Cooking With the Mighty Zah

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody! And good news! Thanks to the money-grubbing powers that be (AKA MY OWN SELF), I accidentally scheduled a sponsored post for today so y'all are spared having to read something goopy about my husband. Instead, we're going to talk about vegetables, thanks to Hidden Valley Ranch.

Vegetables are romantic, right?

(I know where your mind is going right now and I do not like it. I LOVE IT.)

Specifically, I'm supposed to talk about getting kids to eat their vegetables. LIKE I HAVE ANY IDEA. The only kid in my house who is currently not a jerk about consistently eating his vegetables is the baby. Because vegetables are pretty much the only food group he is aware of. 

I make all of Ike's food, and I...well, I make his food because I think it's fun. It's very easy and satisfying and it makes me happy to see my baby's face light up when he tastes something fresh and delicious and baby-birds his mouth for more, more, more. Plus, it's cool to have a baby who eats vegetables beyond the jarred green beans and carrots. There's only a short window before the Great Beige Food Phase, so I like making the most of it, while I can.

The variety in Ike's diet, however, is also owed to a certain older brother's tendency to grab random things in the supermarket and sneak them into our cart. So then it's like playing a game of Chopped at home, as I try to figure out what to do with celery root, kale, a pomegranate and two tomatillos. 

The good news is I can put that same big brother to work in the kitchen. My homemade baby food insanity is contagious, I guess, because Ezra absolutely LOVES helping me cook Baby Ike's Veggietabuls. 

First up, baby veggie stock (to cook stuff like rice, grains, lentils, etc.), adapted slightly from this cookbook. Peel a shallot (or leek, or some spring onions...something mild) and cut into pieces. 

Crack open a sweet potato like an egg. (Then, you know, peel and chop it like a sweet potato.) Use two for a more intense flavor, or if they're small. 

Add about six lightsabers' worth of asparagus.

Four cups of water. Bring to a boil, cover and simmer until the vegetables are soft. Mash and strain them. Refrigerate or freeze the stock; use the leftover veggies in a puree. The broth makes a nice drink option in a sippy cup, and will add extra flavor to bland baby cereals. Ezra also recommends adding pasta noodles or crackers to it for a big-kid lunch. 

Next up, roasted parsnips. Apologies for the blurry photo but OMG PLEASE DON'T PEEL YOUR THUMB OFF IN THE TWO SECONDS IT TAKES TO SNAP A PICTURE OMG.

Preheat oven to 400, arrange in baking dish.

Drizzle with olive oil and add some thyme or rosemary, if you want. Bake for 20 minutes, then puree in a food processor -- thinning with water or baby stock until it's the right consistency for your baby.

Don't forget to save some of the tiny extra-roasted end bits for your super-helpful assistant. They're the best part.

Finally, some old-fashioned basic steamed zucchini. All those springs and summers where I had more zucchini in my garden than I could ever possibly use? I just needed a Baby Ike, because that kid will eat a bushel a week, if I let him. 

But alas, it is winter, so I have no bumper crop out back. 

Luckily I have a REALLY good supermarket-sticker-remover at my disposal. The best place for the peeled-off stickers is your belly button, BTW.

Bring an inch of water to a boil, put (unpeeled) zucchini slices in steamer basket, allow your child to work at the stove because you are not a paranoid helicopter parent and he needs to learn to respect the heat and OMG IF YOU TOUCH THAT BURNER I WILL GROUND YOU FOR A MONTH OMG.

Steam for a few minutes until super-tender, then puree. Don't add any liquid to this one, but DEFINITELY let your preschooler man the food processor controls, because that's like, flying-a-rocket-ship-into-space level AWESOME.

Since we had all three batches going at once -- stock pot, steamer basket, oven -- we made everything here in a little over an hour. (After the zucchini steamed I added the rest of the asparagus to the pot and whipped that up, too.) Not too shabby.

I was going to make a mango puree for Ike as well, but decided Ezra deserved a little snack break. He ate the whole thing. This veggietabul business is no joke. 

Thanks so much to Hidden Valley Ranch for sponsoring this post, and to Ezra (who, despite SOME vegetable jerkiness, would admittedly eat a car tire if it was dipped in ranch dressing) for being so much fun to cook with. You're awesome, little chef-dude.  

This post is sponsored by Hidden Valley® Ranch. Discover how you can make vegetables delectable!

Lightweight

So after THAT happened, Ezra was once again knocked back to dietary zero. Liquids only, then small amounts of bland foods, then slightly less small amounts of bland foods, and so on and so forth. 

