The Rise & Fall of the Boob Civilization

AND THEN, on top of everything else, the baby weaned.

It's been a long time coming. It's been a long time happening. It ended this morning, officially, when I finally realized that it is time to stop trying for that Last Chance Nursing Session, Come On, Really? You're Really Done Here? No, You're Not, Take It. TAAAAKE IT.

Yes, it is time to stop doing that. Better now than in kindergarten, when it just gets hella awkward.

The weaning started with a biting phase. A biting phase that started the day he sprouted fangs teeth and ended, oh, THIS MORNING. The biting was unlike anything the books and websites described, and there was no solution offered that ever worked, other than yank 'em off and glare at him tiredly. (My favorite "solution" that I read about involved wagging your finger and sternly saying "No biting!," which never failed to make the little sociopath crack the hell up.) During the worst of it, I got so sick of being bitten -- and bitten HARD -- and so tired of spending every nursing moment clenched up in anticipation of the biting, with my fingers poised for a rapid de-latching that I started giving him a bottle of formula mid-day, just so I could have a break, relax and uncurl my toes. I tried pumping to replace the feeding but found that after the early months of being a veritable milk machine, I could not produce a single drop via the pump.

One bottle eventually turned into two bottles. His appetite for solids ramped up to a level I could not believe. He was slow-ish to sit up and roll over and crawl but when it came to anything food or eating-related he was an off-the-charts prodigy. Fruits, vegetables, meats, finger foods, real foods, sippy cups. He loved it all, and he wanted more. He ate and ate and ate and nursing slowly became relegated to a comfort-only thing. In the morning, before naps, before bed. Sometimes he'd still demand a bottle afterward. My period came back. My supply plummeted, he bit me and pull away in frustration, he was distracted and twisty and kicked me in the c-section scar and I would lie in bed nursing while he stood up, sticking his butt in the air, as if he hoped to walk off with my boob to someplace more interesting. I knew that if I simply stopped offering, he would not notice.

And yet, I could not, would not wean him. I don't know why. I was talking to some other mothers this weekend -- some still nursing, others who had weaned -- about how I knew Ezra was weaning but I couldn't seem to stop trying to get him to nurse one more time, just a little bit, in hopes that it was just a phase. I told them about the biting and the flailing and I saw the looks on their faces and I finally had one of those moments where a hologram of myself floated out of my body to slap me across the face and say ARE YOU LISTENING TO YOURSELF?

And then I went home and tried to nurse him before bed once again.

Perhaps it's because I believed the websites that went on and on about how "highly unusual" it is for a baby to wean before 12 months, and oh, THIS: "when a mother says that her baby self-weaned before a year, there is a chance that she interpreted a normal developmental stage (perhaps combined with her own wishes) as baby's wish to wean." I'll tell you what, this sentence made me vaguely stabby while I was still nursing, and it's not looking any better to me now. You lying liar! You tell lies to make yourself feel better! You lie to cover up your -- gasp! -- OWN WISHES!

My wishes were to nurse for at least a year. At least. Probably longer. Though if you asked me I'd say that I wanted to nurse according to Ezra's wishes, until he didn't want to nurse anymore, within reason. It simply never occurred to me that his wishes could or would be different than mine. Oh, self.

And so I told myself that Ezra wasn't weaning, that the biting was a phase, the distraction was a phase, and all I had to do was hang on for just a little while longer, we could get back to enjoying breastfeeding again. Like we used to. Since I wasn't so sure I enjoyed it now.

I debated leaving him home during BlogHer. To just wean him then and be done with it. But then the thought of coming home and having him turn towards me expectantly and having nothing to give HURT MY SOUL and I packed him up and carted him (and a package of formula) to Chicago.

I debated it again, over our anniversary. And I still couldn't do it and dutifully returned to the hotel room several times a day to pump.

I came home with completely empty breastmilk containers and a baby who did not turn towards me expectantly. I pulled him into our rocking chair and he settled into my arms and sighed and...sucked his thumb. And fell asleep.

