweeting. Which is kind of the same thing, only with less monetizing. YET. 

This morning I asked Teh Twitter if anyone had any experience with a "happy spitter" (which I swear is an actual name for an actual thing) and at what age could I possibly expect Ike to stop barfing all the freaking time.

The response was INSANE. I should've hashtagged that shit. Five hours later and we are still talking about it. So if you've been waiting for a reason to finally join Twitter, well. This is probably not it. This is probably the opposite of it. 

So. The "happy spitter." There are so many things wrong with that term I don't even know where to start. For one, Ike does not "spit up." That's what my other babies did -- the occasional burp with a side of cheese. "Oopsies! Spit-uppsies!" you might say in response, because having babies makes you say stupid shit like that. And then you grab a burp rag and gently dab at the side of their mouth and marvel at your ability to cope so well with someone else's bodily fluid. You must be some kind of saint, and thus deserving of cake.  

No. Ike does not "spit up." Ike vomits. Upchucks. Barfs. Yaks. Hurls. Horks. Releases the brechen.

We now use "cottage cheese" almost exclusively as a verb.

STOP LAUGHING IT'S NOT FUNNY.

I guess I will cede the "happy" part, though usually it's more like "nonchalant reverse milk river" or "casual vector-spew." He's not in pain or even mildly uncomfortable. Just happy and sated and then eh, I'm a little over-full, lemme just put some of that back where I got it from, in your cleavage. You know, for later.

MY BRA IS NOT YOUR DOGGIE BAG, KID.

I have mentioned the barfing at every. single. appointment, and he has in fact, demonstrated it live and in person at the pediatrician's office, but...it's nothing. Just an immature, still-developing stomach and neck-tube. He's fine. Look at those chins! And the chubby arms! And the 3-6-month-sized body at barely 11 weeks old! And the cheerful blue diaper that actually contains a baffling number of hidden adjustment options that completely overwhelm me because I swear I have to let out the leg holes and the waist after every washing because he's just growing that fast. 

The doctor usually just points at the scale as assurance that Ike is fine, and then offers me some baby wipes for the fresh crud all over my shoes. 

BARE FEET BE WHERE IT'S AT, ANYWAY

It happens with breast milk and formula (Jason ran out of frozen milk approximately 10 minutes after I left for San Diego, even though I THOUGHT I'd done pretty well on the pumping front) and any variety of bottle. There's no indication that it's an allergy or sensitivity, as we're rash- and congestion-free and he is, indeed, a happy, non-fussy baby. It happens if I nurse him as upright as possible or lying down. One side at a time or both.  It happens after three good burps and keeping him awake for 30 minutes...or if I wuss out and let him fall asleep on the boob because IT DOESN'T MAKE A DIFFERENCE ANYWAY, HE IS GOING TO PUKE DOWN MY SHIRT IN FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO. WHOMP THERE IT IS. 

So I'm trying to resign myself to life with a ticking sludge bomb of a baby, and to be grateful that it isn't really anything more than a semi-embarrassing inconvenience, as opposed to an honest-to-God feeding or health problem. He eats, he burps, he yaks an impressive amount of it back up. We have stacks of ugly cloth diaper burp rags in every room, I use them to wallpaper the torso of anyone who volunteers to hold him for more than a minute, and also to wipe down the floor, the couch, the backs of people's legs when he manages to projectile vomit a good three inches to the left of EVERY RAG IN THE WORLD.

I...sleep on them, you guys, because while I'll wash a dozen outfits a day (for him AND me) plus bibs and rags and milk-crusty swaddling blankets, I just have to draw the line at stripping and remaking the bed that often.

 

YEAH, IMMA GONNA HAVE TO JUDGE YOU A LITTLE ON THAT ONE.

Twitter tells me that it will get better around four months or six or nine or 12. Or when we start solids or when he's sitting up or not until he's walking or weans completely but it will probably come back when he crawls and he might always be that kid who laughs too hard or runs around too much at a birthday party and pukes up rainbow-colored cake icing all over someone else's brand-new carpet. 

SOUNDS AWESOME YAY CAN'T WAIT SEND MOAR RAGS AND SOME TARPS.

I realize it's entirely cliche and trite to end a post like this with a sentence like "it's a good thing he's so cute" but...he really is so cute. I mind a little but not even as much as this entry would indicate. And also I don't really have time for anything BUT cliche and trite because Ike and I need to take a bath. Again.

I BET YOU CAN GUESS WHY. ALSO WHERE IS MY CAKE?