Blah Blah Zah Zah

Listen, we're kind of busy over here today, but Zah really wanted to say hi.

 

HI.

 

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII.

 

I have four whole molars now. JELUS?

 

Oh, he also wanted to write a comment about the terribly underwhelming final three Project Runway designers. While he appreciates Althea trying to design roomy pants for the bulky-cloth-diaper set, he thinks her technical skills are lacking. I might let him write the finale recap for me this week. 

 

And why are they all so afraid of prints? Rescue vehicles are so hot this season.

 

Anyway! That's really all he wanted to say. Besides his favorite word ever: ALLDUN. We're ALLDUN with this. There is no more food on his tray and that is sad because it's ALLDUN. From his crib, mournfully, in the morning: ALLLLLLDUN!! Leave the room and YOU are ALLDUN. He is ALLDUN with you now!  ALLDUN, sir. I SAID ALLDUN.

Surfacing

Update! I survived Swine Flu 2009. Or...Faux Swine Flu 2009, probably, since my fever never cranked up much past 99 degrees and I was feeling mostly human again by Sunday. (Although if you take my temperature on a perfectly healthy day you will likely get something like 96.6, so it's all relative, or at least that's what I was FOREVER trying to explain to the high school nurse, that 99.6 is actually 102.6 in Amy Degrees, or something. I wanna go home! I have cah-raaamps!) I survived Really Bad Cold With A Side Of Stomach Unpleasantries 2009.

Anyway. I owe my recovery solely to the fact that I actually took a goddamn SICK DAY. Like, I stayed home. In bed. In my pajamas and everything. I ate chicken soup for lunch, people. I outsourced everything child-related and watched 80s movies in the afternoon and took an honest-to-God nap.

Do you know the last time I did that? Sometime circa 2005, I think. I up and had a BABY last winter and still insisted on going downstairs and mouth-breathing at the toaster, making breakfast and feeding pets and answering emails, while a double ear infection leaked out of my eyeballs. All while insisting that I was Happy and Fine and Whoops, Walked Into The Wall Again.

So let me tell you, it took EVERYTHING in me to call down to Jason and beg him to please, pleeeease stay home. Even though I didn't really need to beg, of course -- TWO full anniversaries ago, a year where we both insisted that there would be no presents, he presented me with five of his vacation days. Five days where he would stay home and I could go shopping or see a horrible chick movie or visit a friend...or...you get the idea. Days off, of my very own.

Two years later, and Friday was the first time I ever cashed one in. What is wrong with me? Oh right, the whining and the martyrdom. I would miss them so. I would have nothing to write about without them! Except: I got sick one time and stayed in bed until I was better.

You see how that will simply not do. Quelle horreur!

Anyway, AGAIN, let's move on with our collective lives. What else happened...I lost some weight from all the illness, bought a killer pair of jeans and some new eyeshadow to celebrate, will probably have to return the killer jeans because my appetite is now all officially better, judging by the pile of fun-sized Snickers wrappers sitting here next to the computer. Noah seems to be doing really, REALLY well at his school programs, which means it's time for parent-teacher conferences to come and knock me off my optimistic ass this week, and also he has suddenly decided that he will indeed be a Good Boy, because if he is a Good Boy Santa will bring him a giant $200 dollhouse that he saw at the store and has not stopped talking about since. A $200 dollhouse that makes the small dollhouse we already got him for his birthday look like TOTAL CRAP.  He wants the other one. He wants both. He wants a city. A tiny town! Then he shall don his monster costume and terrorize all the little hand-painted wooden people on their eco-scooters or whatever the hell. I LOVE YOU, MOMMY. I'M BEING A GOOD BOY. JUST BECAUSE. YOU SEE? LOOK, I HUG YOU. HUG! IS IT CHRISTMAS YET?

Ezra, of course, wants a jet pack. Probably. I bet that's what he'd ask for, if he could talk. 

