So much to tell, so little time to tell it

Monday, August 29, 2011

I could tell you about how Ari's latest "trick" is picking food up from his high chair and smearing it all over his face.  And placing it on top of his head.  And rubbing it into his hair.  And then laughing.

Or, I could tell you about how, while at Target, Matt and I thought Ari was having a severe allergic reaction when we noticed big red streaks up and down Ari's face. It was only after panicking, dialing the pediatrician, and buying Benadryl that we realized it was just leftover raspberries Ari "pureed" using the method described above.

Or, I could share the story of how Ari's finger was pricked to test for lead and iron levels.  Ari cried.  Mommy fainted.

But rather than detailing any of those blog-worthy stories, I'm just going to tell you that while Ari is upstairs napping (with his door closed), I can smell the poop that will be waiting for me when he awakes from his afternoon slumber.  Lucky me.


It's a boy!

Friday, August 26, 2011

I spent 9 months fantasizing about tights, and tutus, and tiaras.  I dreamed of pink walls and sheets and rugs and, well, anything.  And I swooned over one teenie weenie, itsy bitsy, yellow polka dot bikini that I saw at Bloomingdales.  And then the big day came, I pushed and I pushed (literally...only is not fair) and out came my beautiful baby girl boy.

Pink dreams turned very quickly to a blue reality, and, as you probably know, I fell in love with the little guy.  Now-a-days, I can't imagine having a girl.  Ari is such a boy.  He loves looking at and playing with trucks, he digs in dirt, and he flirts with women young and old.  I dress him in blues and greens, cargo shorts, and polo shirts.  And, I think his features look very masculine.  (For a baby at least.)

Here he is, preparing for the hurricane:

Imagine my horror surprise when, a few weeks ago, a neighbor's son asked me, "What's her name?" 

Excuse me?  Are you talking to me?  Her name?  He's a BOY!!  (I quickly scooped up my tyke.  He was mortified.  We went home so he could play with his penis trucks.)

I'm reminded of a report I saw on The Today Show a few months ago about a family that decided to keep the gender of their child a secret.  Yup, the Canadian couple "hope their third child, Storm, can remain untouched by the connotations of pink versus blue, male versus female, long enough to make up his or her own mind." 

They went on to say, "We've decided not to share Storm's sex for now — a tribute to freedom and choice in place of limitation, a stand up to what the world could become in Storm's lifetime (a more progressive place? ... )."

Yeah, I'm not sure I understand. 

Ever seen this book?  "I'm glad I'm a boy! I'm glad I'm a girl!"  The author's concepts of what boys and girls are: "Boys are handsome. Girls are beautiful. Boys are doctors. Girls are nurses. Boys are pilots. Girls are stewardesses."

That's what I'm talkin' about!  I should have raised Ari in the 70's.  Plus, I still forget to call them "flight attendants."

Hopefully one day Ari will have a sister.  He better have a sister.  Okay.  Matt?  In the meantime, Ari will be sporting blue.  He will be playing football.  And he will be tough!

And he will be told girls have cooties.  All girls.  Except his mommy. 

(Please no hate mail on this one.  I exaggerate.  I believe in gender equality.  I don't actually think that book is good for kids.  But I will not dress Ari in yellow or red or pink anytime in the near future.)


Mama Proof

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

To prevent our little crawling, standing, and exploring mini-person from eating chemicals, falling down stairs, and being electrocuted, Matt took a trip to the safety aisle at Babies 'R Us.  He installed latches on the cabinet doors, gates on the staircases, and covers on the outlets.  Ari is safe.  

But I'm not.

Last week, with Matt out for testosterone Poker Night, I went into the kitchen to perform my nighttime ritual...running the dishwasher. 

The cabinet with the dishwasher soap was latched shut. 

Hmm I wondered, how hard could it be to open one of these little things? 

Pretty damn hard.  (You come over and try to get it unhinged.)  I pulled, I squeezed, I pushed.  It didn't budge.

I could, however, get the cabinet open 1/2 a finger length wide... I thought, maybe I can just reach in, open the soap container, and grab one of the "action pack" squares.

(This is not a picture of the actual event, but, it looked, and felt just like this.)

I could almost touch the box of soap.  If I could manage to reach down another inch or two, I would be golden.  I stretched and I moaned and I wiggled just right, and I got into the soap box!  But, as if you haven't figured out where this story is going, I could not get my arm out.  I pulled.  It hurt.  I wiggled.  It hurt.  I moaned.  It freakin' hurt.  Then I panicked. 

Matt wouldn't be home for another 5 hours, I couldn't reach the phone, and I had no way to get my arm out of the cabinet.  Regretting the carbohydrates I had consumed earlier in the evening, I looked around for a solution.  Knives?!  (It had been 127 hours seconds.)  NAH.  Dish soap?!  YES. 

