Not for the Squeamish: August 2009

My baby is cuter than your baby

Now that I've sufficiently pissed you off, there's more.

Read the title out loud. That's right, my baby is cuter than your baby. My kid is cuter than your kid. See, when you say it, it's your (my) baby. Because what parent doesn't think their little one is the cutest thing...EVER?

We've all seen babies who could have used a little, uh, more time in the looks line. Yet, their parents don't know that. They know their wee kiddo is beautiful. Awesome. So freakin' cute it hurts.

Sometimes, I get so tired of the moms on message boards who seem to comment on articles just to brag about their wunderkid. She's walking at 3 months! He's only one, but reading at a 5th-grade level! I am so overwhelmed by the twins getting early admission to Harvard in-utero! While only a few annoying moms post about amazing, measure-able achievements, all of us can take heart in the subjective knowledge of having the cutest thing to ever be on the planet.

I think it would be really interesting to see what G-man looks like to someone who is not so close to him. Like maybe I could sneak up on him one day and catch a moment off-guard where I don't think as his mother but as an objective stranger. Is it possible? I often look at photos of myself and think, seriously? That's what I look like? Kind of like hearing your voice on an answering machine. But I feel I won't ever be able to take off my sweetie-colored glasses when I see my own li'l guy.

I can't believe that after 20 months I am still overcome with how cute I think he is. No matter what he's doing, be it riding a toy, running around naked, covering himself in donut or only walking around the front yard, I want to capture every second and pore over each shot for the source of his perfection.

Funny how this weird vision/realization only occurs with our babies. Love-blindness doesn't transcend anything else. We all know who has the hot husband. Which friend is the most fabulous. Who's bringing a date that makes yours fade into the background.

Yet, we don't care. We chose our closest people and love them for their flaws and the one that we don't pick, that the universe simply grants to our care, is the one that we are destined to photograph their every move, burp, smile and pout.

And let's face it, G-man is damn cute.

It's the most wonderful time of the day

'Twas the hour of naptime and all through the land,

every creature was stirring; things were quite out of hand.

The baby who should have been snug in his crib,

was telling his toys tales of things that he did.

The puppy who usually snoozed with all might,

was stalking the cat food when I went out of sight.

Cat One was just bitching 'bout this and 'bout that,

while who was that scratching? Yes, it's #2 cat!

The floor, it needs mopping; there's dishes to scrub,

and I'd like some free moments to tackle that tub.

After walking this morning I still need a shower,

but time is getting away, chipping into my hour.

Tummy rubs for the pup and he's now drifting off,

and some pats for the cats prove they aren't all that tough.

But what to do with the kiddo who's eyes are all red,

but simply won't get on board with the idea of bed?

The music is playing, the ocean sounds roar,

the blinds are shut tight, just like his door.

Together we rock, shushing softly and deep,

by jove, his eyes close! I think he's asleep.

The danger zone

I never fully appreciated our baby-proofed house until we went on vacation. Don't get me wrong, our house isn't perfect but we can let him out of our sight for 20 seconds and feel fairly confident that all is well. And if he does get into something, hey, it's our stuff. If he breaks it, we'll deal.

Not so on this trip.

From the moment we stepped into my pop-pop's house in West Chester, the game was on. When did he get so quick? So curious? So adept at opening drawers/cabinets/doors/etc?

We couldn't blink without losing him or discovering something off-limits that was now in his clutches. He followed me into the kitchen, I turned around to put our bag on the table, turned back and voilá! He's got Comet cleanser in his hand from under the sink. Sneeze and he's pulling a cord from under a table. Bend over to pick up a cracker and look at that, he's on his way out across the yard.

If only one of us was around, it was impossible to do anything. How can I make him breakfast if he's in and out of the house, browsing the pantry, discovering the trash can or heading for that crystal bowl? We had to shadow him constantly and boy, was that hard.

It didn't get any better during our stay in New Jersey, even though we managed to bring a few safety items. We successfully kept him out of the bathrooms, laundry room and in our bedroom with doorknob covers. Two strategically placed cabinet locks sheltered the most harmful items in the kitchen. But that still left so much exposed.

Pots and pans, fine. Banging them on a ceramic floor? Not so much. The allure of the stairs was like crack to him. He couldn't resist unplugging things all over the house. More trash digging. We had to move things out of cabinets, hide things behind pillows. I'm sure my uncle is still wondering where the remote went.

It was such a relief to get home, walk into one room and let him stay in another. Granted, we still have to watch him closely, especially if it gets quiet, but those few seconds of freedom are priceless.

The vomit bag

A couple of days ago I posted about my search for the perfect diaper bag on our trip. Little did I realize that no bag would be so appreciated as that what's become known as The Vomit Bag.