Or at least if he could talk that much, because he continues to freak me completely out, with the fact that he talks at ALL.  Babies who talk! And gesture! And sign! Instead of like, telepathy and smoke signals or however the hell we communicated with Noah for all those months. He's added "all done" to his vocal repertoire, along with "yeah yeah" and "uh oh" and "Dada." We're working on "oh wow" and "light", which are currently in the iffy category of Things One Parent Swore He Said But Have Not Yet Been Independently Verified. I am pretty sure that "mum" means "more."

I walked out of the room this morning and immediately heard his slappy little hands furiously crawling across the floor after me, and then some distressed bleating of "Mama! Mama! Mama!"

 

Yep. I feel much better now. Must've been that chicken soup.

When You Viral

Wow. Okay. So.

The When You Marry book thing (album? commentary? no, I think "thing" was just about right.) took quite a tour around Teh Interweb last week -- first on Sociological Images, which Kelly tells me means that I am Officially Important to Sociology and Stuff, then to Jezebel (thanks for the link back to the original site OH WAIT NEVER MIND), and then a bunch of other blogs, culminating over the weekend with a front-page mention on Fark, the web's premiere depository of stupid, pointless, too-much-time-on-our-hands bullshit.

This mostly means that I am 1) kicking myself for the massive monetizing FAIL of dumping the scans into Typepad's ad-free photo album format, and 2) absolutely drowning in emails from people who want to tell me their theories about Brenda's boyfriend's name.

As was established pretty quickly in the comments on the first batch of scans, his name is likely Quin or Zion, as I clearly haven't written in proper cursive handwriting in full-on decades now. But I am not sure what I'm expected to do with this information -- find them on Facebook? Classmates.com? Travel to Edinboro, Pennsylvania and attempt to track down the D.C. Heath and Company publishing representative from the front inside flap and figure out what high school this book originated from? And then scan the attendance records to figure out if there was indeed a possibly interracial couple with a possible out-of-wedlock mixed-race baby who went on to live happily ever after In Spite Of Everything & Cultural Mores Of The Time & Also That Judge In Louisiana? Or at least whether they got an A in the class? I DON'T KNOW. But now I feel like I am letting the Internet down because I don't have a conclusion to the story. I should probably upload the last couple chapters, at least.

Anyway. Hello, 15 minutes of Internet fame! You are delicious, yet ultimately hollow, ranking a few notches below stealing chocolate Easter bunnies from my children. I have two of them, by the way, in case you're new to the blog. I don't think I mention them in the book scan commentary anywhere. Probably because there were no ads. I mean, Christ, what's the point then? You think I had kids to save my marriage, or something?

I spent the weekend visiting family, blissfully unaware that my site was threatening to buckle under the weight of all those extra eyeballs, celebrating the boys' birthdays with my parents (who are doing super-well, by the way, thank you to everyone who has asked) and siblings and nephews and approximately 4,504,092 SQUAWKY BEEPY BLINKY BOOPY BATTERY-OPERATED TOYS. 

Oh, and. Also. Listening to Ezra say his first words.

*pulls sweater neckhole over face, bites fabric from the inside, realizes too late that's it's fucking angora, desperately tries to remove coating of wool from tongue*

On Thursday, Jason managed to half-convince me that Ezra's wails of MAMAAAA, MAAMAAAAA! from his crib were actually deliberate, as opposed to just some horrible proof that the word "mama" just happened to originate from the horrible bleating sounds babies make when they cry. I remained skeptical, even after Ez threw in a finger-point. MAAAMAAAAAAAAAWAAAAHHHwhatever.

On Saturday, he said "outside." Multiple times, in front of multiple corroborating witnesses (but not nine different camera angles, because although we brought three cameras, we forgot at least one vital piece of each one, including batteries, memory cards, and chargers), while plastering himself against my parents' sliding glass door. OWS EYE! OWS EYE! Then he decided to lick the glass for awhile. HE IS CLEARLY A GENIUS.

He will also point to a mirror and identify himself as "Zah." 

