My Father's Journey to the End of the Earth

I promise I will be back soon. I have a few moments to myself right now, but I'd rather use them catching up with what ya'll are doing rather than updating you as to why my dad is teetering on the precipice of the universe.

Mother Fucking Meat! On Mother Fucking Swords!

Last night we went here. It was scary. It was kind of like a fancy Ponderosa. But with meat. On swords. They give you these little discs that are red on one side and green on the other. Once you turn it to the green side, thousands of men in gaucho pants rush to serve you meat. Off of swords. It was insane. I would highly recommend it if you are feeling meaty.

Our Combined IQs Must Be Well Over 400

You know how people say that true geniuses lack common sense? We put little Sam's high chair on the most expensive rug we own.

If anyone is looking for me, I'll just be sitting at home waiting for the Nobel committee to call. And scrubbing rice cereal and avocado out of my lovely rug.

  

Going Off

I had a light bulb moment last night. My piss-poor mood yesterday coupled with a crying jag sparked by god knows what made me realize that I am suffering from hormonal instability due to going off my birth control pills. Now before any of you out there freak out, we are not trying to have another babe just yet. The thing is, I want to loose some of Sam's baby weight before I go and gain new baby weight. However, these pills I was taking have the highest incidence of weight gain as a side effect. The hormone blend required to prevent my milk from drying up and also to keep me from getting knocked up was causing my body to create fat cells out of everything that I ingested. Broccoli = fat. Lettuce = fat. Ice cream = double fat. Even thought I am doing Weight Watchers and sticking to it fairly well, my mass keeps increasing. So I am off the pills. The bad news is that it will probably take a few days or weeks for my body chemistry to level out. That might be good news for you, though, since I tend to write more when I feel crazy. At the moment, I have no local OB/GYN so the good Dr. and I are either going to have to stock up on drugstore contraceptives or abstain. I'm all for going on a shopping spree at Walgreen's but Dr. SOB doesn't like OTC birth control. It's going to end up being a battle of wills. The likely outcome is that I will lose this battle and end up pregnant again before too long.

Here is a perfect example of why we shouldn't have more kids yet. Do you see what Dr. did to his son? He just thought this was the funniest fucking thing he had ever seen. Honestly, I might have giggled a little bit, too. Also I might be the one taking the picture. Dr. is just outside of the frame ready to spring into action should the boy look like his balance is faltering. HBM recently had a similar experience with Wonder Baby. After seeing this photo, the authorities probably won't let us have another baby even if we wanted to.

Don't Read This, It's Fairly Meh

Blog blog blog. I don't know how today. I am boggled in the head about many things.

We are trying to buy a new car (Yay!) but might not be able to afford the one we want (Boo!). But we don't even really know what one we want, so my new job is to figure that out.

I impulsively bought a jogging stroller on Craigslist and I don't like it and Dr. SOB will make fun of me if he knew. I am secretly trying to re-sell it at the same venue for the same price. Hopefully someone else will buy it from me and the Dr. will never be the wiser.

My parents are coming and I have to do the wash and go grocery shopping. And clean the cat box. And vacuum. And clean my bedroom. That whole rooftop deck thing is pretty nice, but since the access is in our bedroom, any time someone wants to see it our room needs to be clean.

I'm still trying to figure out some picture posting stuff. I'm working with FireFox now, thanks to Susan, so maybe that will improve things. I doubt it.

I Am the Post

Dr. SOB and I were sitting on the couch last night. He was watching the Comedy Central Roast of William Shatner and I was looking through my archives trying to find an old reference to my Doerta. He kept glancing at the screen and reading over my shoulder. Just so you know, Dr. SOB doesn't read the Cheese Party. But occasionally I'll be working here and he'll take a peek. Well, he kept getting annoyed that I would move along before he had finished reading. I said I'd bookmark that page for him so that if he wanted to he could just effing read the post later on. His reply? 'I don't need to read the post. I am the post.' When I told him I was going to blog about his comment he got pissed and went back to watching TV.

Update on the Seething:

Thanks to Super Des, I now have a way around this whole Blogger photo upload bull shit. This is the picture of Sam I wanted to post when I was talking about his eyes:

  


And this one was just too cute to leave out!



