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Come find us at:

www.smushyfacebaby.com

Smooch! -s

REALLY? + M. Nature + Inertia + Reflection = Radio Silence

Hola muchachos. Did you miss me? (Also, what is a muchacho? I feel that it should be some combination of a gaucho and a nacho.) (On second thought, that would be an unfortunate combination of noncompatible items.) (No, google says it is a male servant or a young man. I liked it better when it was a fashion nacho.)

Anyway.

So hi! It's been a while, and JUST LET ME TELL YOU WHY. Oh yes, it's going to be capsy. Not bad, so much, but just, you know, LOUD. So first there was my unfortunate medical issue, which is  ongoing; it's getting better, but it's still affecting my ability to effectively manage the three hours hour and a half that Dane naps every day. And then there are all the other things I'm trying to do while Dane naps, like, you know, unravel the mysteries of the universe and clean out my washer and write thank you notes and get our roof replaced and try to figure out how to keep my child nursing because last Sunday he randomly decided he was no longer interested in milky products of any kind. Really, little man? Which thusly meant a trip to the doctor and a phone call to the lactation consultant and from there we're doing skin-to-skin and I'm carrying him everywhere in the sling (at ten months. Yes, he's STOKED.) and feeding him at the drop of a hat and on the couch and in the car (but without my nursing cover because did I mention HE'S TEN MONTHS OLD, WHO DOES THIS?) and wherever he might be hungry and then naptime is all muckedy-mucked up because he MIGHT nurse or he MIGHT not and we need a different routine for each eventuality and by the end of the day you might just as well hook me up to an IV of lime juice and Cuervo because OMG SHOULDN'T THIS BE EASY BY NOW? I mean. LAWDY.

And then on top of all that, I'm trying to install cabinet locks and drawer locks and strap down all our furniture and hide the plastic hangers, because in the same span of time, Mr. Smushylicious Smartypants has learned to do this:

That's right, Gladware. YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME.

So I get a few of those things done (but no, not the thank you notes, can I please just send out a great PSYCHIC YAWLP THANK YOU and be done with it, universe?) and just as I'm starting to feel a little better, somebody dialed up a hurricane and screwed up my plans to go to the beach last weekend. Instead I spent most of last week in a strange inert state, going to Target every day to pick up D batteries and bottled water and dried gnocchi and pasta sauce and diapers and wipes and Desitin (and a can of bean dip and some Diet Rite) (what, no REK fans out there?), and then lo and behold we got two gusts of wind, a twenty minute rain storm and a half-hearted growl of thunder and BAM it's sunny again. Thanks, Mother Nature. WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL THESE PEOPLE I'M FROM HOUSTON?

Um, Mommy, COULD YOU PLEASE BACK OFF THE CAPS?

Here's the silver lining part: the hurricane brought on the inertia which brought on some reflection time, in which I realized I'm a little south of satisfied about the blog (this one here, I mean). When I started writing again, it was more or less wordvomit. I was coming out of the crazymommy stage and needed to dump out the contents of my brain and HEY, why not do that in front of two billion people on the internet, right? And the more I've written, the more I've read other mom bloggers and the more I've realized I really enjoy reading and writing (good on me for figuring that out after two years of grad school), and blah blah blah, I've decided to make some changes. Find some new digs, maybe. Get a fancy title bar. Yes, I might even join Twitter, which is apparently what all the young kids do for fun these days (although Aunt Brookie has sworn SHE WILL NOT FOLLOW ME ON ONE MORE WEBSITE.) (But she will.) (Because all the cool kids are doing it.) (Or really, just because she loves me. Right, A.B.? Right?).

Good grief, this post is unreadable.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is I'm going to disappear for a few more days and try to find a fancy new spot to splash my baby's mug all over and until then, I wish you guys love and candy bars and a great college football weekend and magical tequila that does not a hangover require. Don't worry, we'll be back. How could I deny the world... this?

Yummy boy.

Or this?

Where's the baby?

Or even this?

I'm so screwed.

