Little Fish

Noah spent four weeks at a OT/social skills camp this summer, and then we set him loose for two weeks at the YMCA's swim camp. It was our first crack at mainstream program in over three years. It ended on Friday.

He received a certificate for "Honesty." Which as far as I can gather he earned mostly because 1) everybody got one, and 2) whenever he got in trouble, it never occurred to him to lie about it. 

But he did it. He made it through all 10 days of camp. We signed one incident report for hitting and one for towel-whacking, and by the time the kicking happened...well, his counselor went easy on him and skipped the written report, which spared him from getting kicked out on the third-to-last day. We explained and reminded and begged him each morning to keep his hands to himself, to use words instead, come on, dude, you know this. We had to remind him to respond when other campers said hello, we had to provide the teenaged CITs with strategies to help him transition without tantrums or play competitive games without rigid frustration, and we had to face the hard fact that none of this is easy for him. Still. Not yet. 

But he did it. He learned to swim underwater.  He went down a waterslide. He swam in the deep end. He gained a pound of strong, solid muscle. He hung upside down from the monkey bars. He lost his first tooth at the lunch table. He learned that sticking both your fingers in your nose at the same time is HILARIOUS. 

I'm really proud of him, you guys. 

Baby Ike, 10 Weeks

AKA Deep Intellectual Conversations With Things That Jingle and Make Crinkly Noises

Hey man. What's up?

Heh. I know. Right?

Hehhhhhhhh. Heh. You're crazy, man. 

I love you, but you're crazy. 

But seriously. You raise an interesting point.

Whoa, really?

This is exciting! This requires hand gestures!

I just...admire the way you think. And I mean that. Honestly.

Wait. What?

DUDE.

Why would you say something like that?

I think you've gone too far this time, man.

Nah, I'm just messing with ya. We're cool.

I had you going there, didn't I though?

Anyway, good talk. I gotta go see a girl about some dry pants now, 'kay? Catch ya later.

(Let me tell you, if there is a baby out there who does NOT lose his ever-loving soup-brain over the Lamaze Freddie the Firefly toy, I...uh, did not personally give birth to him. We are three for three over here.)

(We are also on our third freaking Freddie. After the initial smiles and coos comes the gumming. And the drooling. And then the gumming and the drooling and the puking and the hurling from the stroller and the running over with the stroller and alas! Poor Freddie. You burn fast and bright and brilliant and then you are thoroughly disgusting and Mommy is all, I gave Freddie to another baby who needs him. Another baby who lives in the trash can, and who is made of germs.) 

(EDITED TO ADD SHAMELESS PIMPAGE: I'm recapping Project Runway at Mamapop. Aren't you excited?)

(Don't answer that.)

All Is Love (And Really Freaking Attractive Conference Attendees)

Okay, this is my last post about BlogHer*, I promise. After this, it's back to baby pictures and...um...kid pictures and...I don't know. Deodorants or whatever the hell.

Plus, I'll make this short, because this video pretty much says it all, and says it better:

 

Thanks so much to Ryan of Pacing the Panic Room for -- once again! -- putting together the perfect video of Sparklecorn (AKA The Party That Led Me Briefly Into a Life of Crime & Grand Theft Luggage Cart). And for making the part where I climbed on the table to take bites directly out of the butts of the unicorn cake seem a little less trashy than I think it actually probably was. 

And thanks to everyone who came to the party and danced and laughed and smiled and wore your sparkliest. I hope you had fun. 

Me? I danced my ass off and my hair flat. I can't wait for next year. WATCH YOUR BACK, LUGGAGE CARTS OF NEW YORK CITY. THE SPARKLECORN COMETH AND IT KNOWS TO DOUBLE-CHECK THAT IT'S NOT IN NEW JERSEY THIS TIME.

*Unless y'all are interested in hearing about my misadventures of traveling across the country as a nursing mother sans baby but overloaded with breast pump accessories.**

**Note that no matter what answer you technically give, I am probably going to talk about it anyway. 

BlogHer Part Two Kind Of

My best story from the conference, other than hanging out with old friends and meeting new ones and also MOJITOS, occurred about three hours prior to Sparklecorn. And like ALL of my best stories, this one predictably involves me going to pieces over something trivial. Basically, CAPS LOCKing all over the place, but live and in real time. 