  


Thanks Des! Now I can get back to hating on more important things!

Six Months and Seething

I don't like my post from yesterday. Usually I make a concerted effort to really focus and write what is in my heart in my letters to Sam. Yesterday, unfortunately, my heart was filled with the desire to kill someone at Blogger because there always seems to be some kind of fucked up issue with the photo upload function. I spent nearly two hours on Sunday sifting through the four hundred pictures of Sam I took during his fifth month in order to choose what I considered to be the cream of the crop. To me, these pictures are just as important as the words that accompany them. Blogger, however, decided that it didn't like my pictures. At least I wasn't the only one! When it did finally allow me to upload some shots, it was randomly selective. There were two photos in particular that would not be admitted into my post. I would show them to you now but the effing bitch is still all 'this page cannot be displayed' at me. Son of a mother humping whore. So pissed was I that I signed up for the new and (hopefully) improved Blogger beta, so things might get a little wonky around here in the near future.

In other news, I was checking out my Google reference and I found out that there might be some pervs here looking for a sex date!

Moving right along. My mom and dad are coming for a week-long visit beginning Saturday. This could mean one of two things: a whole lot more posting or a whole lot less posting. The way I see it, their presence might give me a ton of blog fodder and also the freedom to write whenever I want to since I will have unlimited child care. However, they don't know about the blog and so they might start to wonder what I'm doing all the time hogging the computer. If I can come up with a better cover story than 'email' or 'looking at porn' then next week looks promising. I welcome any and all suggestions!

Six Months and Counting...

Hey Sammy!

Yesterday was your half birthday, big guy. Just think, in the next month or two, you should actually be able to eat a little of the cupcakes your dad makes me buy every month in honor of your birthday!

Six months is a long time, huh? You've grown and changed so much in the last few weeks I don't even know where to begin! Just in the past week you've been sitting up all by yourself! Sometimes you still need a little help, and other times you just end up flat on your face, but as long as I laugh when you look up, you don't seem to mind.

Your hair is growing like a weed! Last month everyone thought I had cut it to look so perfectly groomed, and now I probably should. Especially since your new favorite game to play in your crib when you should be sleeping is 'bumper head mash.' This results in the hairstyle seen above. Cute, but not so well groomed.

You are eating damned near everything these days. You love you some carrots! Now that you've figured out that things that go into your mouth can be consumed, you try and eat most everything. This has created a monster in your mother. Every time you put something even remotely funny in your mouth, I run for the camera. I'm sure you'll find these quite amusing in your teen years.

One thing hasn't changed. Your eyes are still a stunning shade of blue that neither one of your parents possess. Your hair has flecks of gold and red that shine in the sunlight.

You have a smile for everyone. On saturday night we took you to a party where there were several babies. People kept coming up to us, most of them nearly strangers, and telling us we had the best baby in the room. You were so pleasant and charming, which is your natural state. I guess other people aren't used to being around such a perfectly content little creature.

You have recently discovered that in addition to the high pitched, glass breaking screams and yelps you are able to produce that you can also growl in a low tone. I call this your man voice. At first I thought you were getting laryngitis, and then I realized it was just a new trick! Ah the joys of raising the first one.

There are days where all I want to do it sit and stare at you, my lovely little child. You can't imagine how happy we are now that we have you. At night your dad and I lay in bed and wish we could wake you up to play, and maybe for a cuddle or two. I can't imagine what it'll be like when you are truly big and grown. I hope that you'll feel some sympathy for your old mama and hug her every once in a while, ok?

