Monday, September 26, 2011

After our home inspection, we received the comforting assurance that our casa had no termite damage and no sign of the pesky pests.  I was relieved.  I loooved the nothing-else-like-it-in-Brookline townhouse, but was petrified of small animals cohabiting with us. 

You see, there are many things I could learn to live with in our 1950's brick home - like colorful wallpaper, a pink and black bathroom, and a mean old lady living next door...actually she fell a few months ago and hasn't come back so I am a terrible human being for saying anything about her...especially since we now have access to her garbage cans and can use our front hallway for storage, and a harmless next door neighbor.  (The charm and character, gorgeous mouldings and built-ins, huge bedrooms, 2 1/2 bathrooms, finished basement, proximity to the T and Coolidge Corner, and unbelievable park and playground right outside our door could not be beat. [Apologies for the advertisement, but, anyone want to buy our condo?  It's not on the market yet, so we can both save broker fees.  It's awesome.  Contact me for deets.] )

But back to my point...I could not, and cannot, learn to live with ants.  Or mice.  Or cats.   And definitely not termites. 

Termites freak me out.  They reproduce, well, like Mormons - one King termite takes multiple female termite partners and before you know it, one runs for President one turns into one thousand.  They go door to door in every neighborhood and try hard to get into your home and eat at your dinner table.  And if one of your neighbors lets them in, they make themselves at home and swarm around the block.  Truly a nuisance.

Speaking of which, it has come to my attention that we may have one of the first signs of termite infestation: wood damage.

Check out Ari's crib.  Those are little bite marks all along the railing!  Yikes.  I think I have some big ass bugs hiding out in here.

I'm really scared.  What if they nibble on my baby?  Or gnaw through the walls?  And take over my house?!

Okay, you figured it out.  My home is not infested with insects.  Ari!  That is not what I meant by "solid food."

Termites! Teething!


Jealous JS

Monday, September 19, 2011

I've been replaced.

It's really quite depressing.  I spend every second of the day ensuring the health and well-being of my child.  I take great pride in his meals, his activities, and his interactions with other kids (ok, and his clothing...and yes, I do realize this one is for me.)  Truthfully, I go the extra mile to keep him entertained and enthusiastic and energetic and effervescent.  And, I can tell he's extraordinarily happy. 

And to pat myself on the back, I was the one who could always turn his frown upside down.  I was the one he wanted to see when he woke in the morning and after every nap.  I was the one who he reached for when he was in anyone else's arms.  And until recently, I was the apple of his eye.

But move over Mommy.

Ari's love and affection and adoration are all reserved for another family member.  And this one doesn't work, doesn't help to pay the bills, doesn't do any laundry, doesn't cook or clean, doesn't even make conversation.  But it doesn't seem to matter.  Ari loves him.  He freakin' looooooves him.  He just wants to kiss him and cuddle with him and sit on him and lay with him and play with him.  (This used to be my job.  I could cry.  Okay, I did cry.  You got me, I'm crying right now.)

Stupid stuffed animal.  Wipe that smirk off your face.  You think you can live here rent free and become besties with my baby?  Just because you're really soft and cute doesn't mean you can come in here and take my place.  Whatever.  He'll get sick of you too.  Free roller.  And if he doesn't, watch your back.  Bear.

Ari, my precious little baby, what am I, chopped liver?!


Wordless Wednesday

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


Boys and their Dad's toys

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Ari's nighttime routine:  Bath.  Book.  Bottle.  Bed.  

So, every evening, I draw a bath and get in the tub with Ari.  The little guy loves the bath!  He splashes and kicks and plays with little plastic squirt toys.  Bath time = fun time. 

But last night, Matt said he wanted to give Ari a bath, so I took the night off and let Matt get in the warm water with Ari.  As I was getting Ari's room ready for bed, I could hear father and son having a good ole time in the tub.  They were singing and splashing and laughing and playing.  It made me grin from ear-to-ear.

But then, I heard words shouted that I have never heard before.  In fact, I didn't even know these words could go together in a sentence.  I must have been hearing things!  It just wasn't possible.

But then, I heard it again!  And it was Matt. 

He exclaimed for the third time, "Please don't touch my penis!" 

And then, "Ow that hurts!"

And, "My penis is not a toy!"

I thought about turning on an audio recorder to document this once-in-a-lifetime event.  But curiosity got the best of me.  I rushed into the bathroom, found a  red-in-the-face Matt, and a 10 1/2 month old manhandling my husband.  Ari was yanking, and poking, and pushing Matt's member.  Matt kept moving Ari's hand, but little baby arm kept going back for more baby maker. 

I think there was probably an educational lesson in this peter poking, but when Ari tried to put the new bath toy in his mouth, Matt was officially dong done with the bath.

Tonight, I'll be back in the tub.


No longer obsessed with poop

Saturday, September 10, 2011

This was a crappy way to start a beautiful Saturday morning.

