HIIT Bootcamp! aka Parenting

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Just when you think “hey, I think I’ve got this parenting thing down a bit, I’m going to make it” – WHAM! sleep regression hits you in the face with a 2×4 that has “dumbass” scrawled across it. 

Butters sucked at sleeping his first 4 months. Then things got better. Here and there he would have a hard time due to colds or teething or just being an asshole, but for the most part, he became a pretty good sleeper. Clearly he sensed that we were getting a bit too comfortable, or maybe he sensed we are trying for another baby. The past few weeks he has fought sleep like his crib is made of fire ants and sadness. We have his nice, quiet bedtime routine which he essentially gives the finger to and decides it’s wrestle-mania time. You can try all you want to give a 16 month old “quiet time” but nothing can still the monkey-on-a-trapeze filled circus that is going on in their head. As we head up to his room he points at all the items he passes and cheerily babbles and points, making himself just cute and sweet enough to ensure I don’t leave him in his crib and drive to the closest bar. The ironic part is, a little nightcap or maintaining my caffeine level usually is what gets me through times like these.  We implanted our second (and last) frozen embryo this past week so in case I do have a little poppyseed trying to grow inside of me, I cannot have any alcohol and have cut way back on caffeine. (Yes I have one cup of coffee. Please say some sanctimonious bullshit about it to my face. I’m injected full of hormones, it would be a fun conversation!) 

So at 1030pm, painfully sober and sooo tired, I am holding a wiggling 2’7, 31lb toddler until my arms start to shake or my back gives out. If I leave him in his crib to cry it out he screams MUCH louder and more melodramatically than when he was 7 months old. He has this guttural, warbling scream/cry he does to the point of spitting up. I enter his room to the smell of spit up and to see his red and swollen faced looking like I left him for dead. Then I start thinking, am I really trying to do this all over again with another baby? Am I insane?! Then I have a meltdown right along side my toddler. I figure it’s probably a bonding experience or something. 

 Hearing your child make any noise at night instantly jacks my heart rate up about 50 points. I get sweaty and anxious, anticipating the cry that is coming, signaling yet another sleepless night. Actually, parenting in general causes heart rate spikes pretty regularly. Isn’t this called HIIT? The high intensity interval training that is supposed to be the secret to an effective workout? I should have the body of Angelina Jolie by now! Calmly playing at the playground,heart rate a cool and calm 75, then BAM! Butters runs full speed into a post, heart rate 110! At the grocery store strolling down the aisle then BAM! toddler chucks his sippy cup at a strangers head and spits out all the banana chips in his mouth; heart rate jumps to 115. Hearing his soft babbling as he wakes up from a nap then BAM! You walk in and see everything in his crib smells like pomegranate from a brand new tube of Burts Bees chapstick he had tucked away and has eaten. Oh AND the cap is missing?! Heart rate spikes to 130. 

I know this sleep regression phase will pass, I may even chuckle about it over drinks someday….Until then, if you hear on Fox News that an Oregon woman and her husband were hauled away by child protective services due to blood curdling screams and repeated hysterical crying coming from their house, please be a character witness and tell them it was just sleep regression and my kid was just being a dramatic dick. Dick can be your word, you should probably tell them I only refer to him with such monikers as “angel face”, “sweet cupcake frosting” and “life’s blessing that I’ve never second guessed for a split second”. Maybe have your hair in rollers and half a cigarette hanging from your mouth, that shit sells on the news. 

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Lowered expectations 

More sickness. I’ve come to the conclusion that toddlers are made up of germs holding hands. Butters has discovered he can grab his diaper when I change him, which adds a whole new level of poop-flinging fun! As soon as the diaper comes off, his hand goes right to his wiener, so I’ve gotten pretty gun-slinger fast at wiping down his wrinkly little package as I’m taking his diaper off. 