Ezra was...not pleased. Ezra had other ideas. Ezra found my box of Secret Mommy & Daddy Valentine's Day Cake.

Caaaaake? Chocolate caaaaake? Dis one? Peas tank you welcome? 

The thing is, there was nothing in the world I wanted to give this child MORE than his very own chocolate cake. Look at his little neck! The thinned-out cheeks! His arms are toothpicks and his backbone is knobby! Child, just keep that dinner of white rice down overnight and I swear, I will pump you so full of milkshakes and sticks of butter that even Paula Deen will finally be like, "okay, yeah, even I'm getting a little judgy now, y'all."

Where my Weight Gain 5000 be at?

He cried, of course, when he realized I was serious about No Cake For You, but refused to part with the box for the rest of the night. He sat hugging it on the couch for while, tracing the lovely delicious pictures with his fingers, talking to it, a little bit. SOON, PRECIOUS. SOON.

Last night he ate a meatball with some tomato sauce. He's eaten close to half a carton's worth of scrambled eggs and all the toast in the house. Every once in awhile he still sort of stalls out mid-meal, though, so I'm hesistant to declare him fully recovered. (Also because the Fates are still up there, watching and listening, lightning bolts of plague and pestilence in hand.) 

Pediasure makes me twitchy (especially after the horrible amounts of day-glo artificial Pedialyte I poured down this kid's throat last weekend), so we're slowly trying to amp up the weight gain the old-fashioned way, with food. Peanut butter, whole milk, guacamole, good fatty oils...and all that goddamn hippie crap I drive everybody crazy with. 

But also, yes, I will absolutely make some Secret Valentine's Day Cake for you, Baby. 

His shirt doesn't lie! He could still be a kicker! Special teams, son! DON'T GIVE UP ON THE DREAMS YOUR GYMBOREE HAND-ME-DOWNS HAVE EMBROIDERED ON YOUR BEHALF!

:(

After a brief turn for the better last night and this morning, we're now back to taking it one sip of Pedialyte at a time over here. Even popsicles are too wild and crazy for this party. And the less said about that banana, the better.

Fuck this week. I'm out. Let's meet up on Monday for a do-over, deal?

Because You're Worth It

Warning: This is probably going to be the grossest thing I have ever written about on the Internet. And I have written some gross fucking things. So, proceed with caution. Or don't. Just leave. Run away! Look out, behind you! It's a compulsive oversharing blogger in her pajamas! OH MY GOD WE'RE DOOMED.

Yesterday afternoon, Ezra shuffled from his room post-nap. "My tummy hurts," he whined. We had a little chat about Poop, Do You Need To Go Do That, and I expertly diagnosed him with Who The Hell Knows, But Let's Try Some Cuddling On The Couch. 

So we cuddled. On the couch. Which is where we were when he suddenly bolted upright and vomited on me. A entire container of raspberries came up in repeated waves of bright reddish-magenta-colored puke all over my chest and lap and then the couch and on the floor as I picked him up and hauled ass towards the bathroom, where it also just. Kept. Coming. Holy. Fucking. SHIT.  

When it was over and the bathroom walls and surfaces were as coated with splattered raspberry hork as we both were, he burst into terrified tears and put his arms out for a hug. 

This is one of the things that you know, logically, going into parenthood, is a distinct and likely possibility. I mean, kids get sick and throw up and when they're little they have no idea what's happening to them, and no instinct to run for the bathroom and barf into the toilet like a civilized person. As a former child yourself, you probably have at least one memory of a truamatic throwing-up event in your bed or on the floor or all over the backseat of the car. 

You probably DON'T, however, have any memory of cleaning up the carnage after the fact, because you didn't fucking have to. No, you got cleaned up and put to bed and left to wallow in your own snuffly misery with a popsicle while your parents dealt with the rest of it, desperately praying to the Clorox gods that they would escape coming down with it themselves. Because even if they do get violently ill they'll STILL have to take care of your helpless ass and cater to your every Saltine-and-Ginger-Ale-related whim.

So I totally had one of those moments of Hideous Soul-Breaking Clarity while peeling off my vomit-soaked clothing and giving us both a bath, while I spread a sheet across the freshly-scrubbed (but still rank-smelling) couch so he could lie down and watch Blue's Clues. I put a trash can next to him (which would be repeatedly ignored and/or missed during the next five or six bouts of vomit that were still to come) and went back to wiping off befouled surfaces that like, did not even MAKE SENSE, from a PHYSICS PERSPECTIVE, because HOW DID HE MANAGE TO VOMIT ON THE UNDERSIDE OF THE SINK COUNTER. 

