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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Mama Proof

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...

...so 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?

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Style

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.

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Potty Training

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.

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Fight Night

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.

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Losing my melon

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.

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At a boy!

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? 

"Doooosh."

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 proud...at 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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Sorry Ari

But this gives new meaning to "up to your elbows"...

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Woof

I ask the question, "What does a dog say?", I answer the question, "Woof woof woof.", and Ari laughs.  Every time.  So, I ask.  I answer.  He laughs.  Repeat.

But, I think I may have played the woof game a few too many times, because, well, Ari has turned into a puppy. 

How do I know? 

For starters, he follows me around the house.  I walk into the kitchen, he enters right behind me.  I sit down at the table.  He crawls underneath and sits at my feet.  I go to the bathroom.  He scratches at the door until I let him in. (And then, he sits on the tile and watches me.)  He is truly man's Mom's best friend.

Ari pants and he drools and usually he does both at the same time.  Tongue hanging out and saliva dripping on the floor, Ari makes a quick, breathy, heh-heh-heh sound.  I do it back to him.  He laughs.  And then pants some more.

When I'm eating, Ari sits at my feet and begs for my food.  Often, he pulls himself up on my leg, stares at me with sad puppy-dog eyes, and whines until I give him some of whatever I'm eating.  Gazpacho.  Lox.  Dog sh*t.  It really doesn't matter.  If I'm eating it, he wants it. 

He eats grass.  And then he pukes.

We love to play fetch together.  I can throw car keys or a paper bag or a hair clip (wait, you mean none of those are toys?! Oops.) and he brings them all back to me.  Good boy.

He squats when he poops.

And, he licks my hands, he rolls around on the ground, he chases balls, he digs in the dirt, and he likes to have his tummy scratched.  He hasn't started smelling butts yet.  But, at this point, it wouldn't surprise me.  If only he could master "sit" and "stay".

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Colorblind

My brother is severely colorblind.  He has been known to wear a red shirt and green undershirt and when asked why he's dressed for Christmas, he replies, "What do you mean?  I'm wearing black with blue."  I sent him the figure below and asked him to tell me what number he sees. 



He said "there's no number in there."  I see a 2, what about you?

When Ari was born, we gave him lots of black and white toys because the high contrast of colors is the most visible and attractive to infants.  He had black and white books, rattles, pictures, and even outfits.  And I could tell the theory was accurate because he loved to stare at the different patterns.  Now-a-days, he likes bold colors and bright prints but we won't know for at least a year or two if his color perception is the same as his parents or his Uncle Jeff's.

But there is one thing we know for sure.  When it comes to people, Ari is not colorblind. 

We have a Jamaican nanny on Tuesdays named Dee and she has an abundance of melanin in her skin.  You know what I mean, right?  And Ari can spot her a mile away.  When he sees her, he starts humping the floor (should I be worried?) and laughing out loud.  She is all fun, all the time.

The only catch is...he thinks everyone with a dark skin tone (ahem, again, I'm trying very hard here not to say anything that crosses the line.  Well, that line.) is the nanny.  Recently, Ari was taking a nap and I was catching up on old shows on the DVR.  Ari woke up and I brought him downstairs, forgetting the TV was still turned on.  Next thing I know, the kid is out of control - giddy, jumpy, drooling, reaching for the TV. 

What was on?  Oprah. 

If you come over and I'm watching BET, you'll know why.  Plus, I love Mo'Nique. 

Little guy's learning pretty early that once you go black...

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Baby Bio 101

When I was a kid, I loved watching Mr. Wizard on Nickelodeon.  It was no surprise that as I got older, I became obsessed with science projects.  My mom would want me to point out that she I won the State Science Fair in 7th grade when I injected cancerous tumors in plants and treated them with beta carotene.  It worked.  Fo' real.  Eat your carrots.

And then I entered high school and the wonderful world of Biology.  (As an aside, my teacher, Mrs. Ishee, could not pronounce my name.  Tongue-tied, she always called me Suley Jew.  Hmm thinking back, this was the South.  Did she do it on purpose?!)

Bio proved to be awesome. In 9th grade we dissected the frog, in 10th the fetal pig, and then, as a Senior, the ultimate in butchering deconstruction, the cat!  Yup, we shaved it, skinned it, and studied its insides for a whole semester.  And I loved it. 

(Side note - For those of you who use Keratin hair treatments, the ones that actually work are made with formaldehyde.  If you dissected a cat in high school, you would know why I take my tresses elsewhere.)

With the exception of Geology 101 (Rocks for Jocks) in college (we didn't learn about the 4 C's in that class...what-a-waste), I haven't taken a science class since high school.  But having a kid gives me endless opportunities for science experiments.

Like, how much liquid can a diaper hold?  How much milk can a baby drink before he spits up?  Will Ari cry if I send him face down on the playground slide?  What happens if I don't burp the baby?  Does the sound of running water make a baby pee?  (9 pounds of water, not much, oh yeah, he hurls, yes - every time!) 

I could go on and on. 

But nothing beats my latest fascination - food experiments. 

A few highlights thus far:

#1. Corn:  One word. Yes. 
#2. Turkey meatballs:  After consumption, Ari expels gas from both the digestive track and the anal sphincter and both smell exactly the same! 
#3 Sand.  (Same as corn)
And then there's #4. Asparagus.  You know where I'm going with this one.  The result?  Of course!

Next up?  Tart frozen yogurt.  And Chinese food.  (Is it just me?!)

Einstein.  Mr. Wizard.  Bill Nye the Science Guy.  And me.  Raising a baby ain't (rocket) science.  But it sure is entertaining.

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What do you mean?

Being a daddy is hard work.  There's no manual for how to take care of a kid.  (Good thing there are mommies!)