Let me set the scene.

While at the park, 3 fire engines and 10 firemen arrived at the big yellow home directly across the street from the park.  Ari squirmed like a worm trying to free himself from my arms to get a closer look at the big red trucks and the people gawking on the sidewalk.  He wasn't wearing shoes or socks but I figured a little dirt couldn't hurt him.  So down he went.  And away he crawled. 

He crossed the cement.  He went over the grass.  And then he crawled directly through a huge pile of dog sh*t.

Post crawl through photo of the sh*t:

Post crawl through photo of the little guy: (Note his right hand, his pants, and his feet.)

(I would have taken more pictures, but Matt was yelling at me.  "Get the wipes.  Clean him up.  He's going to put his hands in his mouth."  He's so vigilant uptight cautious.)

Poor kid stunk!  I actually gagged.  So we stripped him down, dunked him in the fountain, and used up all of our overpriced but delightfully scented, only-for-emergencies, Mustela wipes.  (I didn't want to risk getting any poop on my stroller. Priorities people.)  We then brought the naked guy home, gave him a bath, and put him down for a nap. 

I can still smell the dog poo.  In fact, I think there's some on my pants.  Yup, let me confirm that.  Crap!

Usually I appreciate a good story about #2.  Not today.


Food fight

Friday, September 9, 2011

I think this may be my fault. 

I taught Ari to throw stuff.  It started with small plastic balls.  "Throw it to mama," I would say repeatedly as I showed him how to toss the ball over and over and over again.  He would cock his head and look at me as if I was playing a game with myself.  In fact, I was.  I thought he would never learn.  And then, finally, a few weeks ago, he threw me the ball!  I was so proud.  (Okay, more of myself than of Ari.  Persistence is key.)

With the ball down, he mastered throwing his own shoes.  And hats.  And paper off the coffee table. 

And, before and after every nap, he practices his new skill by tossing everything out of his crib.  The 4 stuffed animal blanket loveys.  One by one.  And the 6 binkies.  One by one.  If you enter his room before he throws everything out, you see this:

 or this

If you enter his room after the contents of his crib have all been grounded, you see this:

And, if you gather the items while he's still in his crib, you look up and see this:

Now, I admit I egg him on by laying down on the ground beneath his crib and letting him throw the items on my head and tummy and arms and legs.  And I toss them back up to him and he does it again.  And again.  It's fun.  He cracks up. 

But as they say, it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt dirty.  And that's exactly the situation I have now.

Ya see, Ari throws something else.  He throws food.  He picks it up, he looks me in the eye, I say "no", and then he takes his little hand, moves it to the right of his highchair, and drops it on the ground.  Sometimes, he gets really ambitious and picks up big handfuls of food.  Or, if he's really aggressive, he manages to sweep all of the food off the tray in one quick movement of his wrist.  It's pretty remarkable.  And it's frustrating.

Need a visual?  Bye bye chicken nugget.

Then picture me reprimanding him.  "Ari, we do not throw food.  We eat food.  Next time, I will take it away."

And then he gives me this look.  I can read his mind.  "WTF Mom, you taught me to throw sh*t and now I get in trouble?"
Kid's got a point.


Til death do us part

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

One of my closest friends from college got married this weekend, so Matt and I took our first overnight trip sans baby.  (I'm pretty sure Ari did better than I.)

Watching my friend Gayle and her husband Jason walk down the aisle and say their vows reminded me of my own wedding 5 1/2 years ago.  What an incredible 5+ years we have had together.  We've laughed, we've travelled, we've celebrated, and we've started a family.  We're lucky and we're happy.  However, I realized that there are a few points that should have been part of our marriage contract, but thankfully (for me), were left out.  Yup, it seems my poor husband has had to witness a few things no husband should ever have to see. 

#1 Multiple seasons of The Bachelor and the Real Housewives (and Keeping up with the Kardashians and Bethenney and the Millionaire Matchmaker.  But I'm pretty sure he enjoys some of these shows.)

#2 His wife's hemorrhoids when she's 9 months pregnant.  He wanted to watch the birth of our little baby,  soooo, what's the difference if I made him examine them weeks before the due date?  (Plus, I had to give him an enema once.  And come on, that is so much worse.)

And then there's the thing that makes me look more ridiculous and more unattractive than anything else I have to do.  It's something I only do in private.  In fact, I usually lock myself in a bathroom so I can be sure nobody else is looking.  And, it's the thing that makes me break a sweat until I'm finished. 

So, having Matt walk in on me in the hotel room mid-act made me feel so sorry for my wonderful husband.

Coming in at #3...

Pulling up a pair of Spanx.  (Wait a sec, get your mind out of the gutter.  What did you think I was going to say?)

Mazal tov Gayle & Jason.  I wish you a lifetime of health, happiness, and a few things you never have to share with one another.


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