When it comes to dealing with the various disgusting illnesses that we’ve had run through this house, my husband and I handle things quite differently. My husband, god love him, is a fixer. He wants to know what exactly caused this, assign a name to it, and then cure it. I, on the other hand, work in the medical field. I work around diseases and illness all day long and know that sick kids are inevitable (especially when they are around other kids often) and for the most part all you can do is treat the symptoms. Butters is puking? Damn, I will get towels, pedialyte and some peppermint to rub on his tummy. Meanwhile my husband is on Google saying things like “I”be narrowed it down to Listeria or Diptheria” or “it says here to check his capillary refill time”. What caused his vomiting? Who the hell knows. It’s a stomach virus, it will pass, all we can do is buy stock in Lysol wipes and hand soap. 

I always like planning outings to help make the day more interesting when Butters and I are home all day together. The latest was a morning walk to Starbucks. We will sit outside and have a little Butters and Mommy date. It will be glorious! Everyone will think “Oh what an adorable baby! Look at them having breakfast, what a good mom!” 

Of course it didn’t turn out that way. Starbucks is about a mile from my house. Halfway there I realize that Butters has ripped off his pacifier and the clip that is supposed to keep it attached and flung off both socks. They are nowhere to be found. B is playing by putting his mouth on the tray of his stroller and then manages to slam his lip into it, resulting in him scream crying, red faced and snot all over. We arrive to Starbucks harried and disheveled. “Ok we made it! We can do this!” I think to myself. I order a kids whole milk, iced Americano and a bagel. The barista gets my simple order so wrong and keeps asking “do you want whip cream on the kids chocolate milk?” Meanwhile Butters is in his stroller doing his monkey imitations, which sound like high pitch squeeling/grunting while pounding on his chest. Does it look like I want to give this kid sugar with whip cream on top? Do I look insane?! I want plain milk! No frills, just milk in a cup. No I don’t want ice, are you having a stroke?! A cup of fucking milk!!!!!!!!
I manage to keep my rage under the surface and we finally get our drinks and head out to the patio. It’s a nice sunny day, the dog is being good for once and laying down calmly by our table. I set out the squeezy and Cheerios I brought for Butters. He seems only interested in my bagel, so I give him a little piece and he spits it out looking disgusted. I try the squeezy next, which usually he loves. He seems to be gojng for it but has sneakily stored it all in his cheeks and then spits it out of his mouth Animal House style 

    

I hardly think anyone is looking on adoringly at this point. 

On the trek back home I search in vain for the lost pacifier and socks, (one of the few pairs of socks still intact, we have 17 singles forever waiting to find their sockmates) and find nothing. What the hell happened to these things in the past 20 minutes?! There is still litter here and there so I’m pretty sure someone didn’t pick them up thinking they were trash. At least I didn’t put his spendy new shoes on him this morning. We gained some and lost some with this excursion.

Lost: my pride, a pair of socks, pacifier and clip, and a bit of lip skin in the stroller face smashing mishap

Gained: some fresh air and vitamin D, a little exercise, and a valuable lesson about needing to lower my expectations if I am going to survive motherhood.

Later that week I have another grand idea. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, let’s have a nice dinner outside! Butters can eat and then play at his sand/water table while I have a leisurely dinner.Everything is set up. I’ve got a cold beer and music that isn’t nursery rhymes- yep, this will be great! Such a relaxing beautiful evening!

Two and a half minutes later Butters’ dinner is on the ground after he chucked it without even tasting it. The dog is licking corn off of his legs.

Wyatt throws sand into the water side, on the ground, in his hair and then eats a good handful. Unplugs the drain of the water table (god knows how, I had a hell of a time getting it in there) and then squeals with delight as he windshield wipers the water that is now on the patio. Soaking wet and covered in sand. The dog has sausage and corn on her back. All the sand table toys are thrown out onto the lawn. Butters is playing with a puddle, a soggy leaf and the water table drain plug, having a great ole time. 

Fuck it. I lower my expectations significantly and sit back and enjoy my beer. See? I am very slowly learning!
 

