A Very Special 1st Birthday Post

1 year ago today, I pushed a 7-pounder out of my 'gina.  Holy sh*t!  The year flew by!  Looking at him now, I can't even believe my 26+ pound walking/talking/eating/joking/laughing toddler was ever a tiny baby.  One of our closest friends told us that every stage of a child's life is better than the last.  That is definitely true.  Just when I think the current age is perfect, he learns and grows and transitions and I am once again amazed and in awe and so madly in love.

So, in honor of my 100th blog post (yeah!!) and Ari's 1st birthday, I made a list of 100 things I love about my little boy.  This is my way of marking this incredible occasion and ensuring I never forget all the little things that I adore. 

In no particular order, Ari:

1. Is constantly sticking out his tongue.
2. Claps whenever I walk into the room.
3. Plays peek-a-boo but he covers his ears and/or smooshes his face rather than hiding his eyes.
4. Will do anything to make strangers smile at him.
5. Loves to read books (over and over).
6. Laughs when he farts.
7. Bangs on the front door until I take him outside.
8. Tries to catch the sun rays in his hand.
9. Sticks his finger in my belly button.
10. Shares his food, will even chew food, remove it from his mouth, and give it to me.  Sweet.
11. Sleeps from 7:30pm-7:30am every day.
12. Loves his crib.
13. Devours smoked salmon, roasted salmon, broccoli, and peas.
14. Sings along with music.  Loves Katy Perry.  And Rihanna.  (He must like beautiful women with bad taste in men.)
17. Thinks sunglasses belong on your head and tries to put mine on his head.
18. Has rosy cheeks in the morning and after every nap.
19. Believes anything with buttons is a phone.
20. Likes having his ears cleaned out with a q-tip.
21. Stares at me when he poops.
22. Shakes his head "no" when he doesn't want to do something.
23. Eats the rind off apples.
24. Loves to eat pickles.  (One time, he ate 4 half sours for lunch.)
25. Loves exploring new places.
26. Is really good at drinking from a straw, but blows out of the straw, so food is always floating in his cup.
27. Cries every time someone turns on a vacuum.  (Therefore, I just don't vacuum.)
28. Eats the bubbles out of the bubble bath.
29. Sucks on his big toe.
30. Sleeps in a sack.
31. Sleeps with a sound machine.
32. Ok, and he sleeps with a humidifier, 5 binkies, and 4 lovies.  (Whatever.  At least he's no longer swaddled.)
33. Holds on tight when he's scared.
34. Greets other kids by putting his forehead to their forehead. 
35. Mooooo's when you say "cow".
36. Has smelly testicles at the end of the day (don't ask)
37. Mimics me.
38. Has dimples on his thighs.  And a$$.
36. And elbows.
37. Has an arsenal of tricks.  He waves, washes hands, touches head and nose, claps, sticks out his tongue, shows his teeth, puts him arms up and down.   (All on command.)
38. He does the baby sign for "more" but he doesn't do it when he wants "more" of something.
39. Kicks off his shoes.  (I'm constantly searching Brookline for a missing shoe)
40. Says ball, mama, dada, up.
41. Always claps at the end of the itsy bitsy spider.
42. Flirts with strangers.
43. Aggressively sniffs the flowers in Pat the Bunny. 
44. Sticks out his tongue and makes a noise that sounds like "bagel bagel bagel".
45. Laughs when I laugh.
46. Smiles for the camera.
47. Loves to brush his teeth.
48. Loves to brush my teeth
49. Has long, dirty toenails.
50. Drinks sparkling water.  Then burps. 
51. Uses his hand to wipe snot from his nose and smears it all over his face.
52. Has a really long rat-tail. (I can't cut his hair.  It's beautiful.)
53. Will bang on anything to make loud noises.
54. Has the hiccups very often.
55. Could watch trucks drive by for hours.
56. Gives himself kisses in the mirror.
57. Loves Pirates Booty.
58. Has a 10 pound diaper every morning.
59. Likes putting his fingers and toes in my mouth.
60. Loves to climb up stairs.
61. Pulls his hair and rubs his eyes when he's tired.
62. Is unusually strong.
62. Has lint in his armpits.
63. Generates a ton of earwax.  I could open a candle factory.
64. Gives open-mouth kisses.
65. Will not cuddle in bed.
66. Rolls over during diaper changes.
67. Wants to bang on my laptop.  (We bought him a baby toy laptop.  He's not interested.)
68. Is ticklish.
69. Loves water - drinking, playing, splashing, kicking.
70. Loves dogs. 
71. Will cuddle with anything soft.
72. Loves hard boiled eggs but won't touch scrambled eggs.
73. Has barely visible eyebrows.
74. Points with his whole hand.
75. Loves being naked.
76. Eats a sandwich like a big kid.
77. Always smells like heaven (aka Mustela bath products)
78. Goes down the slide face first.
79. Likes to lay in the ball pit.
80. Likes to touch his penis.
81. Has big squishy cheeks.
82. Brings me books and backs up to sit in my lap.
83. Grunts to get my attention in the car.
84. Likes to have his back rubbed after naps.
85. Plays chase (and he laughs hysterically when I catch him).
86. Sits on his tushie and uses his legs to spin himself around in circles
87. Plays peek a boo under the coffee table.
88. Memorizes books and turns the pages until he gets to his favorite page.
89. Gives high fives.
90. Loves the Iphone.
91. Likes to suck on whole lemons.
92. Talks all day long and makes absolutely no sense.
93. Is always happy. 
94. Blows kisses.
95. Is scared of really old men.
96. Hates dressing rooms.
97. Does not cry when kids take away his toys.
98. Won't let me clip his finger or toe nails.
99. Likes to go through other people's strollers.
100. Is really funny.  Seriously.  He has a sense of humor!  (And he knows it.)