I was trying to figure out how to get five rather large boxes from the package room at the hotel over to the party location next door. These five boxes contained about 4,000 multi-colored glow necklaces and bracelets, which are a Sparklecorn tradition, as everybody uses them for everything from jewelry to belts to tiaras to elaborate full-on glow-in-the-dark costumes. I'd shipped them to myself at the hotel, not realizing that BlogHer had outgrown its quaint days of underground hotel conference rooms and was now taking over gigantic convention centers, because blogging, apparently, is quite a thing with the kids these days.

And it turned out that the hundred yards or so of sidewalk between the two locations were guarded by an old gray wizard screaming YOU SHALL NOT PASS to anyone working at the hotel, because of unions and balrogs and shit, and no one there could help me carry the boxes. 

Now, okay, you should know that in the months and weeks leading up the the party, every year, I probably talk Tracey down off the ledge of planning-related hysteria on at least a weekly basis. It's okay! We have time! Things will get done! Even when we're down to the last-minute wire, I'm actually pretty calm. BECAUSE THIS IS WHY GOD INVENTED OVERNIGHT SHIPPING.

And then, every year, like clockwork, we arrive at BlogHer and promptly switch roles: She takes the "welp, what's done is done, we did our best" zenned-out stance...while I proceed to freaking lose my ever-loving SHIT over every possible detail that could go wrong, because now there is no time to course-correct, no room for error, the people shall not dance or eat cake or get to pose next to life-sized characters from popular young adult fiction and WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. 

You know, it's really just one of the reasons we work together so well: carefully choreographed panic attacks. 

So anyway, this minor hiccup at the hotel package room is like, EXACTLY the sort of thing that causes my brain to liquidify and leak out my tear ducts. I had less than 45 minutes before they closed to figure out a solution, and the only two I could think of were SHOCKINGLY, not working.

(Solution #1: Attempt to pick up one medium-sized box to see if maybe I could carry them myself, one at a time, back and forth, right before dropping it and nearly breaking my fool foot.)

(Solution #2: Call a couple BlogHer people who were clearly busy with 1,500,000 more important details and shriek into their voicemails, then send a text message 30 seconds later like a total asshole.)

I did finally talk to someone at BlogHer, who promised to make a call and send some BlogHims over to help me, but as the minutes ticked by I stood outside the package room and proceeded to quietly -- and with great dignity -- shrivel up and die from the stress of it all. 

Enter Tracey and Charlie, on their way to the convention center, and then enter Me, Again, with a whole heapload of bad language and over-the-top hand gestures about THESE BOXES. THAT ARE GOING TO BE THE END OF ME AND EVERYONE I LOVE. 

(Oh, and I should probably have included the detail that since I did not want to put my highly impractical and sort-of miniature party dress on yet, but neglected to pack anything well-suited for the possibility of manual labor, I was standing around in cut-off shorts and that "Born to Blog" t-shirt from the BlogHer swag bag of 2009. It's...a nightshirt. I sleep in it. So...I'm technically in my jammies, which is basically ONE LAYER AWAY FROM THE NAKED STRESS DREAM.)

Anyway, Charlie is all, "I got this." And I'm all, "No, I don't think you do." And then he hands me an alchoholic beverage that appears from thin air and marches into the package room and starts negotiating for a hand truck, which they will not give him. 

I think Charlie maybe just intended for me to hold his drink, but we all know how that turned out. I am sucking rum off the ice cubes when he suddenly shows up with one of those fancy luggage carts from the hotel lobby.

"Did they say we can borrow that?" I am delighted.

"I didn't ask," he says.

My delight turns to fear. 

Now, if you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that I live every minute of my life in dread terror of the Imaginary Authority Figures. You just...don't do shit like that, because it is MILDLY NOT RIGHT, and therefore you might get into MILD TROUBLE.

Basically: I get incredibly nervous and embarassed when Jason takes our stroller on the escalator. Which means I had absolutely no mental coping skills for what was about to happen next.

Charlie loads up the boxes and heads off, while I mew in horrified protest because SOMEONE IS GOING TO YELL AT US (while also looking for an acceptable place to deposit the empty cocktail glass, finally settling on a random table that looked like the glass might get cleared and sent to its proper home because I was not adding STEALING TABLEWARE onto our list of hotel crimes).

But then...we all realize we are kind of trapped. To get to the convention center (while avoiding the hotel lobby with our stolen cart), we needed to go down an escalator. Well, that's not going to work. 

OR IS IT.

I run around in search of an elevator -- there IS one, but there's a crazy line for it and I can't tell if it even goes down to where we need to go or just up the guest rooms and while I'm standing there trying to figure it out I realize Charlie is totally taking that motherfucking luggage cart down the escalator.