Sensory activites and dog dropping fun 

     

So my living room looks like this right now. And I’m drinking wine from a baby bottle pinky up because I’m fancy. Backstory: Kris didn’t drink the wine he poured last night, the good friend to wine I am, I couldn’t just pour it out, what better small storage container with a tight fitting lid? And since my living room is a disaster, why dirty another glass? #straightfromthebottle #thuglife #parenting
  
I shared the above pictures and caption on Facebook earlier this week. What I failed to mention was that I didn’t put the wine back into the bottle because 

#1 I somehow don’t own a funnel, and #2 because the wine came from a box. 

Yes, I am super classy like that. Now before you judge, it was a Malbec Bota Box, not Franzia. I do have some standards. Here’s the thing; I used to drink wine maybe 4 times a week before baby. Now it is a glass (goblet, jug, stein) every night. A Bota box is $17 on sale. That is FOUR bottles of wine for $17!!! I call that being fiscally responsible. Suze Orman would be so proud!

Over the past weekend my house has been a shit storm. Literally. I worked Saturday- Monday and Butters and Kris were home with a GI bug from hell. I walked in to the house Sunday night and the smell of vomit hit me like a punch in the face. I had today off and thankfully Wyatt was feeling better so I was able to start cleaning up the disaster left from the weekend. I’ve never done so much laundry in my life. On the plus side, we saved quite a bit on groceries because the boys didn’t eat anything but pedialyte and saltines for 3 days. Gotta look at the bright side of things.

So today, my day off before another few days of work. The full day ahead alone with Butters looms ahead. Of course I love spending time with him, but the day can get long and monotonous, especially in crappy weather. I looked at Pinterest and see “101 activities to do with your toddler”. 

Paint with yogurt (horrid idea. This occurs everytime I feed him yogurt. It’s not fun)

Play dress up (don’t most kids HATE getting dressed? Mine certainly does)

Blow bubbles (good idea! We did this, then Butters grabbed and licked the bubble wand and liked it)

The idea post then goes over a variety of sensory activities “fill a bucket with beans and Tupperware.” I picture cleaning up beans that would undoubtedly be flung in every direction. No thanks. Wyatt does sensory activies at daycare. I figure that is what we pay them for and the trade off for Wyatt having come down with every single communicable disease this year. While I’m thinking of ways to entertain my kid I notice it’s awfully quiet. I find him in the kitchen, hands deep in the dog food bowl. He has so lovingly moved all the dry dog food into the water dish and is mashing it around and then painting the floor with it windshield wiper style. If that’s not a sensory activity I don’t know what is! Parenting win! 

It looks like the rain may wait until afternoon so I pack Butters into the car and head to the craft store. Fingerpaints, big pad of paper and triangle crayons for his chubby hands to grip easier. We get home and I setup shop outside on the patio. Fingerpaints, paper, towels and a bucket of water for rinsing and “water painting” (Pinterest idea!). With blue paint squirted onto the paper like an electric blue pile of bird poop, I stick Butters’ hand in it and slide it around the paper. I do it too, “see Buddy? Isn’t this fun?” He doesn’t seem to give two shits. I’m busy making fingerprints around his handprint as he’s crawling off. “Let’s add red paint, red is a fun color! Look this is RED and this is BLUE!” I can feel his brain firing more synapses already. Such an educational activity! I’m such a good mom! Wait where is Butters? He has crawled off into the grass and has found a pile of fresh dog poop that he is squishing in his toes. I guess it’s bathtime. Maybe when he’s napping I will make a Pinterest board called 

“Free sensory activites around the house!” 

*Fun with dog poop! 

*Dog food painting! 

*Mashing peas into your hair during lunch! 

*Have them roll around a piece of dog kibble in their mouth. Join in! Does it have the same mouth feel as human food? 

*Let them help load the dishwasher! They can lick the inside of the dishwasher door, all those drippings from dirty dishes, yum! See what kind of bacterial infection they get!

*Let them rifle through the garbage can!

*Let them spit up on the floor and then fingerpaint with it!