That probably should have been it, but I just couldn't...stop. I could occasionally get him to latch for a few minutes and I could hear him swallow and I would think that oh! No! I better stick with it! Just in case! We can do this! We can make it to a year! Two more months, dude. Give me two more months and a nice solid round number and then you can have all the Red Bulls and Coke Zero you want, I swear.

It finally dawned on me a few days ago that Ezra is not just weaning from me. He is weaning from bottles. Also a "highly unusual" thing for a baby under 12 months to do. But he's just not that into them. A few ounces here and there and then he wants to crawl away, leave multiple ounces of liquid money behind to fester in a bottle kicked under the couch. This has possibly unnerved me even more, because kid: I know you have the appetite of a five-year-old and the palate of a 35-year-old, but you still have the nutritional needs of a 10-month-old and YOU NEED YOUR MILKS. Baby cannot live by turkey-sausage-with-kale fettuccine alone! Your...brain! It needs the...DHA and...uh...ARA and whatever!

A few months ago he'd only take a bottle if I wasn't in the house. Now he'll drink formula out of a sippy cup with his meals, and take a bottle only when he's tired. He wants to walk and explore more than anything in the world, and he doesn't want to nurse. He will, if I insist, but I need to stop insisting, to stop waiting for him to make it even MORE CLEAR that he is done, and just accept that he is done.

So. Okay. I will change my Twitter picture and pack away the nursing bras that I haven't worn in ages anyway and the pump that doesn't work for me anymore and I will talk about breastfeeding in the past tense. I am not a nursing mother anymore.

***

When we moved from the city to the suburbs, I was sad. But I didn't miss the three flights of stairs to our condo and the one bathroom and the tiny kitchen and the roaches and the horrible old windows and the street parking and the tickets and the terrible supermarket that never had anything fresh and how you had to drive 20 minutes to get to a gas station that charged less than $5 a gallon.

But the worst moment was at the DMV, when they asked for my DC license back so they could issue me my new one, my non-DC, boring old giant nondescript state one. A state that I felt no connection to, while that DC license was more than an ID. It was an identity. My identity as a city person. In that moment, it didn't matter about all the less-than-awesome things I no longer had to deal with. My life in the city became glorious and idealized, the best years of my life, a time I still look back on and rhapsodize about how perfect it was and how much I miss it.

***

Dear Ezra,

Thank you for 10 of the most perfect, healing, powerful and lovely months I've ever known. I will always cherish them, and you.

Love,
MamawhoissoembarrassingOMG

Obligatory Pre-Blogher Freak-Out Post

How is it July? Like, the end-ish of July? What happened to June? And May? And that little squishy baby I had? Did this giant one here eat him, just like he ate the dog kibble last night? Repeatedly? Because my babyproofing knowledge is limited to saying "NO!" and then moving him across the room? Which is surprisingly ineffective?

Anyway, I'm bringing this baby to Blogher. No need to vacuum, Sheraton, he'll take care of it.

Yes, you can hold him. My arms and neck and back would very much like you to hold him.

I will NOT, however, be bringing that drum. Fuck that drum. Vamanos, bebe! Cállate, tambor!

Or that refrigerator, even though...oh, I love our new refrigerator. I do not love that we had to buy it, but now that it is here and I open the door and I can like, find stuff I need RIGHT THERE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYEBALLS, I am very happy about the new refrigerator. I'm sure I'll eventually be less happy with it, once it gets more full of food and crowded, but right now it's gloriously organized and spacious, mostly because I enjoy opening it and eating everything.

Luckily I still have plenty of time to lose 10 pounds or so before Blogher, right? RIGHT?

Mmmmmmm glorious fingerprint-y magic food box...

(No, still haven't painted the stupid kitchen. There's a reason. Can't tell you why yet. WINK! NUDGE!)

(Hi, I'm deviously transparent!)

Anyway, I'm doing that thing that I do every year, which is to wait until the very last minute to even think about packing for Blogher, and immediately going from, "whatever, just wear what you're COMFORTABLE in, people, it's not LIKE THAT, no one CARES" to "oh my God I hate everything I own hate hate hate!" And I guess I need to pack some onesies or something? Diapers? They sell Cheerios* in Chicago, right?