Not so long story short, I managed to adequately saturate my arm in soap and water, and I gently removed my sore and swollen limb from the cabinet.  I sat down on the kitchen floor.  And I almost cried.

In need of sympathy, I emailed my husband the sob story.  He wrote back,  "Did you run the dishwasher?" 

No honey, I did not.  You did such a stupendous job mommy proofing that I'm unable to do housework.  And wouldn't you know...Ari can somehow climb up on the washing machine.  Will you please buy a latch for it as well?



Sunday, August 14, 2011

Let me preface this post.

I am superfluous.  I am frivolous.  I am materialistic.  

Now I may begin.

3 months ago, in US Weekly Magazine, I saw this picture:

That's Rachel Zoe.  And, that's my stroller.  But wait a sec...that pattern was not available when I ordered my baby-mobile.  I distinctly recall my decision to choose a red cover and dark grey base because it would be gender neutral and would stand out on the streets of Brookline.  However, to my dismay, my red on grey buggy does not stand out.  In fact, it blends right in.  Proof?  Check out the recent "stroller parking" at my neighborhood park:

Everyone has a red stroller!  And I don't wanna be like everyone!  I want Rachel Zoe's stroller!  Waaaa.

But as it turns out, everyone wants Rachel Zoe's stroller.  I promptly placed my order for the Missoni stroller kit just days after the US Weekly was viewed by countless other material girl's moms, but with demand exceeding supply (hey look at me! basic econ...and i only took the class twice!), I received an email stating my stroller cover would arrive sometime in the "future".  I made phone calls.  I sent emails.  I even harassed the owner of Magic Beans.  There was nothing I, or anyone else, could do to expedite my irrational purchase.  

So I waited.  And waited.  And even though I received two subsequent emails with later and later expected arrival dates, and even though I sent Neiman Marcus a nasty email threatening to cancel my order (and only shop at Saks in the future), and even though I tweeted to Neiman's and Bugaboo and Missoni and Rachel Zoe about the false advertising, and even though deep down I knew this was anything but a necessity, I still wanted the freakin' multi-colored cover!  So badly.  I could visualize myself with it.  And I looked good! 

And then, out of nowhere (ok, out of gmail), I received an email with the words I had been waiting to read. 

"Your stroller accessory kit has shipped."

Could it be true?!  I was slaphappy, woozy with anticipation and delight.  I tracked the FedEx order multiple times a day, waiting with bated breath for my doorbell to ring. 

And then, finally, I came home Saturday morning and found this waiting on my door mat:

I ran inside, opened the box, tore into the packaging, removed my existing red stroller shade, and replaced it with my new one.  (Then I did my hair so that I could take this picture.)

Zoe fabulous.

A new accessory for my favorite accessory.


Potty Training

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

My friend has a baby.  I think he's about 9 months old.  She wants to remain anonymous, so let's just call her kid...Arnie.  Arnie is rambunctious!  He's constantly pulling himself up on the sofa, the coffee table, the stairs, the mirror, the dresser, the bed, the bookshelf, and the lamp...or so she says.  But lately, he's been pulling himself up on...the toilet.  She thought it was harmless at first.  But then she realized that Arnie wasn't just standing there doing his "I'm standing up" dance.  He was, uh, splashing around, and um, licking the seat, and err, drinking the toilet water.  And one time, there may have been a little toilet paper in there.  And if there was, he yanked it out.  And sucked on it.

Disgusting!  What kind of mom is she?!

The solution to this potty problemo is simple.  Keep the kid out of the bathroom. 

Yes, easy enough...except when I'm blow drying my hair, washing my hands, or popping a zit!   I mean...when she's doing all of those things.  There's nowhere to put the baby.  She tried sticking him in the bathtub and he crawled out.  She tried placing him on the bed and he rolled off.  (Don't worry, he's fine.  But, she won't try that again.)  And, she tried covering the floor with puffs in the hopes he eats up some time and he showed absolutely no interest.  Plus, he may have ingested some of his Mom's hair.

So she came to me in the hopes that someone out there can suggest a safe alternative to toilet time. 

And, no, this is not my baby.  No sir-ee.


Fight Night

Sunday, August 7, 2011

It was the fight nobody had been waiting for.  Saturday night, in the boxing ring on the area rug in the Living Room, a raucous crowd of 1 watched as lightweight champ Ari and even lighter weight champ Tambourine went head-to-head in a vicious battle.

In his corner, Ari, undefeated in the last 9 months, and weighing in at 22 pounds of not-lean muscle, carbo-loaded on noodle kugel immediately before the match, hoping for an extra bout of energy.