Love you, Mama

Not Quite My Worst Fear Come True, But Pretty Effing Close

Sam is sick. Wait, I'm going to test fate and say instead that Sam was sick. Yesterday he was coughing a little here and there, but since he's been drooling like that dog from Turner and Hooch, I just figured he wasn't coordinated enough to not choke on his own saliva. He got up from his last nap around 5pm and was listless. By quarter of six, he was almost asleep again. Dr. SOB suggested we give him a little tylenol and put him to bed. We had recently purchased a shiny new bottle of infant tylenol that was cherry flavored instead of the grape we had before. Almost as soon as the dropper was out of his mouth, he vomited. A red and milky white stream of puke rushed out of his little head an onto Dr. SOB's chest. I cleaned the both of them up while we speculated as to whether or not I gagged him with the dropper or if he had some aversion to the cherry flavor. A few minutes later, we tried another dose of the cherry stuff. It seemed to stay down, so we decided to try and give the boy a little cereal before bed. No sooner had I strapped him into the high chair did he puke again, and all over the nylon straps. I got him out and clean and then I cleaned the chair. Dr. SOB thought maybe we should see if we had some of the old grape tylenol left, and since I always try and keep some in the diaper bag, I dumped the contents of said bag onto the coffee table until I found it. He took it without incident and after ten minutes seemed to be keeping it down. We decided it might still be a good idea to give the lad some supper before bed, so he ate some cereal. He seemed to be doing alright, so I gave him some of the avocado I had prepared for him earlier. He gobbled it up. Because he was being very clingy and because he had puked on himself several times over the course of the evening, I decided that instead of his usual duck bath, I would run a bath in the regualr tub and soak with him. I was even planning to put some of the Johnson & Johnson's soothing lavender bedtime bath in the water for us. In hindsight, I realize that this was foolish, but at the time all I wanted to do was make my little boy feel better. Cuddling with mama in a warm bath seemed just the ticket. Sure enough, about 3 minutes after we got in the tub, a torrent of avocado/rice cereal/breast milk baby vomit shot out of his little maw. And then there was some more. And some more. Finally when he seemed to be finished, I called for dad, who washed him in the sink while I rinsed the tub and took a quick shower. It was gross, but even more it was sad. After that, my baby wouldn't eat, so we laid him down to sleep. I checked on him every 3.7 minutes for the next two hours until he woke up and ate. He seems to be feeling better today, and there has only been two small vomiting incidents.

For the record, my worst fear is Sam pooping in the bath. I know it will happen some day, but I live in fear of that day. I was involved in a poop-in-the-tub incident when I was little (I was not the pooper) but that is another post entirely.

You're Not Fully Clean...

Tomorrow marks the arrival of our First House Guest. Our friend Dr. Machiavelli is coming to the ATL for a wedding and he is going to stay at the new Casa de Queso. Here's the catch: Dr. Machiavelli's mother is the cleanest person that ever lived. Ever. I mean it. We went to Brooklyn over the holidays and stayed at her house and I swear to god you would have thought you had entered a parallel universe where dust doesn't exist. When we lived in Philly, she would routinely travel from Brooklyn to her son's house because she was sure he wasn't cleaning enough. Even though his house was always spotless, she always complained that it was filthy. Once when we were over I saw one of Dr. SOB's hairs on the floor and I picked it up so she wouldn't yell at him. Although Dr. Machiavelli knows his mother is a bit more fanatical about cleanliness than every other living creature on the planet, I know that he is used to a surgically clean environment. So I have been Cleaning with a capitol C. That means I am actually using cleaning products and cleaning tools. Today I have utilized the following items: glass cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner, clorox tile scrubber thingie, a toilet brush, a broom, a sponge mop and paper towels. I'm actually planning to drug Sam so he'll sleep longer, giving me more time to scrub things. The only reason I'm writing this now is because I mopped myself into a corner. Novice.

Freaky

I read a book! In only 10 short days! A real book. Not 'Good Night Moon' or 'Make Way For Ducklings' but a an actual book for grown ups. And it was non-fiction! Sound the trumpets, I feel like celebrating!

I just finished reading Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner and this is what I learned: we have given our son the second most common male name in the categories of 'High-End White Boy Names' and 'White Boy Names Among High-Education Parents.'

I'm not sure how I feel about this. On one hand, yes the Dr. and I are both college educated and then some, so I guess we fit the description of 'High-Education' but are we 'High-End?' If you asked my mother, she would quickly say yes. My mother has been known to describe me as 'highfalutin' at times. But if you asked Dr. SOB's mother, she might disagree. If you asked a few of Dr.'s residency friends, they might say yes, but if you ask the girls in my Stroller Strides class, they might say no.

How does one measure whether or not she is 'High-End?' This has been something I've been thinking about quite a bit recently, considering the company I've been keeping. Are we high end because we drink wine and have a flat panel TV or two? Or does the fact that we both drive small economy cars keep us out of the upper echelon? Does Dr. SOB's status as a physician gain us access to the club, or does the fact that he's a fellow and doesn't make a lot of scratch keep us out?