So. Listen. If you see me at Blogher, and you would like to say hi or something, please say hi, oh dear God. Please don't feel like you need to apologize for wanting to say hi or assure me that you are not a stalker. You read my weblog! That I write! And publish voluntarily, with the hope that people will read said weblog! I promise you that I am not in any way creeped out by the idea that you read my weblog and recognize me or something.

If I read YOUR weblog, well...be prepared for some agressively inappropriate hugging and reckless disregard for your personal space. I am sorry.

This is what I look like these days. No makeup, ponytail, eyebags and lopsided boobs. Boobs you may very well see more than you'd like of, since Ezra has a habit of yanking my shirt down when he's in the sling without me noticing. I'm not sure that cashier at Petsmart has ever recovered. But I believe it's important for teenagers to learn that p0rn movie scenarios never really translate into real-life all that well. I mean, the guy who delivered my fridge didn't use a single sexy double entendre either.

If you ask me to pose for a group picture, this is how I will ruin it:

This is how I look in every candid picture ever:

And if you still aren't entirely sure who I am, here's a surefire identification technique:

I'm speaking for the first time ever this year, another thing on the long list of Things I Am Woefully Unprepared For, along with Tracey and Catherine. We're discussing "Women Writing In The Age Of Britney: Pop Culture & Gossip & Feministy Stuff, Oh My."

I talk with my hands. I should tell you that now.

Okay, so now I need to take a break from packing (HINT: I HAVE NOT PACKED ANYTHING) and go to the store in search of 1) bras, lest we repeat the Petsmart thing, 2) adorable shoes that cost less than $10, 3) lip gloss.

*This is what my baby** ate for breakfast, by the way: a not-insignificant amount of breastmilk, followed with an 8 oz. formula chaser, three grown-up handfuls of cereal, an entire blueberry waffle, one banana, half of a peach and three strawberries.

**This is what my other baby*** ate for breakfast, just like he has eaten for breakfast since the BEGINNING OF TIME: a bowl of dry Cheerios, a milk/yogurt/strawberry/peach smoothie, possibly some residue from the bit of banana that he demanded Ezra give him but then refused to actually eat.

***I eat coffee for breakfast.

Clobbed

So I didn't update yesterday because I couldn't think of anything to write about. Some half-formed possibilities included:

Wow, Gee Whiz, But Lots Of People Have Similar Problems With Their GPS Unit, Howza About That

Pooping On The Potty as a Diabolical Stalling Tactic

Didya Ever Go Too Long Without Logging Into Facebook and Then You Log In and It's All Like, Whoa, And Stuff?

This Coffee Tastes Like Shit

I came very close to settling on possibility number five, which was: Here, Have Some Baby Pictures. But for some reason Jason took our camera to work on Monday and I have not seen it since, and honestly Ezra has been so PARTICULARLY CANTANKEROUS since getting his vaccinations on Tuesday that I don't feel too badly for letting this week go by un-photographed. He pretty much looks like this:

>:-(

Only, you know, louder and more 95th percentilish.

Then I was going to write something about my boobs, because they have been up to no damn good lately, as in my once abundant reserves of milk appear to be d-r-y-i-n-g u-p no matter what I do, no matter how much I nurse or funky tea I drink or Fenugreek I choke down, plus the baby WILL NOT STOP BITING, and then my period started and I got all weepy, but I was afraid if I wrote that entry I would: 1) jinx things even more, 2) get tons of assvice, 3) accidentally talk about my period.

Wait. Fuck.

Then I tried to do a little interview with Noah like this one Linda* conducted with Riley, but..um...yeah, it came out a little more like an interview with some kind of keyword-powered googlefail bot than I thought it would. Perhaps we'll try it again next year.

What is something I always say to you?

I don't wanna play the question game. I wanna play the monkey game.

What makes me happy?

Smiles?

What makes me sad?

<pulls skin on face down to create dramatic frowny face and reveal interior of eye sockets>

How do I make you laugh?

<fake laughs>

(Mother slowly getting the sense he doesn't quite have the who/what/how concepts down yet.)

What do you think I was like as a little girl?

