What's Black & White &...aw man this sucks

Well, which IS it, Cereal Box? WHICH IS IT?

Not all black and white? Or pretty black and white. YOU CAN'T HAVE IT BOTH WAYS. STOP TOYING WITH ME. 

Especially in light of the National Zoo's devastating loss of the newborn panda cub this weekend. Which: No joke or snark, I am UPSET. I am feeling genuine feelings of feelingsosity and I don't like it. This goes against every word I've ever written about The Fucking Zoo and how it Fucking Sucks because it's Outside and Full Of Nature and Pooping Things and also Uphill In Every Possible Direction. But there it is. I am really terribly sad and bummed about the poor tiny wittle baby panda and the poor sad mama panda and DAMMIT, NATURE. YOU REALLY ARE THE WORST.

Also the worst: Me, for deciding to tell Noah about the baby panda yesterday morning, while he pondered the above cereal box and asked questions about pandas and hey! Speaking of pandas! There's a brand-new miracle panda baby at the zoo that we can maybe go see in a couple months!

And of course Noah — since he is NOT a bitter jaded Zoo-person like his mother who thinks the pandas are kind of overrated and not worth the line because they just SIT THERE and chew on leaves while the tourists are all OMFG PANDAS PANDAS PANDAS — thought this sounded excellent! Very exciting! Can we go today? Tomorrow? Today? 

I totally jinxed that poor baby panda and I feel terrible about it. And now I have to decide between telling my child the truth or inventing a cover story about how the baby panda went to go live on a nice big wide-open bamboo farm in China. 

***

Ugh. This is too depressing for a Monday. Let's look at some pictures instead, from earlier in the weekend when life was happy and fun and baby pandas lived forever.

BONUS OF WHAT THE ACTUAL LIVING HELL, STOP THAT RIGHT NOW, NOT-SO-BABY IKE:

My Internet Crashed Three Times While Typing This Post. I Think It May Be a Sign.

Well, let me tell you WHAT; it has been a seriously exciting 24 hours around here. I mean, by blogging standards. Okay, by THIS BLOG'S standards. 

You know what? Shut up. Forget I said anything. 

Part Excitement The First: I lost my wallet for 27 whole minutes. Twenty-seven excruciating minutes, during which I ran around the house like a panicked flappy loon while Jason called a pizza restaurant I sorta kinda thought maybe I paid for the check and so maaaaaybe I left it on the table? But he asked them if they found a "clutch-purse" and of course they hadn't found a "clutch-purse" and so I hollered at him from two rooms over (where I was re-digging through my purse for the millionth time because WALLETS DON'T JUST SPROUT LEGS AND WALK) that no, IT WASN'T A CLUTCH-PURSE, IT'S A WALLET. A WALLLLLLLL-ET.

He hung up without clarifying and stared at me. "What's the difference? It's not there."

"HOW DO YOU KNOW IT'S NOT THERE," I countered. "You called it a 'clutch-purse.' The results are invalid."

"Amy, do you really think they would say, hmmm, we did find that orange wallet that no one's claimed yet, but this guy's asking about an orange clutch-purse. That's two completely different things! Probably shouldn't even mention it!"

"They might! Because they are two different things! Although I don't think 'clutch-purse' is actually something people even say but oh wait look here's my wallet never mind."

It was in the foyer under the shoe rack, next to some Legos. 

Part Excitement The Second: Baby Ike literally quadrupled in size. LITERALLY. 

And he's already getting a headstart on the next growth spurt, with some incredibly tippy-toe balance.

Part Excitement The Third: Back-to-School Night. The always-thrilling experience of getting to perch half a buttcheek on a teeny tiny chair for 45 minutes wishing all the other parents would stop being so goddamned INVOLVED and ENTHUSIASTIC and QUESTION-ASKING-Y because c'mon! We could have left 15 minutes ago! You're ruining recess! Let's bail before she changes her mind and gives us homework!

This was Noah's note to us this year:

Dear Mom Dad,

You are so special because you AlWAYS bRiNe Me to rESturanTS.

Love,

NOAH

Damn skippy, you little pickle. AND DON'T YOU EVER FORGET IT.

 

Little Boys All in a Row

People, this happened. This happened and I need to thoroughly document that this happened.

Because it will probably never happen again for at least another three years.

All three of them!

Sitting together! 

For multiple willing minutes! Making physical skin-to-skin contact without howling about being pinched or bothered or mortally wounded by their brother's knee because it's touching me and it burnsssss! IT BURRRNNNNSSSSS!!!!

Sure, they are obviously deep into video-stare mode. On a school night. Fine.