Finally Kris gets home, we make dinner and eat as a family around the table. Hahahaha! That last sentence was a joke. Wyatt spit his food out and looked disgusted at the dinner I made. Kris ate as I pleaded with Wyatt to eat his damn food. Ending with me eating last and Wyatt having a yogurt, which I should have just started with. Why bother with the food groups? Peas, Rice puffs, yogurt and occasionally a banana is all he will eat. Actually, peas are a veggie, and I just read somewhere that they have tons of protein! Rice puffs are pretty void of any nutritional value, we’ll count them as a grain. Yogurt covers dairy and banana is a fruit. Bam! Food pyramid covered!

Butters has learned to blow kisses. I can’t be upset with him even for a nano second now because this is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. After dinner Butters gets into the trash (he’s obsessed with the damn trash can!) Narrowly misses breaking his face as he climbs the hearth. Tries to ride the dog. Bath time (again), teeth brushed and bed. We have survived another day!



Butters turns one

 

 I’m quite behind on my posts lately. Pretty much sums up every other area of my life as well. To sum up the past few months; coldpocalypse 2015 is still in full force, we did have a handful of days that were fever, snot, cough, and rash free. Glorious days they were.  I’ve convinced myself that since Butters has had roughly 27.3 viruses this fall/winter then it is proof that he is an overachiever. He’s working his way through the long list of childhood viruses all in his first year. Then there are other days when I think surely there is something wrong and that he probably has some major undiscovered disease that is causing him to catch every virus within 200 miles. 

In other news, he can now make a piece of beef jerky his bitch. This kid has 16 teeth. He is one. 16 TEETH! All that is left to come in are his 2yr molars. For dinner now we just toss him a steak and he’s good to go.

Butters is walking. This just happened this week. He’s been taking a step or two here and there for a couple weeks. This week he realized the power and fun of it and is getting increasingly brave. He looks drunk. It’s pretty adorable. I really want to wrap a scarf around his head, put some jewelry and black eyeliner on him, and film him looking like a wee little Jack Sparrow aka Keith Richards. 

Butters is less than talented and gifted when it comes to speech. He “talks” plenty, but it sounds like how I imagine an Ewok would sound. (I’m sure the Ewoks did make sound, I can’t remember exactly what it sounded like, feel free to roll your eyes at my lack of Star Wars knowledge). He chirps and chatters, says something that sounds like “dog” which he uses for everything. He does shake his head no while saying “no no no”. Clearly a word he’s heard a time or two. He may not say momma or dadda yet but he can moo and growl like a boss! Monkey noises? He’s got it down! As long as he is able to get his “moo” and “mamma” down without mixing them up I’m good. 

Last but not least, I now have a 1 year old! WTF?! When the hell did that happen? I still feel like the dazed, sleep deprived, clueless new mom. I still am, but I’ve had a year to get used to things and I still feel just as exhausted. I used to be a multi-tasking master. I loved hosting parties, planning out a menu, making sure all the guests had their drinks topped off as I made the rounds at the party. I of course had a birthday party for Butters. Over-the-top, with lots and lots of people, none of which he will remember. However my usual pre-child, multi-tasking, party-throwing self I was not. I ditched the themed menu last minute and went for pizza. I still made cute cupcakes, I have, thank god, kept a bit of my Martha intact. Food was served on paper plates rather than real dishes like I usually insist on. (Disclaimer so people don’t send me hate mail: I could care less what other people serve or do for their parties. Planning and prepping is a little stressful but I LOVE doing it. I love planning menus and the kind of cupcakes or cake and decor. I put a lot into planning and therefore I am picky about how it turns out. I totally get that cussing at yourself 30 minutes before guests arrive because your cupcakes don’t look anything like the ones on Pinterest isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.)

On one hand, having some of my anal-retentive tendencies go by the wayside is probably a positive result of mommy brain. I’m not so jaded to think that there won’t be tons more parties where takeout is served on paper plates. There may even be a store-bought cake in my future. 