MOMMYBLOGGER OUT. *drops mike*

Look Who's Walking

One tentative first step yesterday, one that I only barely happened to notice, right after I turned to look at him for no particular reason. One second his hand clung to our bedframe as usual as he made his way across the room in search of mischief or perhaps an errant steak knife, and then he let go and continued to shuffle and wobble forward. Two seconds, tops, and then he dropped back onto his diapered butt and looked up at me in surprise. I shouted downstairs to Jason: Ezra took a step! He just took a step!

And then silently, to myself: I'm so glad I got to see it. 

Less than an hour or so later, at a neighbor's open house party, Jason and I watched him take two, three more. We pointed and grinned at each other from across the room, like big fat pantomiming loons, both just overly pleased that we both got to see it that time.

It's hard not to be super uber-cheesy about the first steps. Sure, mobility = giant sucking suckhole of hell and headbruises. And walking = the end of babyhood, the official passage into full-tilt toddlerhood. But it's still such an AWESOME milestone. I remember contemplating the spindly chicken legs and floppy heads and torsos of my newborns and trying to picture them walking. It seemed ridiculous, like there was a better chance that goldfish would spontaneously evolve and crawl out of their bowls on newly sprouted haunches than one of these helpless flailing creature actually walking upright within the span of 12 months or so.

And then before you know it, they're up, and they're off.

But I'm so glad I get to be here to see it.

The Obligatory

 

Ezra, being his typical charming self, voicing his displeasure over being deposited in his high chair when he was right in the middle of disconnecting the refrigerator's water hook-up, and also over his hand-me-down 1st Birthday Boy bib, like SORRY, Novelty Bib Establishment, I also reused a Baby's First Christmas bib and there's nothing you can do about it.

But wait! What's this?

 

I am...curious. Strangely...drawn to it.

Though also a little baffled by it.

 

Aha! Food! I like food.

Yep. I do like...

 

OMG.

 

OMG.

 

OMG. OMG.

 

OMG.

 

Whoa. WHOA.

 

<NOMNOMROMROMMOMMOM>

 

<SNARFSNARFSNARFMMMPHHH>

 

Wut?

 

Dude. You have no idea.

It's like, soooooo goo-

 

OH CRAP.

 

HULK...GETTING...ANGRY...

Aaaaaaaand scene.

One Year, Take Two

It's not fair, this past year. It whizzed by in crazy-fast-forward mode. Blink, three months. Blink, six months. Blink blink, 10 months. And now here we are. 12 months. One year. On the cusp of toddlerhood, with his true babyhood vanishing into the few fat rolls he still has on his legs.

His delicious, crazy little legs -- he's so ready to walk but can't quite get that last bit of balance going, though he's down to needing a single solitary finger against the wall or furniture or hooked around mine.

He can suddenly do so many things, and I have no idea when he started doing them. He signs what he wants, he plays pattycake and soooo big and waves hello and goodbye to everyone he sees, he dances, he sticks his tongue out and furrows his brow while concentrating on his set of nesting cups, he mimics sounds and can point out Mama and Dada and Noah, he picks up a comb and immediately tries to attack his brother's hair with it. It's ridiculous, the little things that stun you, but there it is. He knows what a comb is for. Wow. 

Of course I miss the baby. The newborn, even. I look at these year-old videos and oh, that squooshy little alien face, with his bleats and baahhs at all times of night. But...now he knows what a comb is for. He knows who I am, beyond the keeper of the milks. I know who he is, beyond the blank canvas of he is my baby and I love him.

He is my baby. My son. My boy. My daredevil, my clown, my social butterfly, my smartypants spitfire.

My mighty, mighty Ez.

Ezra's First Birthday from amalah on Vimeo. Music: Lo Boob Oscillator by Stereolab

Happy birthday, buddy.

(PS, re: the video. I promise to occasionally put pants on you this year.)

Ezra 3:16

Lo, if it is hard and unyielding, I shall whallop my noble crown against it.

If it is soft and upholstered, I shall climb atop and hurl my body headfirst from its highest peak.

If it is a place in which I may get stuck, I will get stuck.