(They are watching Ratatouille in speshul celebration of Noah eating pork tenderloin and mashed sweet potatoes and LIKING THEM BOTH, OMG. Because Remy taught him that it's okay to taste things together and he's suddenly been all "cheeseburgers! steak! things with sauce on them!")

(And yes, Ezra donned an apron for the occasion.) 

(Ike's all, meet me on the holodeck, ladieeeezzz.)

WHATEVER. POINT IS, my multiple children sat together long enough for me to frantically take multiple photos of them before...

Crap. I've been spotted.

The hamming-it-up-for-the-cameras has begun and...

Gotta go rescue baby before Extreme Hugging To The Exxxtreme devolves further into wrastling and screaming. 

BRB.

Port Chaos

I feel like we're maybe starting to get our sea legs back, a little bit, when it comes to taking our herd of children out into the world. The addition of a third baby was no big thang at first, back when he was more like an easily-portable, wearable meatloaf. We could still go places and do things — one of us could strap the baby on our back and we'd each take responsibility for one other child. (Though we definitely had our fair share of BUT I THOUGHT YOU HAD EZRA ZOMG moments.)

But now Ike is a third wholly-formed child; a third independent sentient mobile walking/running vulnerable disaster area. Now it's zone defense. It's taking calculated risks that Noah doesn't need constant monitoring on the playground or is continuing to walk behind us at the aquarium, or that Ezra will stay put at the front of a store for five goddamn minutes if you hand him an iPhone. With Ike, you cannot take such risks. Turn your back on him and he'll have found something disgusting to eat on the floor OR have managed to pull over a jewelry display and leave you on the hook for the world's ugliest broken piece-of-shit plastic necklace that still costs EIGHTY FUCKING SIX DOLLARS.

(True story!) 

But still! We try! We took the kids to a children's museum yesterday and had an AMAZING time, but oh sweet baby cashew Jesus, it was exhausting. I lost Ezra three times. I went 20 minutes without a Noah sighting as he disappeared deep within a tree-story treehouse. I carried Ike up and down flights of stairs and chased him around hallways and exhibits, and at one point sat in front of a woman dressed like Mother Goose who was singing me (and only me) a song because all the babies (including mine) had lost interest and crawled away but I didn't want to be rude. 

I finally excused myself because Ike climbed on top of a bench and was throwing blocks at a nearby pack of non-mobile floor-infants. 

Jason and I took turns so we each got to do one exhibit one-on-one with each individual kid. I took Noah through a puzzle house and let Ezra cook me lunch at a play diner.

I'm not sure Jason tolerated a sit-down with the Lonely Mother Goose Lady, though. I think his designated Ike Activity involved an empty hallway. Ike went APESHIT over that awesome, mind-blowing hallway, man.

After the museum, we celebrated the usual way, with mediocre tourist-trap food, eaten in an exhausted, glazed-over manner. And Ike demonstrated his new favorite communication technique:

Your Offers Exhaust Him from amalah on Vimeo.

A Million Tiny Onesies

Okay, so this is random and possibly a little creepy, but are any local readers out there currently expecting a baby boy?

Because...

I have somehow mysteriously managed to acquire a metric buttload of baby boy clothing over the years. 

The plan was to pass most of it along to a friend of mine who was pregnant, but she had a girl. Then another friend got pregnant but SHE'S having a girl. Everybody everywhere, with the girls. I guess it's because I HOGGED ALL THE BOYS. THE UNIVERSE IS TAPPED OUT OF PENISES. Sorry, ladies.

(Okay, that's kind of a lie. I did have one friend who had a boy last winter. And I was all, "I SHALL GIVE YOU ALL THE CLOTHES!" But that was before everything was sorted and boxed up all neatly-like and it turned out I was way, WAY too disorganized to make that promise.)

(And also emotionally unprepared, as I got predictably sentimental and hoard-y about the newborn clothing. The pile of "special" and "meaningful" outfits kept growing and growing, as I suddenly couldn't bear the thought of parting with a single itty-bitty Circo-brand onesie or factory-outlet footie sleeper. I feel more ready now. Kind of. Mostly because I keep tripping over the goddamn boxes.)

(Also because Jason won't let me put them up in the attic "just in case." JUST IN CASE HIS ASS, AMY. WE'RE DONE.)

(Just don't tell him about the box of newborn cloth diaper supplies I've hidden in the back of the closet. NOBODY IS GETTING THEIR MITTS ON MAH ABSURDLY TINY DIAPERZ.)