Tambourine sat silent and still, mentally preparing for his fight.

The two fighters made their way to the ring.  It did not take long for Ari to grab hold of Tambourine and attempt to take him down.  With a tight grip around his neck, Ari shook Tambourine until Tam's motionless body had no choice but to collapse on the floor.

But Ari wasn't finished.  For fear Tambourine may come back and ring his neck, Ari used his leg to pin him down and wait for the ref to call the match.  3-2...

Tambourine was exhausted and unable to move and defend himself.  Ari assumed the fight was over.  He attempted to stand up to give Tam one final jab. 

Tambourine used his last ounce of energy to throw Ari off balance.  Ari tripped and landed face down on Tambourine.  And with that, Tambourine gained control of the match.  Ari sobbed like a baby as his lip began to bleed.  Defeated, Ari crawled out of the ring.  Sources tell us he was overheard calling for his "mommy."

The match was called in favor of Tambourine.


Losing my melon

Friday, August 5, 2011

For the first time in 9 months, I had baby-care for an entire day and no other pressing responsibilities.  So, I had a selfish glorious day visiting a friend with 2-month old twins, working out, beautifying with a mani-pedi, and stocking up at my favorite place, the grocery store. 

In the analogy section of the SAT's, you can find ME: Grocery store = My husband: Home Depot.  I'd rather go grocery shopping than watch 'Sex and the City' on E! (every night).  I think I get high walking through the aisles of the Star Market.  I stare at boxes of couscous for hours.  I salivate over the jars of olives and pickles.  I compare the ingredient labels on all of the salad dressings.  And then I buy the Newman's Light Balsamic Vinaigrette.  Every time.  And it makes me happy. 

Without baby in tow, I spent an absurd unusually long amount of time perusing the dry goods and produce, I checked out, and had the groceries sent down for pick-up. (For those of you who do not live in my 'hood, the market is on the 2nd floor of a building so it is impossible to carry heavy bags of groceries to your car.  Therefore, they send groceries down a conveyor belt to parking lot level where they are loaded into your car.)

Grinning with eager anticipation as I drove home from the grocery store, I could barely wait to see my little guy.  I walked inside, paid the nanny, scooped up my BFF (don't judge), and headed to the park.  We laughed, we cuddled, and we played, and then we walked home for dinner.  I had a great meal planned for the two of us (Dad is out of town) using the groceries purchased earlier in the afternoon, and I was most excited for the big ripe cantaloupe I bought for dessert.

I grabbed a cutting board and a knife and looked on the counter for the fruit.  It wasn't there.  I opened the fridge.  No melon.  I grabbed Ari and ran to the car convinced it had rolled out of a shopping bag.  I searched the entire trunk and backseat.  But, no sign of my missing 'loupe.  Sad, confused, and a little depressed, I walked slowly to my front door, replaying my grocery trip in my mind. 

I remember taking the cantaloupe out of the cart and handing it to the checker.  And, I recall packing the big fruit in a plastic bag alongside a carton of milk.  Is this a joke?  Did someone steal my melon?  Could it have rolled away on the conveyor belt?  Was it accidentally placed in someone else's car when they drove around to pick up their bags?

Uhh wait a sec, come to think of it, I don't remember driving around to get my groceries.  Furthermore, where are my eggs?  And milk?  And cilantro chimichuri hummus?  Do I have amnesia? 

Or, is it possible I paid $170 dollars for a cart full of food that I left at the supermarket? 

Yeah, not a hypothetical question.


At a boy!

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Ari is advanced.  I am biased, indeed, but he's crawling at the speed of light, he's pulling himself up on everything and anything, he's climbing stairs, he's feeding himself, and he's almost walking!  And recently, he's developing a very practical vocabulary!

He says "dada" when he wants:

He says "mama" when he wants:

He says, "ishhhh" when he sees:

He says, "deeef" when he finds a:

And now, he has combined the "deeef" and "shhhh" sounds to make a word that he loves to shout, especially in public places.  What is it? 


Oh, and did I forget to mention he loves women and will do anything to make them smile at him?  Um.  Yeah.  So, here's a sampling of conversations Ari had with women over the past 24 hours.

On the airplane home from Florida:

Flight attendant: Snacks?
Ari: Dooooosh. (smiling, laughing, staring at the flight attendant.)

With the two-year old girl (and her mother) in the sandbox:

Little girl: Mommy, the baby took my toy.
Ari: Doooooosh. (smiling, laughing, staring at the little girl's mom)

And the only instance of which I'm actually quite Trader Joes this morning:

Trader Shmoe: (with attitude) Miss, I can't get by your stroller.
Ari: Dooooooosh. (smiling, laughing, pointing at the oh-so-kind lady.)

If only Ari could now learn the word for:


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