If it is not bolted to the wall...look, you see where this is going, okay?

If it is food, I shall eat it.

If it fits in my mouth, then it is food, and verily, I shall eat it.

If it does not fit in my mouth, it is still probably food, and I shall wail piteously about not being able to eat it.

If you have forgotten to put the pet food back on the counter, I shall sense it from three rooms away, for I am all-knowing, except for where I dropped that toy I was playing with not 30 seconds prior.

If a bathroom door is open, I shall find it and pass through it and have my hands in the toilet faster than an unladen European swallow.

If you are in the bathroom, I shall choose this exact moment to trip over my stupid little plastic push toy walker and send my bottom teeth through my upper lip, just so you can hear the wailing for 15 horrible seconds before arriving on the scene, by which point there is blood gushing everywhere and because you have such terrific instincts your first thought shall be, "FORBIDDEN BABY IMMORTAL VAMPIRE CHILD!"

If you decide to inspect my lip the next day, woe shall be upon you. Woe and nausea. For I did indeed do a grisly number on myself.

If the dishwasher door is open, I shall climb upon it. 

 

 

Then I shall find the knives, and you shall forced to put the camera down right quick.

If you attempt a weekly Friday blog feature regarding dated out-of-print high school textbooks and other laughable ephemera, I shall mash the buttons on your scanner with such force as to reset all the default settings so that anything you scan shall be like the Tower of Babel, incomprehensible, unreadable, and using up a fucking shitload of ink because for some reason it keeps printing instead of scanning but everything is printing all black and, like, what the hell?

If you attempt to get mad at me, I shall look at you like this, and all shall be forgiven.

I Can't Believe I Didn't Think of This Before

I have just solved SO MANY PROBLEMS.

 

 

 

Next up I shall tackle the pressing issues of health care reform, cancer, where I left my sunglasses.

Curlingirontastrophe!

So, okay. On Friday I had this whole story to tell you -- one of those Classic Blog Fodder stories, in which someone (SPOILER: ME) basically ends up looking like a complete moron, start to finish. Even I'm still shaking my head at myself, trying to figure out how I manage to get through life on a daily basis without setting myself on fire or get to the grocery store without ending up in Newark.

But then Evidence To Support The Dumbass Hypothesis Exhibit 456 happened and derailed my entire day and writing process, since oh, I was a little too busy trying to explain to our pediatrician how my baby managed to accidentally burn himself with a curling iron.

Is there anything that sounds quite so inherently abusive and neglectful than a curling iron burn? Sure, knees get skinned, heads get bruised, fingers get pinched, but a curling iron burn? That's a damned Law & Order episode, right there.

It's all Noah's fault, really, as he ruined us forever by being such a SENSIBLE TODDLER. We had a couple collisions with furniture and one fall down the stairs, but he never, ever exhibited Ezra's hellbent determination to injure himself on a daily basis. The curling iron was off (but still hot, OBVIOUSLY), it was pushed a good six inches away from the edge of the bathroom sink counter, and the cord had been carefully piled on top, out of the reach of small, grabby beings.

But then a small, grabby being got up on his damn tiptoes and -- using a hairbrush I'd unwittingly traded in exchange for a moment's peace -- managed to hook the cord in the brush bristles and pull the whole thing down on himself, with the still-hot barrel of the iron scalding the crook of his elbow.

Where was his mother, you might ask? Oh, you know, she was right there, in the same room, less than a foot and a half away, even. She'd even brought him into the room with her on purpose, so he would not be free to wreak havoc elsewhere. 

In other words, yes, I was peeing.

I do have to give Ez props for his good timing, as we were headed to the pediatrician ANYWAY for Noah's four-year checkup. (Which is why the curling iron had been taken out of deep storage in the first place; I only get that fancy for people with at LEAST three framed diplomas.) And that was really fun, being all, heeeeeeyyyyy yeah can we forget about the four-year-old (yeah, the one with no skin on his knees, uh-huh) for a sec and talk about whether the little one will be requiring skin grafts? Maybe some donor tissue from MY NEGLECTFUL ASS?