Anyway, before I just donate the whole lot of it, I figured I'd float the offer out: I literally have mountains of hand-me-downs here, covering most sizes and seasons. (Noah and Ezra were early-fall babies, so June-born Ike basically got an entirely new wardrobe his first year. The photo is everything from newborn to 12 months, but I expect to also have a stash of 12-18 month stuff available VERY SOON, FOR MY 15 MONTH OLD IS GIGANTIC.) It's all clean and in very good condition, though our local consignment shops would surely turn their noses up at the non-fancy-pants brands, WHATEVER. I'd just kind of like to know someone is USING it, you know? Need a snowsuit? Carseat bunting? Onesies? Jammies? Overalls and dress shirts and some stupid-tiny bathing suits? A full collection of every Trumpette sock ever made?

If you can arrange to meet me somewhere in the near-ish vicinity (and promise not to murder me and stuff), shoot me an email (amy @ amalah.com) and we'll talk. Tawk, even. 

(Likewise, if anyone in the area is looking to unload winter boys' clothing in the size 6/7 range, ME! ME! RAISES HAND! PICK ME!)

(Metric buttloads of hand-me-downs and yet he's almost always naked and baby-beefcake. That's some good Alanis-Morissette-definition irony right there.)

UPDATE: Aaaaaand done. I think. For the most part. Assuming everybody actually takes everything they've requested, I'm fresh outta baby clothes. Absolutely thrilled everything will get put to good, loving use, and especially all touched and mushy that the majority of the clothes are going to families who REALLY EXTRA MEGA NEED THEM. You guys are good friends and good people.

If you have baby clothes of your own to give away, I highly recommend scanning the comments section for some excellent charity/donation ideas. (Which have made me realize it's ALSO time to stop hoarding my maternity stuff and pass that along as well.)

Baby vs. Ocean

We're back. Back to real life and all the procrastinating that comes with it (laundry! school orientations! haircuts! who needs shoes/pants/respectable-looking-underwear/etc.), which means oh hi look I got you some baby pictures.

Much like McKayla Maroney, Baby Ike is not impressed. Nice try, Delaware. But I've been to Aruba.

Wait. Hold up. 

WHAT JUST HAPPENED YOU GUYS

Whoa. That was kind of a thing.

(And! Then!)

ERMAHGERD

AH MAH GAH

Bring it, ocean.

And that's how Baby Ike spent his summer vacation. Just like that, over and over and over again, I don't care if you're tired and want to sit down, keep me in the magic water place with the squishy floor all day. 

While You Were Sparkling

So I was going to write about Sparklecorn today and how it all went down. Picture nine straight hours of rolling anxiety attacks...several honest-to-God crying jags alongside the ladies of the CheeseburgHer party... the prospect of partying in the equivalent of a flourescent-lit produce aisle at Wal-Mart...begging for decorating help via text, email, Twitter, a bullhorn on Times Square...a cake that got stuck in traffic...missing keys to electrical boxes...getting personally singled out and screamed at by the first irate party guest who walked in the door (because we started late) and crying again because oh my God I'm all sore muscles and exposed nerve endings, stop yelling at me, YOU KNOW THE USUAL. 

But then I looked at the first batch of photos and all that bullshit up and fell right out of my brain. I can barely remember a minute of it now. You guys are just that pretty, I guess. 

***

This bullshit, on the other hand:

I don't know what this child ate while we were away, but look at him. Standing there, reorganizing the spice rack. On his LEGS. 

BOY LEGS. With kneecaps and shit, instead of gnocchi-chub-pillows. 

He's walking everywhere now, officially, picking up more and more speed by the minute. Talking too, or at least trying to. "Eat? Buh? Eh? Cat? Meh? Yite? Gog?" 

If you guess incorrectly at what he's trying to say he will give you a withering look and sigh. "Hmmphf" apparently translates to "I pity your feeble brain, but I believe I asked for some Cheerios. Chop chop."

(Though I'm getting pretty good at understanding this age: today I asked him if he was crying because he tried to taste an antibacterial wipe he found in my purse. He tried to deny it for awhile but I knew the truth.)

At least he still looks a couple years younger than Noah, right? Who is all, suddenly, six-going-on-12.

And Ezra is three-going-on-what-the-hell, weren't YOU just a baby five minutes ago?

Sigh. It's never going to stop, is it?

(I don't know who is more underwhelmed by that thought, me or Ike. MO-O-OOM!)

Unsung Milestones

Crawling, standing, walking, talking. All well and good.

But not nearly as delightful as the first time your baby picks up your hairbrush and starts dragging it across his downy-bald head.

Bonus points if he's never actually had enough hair to merit brushing, but has simply gleaned the purpose of the weird, spikey thing by watching you futilely groom yourself. 

Or puts your phone up to his ear — or general ear-like area — and says, "abloooh?"

"Ablooh? Sorry, I can't hear you. This hairbrush gets terrible reception. Lemme switch to the comb and call you back."