I meticulously scraped smelly day-glo goo from in between the planks of the hardwoods, all while realizing that 1) no one was going to come help me, and 2) no one was ever going remember that I once did this for them.

And that I would do it again, and let's be honest, probably will. 

And I'm more okay with that than I ever thought I'd be.

P.S. Except for the part when I realized the baby -- who was scooting around on the living room floor during our initial frantic dash to the bathroom -- had something in his mouth and it was part of a raspberry and OH MY GOD THAT PART WAS NOT OKAY AND MADE ME CRY NO NO NO.

Dear Social Media: Please Invent A Button For Things I Simultaneously Like & Unlike At The Same Time

First, I want to thank y'all for making me feel SO MUCH BETTER about the Tooth Fairy thing. I'm so glad we're not the only parents who have forgotten about lost teeth and woke up to devastated, disillusioned children. GLAD, I SAY. I AM COMFORTED BY YOUR CHILDREN'S PAIN. WE ARE ALL TERRIBLE PEOPLE, HOORAY!

Second, I'm hoping today's confession will likewise be met with understanding instead of gasps of pearl-clutchy horror.

Ezra is home sick today. Cough, fever, general whimperiness. 

I totally don't mind though, because Ezra is my favorite sick child. 

It's not that I enjoy seeing him sick and miserable or anything. It's just that he's just so...so...

...awwwwww poor little angel buddy when he's not feeling well.

He's by far the most good-natured of the three when sick; the most likely to try his darnedest to Brave-Little-Toaster his way through it, right up until the moment when he decides instead to just curl up on the kitchen floor with a stuffed animal and a plastic waffle and take an impromptu nap. 

Noah, on the other hand, tends to get extra difficult -- illness brings out more of his, shall we say, challenging sensory/Spectrum-y behaviors, plus that kid will fight a restorative nap and/or doses of Tylenol with every ounce of fever-fueled strength in his body. And Ike...well, Ike's a baby, and as I've discussed before, sick babies stress me the hell out. 

A sick Ezra, though? Who basically melts into a warmish puddle of I Needs A Cuddle, Mommy and Read Me Anodder Story, Mommy and I Loves Your Hairs, Mommy and Shh, Lets Goes Sleep, Mommy?

Yeah. I can deal with all that. Lets goes sleep. 

When you wake up I will make you some soups and we'll watch Wonderpets. 

The Christmas That Ate Everything

As in, ALL THE FOOD. ALL THE COOKIES. ALL THE WINE. ALL THE BRAIN CELLS.

Hello! And happy 2012. Sorry for slacking off last week. After Instagramming the shit out of Christmas Day, I guess I got distracted by our hosting duties, my new-found mastery at making pâte à choux and filling it with horribly fattening delicious things, and Noah's pleas to assemble ALL THE LEGOS.

If you ain't no punk holla We Want Legos WE WANT LEGOS!

The Spongebob house (worst set EVER, was missing a ton of pieces and will fall apart if you breathe on it too hard) was a brief diversion from the True Meaning Of Christmas, however, which was:

STAR TREK

MORE STAR TREK

GOOD GOD COULD THERE BE ANY MORE STAR TREK IN THIS PICTURE

(Judging from the complete Enterprise Bridge Model Playset with Poseable Action Figures and Various Other Impossibly Tiny Pieces currently taking over my entire living room floor, the answer is YES.)

"It's not that big, I don't think," my mom texted me re: this cardboard spaceship. Lies! Such lies!

My mom was actually the one who had to go to the emergency room on Christmas eve. Her calf and ankle were swollen after she arrived on the train and kept getting worse so I insisted we go and check it out. "I Googled!" she protested. "It's nothing!" (Again with the lies!) I didn't even have to Google that one to know exactly what WebMD article would come up first. Never challenge a blogger to a Google-off, people. YOU WILL LOSE. GET IN THE CAR.

(Two ER visits and two ultrasounds later, it was diagnosed as a Sprain Of Mystery and not a blood blot.)

This family, right?

Ike spent the week acquiring eleventy billion new teeth, no exaggeration.

(Slight exaggeration: He now has seven. SEVEN.)