(He's completely fine, obviously. Neosporin, bandage, tape, long sleeves to keep him from messing with the bandage and tape, no Cone of Shame required. Except maybe a small one, for me.)

(You may be happy to hear that Jason took the news of this injury a little better than usual. I chickened out and emailed him. Like, way after the fact. His response: Damn, he is determined.)

(I should probably mention that Ezra is not yet officially walking unassisted yet, so his range of destruction is limited to cruising along the furniture and walls and scaling over various barricades that I construct in front of stairs and reachable surfaces, and I can still easily beat his top crawling speed. I am, without a doubt, utterly terrified of what this child will be able to accomplish once he is walking.)

(Hmm. It appears that I do not have a clever finish to this entry, and am simply floundering in an endless string of parentheticals. So perhaps I should just stop typing and let you all move on with your lives, instead of forcing you to hear about another ultimately minor injury sustained by the Storch children while their mother stood helplessly by, like GOD, maybe if she actually stopped blogging about them for five minutes a day she might actually try parenting them, and this stuff wouldn't happen.)

(Eh, that sounds kind of too hard. I think I'll just wrap them up in some bubble wrap and keep them in a pen. I have pretty good Cheerio-tossing aim from over the top of my laptop.)

The Life of Four

Oh my God, you guys. I have a FOUR-YEAR-OLD. And in less than two weeks I will have a ONE-YEAR-OLD. I should have planned things better, because this double whammy of birthdays is turning out to be hard on the liver.

At this rate I will have hardly any babies left at all. Damn you January and your mysteriously fertile properties!

PLUS I have to do a whole other stupid video montage every year, like, five minutes after I finish the first one. That's not QUITE so terrible, as I do really enjoy making you guys cry. Suckers!

Speaking of the upcoming Ezra edition, based on our gobs of footage and photos, it appears we have not actually taken that poor baby out of his high chair since he was about six months old. I'd say a good 75% of it involves him eating. Rolling over? First steps? First words? Eh, sorry Ez, I don't quite recall. But holy shit, check out this 20-minute clip of you eating corn on the cob. So glad we didn't miss THAT tremendous milestone.

So now Noah is four, fully four, and can officially start attending The Preschool this afternoon. Right now, the only thing I am stressing about it that no one told me the code for the front door, meaning I'm in for one mildly inconvenient and awkward moment of waiting for some to notice us and buzz us in. Oh noes! I think this is progress on the neurotic mess front, as I could easily be wigging out about the logistics of getting Noah off the school bus, into the house, eat lunch eat lunch eat lunch, pack his backpack a second time with a different set of classroom requests and requirements, get everyone in the car and drive up there and then drive back and still somehow keep Ezra's nap schedule intact so I can get work done before driving back up there to pick Noah up and also I haven't been away from him that long in years oh my God, STOP TALKING, SELF. YOU SHUT UP NOW.

Noah is excited about the second school, which we've dubbed "Camp School" around here (not to be confused with "School Bus School"). School Bus School is, of course, The One With The School Bus School Bus School Bus, while Camp School is the one with the motherfucking BALL PIT, motherfuckers. As far as Noah is concerned, that right there is a well-rounded education. 

Okay. So. I would love to KEEP TALKING, but I seem to have a window to take a shower here. First day of school: I shower. Second day of school: Not so much, or ever again after that. So today I will uphold that proud tradition. Clean hair! Makeup! Actual non-elastic-waisted-pants! I am simultaneously excited and utterly exhausted.

Here, Noah (WHO IS FOUR), with your feel-good up-with-people message of the day.

noah sings from amalah on Vimeo.

Make your own kind of music. No matter what. Even if nobody else sings anarrrrg. 

PS Hey, so Mamapop is up for an award, if you'd like to vote for us. We're up for Best Pop Culture Blog...in Maryland. Can you really argue with that? I mean, FINE. TAKE PENNSYLVANIA. AND VIRGINIA. MARYLAND IS OURS.