Secondarily, do I want to fit the description of 'High-End?' Yes, I might buy my make-up at MAC, but I only wear it once a week if I'm lucky! I get expensive hair cuts, but I rarely do anything with my hair other than brush it. This whole discussion is giving me a headache. I just don't understand why we have to be defined by our possessions and positions instead of our person. I think that is why I'm having a hard time accepting those around me here in our neighborhood. We unintentionally surrounded ourselves with people who care more about what we have than who we are.

First thing tomorrow I'm going to start looking for a new house in Little Five Points!

Joy For All

Jazz. Every time I hear a hi-hat or an upright bass, my stomach does flip flops. Sometimes I even well up and get a little misty. For the longest time I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I had these types of visceral reactions to this music. I never listened to jazz as a kid. In fact, it wasn't until about 5 years ago that I even bought my first record by Sonny Rollins. Back in Philly, about three years ago, Dr. SOB and I were out at a little dive listening to listen to a set and he finally figured out the root of my feelings.

Charlie Brown.

More specifically, Vince Guaraldi's score to the Charlie Brown Christmas special.

In my family, the Charlie Brown Christmas special was the official beginning to the holiday season. The day it was broadcast, we would rush home from school and start putting up decorations. Then at eight o'clock, we would tune in to ABC. I would usually sit next to my dad and my little brother would sit with my mom. As soon as I would hear the first chords from 'Christmas Time Is Here' my eyes would widen and my heart would flutter. I knew the Santa was just around the corner and the next few weeks would be filled with cookies, family, and unbridled excitement.

I never knew growing up that we were at an economic disadvantage. In other words, we was poor. My father is a union steel worker, and at that time was low on the totem pole. Unfortunately, that meant that every time there were layoffs, he was one of the first ones out of work. Despite steady lapses in our steady income, my mom and dad worked tirelessly to make my brother and me blissfully unaware. This was never more true than at Christmas time. My folks would scrimp and save all year so that come Christmas, we would have oodles of presents under our tree. My mom would even go as far as to wrap things individually so that instead of one present of six pairs of socks, we had six presents of one pair of socks. We always got that one big present that we were hoping for. Drum set, bikes, cabbage patch kids, you name it. I think, though, what made it so special was watching my parents' faces and seeing how happy they were. We were little, and we still thought Santa had brought us these fabulous things. We had no idea what they sacrificed to make these things possible.

As I grew up, I started to see things a little more clearly. I realized what my parents been doing, and it only made me enjoy Christmas even more.

These days, we are separated by a great deal of geography. My brother is in Florida, I am in Atlanta and my folks are still in Pennsylvania. Usually, just after Thanksgiving, I'll get a call from one of them informing me when the Charlie Brown Christmas special is going to air. Whenever possible, my brother and I will spend that half an hour on the phone together, not speaking, just watching together, sharing.

This is what I want to share with Sam.

I wanted to do this yesterday, but the lad and I are both recovering from tiny little colds and we slept most of the day away. Thanks to the Lovely Mrs. Davis.

Divine Intervention

My parents tell me that they pray every night for Sam to poop. If you didn't think they were crazy before, now you know. My mother and father are so obsessed with regularity you would think they were seventy, despite the fact that they aren't yet in their fifties. You could set your clocks to their bowel habits. It really bothers them that Sam only empties his colon once every week or so. To them, this must be torture. I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I appreciate my son's megacolon and will never question his poop frequency. Unfortunately, God must, in fact, exist, and my mom and dad must be on his good side. Sam crapped himself not once, not twice but three times today. Three fucking times! His first three diapers were filled with shit, and let me tell you, he's been eating carrots, so it was kind of orange. On the Lord's day, none the less. Amen.

Honey, Fuck You*

Last night Dr. SOB thought it wise to inform me that he was back down to his 'pre-pregnancy' weight. Then my head spontaneously lit on fire and I died. The end.