Already a little ominous sounding, no?

I should tell you that one of the reasons I was having trouble searching for a bag was that I haul around a ton of stuff. At any given time, I have back-up clothes for the G-man and myself, sippy cups, snacks, first-aid kit, hand sanitizer, tissues, pacifiers, at least 3 diapers, wipes, a sweater for cold stores and restaurants, sunscreen, bug spray, my SIGG bottle, a dirty duds baggie and now a plastic dinosaur that he likes. I envy the moms that can actually use those cute clutches that just hold a diaper and a few wipes. I pack more than a circus. My best friend pointed out that I resemble a nomad. Even one of my play groups is surprised I still carry it all, no matter if it's a trip to the park or the two blocks from my house to Gymboree. Scott sometimes dares fate and leaves for the store with G-man and nothing else. Wow.

So yes, I am that mom. Always prepared.

Really, it's easy. I use the same bag all the time, it's stocked with essentials and all I have to do on a daily basis is switch out the backup outfits, freshen drinks and check the snacks.

But on this trip, I had three bags. And they all had a different purpose. So multiple times a day, I made my life harder by dumping things out and repacking another bag for another activity.

On this particular night, it looked like it might rain so in switching bags from the one we took to the beach to the one we thought should hit the boardwalk, I added rain coats and umbrellas to the stash. Seemed pretty full, must have everything.

We arrived in Ocean City a little ahead of dinner time, parked about 4 blocks away and popped G-man into the backpack carrier for what would be a great night. His first time to see the rides, taste some goodies and experience this odd brand of New Jersey summer nightlife.

As we stepped on to the boardwalk, something splashed my shoe. Great, I thought, I already had a drink spilled on me. A few steps later and that's when it dawned on me...it wasn't a drink, it was vomit. G-man, perched on my back, was throwing up. A lot. Still. People were starting to stare. Seagulls gathered.

We got him out as fast as we could but the damage was done. Upchuck all over him (a never-before worn shirt, I might add). His pants, his hair, his whole self. Plus, the carrier was instantly transformed into something from a horror movie. And me? Not much better I must say.

Ok, just get us to a bathroom and we'll clean up and change. What? No backup clothes? For either of us?! Holy shit. I forgot them. This bag only managed to stuff itself with the raincoats, some chapstick, a few wipes, one lonely diaper, a water cup and my sunglasses.

Ugh.

We reeked. This was not good. We had to buy new clothes on the boardwalk. G-man ended up with a souvenir shirt more suitable for a 4-year-old but it was the smallest thing we could find and some sweatpants dredged up in the back of another store. I did luck out with an overpriced Phillies tee that I changed into in the dressing room as soon as I saw it. When the clerk asked me to take it off so she could remove the sensors, I said no way. I held my disgusting shirt in my hand and told her I was not putting it back on and to complete my purchase with me in the new shirt.

Then she brought it out - the large Jilly's Reusable Bag (as it says in bold letters on the side). She offered it to me along with another little bag to put my gross shirt in. Oh, thank you. Because I hadn't thought about where we were going to put the damaged goods for the rest of the evening.

I raced out of there, took G-man to the nearest bathroom 3 long, smelly blocks away, and we changed him and cleaned him up the best we could. The carrier, his clothes and my clothes went into the Jilly's bag. We zipped it shut and except for a not-so-fresh odor still in his hair, we seemed like a normal family again.

So normal that we went to dinner. We'd been on the boardwalk almost an hour and had yet to do anything but gross ourselves out. A little food could be good. G-man was happier in his new outfit. He eagerly reached for some milk. Ate a few bites of fries. And oh my god, he's throwing up again! The table, his new clothes, Scott's pants.

Time to cut our losses. I'm not buying him another new outfit. And obviously, he's not up to much. While Scott cleaned him up, I got our food to go. The little man came back out in his raincoat and diaper. It was all we had left.

This next set of dirty clothes went into the bag and we realized, it's stuffed. With vomit-covered items. If anyone were to unzip it or how funny would this be? steal it from us, wouldn't they be surprised? But thank you, thank you, thank you, salesperson for giving it to us. I honestly don't know how we would have schlepped all that back to the car. I kind of think we wouldn't have, paying a visit to a trash can instead. But with The Vomit Bag at our side, we proudly left the boardwalk, shoved it in the trunk and easily dumped the contents into the wash as soon as we got home.

G-man's first visit to the OC boardwalk may not have gone as planned, but it was truly an evening we won't forget. After all, the bag is in our room to remind us.