A beautiful girl. A hot girl.

(That is correct, sir! Finally.)

How old am I?

Two.

How tall am I?

No. You cannot be tall. I say no.

What is my favorite thing to do?

Lie on my couch.

What do I do when you're not around?

<turns around in circles>

If I become famous, what would it be for?

No.

(The rest of the questions were pretty much more of the same, with just a few variations on "No" and "NOOOO" and <silence> and inquiries about the whereabouts of his tractor, his toothbrush and his butt.)

*I'm meeting her tonight! In person! For the first time, despite owning a ton of her maternity clothing. Huh. We're attending a FANCY RED-CARPET MOVIE PREMIERE together. For a kids' movie, but we're not taking our kids, and now that I've at least posted SOMETHING to my stupid blog, you must excuse me, because I have figure out what to wear and also hopefully lose 10 pounds.

Look Out! He's Got The Crazy Eyes!

 

In case you were wondering, no. I don't think he's quite ready to wean.

Don't Bite My Butt & Other Dubiously Connected Topics

I keep getting the theme song from Jaws stuck in my head, usually right when Ezra starts rooting around and opens his mouth and oh my God, he's heading straight for the boob DAA NA DAA NA DAANADAANADAANA.

He's like a shark, these days. A toothless geriatric shark, intent on furiously gumming you to death, shaking his head back and forth and all around while he uses his shark flippers to grab flipperfuls of flesh to twist and dig into with his little shark fingernails because he's inordinately cranky and okay, it's not a perfect metaphor, but still. OW.

Noah's first tooth sprouted about two weeks after we gave up on nursing, so I have to admit that I am sore afraid here. (Chapped afraid! Raw afraid! Chafed afraid!) This is already HELLS ROUGH here, as the kid shrieks and squawks and chomps and protests and rejects every teething ring in the world because, apparently, they are not made of human flesh.

He already recognizes the bottle of Hyland's Teething Tablets and gets overly excited at the sight of it -- OH PRAISE JEBUS FOR WHITE POWDERED RELIEF -- and aaaaaaeeeeeeeiiiiii the drooling and the fussing and the gnawing on everything that he can possibly get into his mouth.

Goodness, but I forgot about this teething business. What else have I blocked out? Was there something that happens where the baby starts moving around the house? Like of his own accord? No. Surely I'm imagining that.

***

THE PERFECT SEGUE, COURTESY OF NOAH & 101 DALMATIONS

Noah: I scared.

Amy: You're not scared, you're stalling. Get back in bed.

Noah: Pongo bit the bad guys.

Amy: Yes, he did. Get back in bed.

Noah: Pongo bit the bad guys on the butt.

Amy: Mmm-hmm. Get back in bed.

Noah: Pongo! Don't you bite my butt!

***

Okay, FINE. You people. You are still talking about the cloth diapers. You have a LOT TO SAY about the cloth diapers. You are determined to turn this blog into the type of blog that the Amy of five years ago would never, ever read, what with the boobs and the co-sleeping and the slings and the cloth diapers and the other assorted tree-hugging hippie crap.

I'll be honest, my main reasons for cloth diapering had nothing to do with trees or patchouli or really, anything noble. They were:

1) Cost. I can't believe how many Mega Extra Jumbo packages of disposables we've already blown through, on top of the price of Pull-Ups. And now that I have a really solid grasp on the YEARS of diapering that stretch out before us (i.e. my mother-in-law's claims of potty-training her children by 12 months are a TAD DUBIOUS), I did the math, multiplying the number of diapers by months and years and then by my inability to ever use a coupon, and came to the scientific conclusion of HOLY SHIT RECEPTACLES BATMAN.

2) Boredom. Seriously, have you seen these things? With the pockets and fuzzy fleece and the colors and snaps and covers and accessories and solutions? Diapering SOLUTIONS, people. You know how I feel about SOLUTIONS.

Honestly, it was either switch to cloth diapers or rearrange the dining room furniture again.