On the other hand, two days after the party my husband found a paper party plate on top of the fridge. I very vaguely remember putting it there. I have no idea why. I’m sure I started at least two plates of food for myself. God only knows where they ended up. I barely remember conversing with anyone. I’m sure if I did I was pretty boring to talk to. I’m vaguely aware when having a conversation, of my utter lack of ability to focus enough to ask meaningful questions about the other person’s life. Lately conversations go something like this:

 “Oh Tina Hi! How are you?”  

As she’s answering, Butters is pulling down my pants as he tries to climb my leg. I say some “uh huhs” and “oh that sounds exciting!” as I try to discreetly hold my pants up. I then get distracted by a wet feeling on my arm as I notice Butters licking my arm and then wiping his snot across my shoulder. I look for a nearby napkin while trying to remember what Tina just asked me or even what the hell we just talked about. Butters is yanking my earring while I try and calmly say “gentle” like we’ve been teaching him. Then Butters sneezes, two big snot trails come out of his nose and I dash off to find something to wipe it on before he uses my hair. That’s as far as a conversation ever gets. 

The brief conversations I remember at the party were honestly nice. It was good to be with family and friends that helped us get this far. Wyatt had a blast.  He discovered that he loves a crowd of people singing and clapping for him. He lapped the attention right up like the little salty ham that he is. It was really great to be able to celebrate the fact that Butters, my husband and I, our marriage and our sanity survived the first year. That’s really what the first birthday party is for right?

Snot and the Hitler ‘stache

This article below is so true. I can be such a judgmental ass. Still am, but I feel like I’m slightly less of one after having my kid.
My husband and I were just talking about this yesterday. Butters is on cold number 872 for the year. The other morning, I went in to get him out of bed and I saw a mini Hitler ‘stache staring back at me. There was a perfect mustache-shaped patch of crusted snot mixed with black fuzzies from his blanket. I tried taking a picture but he was pretty pissed, clearly not sharing my view and humor of the situation.

It has been nonstop cold after cold. I knew the first year would have lots of colds, I just didn’t think it would be THIS MANY. I figured, we are pretty clean people, sure my house looks like a bomb went off at times, but a clean bomb. Under the toys and yesterday’s bottles, the floor is recently vacuumed and I go through Lysol wipes like crazy. We’re not hoarders, I breastfed for 8 months, we don’t smoke, cook meth, or have infestations. He is otherwise a stout and healthy kid. Apparently none of that matters. He is still a little petri dish of disease. I just pray to all things holy that next year is better. With every cold he is building more and more immunities right? At the same time, when he is sick I am building up my antioxidant levels from my increasing intake of red wine. So really it’s a win/win

http://www.scarymommy.com/10-things-thought-caused-bad-parenting-kids/

Defeated

Today was a day where I really wish it was more socially acceptable to have a bottle of wine for breakfast.

My house looks like it was ransacked by a pack of rabid raccoons. I look like I lost a food fight, which actually I did. Wyatt apparently finds anything and everything I put in front of him disgusting. He doesn’t even give me the dignity of spitting it out, he just opens his mouth and lazily lets it fall limply off his tongue. Any offending food left on the tray is swiftly tossed off windshield-wiper style. How dare I give him butternut squash that he loved two days ago! Oatmeal? SICK! Clearly I’m trying to poison him. The dog, I have found, is similarly picky, and hasn’t been the time saving Hoover I had hoped. On the flip side, the dog doesn’t like her new food, but Little B loves the dog food, and despite a day long (emphasis on long) effort to keep him out of the dog food, I’m pretty sure he ate more of that than anything I fed him. Maybe I should just start with that tomorrow.