Here's a recent mind-numbing conversation with my baby's daddy (aka my hubbie Matt):

Me: Matt, will you please change his diaper?
Matt: #1 or #2?
Me: Just pee
Matt: Ok
Me: Here's a diaper and wipes, you can do it right here.
Matt: Why do I need wipes?
Me: What do you mean?
Matt: Why do I need wipes?
Me: What do you mean? To wipe him.
Matt: I've never done that before.
Me: What do you mean?
Matt: I've never done that before.
Me: You mean, in the last 8 1/2 months, you've never wiped him when you changed his diaper?
Matt: I didn't think I needed to.  He's not dirty.  I don't wipe myself.
Me: He's been sitting in his own pee.
Matt: What do you mean?
Me: He's been sitting in his own pee!
Matt: I've never done that before.
Me: I think you should start.  He's dirty.  You need to wipe his tushie and his weinie.
Matt: What do you mean?
Me: I'm losing my mind.
Matt: What do you mean?
Me: Just wipe him and put on a clean diaper.
Matt: Ok.

Matt?!  What do YOU mean? 

Better late than never. 

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A letter to flight 1252

To the passengers of flight 1252 from Washington Dulles to Boston,

On behalf of my 8 month old son, I want to apologize for the sh*t/spit combo on the flight Saturday morning.  When someone once told me baby poop defies gravity, I chuckled and thought they were being dramatic.  But as it turns out, Isaac Newton must have never had kids, because as you all witnessed, when a baby goes #2 on an airplane, it ends up everywhere except in the diaper.

Thank you to those who offered to help.  I know you were just being polite.  To those of you who rolled your eyes and mouthed "oh my god do you smell that?" as I walked by, I appreciate your sense-itivity.

I can't figure out what caused such an enormous crap.  What did he eat the day before?  It must have been the hamburger, salmon, egg yolks, yogurt, waffles, chicken, beef kabob, blueberries, cantaloupe, cheese.  Same thing happens to his mommy.

And to the unlucky passenger in seat 22B on the flight after us, I hope you were wearing a dark color. 

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masturb-asana

I recently had the pleasure opportunity to participate in a 1-on-1 yoga session.  I've taken a few yoga classes in the past.  I'm the one laughing my yoga pants off when someone in the class farts and trying my hardest not to queef during the foot-behind-the-head pose.  But, I decided it would be good for my fupa to do a little yoga.

I procrastinated at the gym for as long as possible and then made my way to the treadmill to warm-up.  Tree-hugging yoga instructor walks over to me.  Conversation and yoga practice narrated below (just the note worthy points):

Yogie: (Introductions, small talk, etc.) Today you are going to work on massaging yourself.
Me: Like masturbation?
Yogie: (Straight face. Perhaps one audible grunt-like giggle) Nobody's ever said that before.  Not exactly.
Me: Too bad.
Yogie: (Motions me to follow him into personal training studio. I follow.) Have you ever worked with balls?
Me: I'm a pro!
Yogie: Great.  Use this medium-sized ball.  It's very firm.
Me: Nobody likes squishy balls.
Yogie: Right. Lay down with your pelvis on the top of the ball.
Me: (Laying down) Will you please turn the lights off?
Yogie: (No reaction) Walk your hands out and balance your solar plexus on the ball.
Me: Oh yeah. This feels good.
Yogie: Good! Massage yourself. You're really good at this.  Now, walk back and plant your feet firmly on the earth.
Me: I'm not finished.
Yogie: Take your time.
Me: Thanks for being so selfless. 
Yogie: Yoga is all about you.
Me: What's next?
Yogie: Lay with your back on the ball.  Grasp the earth firmly with your hands.  Your fingers are the roots to the earth.
Me: Where do you buy your pot?
Yogie: (No reaction)
Me: No, really?
Yogie: (No reaction. Leads me in a few more stretches.) Time is up for the day.  I hope you enjoyed the practice.
Me: It was good for me.  Was it good for you?
Yogie: I enjoyed it.  Thank you.
Me: Maybe I'll try it again some time.
Yogie: You can do this practice at home. You have balls there?
Me: I sure do!

I left the studio, scooped up my kid from babysitting, and rushed home to practice.

Namaste.

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Turning Tricks

I can imagine being a baby can get pretty frustrating.  You can't explain (in words) what you want or don't want, you can't move around as freely as you would like, and in my kid's case, you can't even sleep without big brother mother watching you. 

The video monitor.  God's gift to Jewish over-bearing mothers. 

I take this thing everywhere I go.  I hold it outside while sunbathing, set it up at Grandma & Grandpa's house, place it on the dashboard in the car when I make a quick trip to CVS, and turn it on as loud as possible when I take a shower. 

Come on JulieSue.  We're talking about a 20 pound baby who can't crawl or walk.  Confined to a crib.  In a home where every noise is audible. Nothing can happen. 

Is a video monitor really necessary? 

Heck yeah it is!

Ari has learned a new skill.  He can sit up on his tushie from the crawling position.  This may not sound like rocket science, but to him, it's a cool new trick.  He practices it all day.  And now, all night.  The catch?  He gets stuck in the sitting-up position at night.  And cries.

Last night, this happened 3 times.  When I decided I would not go in and lay him down, (he would have to learn to do this on his own) he hollered in a language only I can understand, "Mom, if you're not gonna help me out, I'm just gonna sleep with my head in my lap!"

He showed me. 

But alas, I moved him.  Poor little guy would have had a stiff neck in the morning!

Morning came, no stiff neck.  But probably time to remove the mobile. 

I'm sure he'll have more tricks in the coming days, months, and years.  And nothing will get by me.  I'll be monitoring him til he's 18.

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