He also did more than his fair share of eating all the food. Parsnips, carrots, peas, zucchini, pears, yams, celery root with potato, green beans with mint, a little Lobster Thermidor a Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provencale manner with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle pate, brandy and with a fried egg on top and spam.

OMG IT'S THE CATERPILLAR I BARFED ON IN THE STORE THAT TIME NO WAY U GUYS.

After Christmas the second wave of family arrived, including my five-year-old nephew, so the real feats of strength could commence. And the beatings. And the "stop that, you guys, stop that, somebody's going to get hurt, stop that."

(THUMP.)

(WAAAIIIIILLLLLLLS.)

(REPEAT.)

I think someone said something to me about "wow, I guess this is what it would be like with three boys" before it registered on their face that OH RIGHT THE BABY. But I may have imagined that comment because you know what it's like with three boys? Drunk. All the time. As much as possible. 

(Kidding.)

(It's mostly full of stuff like this.)

Anyway! It's good to be back, little blog! But now I must be off because I promised the kids we'd go bowling one more time before school starts tomorrow. Then I have to get ready for another IEP meeting this week and lose 20 pounds of pâte à choux-related ass. I know. So much excitement going on with this rockstar lifestyle of ours, it's incredible that I can even find the time to type it all out sometimes. 

Weekend Things From All The Things

Weekend Thing One:

Another three months, another belt test.

Another hilarious ("HILARIOUS") and obligatory video of the board-breaking moment and belt ceremony, during which Noah was specifically, personally warned -- upon penalty of FAILING -- not to touch his board or bring it up to the front, which he always does, because...well, have you ever broken a damn board with your foot? Me neither. I imagine I'd probably glue that thing onto a fascinator and then never take it off, just to warn people not to mess with me, I WILL BREAK YOUR ARM OFF AND USE IT AS A CHIN STRAP FOR THIS HERE HAT, M'KAY?

Anyway. Noah obediently placed his board next to him and put his hands back on his knees while other students were called up to receive their new belts. And then Jason and I watched as he sl-o-o-w-ly started losing focus and succumbing to the siren call of Shit To Fidget With and picked his board back up.

"NOAH, NOAH!" you can hear Jason and I frantically hissing from behind the camera. "PUT YOUR BOARD DOWN. NOAH, NOAH! NO BOARD DUDE, NO BOARD!"

Our whispers got increasingly desperate (read: loud) with each kid's name and finally he turned around and heard us, just in time to put it down and head to the front for his belt. 

"OH MY GOD," I groaned, even though I really meant "HOLY FUCKBALLS." But I did not say that, because honestly? Noah's karate teacher scares the hell out of me, too, so I try to stay on my best behavior.

***

Weekend Thing Two:

So babies are, obviously, born with the ability to somehow KNOW that their parents have bragged about what good sleepers they are. Even if it's nothing more than a Facebook status update, they KNOW that you have broken the code and invited the wrath and eaten something from the table with That Thing With Eyeballs In Its Palms From Pan's Labyrinth. They will wake up seventeen dozen times that very night and there's nothing you can do about it. You asked for it, you big dummy. 

I was totally betting it might work in the reverse when I called Ike out for being a crap sleeper last week. Maybe, JUST MAYBE, his instinct to Prove Mama Wrong All The Time could be tricked! "Oh, you think I'm a terrible sleeper? Well, look at me! Look at me sleep! Don't you feel silly now?"

(Or alternately: "Oh, you think THAT was terrible? HA HA HA I'M GOING TO WAKE UP EVERY 15 MINUTES FOR NO REASON AT ALL.")

Back in the days when Ike was a mostly pretty good sleeper, his bedtime originally settled around 9 pm. Late, yes, but it was nice because I could help get The Other Two into bed before getting called up to Boob Duty, and Jason could squeeze in some baby cuddle time that didn't involve The Other Two dive-bombing Ike's face over and over and over because Baby Ike! Baby Ike! Baby Ike! He's so cute! We want to hug his neck with a vengeance!

Eventually it was clear that 9 pm was entirely too late and he was going to pieces by then, so we tried edging it up. But then there was his tendency to take a late, short catnap around 6:30ish, which yes, YES I KNOW, was not a good idea but it allowed me to get the stupid mac n' cheese on the table and the cocktails in the shaker, so I went with it. But the nap wasn't long enough to really count as sleep and yet was just enough to take the edge off for a few hours, at which point Ike would lose his shit when he went from zero to massively overtired in a span of a few minutes.