11 month old: 1
Mom: 0

Feeding time at the zoo

My goal was to breatsfeed my son until he was a year old. I made it 8 months, not bad. Trying to maintain my supply with pumping at work and not seeing him for 3 days at a time due to long work hours I dried up like a puddle in the Sahara. In turn, Little B quickly became less interested in my slow-flow boobies, preferring instead the fast, feed-me-now flow of his bottles. We weaned together in a few days. This cold season has been a doozy. Colds piggybacking on other colds, it has been pretty much constant teething/drooling/snotty/coughing germy disaster in our house. A couple of weeks after we stopped breastfeeding Wyatt had a pretty bad cold and was having a hard time sleeping. He sleeps in his crib nowadays so in a moment of desperation I thought maybe he would finally slip off to dream land if I brought him into bed with me. He did not have the same idea. After 45 minutes of wiggling, whining and fussing I figured I would try to see if a little good ole breastfeeding would do the trick. It used to be the best way to calm him down and help soothe him and it had only been about a week and a half since we stopped. I cozied up next to him in bed and shoved my boob in his mouth; let the healing begin! Little B however wasn’t sharing my view. He bit down hard, pulled away like he was disgusted with me, giggled a bit and then started poking at it like it was a funny looking toy. I felt really inappropriate and creepy. My boob had very suddenly stopped being a source of food and comfort, and was now a weird, apparently funny looking random object. And this creepy mom just tried jamming it into my baby’s face. Kids can really make you feel like a total asshole quickly.
Now that Little B is eating more regular food I find myself kind of at a loss. He is kind of in between eating baby food and being able to eat whatever we eat. I was at the store the other day staring down the aisles looking dazed. What do people eat? What do I eat? Thinking of what I had eaten that day I came up with coffee. Just coffee. Ok, what did I eat yesterday? Coffee. I licked the spoon I used to serve Wyatt yogurt, then had a handful of cheerios and some raisins he threw at me. For dinner, wine, an embarrasing amount of brie and some mushrooms. (No not the hallucineginc kind. That happened once a long time ago, on a day I not-so-lovingly refer to as “drug tuesday”. A story for another time.) My eating habits leave something to be desired. I have to get my shit in order so I can properly feed my child. What am I doing being a parent when I can’t even properly take care of myself?!? These are thoughts that occur at 1139pm. Then I make a 1145pm plan to get my shit together once and for all. I will start weekly meal plans complete with shopping lists! I will make dinners ahead for busy nights! Yes, I can do this! But then I dont and we fall back into our rut of take out bento tuesdays, pizza wednesdays and rotisserie chicken or ravioli every other night. In addition to fretting over what to feed Little B, I fret over what size of food to feed him. If I chop everything itty bitty, he is more likely to accidently aspirate it while hamming it up in his high chair. Plus he will never learn to chew. If it’s too big, he will surely choke on it. He seems to do best with french-fry sized items. Yes, he has had a fry or two, so shoot me. To be fair, they were truffle oil fries and the hot deliciousness really seemed to soothe his sore gums. Desperate times call for desperate measures right?
When I do find a food he can eat he only likes it for one and a half meals. I think “yay! He loves green beans! I will buy some green beans!”. He devours them the first night, I save them in the fridge, “don’t touch! Wyatt’s food!”, and by the second night he is treating them like they are poisoned. 6 days later his sitter says “I tried green beans with Little B and he loved them!” Of course by then the green beans I purchased are a unidentifiable brown mess in the back of the fridge.
Lately he’s been doing better and better with finger foods, using his little chubby fingers perfectly to get the food into his mouth. I figured he was eating about half of it, the other half ending up on the floor from Little B’s lovely windshield wiper maneuver he likes to do on his highchair tray. I recently took off the cover of his high chair and discovered a second seat cover made out of discarded food from long ago. Mashed bananas from days gone by, grapes turned into raisins, it was a finger-food graveyard. At this rate I figure he eats one Cheerio for ever 10 I give him; six on the floor, one in his mouth, and 3 in the nether regions of his highchair. It’s like our very own mini-composter. How very Portlandia of us!