"WHAT ARE YOU OH MY GOD NO HOLY SHIT," I start shrieking. Or something like that. Maybe in tongues. Anxiety tongues.

"THIS IS HAPPENING," Tracey yells at me. 

I ride down the escalator sitting down, trying to breathe with my head between my legs because this. This Right Here. The sight of a stolen luggage cart stacked with boxes of 20-cent party favors that I was unsure if we had any right to carry ourselves in the first place, precariously and illegally riding down an escalator: This is what broke me. 

Dear readers, that man got that luggage cart down the escalator and out the door without so much as jostling a single package. 

And what's more: NOBODY YELLED AT HIM. I mean, besides me. I don't know if I ever shut the fuck up. 

We got outside and of course I continued to be a complete non-believer. "STAAAAAIRS!" I wailed. "THERE ARE STAIRS!" 

Yes, there were stairs. But there was also a windy sidewalk ramp through a decorative garden. Charlie, who by this point is pretty much my personal lord and savior, treks the cart up the ramp and into the convention center, where Tracey and I finally manage to regain some control of the situation and insist that HE TAKE THE ELEVATOR, instead of trying his hand at riding an up escalator, you know, for kicks.

At some point, I manage to chill out. Probably once I realized we'd gotten all the packages delivered to the ballroom before the Voices of the Year keynote was even over, so we had time to go hit the cocktail party and pour more liquor nerve tonic down my throat. 

And that is the story of how Tracey, Charlie and I faced challenges and overcame obstacles and saved Sparklecorn with a single stolen luggage cart and only a couple small safety violations. The end!

PS I have no earthly idea what ever happened to the luggage cart. 

BlogHer Part One But Not Really

God, isn't BlogHer just the worst? First, we all bore our readers with ZOMG I'M GOING TO BLOGHER posts. Then we go to BlogHer and don't post anything because we're so busy and crazy or can't get on the hotel wifi or are basically, just drunk as shit the whole time. 

Then we come home and don't post anything because we're so tired out from BlogHer. Or if we do post anything, it's all, "ZOMG I'M SO TIRED FROM BLOGHER." And then followed by some random crappy photos we took with our phone that don't make any sense because you totally had to be there and stuff.

Ugh. I hate when bloggers do that.

***

This is a photo I took of my roommate taking a photo of the leftover room service cart full of half-eaten breakfast items that we pushed in of Jason Mayo and TwoBusy's room across the hall from ours. Because. I don't know. WE HAD TO.

The morning after Sparklecorn. Still covered in eye makeup, glitter, unicorn tattoos and a vague sense that I embarassed myself and future generations in a wide variety of ways, the least of which was climbing on a table and taking a bite of the four-foot-tall unicorn cake's ass. 

And I have absolutely no explanation for this one, except that it is one of like, 17 different blurry versions that I took. So clearly, whatever is happening here was important at the time.

*** 

So basically, nine-plus weeks of newborn-baby-related sleep deprivation (on top of however many weeks of pregnancy-related sleep deprivation), followed by two nights in a row of partying until 2:30 am local time (AKA 5:30 am your time, you stupid dumbass), all squished together with two cross-country flights in the span of 48 hours, then back home to the non-sleeping-through-the-night baby and minus any naps....carry the one....divide by the square root of the weight of all the swag you abandoned in your hotel room to make room for your electric breast pump...and...

Yeah. I'm pretty beat. I can kinda see through space and time right now. 

***

ALSO!

It fell out on Friday. Jason managed to stall on the tooth fairy thing until I got home so I could do it, which, in retrospect was not all that's cracked up to be, once you c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y slide your arm under the pillow and feel around for this tiny, practically hollow tooth and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y remove it and then c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y put a ridiculous amount of hard-earned cash in its place...only to suddenly get really, REALLY grossed out by the nub of a tooth you're now holding in your hand that your husband is all, "DON'T THROW IT OUT, WE NEED TO SAVE THAT" and you then look around you at your life and realize that holy shit, there are like, 200 of these stupid things that are going to fall out and require you to touch them and then pay money for the privilege of doing so in your future. 

But still. I was awfully sorry to miss this one. 

(NOTE: Usually, this is the sort of photo I would crop to make sure none of y'all saw the giant bag of trash hanging out in the recyling bin in the back corner there, but since this was taken on Jason's watch I feel okay leaving in there. Even though I have been home since Saturday night and it is, in fact, still there. LAY OFF ME I'M TIRED.)