Plus, there was this moment when I walked down the stairs and through the kitchen and all the way across the back yard to deposit a bag of diapers in our trash can when I realized that...huh. I think it's actually a shorter walk down to the washer and dryer, and there's really no reason why I can't do another small load of laundry each day. I mean, I do a LOT OF LAUNDRY.  I have TWO CHILDREN. I have a VERY SHEDDY CAT. And I SPILL THINGS ON MYSELF EVERY GODDAMN DAY OF MY LIFE. The whole "omfg extra laundry! anything but omfg extra laundry!" thing was not so very scary anymore.

(Babies = laundry. Fact!)

It also helped that Jason recently became utterly entranced with cloth wipes, or at least, the cloth wipes ACCESSORIES, i.e. the cloth wipe warmer. I made fun of him in the store, because dude. A wipe warmer? How precious are our children's asses, all of a sudden? But he had a point. Even though we have really only added one more butt to the household, we've been going through about 30 times more wipes for some reason. We're always running low and flushing the non-flushable kind and throwing out the flushable kind and Ceiba thinks old dried-out wipes from the trash can AREZ M1GHTY TASTEE YUM.

So we switched to cloth wipes, and while I was incredibly paranoid that we would Always Be Out Of Wipes Right When I Really Needed Them, I realized that indeed, spending a few minutes each day to mentally inventory the wipes and do laundry accordingly was not such a big deal at all.

Which led to a conversation a week or so later over some wine and a romantic dinner, when I leaned in close and slurrily said, "Dude, let's DO IT. Let's like, fucking CLOTH DIAPER and like, BE THOSE PEOPLE. Yeah. Man."

And. That's about that. I've ordered some bumGenius diapers on pretty much everybody's suggestion, which should round out our supply enough to use cloth exclusively (I do put Ez in a Pampers at night, just to use up what we've already bought). I bought some liners now that somebody finally explained them to me (liners, inserts, doublers, soakers -- it's like CLOTH DIAPER ESPERANTO). I checked out the Goodmama diapers a bunch of you mentioned and ran away screaming, because I need to be able to both diaper my children AND SEND THEM TO COLLEGE.  There's been a bit of a learning curve for re-figuring out how often Ezra needs changed and the jury is still out on whether they're an appropriate replacement for a Pull-Up.  Thus, cloth diapers are neither the greatest! thing! ever! nor are they the most inconvenient pain-in-the-ass-iest thing ever. I like 'em, gonna stick with 'em; I promise wholeheartedly not to talk about 'em constantly, because zzzzzzzz.

Mostly, they make a cute baby look even cuter, with a big padded Disney character butt that really brings out the thigh rolls.

Still not as cute as a completely naked baby butt. Which I cropped out, because you've gotta hold onto a few things for prom night, you know?

Delicious Whole-Grain Baby

So after all of that, this happened.

In part, I caved because Ez suddenly seemed ravenously, inexplicably hungry all the time and seriously tried to throw himself headfirst into Noah's plate of macaroni and cheese. It was also because there wasn't anything good on TV that night.

After the initial WHAT THE EFF? reaction, I must report that Ezra seriously loves oatmeal. Loves it. Two bites in and he had the whole spoon thing down and two nights in he knew when it was cereal time and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, WHERE IS MY CEREAL? He's also skipped his 2 am feeding three nights in a row, although this morning we had our first real solid-food-poop diaper and oh. Man. I'd TOTALLY blocked that part out.

(He still loves the boobs, of course. This morning I had a dream where I kept trying to readjust my bra over and over again because it was stuck to me, like a suction cup, and I couldn't figure out what was going on until I woke up and realized that Ezra had somehow scooted up to me and latched on. He was also sound asleep. Take that, spoon! I am still totally his favorite.)

Speaking of Signs That I Am A Little Senile, after our first cereal feeding I gazed upon his messy, sticky, drooly, crusty outfit and thought, hmmm, what we really need here is some kind of protective space-age coverage device that would prevent some of that mess! What a fantastic, magical invention that would be!

Then I remembered that it's called a bib, you fucking jackass. The end.

A Post About Boobs. But You Know, the Lame Mommyblog Functional Sort of Boobs.