Today in the Mommyhood, Day 297ish

Today in the mommyhood, I unraveled the mystery of what's inside a diaper... by accidentally running it through my washing machine. Go, mommy.

Mommyhood 1 - Mommy Su-Su 0

On a related topic, Aunt Brookie tells me the same thing can be accomplished by letting your child sit in a baby pool in nothing but a diaper for an extended period of time. I feel better. Thanks, A.B.

*Jon mentioned to me last night that "what's inside a diaper" might be a little, ahem, unclear. I do not mean the contents of a diaper provided by my little man. I mean diaper filling, the crystalline stuff that can't possibly be safe for human consumption and will likely not biodegrade until the end of time. Which is okay, since my washer is also from the dawn of time... they'll live together in peace and happiness for all eternity. Oh hell, what am I talking about, anyway? Somebody get me a margarita.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Letter to Dane, Day 295ish (Part Possible TMI)

Dear Dane,

Hello, angel baby. It's mommy again.

A few days ago, I wrote you this letter, but I've realized (of late) that I left something out. You see, you're very cute. So cute people stop me on the street and tell me how cute you are (yes, I'm obnoxious. Sorry, it's sort of genetic.) (Also, I blame my husband.). And since you've gotten two front teeth, you're so cute that I often have to stop myself from staring at you and pinching your cheeks and saying obnoxiousmommy things like smoochywoo little baby and tushytushytushy. And yet. And yet.

Those teeth, you see, they're cute. They're cute when you're smiling or chewing on your finger or biting on a teething ring or a piece of gladware or a pot handle. They're even cute when you're laughing and gooing and ahging and trying to take little bites out of my fingers when I'm rocking you at night. But you see, smushy, there is one time when they are not so cute. So please, yummiky bumpkins, sweet fuzzyheaded monkeyman, please, please, please: STOP. BITING. MOMMY. WHEN. YOU. ARE. NURSING. Or I may have to start telling all those people who think you're so cute about how you once had to have the inside of your diaper gladwrapped so I could take a stool sample, and we both know how THAT would go (crazy looks, upturned sneers, possible calls to CPS).

Mmmmm, paint chips.

That is all, my lovey noggikins. That is all.

Love,

Mommy

Really, Yo?

I'm going to complain again. It's perfectly acceptable if you want to skip this post, because (a) I've got a really good life and not a whole lot of right to bitch about it and (b) everybody's got their own THING and really, why do you need to listen to mine? and also (c) I have a whole different post about THINGS, but that is neither here nor there nor anywhere in my immediate future, because, didn't I mention, I'm about to bitch again?

So Dane is nine and a half months old, which seems impossible, but there you are. Madness ensuing in our house on a daily basis. And despite the fact that he is, without question, the best thing that's ever happened to me (yes, even better than the day I found my Marc Jacobs patent leather heels for $89) (yes, I said EIGHTY NINE SMACKS), I've had a roughly rough go of the post-partum business. I'm a worrier anyway, and my little tango with PPD included such hot numbers as MIND NUMBING ANXIETY and CONVULSIVE CRYING JAGS ON THE FLOOR OF MY CLOSET, and let's not forget THE INABILITY TO LAY MY CHILD DOWN FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS OF HIS LIFE. Okay, that last one was likely not PPD-related, but it's my party and I'm shoving it into the box all the same.

Shoe digressions aside, things started to settle out around seven months. This roughly coincided with my mom and my trusty Obi-One-Kenobi of the mommyhood, Aunt Brookie, helping me get Dane down for daily naps. And so he started napping and my hormones started to subside and all of the sudden, I was able to take a shower and put on makeup without having a panic attack that I was abandoning my baby. And do other stuff, too, like join a playgroup and go to the mall and hang out with my husband like a normal person. And then, bam, I got a sinus infection and Dane got an ear infection, and just as we got over that and had another week or two of normalcy, we went on vacation and Dane popped out not one but TWO giant front teeth and that blew the sleeping and the normalcy all to hell, and we've finally recovered from the teething (for now, yes, for now) and Monday morning I find myself in the doctor's office for a completely unexpected and particularly uncomfortable medical procedure that involved needles and scalpels and the phrase you'll feel a sting and then a burn, and I thought, really? Because (a) what he should have said was You'll feel a sting and then a burn and then seven to ten days of pain followed by four to six weeks of discomfort and oh, by the way, just take an Advil, that should cheer you up and (b) COME ON, already.