The child formerly known as Dick

Ah nicknames. Maybe you were lucky and had a cool nickname like “Sir Dunks-a-lot” or “Mr Big”. Maybe your nickname wasn’t so cool. Maybe it was “Shit-for-brains” or “Ducky”. Mine were Brookie Cookie, Cookie, and Booboo-lulu-beach, or Beach for short. The last one begs for a good explanation. Sadly, the story of the nickname doesn’t really explain anything, so I will spare you. Really I made out pretty well with my nicknames. My Aunt, whom I love dearly but have to tease, has a dozen nicknames for everything. Names that come out of nowhere and make no sense whatsoever. Her kids probably didn’t know their real names until they were 18.
For the sake of ease, and because bloggers seem to all have nicknames for their blog subjects, I will here on out refer to my son as Little B.
This is primarily due to the fact that all of his nicknames start with B. His first name doesn’t have any good nicknames from it. I started out innocently enough. I called him Love, but the strong urge to add an “er” to everything baby related and I heard myself calling my baby Lover a lot. It got awkward kind of fast. So then there came Bud, Bubs. But of course add the “er” which led to Bubbers, and then Buddy and Butters. At the time he was in his super-round-marshmallow chubby phase (his thighs and feet are still in that phase) and Butters really made sense and was also an easy stretch to Butterball. He is sunny, and shiny and delicious like butter. I kind of want to lick him. He is occasionally a wee bit yellow from inhaling carrots, sweet potatoes and squash like it’s going out of style. “Little B” also works for when he’s being less than sunny and shiny. It could stand for Little Butthole, for example.
I’m hoping I’m inspired to find a different, yet as fitting a name as Butters, nears his teen years.
Or maybe it will just toughen him up, give him humor and character. Kinda like the boy named Sue.

Top 10 pre-baby ideas about parenting that I take back

#1. Adorable professionally done newborn pics!
Holy shit 3 weeks goes fast! How does a tiny nursing pooping guppy stop and pose for pics??! I could barely see past the next 10 minutes, I can’t imagine having my shit together enough for pics this early. Maybe next time I will schedule them ahead of time, that may help. But honestly it probably just won’t happen. And shoving a 9 month old into a knit hat is neither feasible nor adorable like it is when they are teeny.

#2. I’m going to Pinterest the hell out of the nursery

It looked pinterest-worthy the week before we brought him home. Now it smells like poopy diapers and has a constant pile of “well that doesn’t fit anymore” clothes next to the “thank god Oxi-clean removes poop/vomit/breastmilk/snot” pile.

#3. My social life doesn’t have to change that much. I will continue going out for lunch and coffee dates with friends, shopping, running errands. I’ll just take him with me!

Everything is measured in number of car transfers. One stop shopping is key. Too many in and out of the car trips equals disaster. I will go out for lunch and coffee but you better be ready for a half-assed conversation on my part as I simultaneously try to feed my kid while keeping him from sharing his music (banshee type squeeling) and food with the whole restaurant. Grocery stores aren’t bad as long as I have snacks. God forbid he go too long without eating. A raisin every couple minutes keeps everyone happy. Out of raisins? Time to go.

#4. I’m going to lose so much weight breastfeeding!!

I eat when I’m exhausted and stressed. Go ahead and guess how the whole weight loss thing is going

#5. I will continue getting my hair done regularly, waxing, pedicures…I will totally keep that up

Sweet Jesus this stuff went to the wayside quickly. I can’t remember the
last time I shaved both legs at the same time. It’s amazing the things you do without when you have to get showered, dressed and ready while singing a constant stream of stupid songs in an upbeat manner trying to thwart the inevitable meltdown and hysterics of a baby in a jumper.

#6. I will be so outdoorsy. We will go on glorious enjoyable walks around the neighborhood every morning.

We did this a few times. I carefully got us both ready to go, baby was clean(ish), fed, rested, and dressed appropriate for the weather. Each time lasted in a meltdown 1.5 blocks down the road. I pushed further one fateful day, thinking, “he will get over it, he will love this! The fresh air! The birds chirping! The flowers!” 30 very long minutes later we end up back home him still crying, both frazzled , exhausted and sweaty.