I have been trying for months to lose my baby weight, but man is it tough. Breast feeding makes me ravenous and with the moving and such we were eating out a lot. The visits with my family didn't help much, either. Every time I go to Pittsburgh I gain 5 pounds. I wonder why? I've been going to Weight Watchers and exercising with the Stroller Strides ladies (and bitches) but I can't seem to stay on top of things. So last night I proclaimed a one week banishment of ice cream and cookies from our house. Ice cream, being my most favorite thing of all times, is one of the hardest things for me to resist. I always buy light ice cream, but it really doesn't matter how light it is if you eat the whole pint for lunch. And cookies are cookies. Who doesn't love cookies? I could do some major damage on a package of Trader Joe's ginger cream Joe Joe's if I was able to get my hands on a package.

Dr. SOB is pissed because he feels that he should be rewarded for his weight loss, and his reward of choice is cookies. He doesn't understand why I hate him so much that I won't allow cookies in the house for 7 whole days. Can someone please explain it to him? I'll give you a cookie.

*That's for you, Carrie!

10th Grade Redux

I am a stay-at-home mother. I consider myself very lucky to be able to stay home with my tot. I count my blessings every day that Dr. SOB's job provides enough, financially speaking, for me to spend my time changing diapers and kissing toes instead of doing experiments on rubber stoppers and writing reports.

The one downside to this is that I have to go out of my way if I want some adult interaction. To remedy this, I joined a group where you can exercise with your babies. I was hoping to meet some other stay-at-home moms that might want to be my friend. Since I've done this before (with a huge butt-load of success) and I'd like to think that I'm not inherently repulsive, I didn't think this would be difficult. I was wrong.

I go to classes in two different locations. One is in an urban park and the other is in a suburban park. At the urban park, everything is A-OK. The girls are friendly and we chat as we exercise. However in the suburbs of ATL, what my husband does, what kind of car I drive and where I live (and do I rent or own) are questions I must answer before I can be approved for friendship. Unfortunately, since I drive a Saturn and we currently rent our condo, I don't qualify.

I go to these classes and not one person will talk with me beyond exchanging pleasantries. I've worked very hard to remember their names and their kids' names, but almost every time I'm there someone asks me if this is my first time in the class. It's really starting to piss me off. I should just focus on the exercise and not worry about these bitches, but it's awful. The only person who speaks with me is the instructor. I'm like that kid on the field trip who no one liked so they had to sit with the teacher on the bus.

I've heard stories about these so called "Buckhead Bitches" but I hate stereotypes and I'm all for giving someone a chance. Hell, I'll even give you a second chance. Maybe they should think about doing the same.

My Favorite Things...

Here are a few of my favorite photos from my visit with the family...

And finally, this picture Dr. SOB took of the moon. He was drunk. Really, really drunk.

The Story of How My Mother Accidentally Ingested My Breast Milk, or The Funniest Thing that Happened while I was in Pittsburgh

Every night Sam gets a proper supper before his bedtime breastfeeding. We have some type of fruit and rice cereal. For those of you who aren't familiar, rice cereal comes in dry flakes, kind of like instant mashed potatoes, and you add the liquid of your choice to make the cereal your desired consistency. Commonly, the liquid is either water, formula or breast milk. Since I never leave home without my handy dandy breast pump, I use my own milk to mix with the cereal.

At home, Sam sits in his high chair while I spoon feed him and Dr. SOB watches Star Trek. Dr. cannot tolerate the inherent messiness of feeding time and I cannot tolerate William Shatner, so this works out well for the both of us. My parents do not have a high chair, so instead Sam would sit on my lap and my mother would spoon tiny mouthfuls of goo into his chew hole. Occasionally the lad would get rambunctious and start flapping his little arms. During one of these instances, he knocked into the spoon, delivering a small dollop of cereal onto my mother's leg. Without a moment of hesitation, she wiped the cereal with her finger tip and stuck it into her mouth. She then informed me that it tasted sweeter than she would have expected. I was practically busting at the seams. I wasn't sure how she would react, so I tried to be as gentle as possible when I informed her that the sweetness was probably due to fact that breast milk is sweeter than cow's milk. She blanched. I waited, breath held, to see what she would do. She looked around in a wild panic and spotted a 2 liter bottle of soda on the counter. She leapt up, ripped the cap off and began chugging generic caffeine-free diet soda right from the plastic bottle. After a few good pulls on the soda, she set the bottle down, burped quietly and came back to finish feeding Sam as though nothing had happened.

