Grape Did It

Keeping the marriage alive...oops...I mean, interesting. Keeping it interesting.

"What did you check?"

"I checked no, pull the plug."

"Uuuh, huh. No, I'm checking yes. I don't want to starve to death."

"Oh. Yeah. I'll check yes too then."

"What about for this one? I think if I am absolutely gone, no brain waves, only machines keeping me alive, okay, okay, yank it."

"Yep. I'm marking no for this one."

"But you had better make sure I am good and vegetative. NO brain waves."

Two months

Dear Truett,

I was just going to update the internet on how your two month doctor's appointment went (WELL! SO THERE GROCERY STORE WOMENS!) when at the last minute my fingers typed, "Dear Truett," So here we are. Another letter.

You are now 9 pounds and 10 ounces. You've gained more than two pounds since your birth weight and nearly two inches in length. The doctor said you are on the small side for weight, tall side for height. A ratio I would not mind myself. He said you are doing very well and your head is also increasing in size. He probably meant literally, but I also whisper quite a few compliments in your ear daily so, eh, it could be he meant your ego. So be it. I'd love for you to have all the confidence in the world.

But please do not confuse confidence with arrogance.

This month we have seen a huge change in your ability to communicate and you have also fallen in love with the ceiling fan in our room. Don't ask me. But our bed is where I usually change you - especially when you have squirted poop onto your changing table cover - during the day and you grin at that fan like it sent you roses twice last week. Try playing a LITTLE hard to get. Sheesh.

You also grin and coo and kind of do this little squeaky squawk and I LOVE IT. LOVE IT. I want you to squawk at me all the time. Why? I don't know but it creates this ripple effect of smiles. If someone hid a video camera in our bedroom? Well, first of all that would be exceptionally creepy, but more than that they'd be highly disappointed. I look at you, you squawk, I smile in this bursting-out-of-my-skin way. Not so much sexy as goofy but if you're looking for a pick me up, BUY THAT VIDEO. 

You have also turned that corner where your skin is smooth and plump rather than the reddish, wrinkly deal when you were first born. It is intoxicating and when I am not smiling like a loon into your face, I am burying my nose in your neck and breathing heavily. You smell so good. SO GOOD. I mean, like in this bizarre biological way and I cannot get enough. You usually oblige me. 

You still sleep in our bed and though one of my biggest worries these days is how and when we are going to transition you into your crib full-time, I have come to a place where I love sleeping next to you. A few nights ago you woke me with your squirming, or smacking, or just general need to MOVE CONSTANTLY and I was hit with this powerful feeling of love for you. I can't write that in a more creative way, even though it's a terribly overused sentiment. I laid next to you, cuddling your warm little sweet smelling body and felt a physical happiness at your existence. I'm sorry, but there is no other way to put these things these days.

AND YOU SMELL SO GOOD.

The Dining Room: a love story

Psych. It's just our dining room. But I do have before and after pictures! And for someone who has become inordinately obsessed with home improvement shows, this is not good news, this is GREAT NEWS. If you had told me ten years ago that one of my favorite things to do at age 28 would be of the home decorating variety I would have gagged into my college-cheap-beer. Now it's a micro-brew and a new mirror. Ah, the stereotypes, how I fulfill them.

What the room looked like right after we moved in:

What the dining room looked like with a new table and chairs:

Two views of the dining room now:

And:

A close-up of the sunburst mirror from Ikea:

A glimpse of hell

Ah Friday thank God because I am in need of some major weekend therapy after that trip to Ikea. DUMB DUMB DUMB. Mother's Guilt? ABSO-FUCKING-LOOTELY. 

A few days before his mother arrived, Bud mentioned that hey! It might be a nice idea to drive to Atlanta and go to Ikea for a day trip while she was here. Here's what I heard: YOUR HUSBAND JUST SUGGESTED WE GO TO IKEA. DON'T BLINK OR IT MIGHT ALL BE A TRICK.

So we packed ourselves into the car and went. And it all went spectacularly at first, the drive there was a little fussy, we stopped, ate lunch, nursed. The rest of the drive went well. The drive home? I can only say I now know how many ways my heart can go to pieces. Besides one short nap Truett SCREAMED the ENTIRE WAY HOME. We stopped several times to nurse, but no, he wasn't so much hungry as just desperately wanted to be held and the only reason I didn't unbuckle him and hold him was because I kept picturing the much worse pain of a car accident where my baby hadn't been buckled and it was all my fault. 