We tried an 8:30 bedtime, then 8, and even a 7:30. Still hideous. I tried getting him to take a nap earlier, at a more appropriate time. Swaddling, no swaddling. Adding an extra, post-boob bottle. Same result: A screechy, exhausted baby who would not put himself to sleep without maximum sturm und drang, and who would, at best, sleep fitfully all night, with lots of wakings and irritation, until finally conking out good and cold at...oh, 5 am? Maybe 6? HOW'S THAT WORK FOR YOU? 

But now it's looking increasingly like we just hadn't moved his bedtime up early enough. That 6:30 "nap" was actually him trying to tell us to knock that shit off and put him to bed already. 

So now Ike's bedtime routine kicks off Early Bird style...by 6:15 he's in the bath, by 6:30 he's changed and lotioned and strapped into his Nighttime Battle Armor Diaper, and then we rock and nurse and sing for a little bit and he's out like a light by 7 pm. 

And on four out of the last five nights, I haven't heard a peep from him until 7 am.

Oh the fifth night, he woke up once, at 3:30. I nursed him and he went back down within 15 minutes. I sense that waking was a warning because I think he somehow knew that I was thinking about writing this post. 

HA HA CHILD I STILL HAVE LEARNED NOTHING. I WILL PUT YOU TO BED AT FOUR PM IF I HAVE TO, THEN GO OUT FOR A $6.99 STEAK DINNER IN BOCA. 

Weekend Thing Three: 

Ezra left this for me in my phone's photo library. I...I don't know what it is, but it is oddly reminiscent of a Top Chef Quickfire challenge, no? 

Ezra Storch, your Next Top Iron Chef Food Network Chopped Star From Hell's Kitchen Challenge

You Should Have Seen The Other Guy

We bought our Christmas tree this weekend, which was terribly! exciting! because 1) it was the first year Noah did NOT wig completely out over the idea that we needed to transport the tree on the roof of our car, so we got to all go as a family instead of Jason picking a tree out and sneaking it in while I kept Noah distracted and/or placated with lies about how yes, Daddy TOTALLY let the tree ride inside the car, properly buckled safely in the passenger seat, and 2) Ezra got into a drunken fist fight over a blue spruce and the basket of free miniature candy canes. 

The fist fight was with a slippery, tree-sap-covered patch of pavement.

The pavement totally got his, if you know what I'm saying. He'll think twice next time before messing with a three-year-old and his candy canes, for sure. 

I asked Ezra to tell me his side of the story, just so I could add another movie clip to the now epic-lengthed documentary I'm working on entitled "ZERO FEAR, LESS SENSE: THE COMPLEAT EZRA STORCH INJURY COMPENDIUM EXPERIENCE." (Look for a screening at a wedding reception in the distant future near you!) What resulted was three utterly charming minutes of Life With This Kid as he discussed his injury, holiday decorating and demonstrated feats of strength. 

I'm sorry, but I simply must inflict this on you, Internet. Happy Festivus!

 

All Blogs Are Hideous At Age Eight. It's Quite Normal.

Oh my God, you guys, this blog is eight years old today.

Eight years, I have been blabbering on about whatever it is I blabber on about. No wonder I'm running about of things to say. Can't I just tell the volcano story again? Or the oven fire or the bird or Newark and also luggage cart? Could I perhaps start a business selling ready-made birth stories for today's busy modern momblogger who is too busy writing sponsored product reviews to deal with the whole messy, overwrought emo side of the business? 

Eight years. I was in my 20s, in the city, in an office, in heels. I am currently in none of those things. Now it is: 30s, suburbs, work-from-home-bed-nest, bedroom slippers.

(Though I still own all the heels. I'm just more apt to whine about them when I wear them.)

There's also that whole THREE BOY CHILDREN plot twist that happened along the way. The me of eight years ago would NEVER have seen that coming, and probably would have been a tad horrified at the prospect, which makes me want to point and laugh at her, because man, that uppity bitch totally had this coming. 

At the risk of sounding ancient as all hell and get off my virtual lawn-ish, it's really gobsmackily crazy how different the Internet is now. It was so...small, and yet wildly exciting huge and untamed and new. I didn't even start a blog, I started an online journal. Because that meant you were more writerly, or at least longer-winded and less inclined to edit.

*puts on monocle and holds dainty teacup*

There were no ads or ad networks and the great Sell-Out debate centered around whether it was tacky to put an Amazon wishlist or PayPal button on your site. I had no idea how to handle drama or trolls or criticism or how to even be all that authentic. My early entries manage to be both embarassingly personal overshares and experiments in playing an online character. I was wildly excited to realize that people were reading and commenting and linking, and then I'd go home for the holidays and my dad would advise me to stop wasting my time entertaining my dumb friends online and get back to you know, real writing. 