But you know what the worst part is? I'm effectively complaining about LIFE. That's what this is: just normal everyday life with a baby. And then I look in on him sleeping or watch him stand up or snuggle him up in my arms and I realize I'm so unbelievably very incredibly stupidly lucky. Don't get me wrong: I have a pretty decent reason to complain about my little ditty with the doctor on Monday (sparing you the details, it's pretty sucky), but on the flip side, our mellow mushroom sat through the whole thing in his stroller, nary a peep other than an interested gagaGA? every so often, and then we came home and ate Whole Foods cookies provided by my husband and crawled around the living room floor and in general made fools of ourselves, after which Jon took the baby while I took a nap. So life, you know what? Since you gave me this:

Uh, Mommy... Could you get a babysitter next time?

I forgive you.

Today in the Mommyhood, Day 292

Today in the mommyhood, Dane figured out he could make his food jump by banging on his tray. DANCE, puffs, DANCE.

Okay, so by the time I got my camera out the puffs had been eaten... but the GLEE is still present.

That's my monkey. I'll take the credit.

Mommyhood 0 - Mommy Su-Su 1

Letter to Dane, 288

Dear Dane,

Hello, angel baby. It's Mommy.

I have a lot of goofy names for you (Sir Yumminess, Mr. Fuzzyhead, Monkey, Mowgli), but angel baby is the one I use the most. I don't call you angel baby because I think you're perfect (although, let's face it, you are), or because I want to annoy the other 99% of mommies who also think their babies are angels (although I sometimes do). I call you angel baby because even though I'm kind of sarcastic and sometimes the mean girl and usually in a grumpy mood (especially, God knows, with your father), and in general not all that good at religion, you make me believe. That may sound trite and cliche, but thus is the power of you.

When we first brought you home, I was afraid I would break you, and for weeks I wouldn't set you down because I was afraid you would feel lonely or abandoned. Thinking of you feeling that way made me feel like I couldn't breathe. You slept on my chest for the fourth and fifth months of your life because I couldn't stomach the thought of you crying, and when I did finally give in and let you cry, the sound of it made me vomit. To this day I think that might be the hardest thing I've ever done, and I was in stage three labor with you for three hours.

I'm the kind of mommy that worries a lot, and although you're getting big now, I still worry that you aren't eating enough, or the right things, or sleeping enough, or that I don't know what I'm doing. I'm trying to stop the anxiety so I don't pass it on to you, but if you catch me staring at you from the side of your crib or standing behind you in the playroom, please remember it's only because I want to be perfect, and not because I expect you to be.

You're fully mobile now, and although you're still my mellow mushroom you're fierce, too. You don't want to lay on my chest anymore, or even let me feed you. Today you spit avocado and peas on your tray and then grinned at me, and I couldn't even be annoyed because that grin was a combination of how I feel on my best day and the reason I fell in love with your father. You don't want to snuggle at night anymore, at least with me (...curse you, Puppy), but sometimes when I get you in the morning or up from a nap, you still lay your head in the hollow of my shoulder. I wish I could hold every one of those moments in my heart and in my memory, but already all the things I thought I would remember forever have started to slip away.

There's no real reason for me to write this letter to you today, except that today is a day like any other day, and that means I got to spend it with you. That means it's a day better than any other day I had before you were here, and it's a day in which I get to look forward to spending the rest of my life, God willing, with you in it. You are my love, you are my believe, you are my tiny little smushyface baby and I will always be with you no matter where or how far you go. All you have to do is say the word, little man, and I'll be there.

Love,

Mommy

ps... This post didn't start out this way, but it sort of ended up as a PYHO linky to Shell at Things I Can't Say. Love that place.