On the upside we got a mirror for the new and improved dining room. Pictures to follow soon.

As for right now I am all snuggle central because GUILT GUILT GUILT.

Nine months on...several cheeseburgers later

So. Baby weight.

A good friend of mine said he is on the fence about when to have kids because, you know, LIFE. Is a lot of fun before you have kids. And I'm all, come on! It's fun after! Sure you have to nearly-stop drinking, stop going out at night or if you do have a baby sitter and please who do you trust? Hardly anyone because you cannot believe how perfect your child is, go to bed early because you are so tired, get up in the middle of night, repeatedly, rearrange just about everything and never, NEVER act spontaneous again, but it's fun! (No, actually, it is. Truett is like one giant endorphin shot. A shot that screams and sometimes makes life difficult, but still.) He also said he is on the fence about having kids because his wife had better lose that baby weight quickly after having baby. And he means QUICKLY.

Of course he was joking, but I think the subject of losing The Baby Weight is just as loaded as things like, "Oh you co-sleep? Yikes! I knew someone who co-slept and that poor, poor baby. But I'm sure yours will turn out just fine. Hahaha no offense!" Someone's mother only gained ten pounds or poor Lucy down the street never did lose but half the weight and then her husband left and wah the end. OR. Wow, you lost ALL the baby weight? It must have redistributed then!

I gained 25 pounds with Truett and I think that is on the low side based entirely on a few anecdotes from friends and family, but it would not have bothered me if I'd gained more. I honestly believe our bodies basically do what they are meant to do and I only think mine was low-ish because I was so sick for the first several months. And even after I felt better, my appetite was still off-ish. DID I ORDER FRENCH FRIES? GOOD GOD TAKE THEM AWAY! Nothing ever tasted exactly right and I had trouble remembering my earlier obsession with food (good news! It's back!). 

For the first two or three weeks after having Truett my weight dropped like a cannon ball. It was every dieters dream. Each morning I'd step on the scale and be all, AW YEAH DOWN ANOTHER THREE POUNDS. It was unreal but of course it had mostly to do with water retention and then I'm sure some to do with breast feeding and also because I could barely find the kitchen what with the BABY ON MY BOOB so that most days it was noon before I even thought about breakfast.

And then. Then life got a little easier and the weight loss slowed waaaaay down I mean pretty much stopped. Yes, Truett nurses like a baby bird on steroids but I also eat like a rhino on steroids. WHERE'S THE PEANUT BUTTER. True story, I actually eat graham crackers with peanut butter topped with chocolate squares. For a snack. It is wonderful. 

In short, I am now somewhere between 4-6 pounds away from pre-baby weight and those goddamn four to six pounds aren't going ANYWHERE HONEY. And I'm TRYING. HARD. To lose them but, but...that cheeseburger today. MMMMMM.

Giving his thoughts on health care

What I especially like in this video is my voice in the background, squawking, in order to encourage Truett to talk. No, he's not gifted because I used flash cards, it was all in the cawing like a bird.

This is how we do it

Our nerdy household version of the Black Eyed Peas song, I Gotta Feeling  (true lyrics, "I got my money! Let's spend it up!"):

"I got my money! Let's...save it wisely!"

"I got my money! Let's...put it in a 401K!"

"I got my money! Let's...spend it on a high yield mutual fund!"

Then we look at each other and laugh. AS IF WE ARE BEING FUNNY.

My day so far

On being called little

Every damn time I take Truett out I get a medley of these comments:

"He's so little!"

"He's SO SMALL!"

"How much did he weigh when he was born?" "Seven pounds," "Wow! Really?"

This is probably my favorite:

"Wow, how old is your baby?"

"Five weeks."

"Wow, I like, babysat a TWO WEEK OLD the other day who was bigger!"

Is this supposed to be a compliment? Because to me, a small baby suggests something like maybe he's not eating enough. Or maybe my hormones are interpreting each and every comment as an insult.