I love him so much.  Words can't begin to express...

I could easily write 100 more. 

Happy 1st Birthday Ari. 

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Big Foot

Ari has HUGE feet! 

To put his shoe size in perspective, the average 1 1/2 - 2 year old wears a size 5 or 5.5.

Ari, one week shy of his first birthday, is wearing a size 6.5-7!  In baby terms, this is unusually large.  I took a trip to Stride Rite last week to buy him "first walking" shoes.  Early walking shoes are lightweight and bend easily to protect the feet and prevent falls.  Since Ari is now walking more than crawling, his fashionable Adidas and Puma kicks are no longer appropriate (so sad, especially for my sneaker-loving baby daddy) for day-to-day wear.  He needs a shoe that will move with him as he learns to walk. 

But, the Stride Rite sneaks only go up to a size 6!  When the shoe saleswoman measured Ari's feet, she asked me if he was 2 years old.  When I said, "ummm no, he's 11 months and 3 weeks" she recommended we "look for shoes online at Baby Big & Tall."

According to this website, I should not be surprised that Ari is a big boy with big feet.  Matt and I are very tall and both have big feet.  And my brother, Ari's Uncle Jeff, measures in at a whopping 6' 6" and wears a size 15 shoe!  (And no, he does not play basketball.  Do you play miniature golf?)

So I'm off to go search online for big baby shoes.  This may be a bit of a hassle now, but I think it will work out in Ari's favor in the long run. 

I mean, come on, you know what they say about boys with big feet, right?!

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Catch me if you can

Ari loves all books "touch and feel."  Page after page, he locates and palpates the fuzzy, the soft, the bumpy, the wrinkly, the squeaky, the whisker-y, and now-a-days his favorite, the sticky.

Here's an example.  The frog with sticky pads on its legs:

Little guy likes to place his index and middle fingers on the page and repeatedly poke the adhesive-y pads.   He has touched them so much, in fact, that they've lost most of their stickiness. 

But those pads must have been contagious...because Ari is now the one with the sticky fingers!