#7. My baby will be dressed super stylishly every day

Buttons and stiff jeans that are sure to get bunched and piss him off? Fuck it. Sweaties and a onsie it is!
(Seriously, Uncomfy clothes for a little guy? He can’t say “mom! My balls are squished and the seam is cutting into my weiner!”

#8. I will make my baby organic homemade food. Only the best ingredients will pass through those lips

My mother, who fed us carob until we were 5, gave the baby ice cream when he was 3 months. “But he likes it and it’s organic!” she says. No shit he likes it! It’s chocolate! Plus now he eats a lot. If that means he eats a processed squeeze pouch while running errands, so be it. Those things are GENIUS.

#9. “My kid is staying the hell out of my bed, that is my space!”

Um yeah, that goes right out the window when you realize you haven’t laid down in your space for longer than 30 minutes at a time for 3 months. Sleep becomes a drug, I will do anything it takes to get another hit. I have a perma-pinched nerve in my neck from sleeping like I’m miming an elephant, but it’s SLEEP

#10. I’m going to take adorable weekly pictures with the baby in a cute outfit holding a chalkboard!

I have no idea what day it is. I barely know how old the baby is. People do this, hats off to them. I just…I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

Random happenings from this month

Help me god he is crawling. He is FAST. Like the wind. Like a baby on Redbull (for the record he is not given Redbull, I’m not that shitty of a parent). In the last three weeks it went from him army crawling but staying, more or less, in a 6ft radius. He would play and play and stay in one area. Today we turned around and he was climbing the stairs. STAIRS!! damnit. And it’s only the most dangerous things he likes to play with. His current favorites: trying to climb the jagged edged, ER trip-in-the-making, marble hearth; climbing on the swivel chair, playing with electrical outlet covers, chewing on the shoe basket (not dangerous but WTF?!) and playing with the tub of plastic shopping bags. We need to have an stamp card for the emergency room.

Speaking of emergency rooms, Wyatt had his first real choking incident and my husband saved his life doing exactly what they teach us to do in such scenarios. We will of course hold the fact that we saved his life over his head for years to come (god knows this won’t be the first time) as he rolls his angsty teenage-eyes at us. He almost choked to death because at meal time, he likes to pretend he’s a poor starving animal who has to shove food in his face as fast as humanly possible and squirrel it away in his cheeks so we can’t see he still has food in his mouth. This plus the perfect, gooey, airway blocking mashup of cheese and rice puff, equals disaster. But he lived.

My kid loves music. Absolutely loves it. Mostly Sarah Mclachlan, New Orleans style jazz, the occasional 2pac song (Kris’ ridiculous influence) and Christmas songs (my influence) and show tunes. Naturally we ran out and bought him a music set, which includes maracas (aka wood clubs for him to chuck across the room and slam repeatedly into the floor), a tambourine (aka a wooden circle that he chucks across the room and repeatedly slams into the floor) and a clapper (aka…see above). He’s a regular one man band.

This is his first Christmas. We bought him a stupid number of presents, hung his stocking with care, got soft ornaments that we put toward the bottom of the tree in case he tries to grab them, got special kid-appropriate wrapping paper (not that I normally wrap gifts in paper with pictures of genetalia and curse words). He could give two shits about any of it. The tree and twinkly lights? Doesn’t care. Which actually is great, the tree may stay standing this year. Christmas is so much more fun with kids though! We get to plop him in a strange guys lap and take pictures; cram his chubby hands in a block of clay to make ornaments; drag him along for shopping trips among crowds of people; expect him to sit happy and full of glee during endless holiday festivities and let him rip open carefully wrapped packages; watch him rip them open part way; try and eat the paper and then crawl away leaving the gift we were so excited for him to see. It’s a magical time!
Yes I know I have unrealistic expectations for my 9 month olds first Christmas. But the story of his epic meltdown following the adorable picture of him in a Santa hat will be worth every bit for years to come!