(NOTE NOTE: Jason took them both for haircuts while I was away, thus ending our summer of ragamuffin-where-is-that-child's-MOTHER-style chic.)

(NOTE NOTE NOTE: Today is our 13th wedding anniversary. Here, sweetie, I got you some kids.)

And Then Suddenly, BlogHer!

OH RIGHT THAT.

I leave tomorrow. I am not packed. I am not caught up with any of my deadlines for later in the week. I am undeniably sick with a cold and woke up this morning to an Attack Of The Eyebrow Zits, Like WTF I Never Get Eyebrow Zits But IT SURE DOES FIGURE. I am currently calling my hair salon every hour on the hour to inquire about cancellations because my roots are visible from space and my color has faded to a drab strawberry blonde that does not look particularly good on me, although it sure does coordinate with the zits around my eyebrow.

(!!!!ZITSWTFBBQ!!!!)

Yesterday I spent -- no exaggeration -- five solid hours on the phone attempting to rectify an emergency posters situation for Friday night's legendary BlogHer/MamaPop Sparklecorn shindig, as in we had no posters because of a communication kerfluffle, and I needed to order so many posters that my online shopping cart was crashing AllPosters.com. That's a crapton of posters, you guys. So five hours, it took to manually order each and every poster over the phone. Five hours of qualifying to a sales rep named Allison that yeah, okay, yes, I am ordering ANOTHER Justin Beiber poster but it's meant IRONICALLY. Now give me every freaking Lady Gaga poster you have, post haste!

I actually felt a pang of sadness when I hung up, because I was really going to miss her. 

Speaking of missing people...

He's not coming. He's just too little and the flight is just too long, and since I went back and forth and back and forth about my decision to take him or leave him or just stay home, work obligations be damned, I couldn't even coordinate with someone local to help me out on the flight, like I did the year I brought Ezra. My mom offered to come with me but flights hotel room money etc. blah. I am confident that breastfeeding is established enough that it will be okay once I return, and Jason is more than capable of keeping our children alive for a couple days on his own. So I am lugging my breast pump across the country for all of...oh, not even 48 hours, as I arrive tomorrow at five pm and will hop on the first plane out of Dodge on Saturday morning, probably while sobbing in a hormonal little puddle because my baaaaaaaaaybeeeee.

I actually don't want to talk about it anymore. It's obviously making my eyebrows break out. 

(Also not talking about the possibility of missing Noah's first tooth falling out while I'm gone and Ezra...well, Ezra just doing everything awesome and hilarious that Ezra always does, BUT I WILL BE MISSING IT.)

Standard BlogHer spiel: If you see me, for the love of God please say hi, though be prepared to be hugged. I am really good with blog/commenter names and Twitter handles but kind of shitty with faces, so please don't think I'm an asshole if I squint at your attendee badge for a minute or two while my feeble hamsterbrain makes the connection. Or if I leak breastmilk on you. Though I promise to take every possibly precaution to prevent that from happening. 

And Sparklecorn is Friday night at 9 pm, no RSVP required (HOORAY), so please come because it is going to be insanely awesome. DJ Skribble. Drinks. Dancing. A cake that will blow your mind. And free Justin Beiber posters at the end of the night, if you're lucky. 

HOLD UP

He has a loose tooth. He just GOT that tooth. 

STOP THAT.

Two Months

Okay, so we're back from the beach. It was fun. And sandy. And tiring. But before I bore you to death with those photos, I must continue a silly little tradition from around these parts. Ike had his two-month check-up today. So....

Noah, at birth: 9 pounds, 15 ounces and 21 inches long.

Noah, at two months: 12 pounds even and 24.5 inches long.

Ezra, at birth: 7 pounds, 7 ounces and 21-1/4 inches long.

Ezra, at two months: 12 pounds, 12 ounces, 24 inches long.

Ike, at birth: 7 pounds, 9 ounces and 21-1/4 inches long.

Ike, at two months: 10 pounds, 15 ounces and 24 inches long.

So if you've ever wondered what happens when you take the exact same set of dominant genes and some Y chromosomes, then toss 'em in a cocktail shaker three separate times, well. There you go. You get the same basic baby, more or less, just with varying amounts of chub and skepticism.

(And differing levels of pissiness re: the two-month vaccinations. The photo might not reflect it, but IKE IS VERY, VERY PISSY RE: THE TWO-MONTH VACCINATIONS, LET ME TELL YOU.)