Yup!  Just last week, Ari broke the eighth commandment three seperate times! 

First, we were at Party Favors shopping for his b-day extravaganza.  While I picked up cups and plates, Ari was busy taking greeting cards off the shelves and placing them behind his head.  Before we checked out, I collected 2 cards and 1 envelope from his stroller.  (And then he was unsuccessful at securing the #4 candle from the stroller-level shelf.  But in the process of attempted robbery, he knocked all of the sparkler candles on the ground.  An employee walked over and gave us a dirty look.  Ari blew her a kiss.  <Sigh> He can get away with anything.)

The next day, we walked through CVS.  Thank goodness the clerk noticed the pack of gum Ari was trying hard to conceal from my view.  It wasn't even sugar-free!

And then on Friday, we took our morning walk to Trader Joes, picked up some necessities, paid, left, and walked home.  After we entered the front door, I removed Ari from his stroller, and found a carton of raspberries tucked under his tush.  I did not pick up any raspberries on that trip to TJ's, and I definitely did not pay for any either.  Sticky fingers likes fresh fruit!  (I promptly returned to the store and made Ari hand over the "hot" produce.  The manager insisted I keep them.  Red-in-the-face, I begged him to let me pay.  I told him I needed to teach my kid a lesson.)

I'm doomed.  My very-soon-to-be-1-year old is a kleptomaniac. 

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Walk 'n Roll

First, he learned to roll.  Then, he figured out how to sit up on his own.  Next came crawling.  Soon after, climbing.  Followed by standing and cruising.

And now the highly dreaded, but inevitable, walking. 

Don't get me wrong.  I want Ari to walk.  But I wasn't quite ready for him to walk just yet.  As is, he's what we call crazy   hyper   ADHD  fearless energetic. 

Here's a clip of him using his stroller as a trampoline.  And yes, he climbed up there unassisted (and unsupervised.  Oops. FYI, the stroller now lives in the bathroom.  Both the toilet and the buggy are off-limits.)

It should have come as no surprise when he took his first steps a few days ago.  Here he is learning to walk.

And now that he can get around on his own two feet, he is very interested in push toys. 

Not this kind:

Or this one:

Nope, those would be too easy.  He much prefers the kind of push toy that is around his same height and weight and also has two feet.  And it's even better when they push back.

To the little girl in today's baby gym class: I apologize on behalf of my rambunctious son.  He didn't mean to push you into the water fountain.  Really.  He was just using you for balance.  If it's any consolation, your head left a nice bruise on his cheek. 

Watch out kids. 

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Vogue

I am not one of those moms who believes my kid is the best looking baby in the world.  Do I think he's unusually cute?  Of course.  But, I'm not about to spend money on professional head shots and submit them to a modeling agency.  In fact, I've always thought those moms and dads who travel around promoting their kids and entering their offspring in contests are pathetic, embarrassing, and exploitative. 

So, when I saw this posting from my fave kid's store Magic Beans on my Facebook newsfeed...

"Casting Call: We need some cuties! We're doing a photoshoot for the holiday issue of our magalog, Surprises on Monday, October 10th and we need models. If you'd like your kid to participate, please send an email to facebook@mbeans.com with your child's age, clothing size, and a snapshot!"

...I, without a question in my mind, thought...

Hell no.  I have a firm position on these sorts of things.  And that's NO.

PICK ME!  My kid can model.  He's so cute.  He does tricks on demands.  He loves the camera.  Please, pretty please, with a cherry on top!

(The heck with values.  He could be famous.) 

So, I quickly sent an email with the requested stats, crossed my fingers, and immediately started working with Ari on his modeling pose and hair-do.

Impressive, eh?

So we waited.  And we practiced.  And we starved ourselves.  And we watched Zoolander.