Fly guy

It's official; we all survived the flights for vacation. However, that doesn't mean everything went as planned, just that there were few casualties.

In the days leading up to take-off, I was consumed with how the first flight would go. So much so that I think I forgot about the actual vacation and focused all of my attention on what to do with the G-man for 2.5 hours in an enclosed space. I mean, c'mon, the kid has at best a 15-second attention span. That meant I had to have a lot of tricks up my sleeve to keep a full 5 minutes peaceful and hope that he didn't notice we were going into repeats after that.

Our bags were stocked. I mean, STOCKED. One bag devoted entirely to snacks. This kid had a full buffet at his disposal - snack bags, puddings, juice, milk, breakfast bars, an apple, granola bars, applesauce. Everything short of an omelet it seemed. And we still bought him a water bottle and a bagel in the waiting area. Thank goodness the TSA pretty much lets a toddler bring anything they want to on to a plane. Smart people.

Another bag was pegged entertainment. Books, stuffed animal, DVD player, an arsenal of DVDs, magnadoodle, enough stickers to completely cover a flight attendant, play-doh, color wonder paper, markers and stamps. Everyone said, oh, you must have a DVD player. That alone will save you! You don't even need anything else. Guess what? No go. We turned it on and the reaction was lukewarm at best. Turns out, G-man could care less. We desperately signaled for his attention to Cars and The Cat in the Hat. Our fail-safe, well, failed.

The last bag held our extras. Extra clothes for everyone (besides the ones already packed in the other two), extra sippy cups, extra food, extra stickers, more diapers, enough wipes to clean up after a zoo. We've heard the horror stories of being stuck on the tarmac for hours or re-routed to sweden. We're taking no chances.

And yet, the first flight was pretty ok. Despite the lack of interest in watching TV, he did really enjoy the stickers. He played with the markers and stamps (and only lost one under the seat). He was certainly antsy, but then again, so were we. No one likes being in a small space for so long. When he fussed a bit, it was ok. And when he decided to spend 10 minutes simply crawling back and forth on us, stretching out and climbing up to see over the seat, we took it in stride. The tray table amused him and he even ate some snacks without too much of a mess. All in all, a success.

So we were a bit cocky on the flight back.

We confidently boarded, armed again with our powerful weapons of loaded bags. He was even a little tired so this might go even better. Other babies found laps on the plane and as one started to wail, Scott and I looked at each other with that "thank goodness it's not our kid" gaze. This aircraft was a little roomier, G-man had just had lunch, things were looking up.

A little sticker play, some stuffed animal hugs, stern warnings from mommy and daddy on kicking the seat in front of him and lo and behold, he's asleep. Awesome. Maybe we can read our books, too.

The pilot made an announcement. He stirred. The flight attendant repeated the announcement. And the beast was awake.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH, AAAAAAAAAAAAH, AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

At the top of his lungs. For what seemed like a really long time. Writhing in our arms. Pissed at being awake. Pissed at still being in the air. Thrashing, screaming, wailing, calming down only to reload. The seatbelt sign was on so no way to walk him around. It continued. We fought the monster. Here, take anything, take everything! A lollipop! A marker! Our thumbs! A drink! Nothing worked.

This went on for a while. And through it all, whenever he was quieter, another baby would start up to fill the void. Everyone on that plane deserved a medal, some earplugs and a stiff drink.

We finally landed, he perked up and we did the reverse walk of shame: sitting in our seats as passengers went by, some stopping to tell us they'd been there, it wasn't all that bad, don't worry about it. I swear, that made it worse.

So to you, fellow travelers, I apologize. Especially to those in seats 5A and 5C who endured the kicking, and to all of those that didn't have the sense to bring earphones and a fifth of vodka when there was a baby on the plane.

A quest

Before leaving on our trip, I wanted a new diaper bag. Don't get me wrong, I adore the one I have (thank you stephanie!), but it doesn't have a zipper and I needed something that would close. Seemed like an easy request.

As a little background, before G-man I rarely carried a purse and certainly didn't buy them for myself - my friend always knows when I need a new one and surprises me with the next model. Needless to say, I've never purchased a diaper bag. I have three - my go-to bag that was made for me as a gift, a free backpack from the maternity center and a bag from Similac they gave me at the hospital. The backpack is losing its charm as the velcro at the top no longer wants to hold and the Similac bag is a bit small for hauling around multiple sippy cups, wardrobe changes, band-aids and whatnot.

My needs were simple - large enough for all of our stuff on the plane, easy to close but still easily accessible, pockets for organization and maybe even one that looks good. A visit to diaperbags.com quickly showed that this was not going to be an enjoyable experience. A quick purchase turned into a time-sucking, money-stealing quest. Only the search for the holy grail has taken longer and produced more false hope and frustration.