I don't know if we'll ever talk about it, but the memory of my mother eating my breast milk will always hold a special place in my heart.

Mini-Meme

I've been tagged a couple of times now, so here goes nothing!

THREE NICKNAMES: Booger, Pumpernickel, Chewy

THREE PEOPLE THAT MAKE HIM LAUGH: Pretty much everyone, even the wall

THREE THINGS THAT HE LOVES: His bed, anything that jingles, Grover

THINGS THAT HE HATES: I can't think of anything so far!

THREE THINGS THAT HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND: Why he can't reach the things hanging on the walls, why he can roll from back to front but not front to back (I think that's actually something I can't understand), why he can't have any of my coffee (it's because I'm very territorial)

THREE THINGS ON HIS FLOOR: His bumbo and nothing else...I cleaned today!

THINGS HE IS DOING RIGHT NOW: Playing in his gymni, watching Sesame Street and yelling his little head off

THREE THINGS HE CAN DO: Charm the ladies, sit up using his hands for balance, get his big toe on his right foot into his mouth

THREE WAYS TO DESCRIBE HIS PERSONALITY: Sunny, snuggly, hungry

THREE THINGS HE CANNOT DO: Roll from belly to back, eat a steak, sleep through the night consistently

THREE FAVORITE FOODS: Boob juice, apples, pears

FOODS HE DOES NOT LIKE: None so far!

THREE BEVERAGES HE DRINKS REGULARY: Boob juice, scotch, bath water.

THREE SHOWS HE WATCHES: Eebee, Sesame Street, Daily Show

BABY BOYS WE TAG: Atlanta Jake

BABY GIRLS WE TAG: Thalia, if I'm not overstepping some blog law by tagging someone way cooler than myself!

Kennywood Day

In my childhood, only Christmas and my birthday rivaled the excitement generated by Kennywood day. Until last summer, when I was pregnant, I never missed a year. Our community day has always been the first wednesday in August, and although I often go on other days, if I am in the area for Monongahela day, you'll find me at Kennywood. I was so excited to take Sammy there for the first time I could barely sleep the night before. Not that he let me sleep all that much anyways! My mom and dad took me there for the first time when I was nearly the exact same age. She tells the story all the time about how they took me on the merry-go-round and then paraded me all around for everyone to meet, and how she was so hot but they didn't have a stroller so she carried me everywhere. I couldn't stop the tears from escaping when we took him on the carousel, or when we took his picture with Cowboy Joe, or when he squealed when I put the tiniest wisp of cotton candy on his tongue. I can't wait for next year!

Back from the 'Burgh

We are home! Sam and I both slept like a dream last night in our own beds. There is so much to catch up on, and I promise I will give you all the boring details soon, but right now I need to catch up with my ladies and see what every one else did last week!

Sam Gets Fashion Advice From His Uncle Dan

Sorry for the lack of posting. We have been really busy visiting friends and family, and most importantly going to Kennywood. I'll fill in the details later. For now, I leave you with this lovely idea from The Pajama Mama: The Bloggin' Good Blogger Days!

I Am So Smart...S-M-R-T!

Sam is a tiny little baby, and all of his things are small as well. Including his crib. Which is also portable. This means that during the day I can move it to other rooms of the house and have access to the computer while he's napping. Did I ever tell you that I'm gifted?

Stupid Stupid Stupid

(Insert sound of hand smacking forehead here.)

There are three bedrooms in my parents' house. One for them, one for guests and one for the computer. Since I was only traveling with the baby this time and not the baby and the Dr. I offered to let my brother and his 'girlfriend' have the guest room as long as my folks brought my old single bed up from the basement for me to sleep on. I am waaaaay to old to sleep on a futon. They put the bed in the office and initially I thought 'Sweet! I'll be in the room with the computer!' Which is true. But so is Sam, and I can''t exactly be clackity-clack-clacking on the keys in here when the lad is in bed. I don't like to blog while he's awake, but I'm left with no choice. So my posts are going to be short. To make up for it, I'll try and write every day and also share some pictures of our adventures with you.