Q. Why can't I comment on your post? Were there idiots? Did you close comments because of idios? Where are the idiots? I will totally beat up those idiots. A. No, noooo! No idiots. Nothing but hundreds of wonderfully kind, understanding and helpful comments. I think my lack of a post title freaked something out and sent the sidebar down to where the comments should be and basically I broke the webbityblog and it's all my fault and I AM A COLOSSAL FAILURE WAAAAHH. Q. Uhh. A. I am kidding. Obviously, this is all Denis Leary's fault. Q. Soccer. SOCCER? A. AH KNOW, RIGHT? We thought we were signing him up for a little "run around the room for 45 minutes after lunch like lunatics and maybe practice kicking balls and then come home and take a reeeeeallly good nap for Mama" thing. And that's what it seemed like in the fall, when he went, and he loved it. Soccer was seriously the one thing we could get him to talk about. But then, without telling us they changed things up and were TEACHING soccer, as an ORGANIZED SPORT. To three-year-olds. Good luck with that, bitchcakes. The big thing, apparently,... Read more →

I told Noah's preschool that we were dropping his enrollment back down to three days a week. And that no, we would NOT be taking advantage of the whole $50 early-bird re-registration option for next year, thanks. And then I reminded them that my account should have a credit for the cost of the after-school soccer program. You know, the one they kicked him out of. It felt...ugh. Yeeshh. Uhggzzzaaaaa. I can't seem to spell the sound I'm making right now. It felt like...colossal failure? Maybe? Not by Noah, of course, but by us, for making such a poor decision about his school in the first place. And by them, for telling me when I registered that they were familiar and capable of handling Noah's needs, and then proceeding to be unable or unwilling to make ANY allowances or adaptations for him. (Seriously. Kicked out of a soccer class for three-year-olds. Because apparently the point of the class is to really learn the rules of soccer and how to dribble and pass properly and Noah...wanted to run around the room? And kick the soccer ball wherever he wanted to kick the soccer ball? Dear Lord, you'd think he was still... Read more →

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... Read more →

Okay. So. THANK YOU. I needed that. All of that. Especially the joke about the pirate's balls. Which I think got posted a good four or five times but all that did was prove that yes, IT'S STILL FUNNY because I laughed every time I read it. Although getting me to laugh didn't prove to be that hard, as actual official Laugh Out Loudage was achieved by the third comment. This one, by Margo: My cell phone had been missing since Jan 12. I found it on Wednesday! I found it in my purse. Seriously. I keep going back and rereading that, and laughing every time, because it's so perfect. Even the punctuation amuses me to no end. Margo, you are a goddamn comic genius. Go start a blog. Anyway. I am not so very sad today, and feel a little silly about it now, because I got myself into a funk over a little rookie mistake known as TOO MUCH GOOGLE. I needed to step away from the Google and the computer, and put my hands in the air like the contestants on Top Chef do when Padma screams TIME'S UP! KNIVES DOWN! STEP AWAY FROM THE UNCLE BEN'S... Read more →

I'm kind of blue. But I'm kind of not in the mood to talk about it. Yet. (Everything's totally fine, though, promise. Just motherhood and worry and my sweet little Noah and my stupid little feeeeeeeeelings but I think it's better if I just shut up about it, for once, for now.) But still. I'm sad, a little. Say something funny. Read more →

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... Read more →

(A work in progress) (New verses added nightly) (Sung to the tune of "On Top of Old Smokey") (And whatever, like people on American Idol write their own songs or anything EITHER) High-maintenance baaaaby, Why won't you sleep? When you stay up all night, You're kind of a creep. High-maintenance baaaaby, Why do you cry? You're fed, changed and swaddled, What the eff else can I try? High-maintenance baaaaby, Why do you sob? You're making me look very inept at my job. High-maintenance baaaaby, Why do you fuss? Something something something. Duck-billed platypus. High-maintenance baaaaby, Wants nothing but boob. And play World of Warcraft, And go pwn some noobs. High-maintenance baaaaby, All covered in cheese. I'm going to eat you. I'll start with your knees. Read more →

Well, NOW how am I supposed to get anything done, ever? Yeah, this blogging thing was fun and all but TICKLISH BABY GIGGLES YUM GOTTA GO BYE. (This is technically the second time I got him to laugh. The night before I coaxed some giggles by screaming "GRILLED CHEEEEEESE!!!!" right in his face.) (What?) Read more →

Let me back up and expand on something that I talked about yesterday, because nothing makes for a more exciting blog post than a story that you already know the ending to. It happened a few weeks ago, when I was still staying at my parents' house, on the night before my dad's surgery*. My mom had returned to the hospital after dinner for one last private visit. I was alone in the house with two children, my dog and my mom's three cats, cleaning up the kitchen after yet another successful Crock Pot meal (seriously, yo, I rock the Crock). Noah was watching WALL*E; Ez was on a quilt on the floor and completely enraptured by the ceiling fan. The movie came to a scene where alllllll the little future babies go sliiiiiding across the slanting deck of the ship -- a scene that always causes a brief fit of alarm for Noah. (SPOILER: EVERYBODY DIES AND IS EATEN BY ROBOTS.) He asked to give Baby Brother a hug. Awwww, I thought. He wants to make sure HIS baby is okay! How sweet! I gently propped Ezra in the chair next to Noah and, with my Sappy Preshus Family... Read more →

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... Read more →