And then, this popped up in my inbox:

"Dear JulieSue,

Thank you so much for submitting your child's photo for our casting call. We would be delighted if you and Ari can join us on Monday, October 10. We actually have sort of a special request. We're wondering if you'd be interested in modeling as well. We need a shot with a mom pushing a stroller and thought you and Ari would be perfect for it. Let me know ASAP if you're willing :) We'd just need you to wear skinny jeans, a cute top and maybe some simple ballet flats (or something along those lines) and Ari to wear something green."

I had to re-read it 3 times.  They wanted Ari.  Obvi.  And, did I read this right...were they asking ME to model as well?!  OMG.  Could this get any better?  Yes, it could have been anything but skinny jeans.  I think not.

So Ari and I spent hours trying on different outfits, settled on a pair of straight-leg jeans, a grey cardigan, and blue flats.  I did my hair.  Okay, you're right.  I got a blow out.  And then I did my own make-up.  Really.  And I looked pretty good.  (Ari who?)

At the last minute, I switched into a different top because it was an unusually hot and humid day, woke my little hombre from his afternoon nap, packed the diaper bag, and off we went to catalog stardom.  Now, if you recall the last time I was this excited about something, it was for my cameo in an Adam Sandler movie.  (What does this say about me?  Nothing good.)  As it turns out, the two experiences were eerily similar.  It was hot, there was a lot of waiting around, and by the time we were called in to shoot, I was oily and frizzy and I had to pee.  Ari still looked good.  He sat in a stroller and smiled.  (And he was a natural.)  I pretended to push the stroller.  (And I was an awkward mess.)  .

Click. Click. Click.  Before I could regret my wardrobe decision, it was over.  Bye bye lights, camera, Tyra Banks, action. 

It was a fun experience, but I am pretty sure I won't be America's next top mo(m)del. 

Ari, on the other hand...

...will learn there's more to life than being really, really ridiculously good looking.

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Big baby

It's 8:33pm on Tuesday night.  Ari is fast asleep, dinner has been cleaned up, and I've changed into my comfy clothes.

I sit down, turn on the computer, and try to think of a blogging topic.  Blank screen.  Blank thoughts.

I look to my right to ask Matt, who is watching the Republican debate, for a suggestion. But before I can ask for help, I receive a gift from the blogging heavens.  I see this...

And then a few minutes later this...

Followed by this...

Um yeah.  No words needed.

Except this...I think I'm the one who needs the bear hug.

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Potty Training part 2

I potty poopie trained my 11 month old. 

I've been avoiding writing this post because: a. I actually try not to write too much about poop; and b. I will have to write about my own poop in order to accurately describe the situation; and c. I know the vast majority of you are women but some of you male readers may still believe that chicks don't poop.  (You single guys should stop reading now.)

So here are the deets:

We 3 Goldwasser's have a morning routine. (You can guess as to who does what.)

7:20-8:00am Wake up.  Change diaper.  Get dressed.  Empty dishwasher.  Make breakfast.  Make coffee.  Dad leaves for work.  Eat breakfast.  Drink coffee.  Drink bottle. 

8:00-8:10am Play.

8:10am Walk/crawl to the bathroom and announce "I'm going to make a poopie."

8:11am Poop. And poop. 

That's right.

Both of us.  At the same time.  Every single day.  Together.  In the bathroom.  One of us sitting down.  One of us standing up holding onto his Mommy.  No exaggeration.  And no joke.  And then Ari flushes the toilet.  We wash our hands.  (Then go upstairs for clean up time #2.  Ha, #2.) 

This cannot be a coincidence.  The kid knows to poop in the bathroom and at the toilet.  And he goes after his morning coffee bottle.  Truly remarkable. 

Don't believe me?  Come over one morning!  I promise I'm no longer not full of sh*t. 

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1-800-TERMINIX

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!

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Jealous JS

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?!

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Wordless Wednesday

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Boys and their Dad's toys

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.

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No longer obsessed with poop

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.

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Food fight

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.

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Til death do us part

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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So much to tell, so little time to tell it

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.

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It's a boy!

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 twice...life 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.)

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