I was grocery shopping the other day and Truett began to whig out towards the end of the trip. So I'm in the dairy aisle, not even totally sure what I'm tossing into the cart, just FINGERS CROSSED we get out of here alive. Sweating slightly because I'm now the woman with a crying baby driving everyone else crazy. Sleep deprived, omitting whatever is not ENTIRELY NECESSARY from my list, WHEN...ever helpful woman marches over to my cart and begins stroking Truett's belly trying to comfort him. Perhaps on another day this would have been endearing but woman, you don't even know me and here you are fondling my seven week old. She didn't even LOOK at me. Just kept rubbing his belly and shushing him, which he did because all he wants, all he EVER wants is attention. The reason I was trying to haul balls out of the store. The very reason you are thwarting right now, lady. 

She eventually looked up at me and said, "God bless babies." or something along those lines and I'm thinking, that's not how I feel right about now but okay, so long as you walk away and let me finish my trip. She walked away. Truett started crying again. She walked BACK and started to shush him again. JESUS CHRIST. I know you probably have four grown kids who all excelled in everything in every way and you are just trying to share the damn wealth? But I would really like to get him home and out of public before I get kicked out of this store for CRYING BABY. When she eventually walked away the second time, and Truett began crying again she looked over and me and was all, chuckle, chuckle, "You know what I think? I think that baby is a little bit spoiled!"

Yep, that's it. Nail. on. the. head. I frequently put chocolate in my breast milk and let him stay up past nine. He is also allowed to watch R rated movies, can you believe it? We don't believe in setting boundaries at our house, no, no, we tend to our baby's every need. CRAZY, HUH? He is after all the ripe old age of seven weeks. He is SO headed for doom. Probably the world's next Paris Hilton/Andy Dick screw up because I don't let him cry it out. 

Now. I feel better. Thanks.

The Camera Story

Saturday at the beach dawned nice and...totally cloudy. Whatever though because we had our tiny baby with us and he's not into sun bathing or ogling the ladies yet so it didn't much matter to me. Except eventually we got a little cabin fever and so decided to walk on the beach. It's just sprinkling, right?

I brought my camera. My lovely piece of machinery that Bud bought me for my birthday. You see where this is going, don't you? You clever thing. 

So, but, um, yeah, it started to rain just slightly more than a drizzle and I looked down and was all, WHOOPS! My camera's getting wet. Which is when Bud so gallantly offered to hang it around his neck and tuck it under his shirt. Perfect solution, no? I felt all smug like oh yeah, I married such an innovative guy. Look at him not even caring that he looks pregnant with a small cardboard box. He is taking care of my camera.

Not so surprising was the siren call of the water and probably my stupid self saying things like, "Oh look, right there under the water! A fossil! LOOK BUD IT'S A FOSSIL!" (It in fact turned out to be nothing more than the broken bit of a sand dollar and I felt like the broken bit of a moron, exclaiming scientific-y things to my scientific husband). So he went splashing in after things like priceless fossils, priceless fossils that will SO GET US ON THE NIGHTLY NEWS I JUST KNOW IT, and got the whole front of his shirt wet.

I remember saying something like, "Oh crap! Your shirt is wet! My camera!" But he assured me it was only damp and, no big deal. Anyway, we were going to be on the nightly news which would parlay into our own reality show (except we would SO break the divorce curse) which would parlay into millions of dollars (greedy greedy greed) and we could afford HUNDREDS OF FANCY CAMERAS. SOB.

We, however, CANNOT afford hundreds of fancy cameras and this was my only fancy camera. The one that made me feel all artsy and cool when I whipped it out in front of others? Yeah, that one.

We got back to the hotel room and got ready for dinner (side note: we found an awesome Greek restaurant about a five minute drive from where we were staying) and forgot the whole camera-might-be-broken mess.

Sunday morning the baby was looking particularly cute or the waves particularly blue or SOMETHING and I pulled out my beloved to snap a shot. Nothing. Or wait, it turned on, rolled out the lens and THEN nothing. Started saying crap to us about a "Lens cap error" or some other bullshit. Here's what my heart did.

Woc, woc, WOC. (You know that sound? The heart sinking disappointment sound? It did that. Only louder.)

It is good and officially broken and then I found out the damn air conditioner in the car isn't blowing cold. Seriously bah fucking humbug.