Ezra had his four-month check-up yesterday (hmm, feels like way too many hyphens in that sentence, but no matter), and unlike last time I cannot directly compare his stats to his big brother's, because I never blogged about them. So I don't know them. So I was either completely over documenting Noah's babyhood by four months or at least briefly pretending to for the Sake Of My Poor Mommyblogged-Out Audience. Or....(scans blog archives once more)...ah. Yes. Month four was the month of the rotavirus. Over and over again. So I was simply too busy vomiting. I remember now.

(I also remember why it became imperative that we move to a place with more than one bathroom, as I never, ever wish to repeat the math of Two Sick Adults, One Toilet again.)

Anyway. I believe Noah was somewhere in the 15-pound range, and really long, like 95th percentile long. His doctor was all, "Have you started him on solids yet?" And I was all, "Yesssss," because the Internet had yelled at me for starting him on solids. And the doctor was all, "Good!" and proceeded to rage against commercial rice cereal for the next like, 20 minutes.

Ezra weighs 15 pounds, 9 ounces and is 26 inches long. 75th percentile, more or less. They didn't give me the percentile for his head measurement (16 3/4 inches), but did comment that wow, it really IS the most perfectly round head ever. He's like a cantelope, attached to a ham.

I also got the green light to start him on solids, if we feel like it. (Our doctor uses a "six months or 15 pounds or doubled birth weight or whichever comes first" guideline, which I know is not what every doctor recommends, but oh hai, welcome to motherhood, the land of a million magical and conflicting opinions about every fucking little thing you do,)

I came home and ground up some oatmeal in the blender (one chronically constipated kid is ENOUGH, thank you, rice cereal)...and then poured it in a plastic container and put it away.

Not quite ready yet, let's stick with the six-month plan, I thought. But unlike last time, when my instincts told me yes, Noah was ready, whatever, I'm not sure this is so much my instincts but a small, quiet need to Not Be Done Exclusively Breastfeeding yet. And yeah, I'm aware that of all the neurotic things I've said on my website, that's gotta be up there in the top five, at least.

I'm not too worried Ezra will wean himself -- despite being "ready," I don't even think he'll be that interested in food, and don't even get me started on the crazy hoops we go through to get him to accept the occasional bottle. ($13 bottles that look like boobs, people. I tried to give him one last night out at a restaurant because I wasn't wearing an easily-opened top and had some about-to-expire breastmilk in the fridge [he won't eat anything that's been frozen and thawed, or even not super-freshly pumped, which I finally figured out is likely excess lipase, gah], and I swear, having that bottle out on the table felt more suggestive than opening my bra in public ever has. He also still wouldn't take it, and I ended up stretching out the neckline of a brand-new dress anyway.) I am pretty sure we'll be nursing for as long as I could ever possibly want to nurse, which I think is somewhere north of a year but south of "able to unbutton my shirt and ask for it."

I'm not worried about my supply or allergies or anything like that. No, this is just me selfishly clinging to a passing phase of infancy, when I was all he needed in the world, when I truly got to be his everything. When I could see his rolly thighs and those numbers on the scale and proudly think: Me! All me! I did that! He used to be a zygote and now! LOOK AT WHAT MY BODY CAN DO! (thumps chest, swaggers away, awwwyeah)

I've started and deleted a "In Praise of Breastfeeding" type post several times -- partly because I don't want to make anyone feel badly because they couldn't or didn't.

And partly because the only commenter I've had to ban since Ezra was born would only show up on posts whenever I said ANYTHING positive about breastfeeding, and who would leave rambling comments about what a load of shit it all was and seemed to think I was some kind of anti-formula zealot. Quite refreshing, honestly, from the days when I regularly got comments about how my low supply was all in my imagination, and supplementing with formula was just an excuse for laziness and didn't I know that all I had to do was <insert solution that I'd already fucking tried, thanks>.

(Oh, and whatever -- Ezra HAS had formula, every now and again, thanks to the lipase/storing problem combined with growth spurts where he drinks every blessed drop and there's nothing left to pump. Oh my God, the horror! And whatever, etc.)