Or tries to make sense of a doorknob. He KNOWS what it does. He KNOWS it is the source of his confinement. And he KNOWS to grab it and...and...well. He'll get back to you once he figures out step two.

Bonus points for...well. No. No bonus points awarded for this. HE'S JUST A BABY STOP PRESSURING HIM TO BE BRILLIANT ALREADY. 

(Step three, of course, is: PROFIT!)

(And head injuries, probably.)

My Winning Formula: Talk Ramble Talkyspeak Unrelated Baby Picture

Man. Did I really only post two times this week? Did I really have that little say about the ENDLESSLY FASCINATING SUBJECT that is myself? Damn, I am losing my narcissistic grip, or something.

It's the week before BlogHer (and even more importantly, one week before SPARKLECORN 2012 OH HELL YEAH), and I'm doing my yearly routine of running around like a newly headless chicken trying to get everything done. It's REALLY HARD to get everything done when you have no head, guys. I really don't recommend it. 

I have so much to do! So many feelings about things that I feel!

Like: My Other Job is consuming my life, but in a good way. (And I'm not trying to be all secretive about it, for the record. I mean, find me on LinkedIn and it's all right there. It's more that it would probably bore y'all to tears, unless maybe you're in the IT field and super geeked about Azure and SharePoint development and hybrid cloud scenarios. Not that there's anything wrong with being geeked about those things. Those things are awesome, frankly. Fuck yeah hybrid cloud! Somebody start me a Tumblr!) So it's weird to suddenly ditch all that for a few days, to go from being some Sooper Professhunal Blog & Social Media Person to...well. That girl who climbed on a table and took bites of a giant unicorn cake's ass last year. 

Also like: I'm pretty sure the baby will wean while I'm gone and on the one hand, okay, he's gotten really extra bite-y this week and is losing interest anyway and my crap supply is crap with a side of double crap, but on the other hand, nooooooooooo. Wah. Etc. 

Anyway. He's still delicious. 

I chew on his face a lot, yes. His whole head is like a baked potato topped with downy spun sugar.

PS. Chalkboard wall protip, coming from someone who has been a chalkboard wall professional for all of five days now: You can completely and easily erase the chalk residue with Endust sprayed on a dry towel. Works like a charm, and also quickly, which is good for when you realize you left up a vaguely obscene doodle from the night before, right as your children are coming downstairs for breakfast. 

My Baby Does Not Care About My Need To Compulsively Document His Life On Teh Interwebz

Two things I have been trying (and failing) to get on video for the past five days for you people (and also posterity and stuff):

1) Baby Ike saying "uh oh!" This is his newest trick, and he loves it and it's adorrrrrrrable and etc. He says it constantly, but most often during the 30 seconds I've decided to turn my back on him, just for the added thrill of wondering if he's using it in the correct context this time because he's...yes, he's knocked over the Lego bin/my coffee/the pets' water dish. Faaaantastic. Uh-oh, indeed.

But the minute I stick the camera in his face he goes all serious and looks away, and I can practically SEE his little brain trying to figure out how to roll his eyeballs at me. So I've mostly ended up with a lot of stinkeye footage with a LOOK AT MAH BUTT finale. 

Yesterday, in the car, he joined in a singalong of Karmin's Brokenhearted (SHUT UP JUST SHUT UP), mimicking the "UH OHHHH" lyrics perfectly. I was delighted and put the song on repeat (DON'T YOU JUDGE MEEEE) so he would do it again and again, but then questioned the wisdom of this once Noah was all, "let's get up let's get on it" and then asked that I switch to the "Cookie Monster Song" which is actually Call Me Maybe (thanks to this video) and you know what? Let's just stop talking about the contents of my iPod already, okay? Let's just...stop. 

2) Baby Ike walking. Yes.

Okay, so I know he's technically just standing in these photos, but he IS walking. He took his first steps on Saturday, and we had witnesses and everything. It happened. It was real. And exceedingly wobbly.

(BTW, the sign that someone has definitely crossed the bridge of friendship into familyhood: When YOUR baby takes his first steps and SHE bursts into tears over it.)

I have yet to capture it on video, other than the one time he started to walk towards me and the camera and promptly fell headfirst onto the floor. With a brief yet spectacular collision with the coffee table on the way down. (THAT'S ONE FOR THE BIRTHDAY MONTAGE.)

I can't yet tell if his motivations are related to wanting to join his big brothers, or more of the I-need-to-get-myself-away-from-these-people variety.

Either way, shit just got real up in here. More real. Reallier real. Time to make good on my secret dreamy-dream to live in an oversized yurt furnished with nothing but upholstered ottomans. 

PS. So is he Just Ike now? Toddler Ike? No. He is Baby Ike. BABY IKE 4-EVAH. 

PPS. *sobs*