Anyway, blah blah blah different time new world blogging-as-viable-career-path-cakes. Let me get back to what's really important, to what defines this blog-thing now, eight years and probably millions of run-on sentences later: GROSS STORIES ABOUT BABIES AND WHY BABIES ARE GROSS.

1) We took the boys to see The Muppets on Wednesday. Mini-review: Super-duper fun and awesome, especially for grown-ups, but perhaps about 15-20 minutes too long for little kids. That last quibble was perfectly evidenced by Ezra, who -- during the last of about three quietly emotional turning points in the movie where somebody learns something about the value of friendship -- decided to shriek I GOTTA GO POOP at the top of his lungs. 

2) Then we came home and I was playing with Ike on the couch, lifting him up in the air and making goofy faces at him, like mo-oooo-ooooom, you're so lame and embarassing, and he chose that exact moment to remind me that we are NOT fully past the days of the turbohork and yes, I am using my blog's eighth anniversary post to tell you about the time my baby barfed on my face and it got in my mouth. What of it? BEHOLD, MY LIFE'S WORK. IT IS RICH WITH MEANING AND PURPOSE BUT CLEARLY NEEDS MORE FART JOKES.

(Eight years and counting and I still haven't bothered to learn Photoshop.)

(And as God is my witness I probably most likely never will, because bleh.)

Overhung

NOTE FROM THE MANAGEMENT: Please direct any complaints about the lameness of this post (and I assume there will be multiple)to my husband, who decided it would be fun to make me a margarita at 11 pm last night, even though he KNOWS that tequila and I broke up over a decade ago for a very good reason, and that very good reason is that tequila likes to wake me up at 4 in the morning by clubbing me in the face with a two-by-four. 

Besides getting my ass kicked by a single mean-drunk cocktail, I am also running low on things to talk about. Seven other blog deadlines in addition to my regularly-scheduled freak-outs right here are fine and manageable some weeks. Other weeks I'm all panting and crazy-eyed by Friday, like OH MY GOD I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT BREASTFEEDING ANYMORE. (Seriously, though, it does come up a lot. Exhibit A, and B, and a totally cheaty C.)

TL;DR version: HERE ARE SUM PITCHERS I TOOK WITH MAH PHONE. SHUT UP, I'M TIRED.

School picture time! This is, without a doubt, Noah's best showing in a school portrait. While I am of course majorly biased in my belief that he is an incredibly handsome child, I have to admit that there is something about school pictures that transform him into a slightly demonic-looking gooberface. 

There's a big trend among this portrait companies to shoot in front of a green screen now so parents can select from a variety of cheesy-looking backgrounds. I geninely think they're missing out on an opportunity by not offering something like this one. 

And then there's THIS KID, who looked so absolutely adorable in the one-inch photo preview the portrait company sent home that I was POWERLESS to resist buying a super-expensive portrait package with a gazillion and one wallets, but who I JUST NOW NOTICED managed to dribble some kind of bright red liquid all down the front of his shirt. (Way to go, preschool! You apparent bunch of rookies.) He also has a band-aid on his arm, just to complete the "Don't Let The Vest Fool You, I Am A Fan Of Bar Fights" look and feel of the whole thing. 

Here's Ike, who we all know by now has two basic expressions: Schmoopy glee or WTF IS THIS SHIT, MILK LADY. 

Here's my makeup-less self showing Ezra how to use the Incredibooth app. 

And here's why that may have been a mistake.

I'm deleting about 20 of these A DAY, at least.

Also a daily occurrence: me attempting to get "fancy" with the morning sunlight, resulting in streaky, blurry photos of my baby's giant head.

YOU KNOW WHO'S REALLY ANNOYING? THE CAT. HE'S ALWAYS TRYING TO SNUGGLE WITH ME AND GET ME TO PET HIM EVEN THOUGH I MOSTLY JUST PULL ON HIS EARS BECAUSE HE'S JUST SO DAMN NEEDY AND...

He's...totally right behind me, isn't he? Crud. 

 

Aaaaaaannnnd that's all I've got. Time to go parent through a hangover, because I am a winner and an awesome grown-up and also a noted Internet parenting columunist who knows ALL THE THINGS, except how to see through my husband's transparent attempt to get laid and ruin my Friday.