But. I've loved nursing this baby. I get why women get so passionate about it, even though that passion rankles those who had troubles, because it can sound like a judgement. "Yeah, it was all perfect sunshine and rainbows for you, but it was hell on earth for me and STOP JUDGING STOP JUDGING I FAIL, OKAY? GOD." I am so not judging.

But.

I love his face when he knows he's going to eat -- big eyes, open mouth, excited breathing and arm flailing. I love how he sighs contentedly after a few swallows. How he looks up at me with wide, adoring eyes. How he takes a break to smile at me right before nuzzling back against me. I love how, when he's really good and hungry and I'm taking too long for his liking, he lets out a squawky, impatient shriek. When I think about everything I have done with with only one hand over the past four months -- phone calls, bills, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, this very entry -- I laugh, and I love it.

I know it's not something I'll probably ever talk to him about -- what young man wants to hear about breastfeeding from their mother, oh my goooood -- so I'm very cheesily treasuring and relishing this relationship for now, for as long as I can. I wanted to do this for him, but never reaized how much it would be for me, too.

Oatmeal, anyone?

The Baby Who

I dressed Ezra in a certain blue stripey fleece sleeper today, and had to step back from the changing table for a second, like, "whoa, which baby are you again?"

OH RIGHT, THE FAT ONE.

And of course, I mean that in the nicest, most delicious way possible.

 

You're also the baby who won't smile directly into the camera, which means a lot of ridiculous behavior on my part and blindly-snapped, blurry photos.

Every once in awhile, I catch you. Sort of.

You're the baby for whom that whole thing about a "regular, consistent bedtime routine" nonsense actually WORKS, and after months of us basically keeping you up until we went to bed, in hopes of delaying your buttcrack-of-dawn waking, we've finally figured you out, a little bit. A bath and a book with your big brother at 8:30 (plus a little boob while we read Dr. Seuss), a tight swaddle and in your crib by 9, and lo. You stay there, and you sleep. Until the buttcrack of dawn. When you wake up anyway. Eh. But then there's more boob and more sleep, off and on, until dawn has officially yanked her trampy low-rise pants up over her buttcrack and it's time for us to start our day.

You're the baby who doesn't demand much, besides our constant attention. You want to be held and nursed and held and nursed and talked to and tickled. You're the baby who LIKES my singing, who LIKES the back-and-forth of pretend conversation, where we coo and you coo and we say, "my goodness, and then what happened?" and you smile and try so hard to tell us what happened, who LIKES all the baby toys and loveys that your brother ignored.

You're the baby who HATES the swings that your brother loved, who is indifferent Brown Bear, Brown Bear, his most favorite book in the world, but who loves the books with the photos of baby faces, except for the pages where the baby is crying. Those pages make you sad.

You're the baby who will only take a bottle if I'm not around. And by "around" I mean "NOT IN THE HOUSE." You're my champion, my baby bird, the baby who righted the one small pang of regret I have from your brother's babyhood, and I'm so happy we can do this for each other.

You're the baby who patiently indulges your big brother's affections, whenever he randomly attacks you with a hug and a head pat and accidentally drops a metal car on your face. You're a mystery to him, I think, as he's sometimes not sure what a "baby brother" really is. He thinks All Babies are baby brothers, and I'm not sure he's aware that you will grow up and be a person he can talk to and play with and who will steal all his metal cars. He bit you once, not so much out of anger or meaness but curiosity. Would it hurt? (Yes.) Would you cry? (Yes.) Would you taste like an M&M? (More like a pork chop, I'd say, from experience.)

You're the baby who, just like your brother, takes my breath away on a regular basis, because you are so lovely and miraculous and mine. The baby who, despite being wanted and tried for over and over again for months and years, showed up when we least expected you, whose tiny, near-microscopic presence on an ultrasound felt like a complete surprise, whose presence now still feels like winning the lottery. Because oh, how we love the baby -- the son, the brother, the person -- you are.

(LOOK. YOU AM SQUIRREL. HAAAA.)

Let's Go To The Zoo, Part Three

Oh, but God help us, we went to the zoo. Thefuckingzoo, yes.