Turns out, my original diaper bag is perfect, except for the zipper. It's got everything I want and need and no other one was coming close. I found good size, but no pockets. Tons of pockets, but not big enough. Great bag except for the hard to get into main compartment. Looks good online but so different in person. Ideal in almost everything but the straps are terrible. And of course, the realization that I truly did not understand what the measurements would look like when one got here.

I purchased bags that I have to return. I borrowed bags that I ended up not using. I traded a bag on the playground - dumping our items out and swapping on the spot - and it still didn't quite work. I visited stores I didn't even know sold diaper bags. I polled friends for advice. Something was fundamentally wrong with all of them (the bags, not the friends).

And then, I found it. A Vera Bradley that isn't even a diaper bag, but was perfect nonetheless. Pockets, a zipper, soft sides, good straps, washable. I owe so much to the nice ladies that helped me and listened to what I was trying to achieve, realizing that maybe a diaper bag wasn't the answer, but a good bag was. I love it. It did everything I dreamed of on the plane and beyond.

As for the others, well, turns out no matter how big a bag I got, I still needed more for the trip so a backpack from JuJuBe now replaces my old one (so cool, with tons of compartments and insulated bottle pockets on each side and it's black so Scott can carry it) and a pretty shoulder bag from Fleurville rounds out my collection.

Yes, yes, that's three bags for the trip. As carry-ons. And trust me, they all got used. By the end of the return flight, I'm sure the other passengers were wishing we'd had a fourth - perhaps one big enough for the G-man during his monstrous scream-fest. Maybe I'll start planning that for next year now.

Hey, I'm talking to you here

As a follow-up to my post begging for a word, some verbal communication beyond grunts, whines and cries, I will announce we have...a few word-like utterances! Hooray.

G-man's favorite is "uh-oh" (yes, this counts as a word, don't rain on my parade). He says it. A lot. And much like his signing of "all-done" he's not quite sure how to use it properly and what it really means. There are days when he just walks around saying it for no reason I can figure out, calling it from the stroller, staring into his cabinet.

Sometimes I think he says it because he likes hearing the sound or he knows it will get a reaction from me. Because let's face it, I want to know what uh-oh is all about.

So far, it's meant: I accidentally dropped my cup; I purposely threw my cup; I stepped on the dog; the dog stepped on the cat; mommy dropped something; the phone rang; my pacifier is under the chair; I am decorating the floor with crayons; parts of the grocery list are in my mouth; the remote is in the dog's water bowl; and his new move, I've unfastened the chest clip on my car seat (an uh-oh that means I have to pull over).

He also just started saying "more". We missed this grand entrance as the babysitter had to tell us he said it to her one day. Of course, he could have been saying it to us first and we just didn't get it. For all I know, he's dictated a pulitzer-caliber book and I've nodded and agreed to get him some milk. But now that I know the word more is in the rotation, I listen for it. And oh, it's cute. Like when he asks for more kisses. No way I'm not agreeing to that! Even if he is stalling at nap time.

That's the problem I'm already seeing even with such a limited vocabulary: I melt sometimes at what he's saying. Bedtime could take two days if it means he's still asking for more hugs. I will jump like a bunny for an entire afternoon if he smiles and asks. And how can I punish him for intentionally dumping yogurt on the floor if he looks at me with beseeching eyes and says uh-oh?

He's also getting the da-da thing down pretty well. Oh sure, he still says it when he sees a bug, a ball or a trash truck. But he also says it on purpose when he sees Scott or even some daddy things. Many a morning has been spent with G-man dragging one of papa's shoes around calling for da-da so Scott can come put it on. (Sad, really, as papa is at work.) When we get home in the afternoons he runs to the house calling for da-da. Freakin' adorable.

I feel like I've accomplished something on this one. For a long time, I've been saying papa/da-da over and over when it comes to anything involving daddy and he's finally caught on. Kudos for persistence! On his part, papa has been telling G-man to say mama but dada kept coming out instead. And I kept telling him it's ok if li'l man doesn't say it. I know I'm his mommy. Hopefully G-man knows it, too. I don't have to hear it.

And then, he said it. Mama. How wrong was I? Yes, I had to hear it! My insides turned to a puddle in an instant. Now every time I hear it, I want to tell him he can have anything he wants. I will do anything he wants. I will perform like Pavlov's dogs just for the chance to hear it again. Truly inspiring parenting, huh? So much for discipline and restraint! Yes, yes, yes, just say mama and the world is yours.

Um, he does have to say it to me, though. I'm a little less pliable when he's talking to his diaper bag.