We've been basking in downright lovely weather for a few days, and so, because I am freaking raging batshit crazy, I suggested that hey! We should take Noah to the zoo! It's free! It's outside! We'll see some animals! Get some exercise! Check in on those goddamn pandas. I'm sure the zoo no longer fucking sucks anymore, I mean: Obama. Right? Everything in DC is magical again.

Results were fairly typical. The whole place smells like poop, is STILL under construction, the pandas were sleeping, the monkeys were all sitting morosely in their cages with their sad little ape fingers hanging through the bars while assholes rapped on the glass, and a tiger roared really ferociously, usurping that one scene in 101 Dadamations where Pongo bites the bad guys as our Number One Source of Preschooler Nightmares.

I forgot to bring a real camera, but got some pretty good shots with my phone, I think.

Noah saw some elephants, which was real exciting.

(Not Pictured: the overachieving father who stood there holding up his infant's bucket car seat in the direction of the elephants, if only the poor thing's eyes were capable to focusing on indistinct grayish brownish areas [WITH POINTS!] a good 30 feet away.)

Ezra maybe saw some trees, when he ever bothered to get his face out of my bra.

(The Ergo. Wasn't sold on it at first, honestly. Too much carrier for too little baby. Now it's officially the greatest! thing! ever! especially since I could push a stroller AND drink a $4 bottle of soda AND breastfeed AND bitch about how much my feet hurt AT THE SAME TIME.)

  

I forget what this was supposed to be a picture of. I got distracted when Noah started screaming "I'M AT THE JOO! I LOVE THE JOO! HI JOO!" over and over.

And then we came home, and everybody took naps, and nobody died, although I think they overcharged us for parking. Best fucking joo trip yet!

MacGroober

Ezra is a comfort sucker. (As in, he likes to suck on things for comfort. Not that he is a sucker for comfort, although frankly, who isn't? I'm a sucker for comfort food, for instance. Comfort food with butter and extra deep-fried carbs.)

In pretty much every ultrasound we had, his face was always obscured by various body parts that he was attempting to shove into his mouth. I took note of this and tossed a pack of pacifiers into my hospital bag. I popped a Soothie into his mouth the very first night. Screw nipple confusion -- if I didn't give that kid a pacifier I wasn't going to have any damn nipples LEFT.

He liked the Soothie well enough -- much better than the free pacifiers the hospital nursery had to offer, which I of course hoarded and took home regardless, because they were FREE FREE FREE -- but once we got home he started rejecting them too. If it wasn't a boob, it better be a finger, inserted at an awkward, palms-up angle that ensured you could do absolutely nothing else except SIT THERE while your wrist cramped up and Ezra sucked your fingerprints off.

So, you know, we tried a few other pacifiers.

 

Exhibit A, aka Give It Up Already, Crazy People

Every brand was offered and summarily rejected, and eventually I resigned myself to always having the baby attached to my chest, for food or for comfort.

But then this weekend he started getting a little DIFFICULT ABOUT THAT. A little TAD HYSTERICAL. He would latch on and then get BEYOND INDIGNANT to end up with a mouthful of MILK, MY GOD. He'd pull off in fury and weep. I'd offer the pacifer. He'd take it, spit it out and dive bomb for my chest again. Same thing with my finger.  Over and over, we did this, and always at nap and bedtime. I'd rock him and sing and pace around the house, but eventually it always came back to the back-and-forth dance between my boob and the pacifer.

So last night, I had a flash of either genius or a psychotic break -- definitely one of those two -- and took the hollow end of a Soothie pacifier and stuck it on my boob. Add baby and VOILA. The ultimate in cushiony comfort without the hassle of nutrition.

And...that was the highlight of my weekend, unless you count the fact that Noah ate five atoms of the breading off a chicken nugget and finally told me something specific about his day at school ("I pushed Miles AND Everett!"), or maybe when Ezra threw up on Heather B and I sat there and laughed like a really evil person because NOT ME NOT ME, and I think I cleaned up the chair before thinking to offer her some paper towels and overall the weekend was comprised of a lot of moments that made me massage my temples in annoyance and parental defeat, but then I stuck a pacifer ON MY BOOB and it made my baby happy and put him to sleep.

 

Dream big!