Hey Diddle WTF

Being a big-time book nerd (I think I was one of about 4 pathetic dorks that actually liked – treasured, really – the “sustained silent reading” period we had in high school), I have high hopes that Ry Ry will be a reader himself. I pine for the day my dear little lad insists on reading during dinner or gets in trouble for reading instead of paying attention in class.

In an effort to ensure this becomes a reality, I make sure to read to him every night before bed. I know he doesn’t know what the heck I’m saying, but successful indoctrination must start early and I am determined to have a reading buddy!

When I decided to start my nightly reading program a few months ago, TFW ordered up a bunch of baby books from Ebay. Now, I didn’t actually see the listing for the lot he bid on, but judging by the books I’ve been reading to Bubba every night, Daddy bought the Schizophrenic Baby collection. The fact that the baby doesn’t understand what I’m reading to him is actually a good thing, because most of these books are straight up crazy.

Alien Crybaby

Folks, I’ve got bad news.

On Saturday evening, aliens abducted my sweet Bubba, leaving in his place an equally adorable but much much sadder clone. They headed out of town on the crank train, leaving me to deal with a total stranger in my son’s body.

My dear lad has never been a cry-for-no-reason baby. To my relief as a new mom, he has made things easy on me: when he’s crying, there’s typically a logical and easy-to-remedy reason (hunger, fatigue, daddy being way too loud and scary while trying to “entertain” him). But for the past 48 hours, my son’s normally borderline-hysterical happiness has been replaced by a pathetic array of whining, whimpering, and sobbing.

Yesterday, he burst into tears when something TFW said made me laugh too loudly.

Later, I moved my shoe so he couldn’t chew on it, and his face crumpled like I had just told him all the bottles in the world had been destroyed.

We tried to distract him with a trip to the store (he usually loves to be “out and about”), but apparently the car trip was not enough to convince him that the world was not ending:

Quick Pics: Boys Like Trucks?!

Let me preface this by explaining that I’m new to this whole “boy” thing. I come from a family of 6 girls (no boys allowed!) and the majority of my younger cousins are girls, too. I grew up with Barbie and Polly Pocket, not…whatever the hell boys play with.

I recently dug out a bunch of toys my sister passed along from her kids and started entering them into Bubba’s rotation. Among said toys was an assortment of plastic trucks. They don’t do anything special – no flashing lights, no songs – but to my surprise, they immediately became some of Ry’s favorites.

Excited that my son showed a clear preference towards something (is there anything cooler than witnessing the development of a personality?!), I hollered out to the hubbins:

“Babe! He really likes these trucks!!!”

To which he responded – complete with condescending eye roll – “He’s a BOY.”

Noted.

Sweet Sweet Chaos

There are few things that please me more than a nice tidy house. Now, as previously mentioned, I don’t really clean all that often (floors only need to be mopped a few times a year, right? RIGHT?), but I’m very good about maintaining the illusion of cleanliness by keeping things in order. Everything has a home. Hooks for jackets and purses. Owners manuals grouped together in a folder. Baskets serve as the depository for miscellaneous papers (they aren’t organized or anything… but at least they’re not “out”). You get the idea.

Since having the baby, I’ve nearly given up on the minimal “real cleaning” I used to do (I’ve tried to convince him, but thus far Bubba has refused to scrub the shower himself, and I certainly can’t do it while I’m holding him, so that pretty much settles that), but I haven’t given up on keeping things tidy. To my surprise, having the baby hasn’t really impacted the overall tidiness of the house – I just had to add more receptacles for toys, books, the 183289238139 pairs of baby socks we own despite living in a climate that requires socks very rarely, etc. I’ve been quite pleased with how minimal the baby’s impact on the tidiness level has been!

And then he had to go and learn how to get around and grab things.

To Daddy from Bubba

Ry Ry is still a month or two away from being able to write all by himself (he really needs to buckle down on his academics; there’s been FAR too much “roll around on the floor and try to lick the carpet” and not nearly enough hitting the books going on lately…unless you count literally hitting books, which is a favorite activity), so he asked me to transcribe a father’s day card to TFW on his behalf. It took a while to interpret and then translate his assorted babbles, shrieks, and cackles (seriously, what is so funny all the time?? Answer: everything), so we weren’t able to complete it in time for our official father’s day celebration yesterday.

In retaliation for my taking so long to translate his personalized message, the little hooligan totally tried to take credit for MY card yesterday:

Next thing you know he’ll be claiming responsibility for my cooking and cleaning, too. Good thing I rarely do those things.

Anyway, better late than never – onward to Bubba’s note!

Come On, Ride the Train (CHOO CHOO!)

Now that the baby is officially past the borseville “newborn blob” phase of life, it seems like every day he shows off more of his little personality. He has definite likes (sweet potatoes, pulling my hair, toys that make noise when you bang on them) and dislikes (rice cereal, sleeping on his back, bottles that aren’t adequately warmed), he’s cheerful, he’s excitable, he laughs at all my jokes (excellent taste), and you can practically see his brain whirring as he tries to figure out how his toys work or how to pull himself up.

As TFW described it the other day, “it’s like he’s a real boy now!”

Watching this real boy grow up makes me wonder what he’s going to be like when he’s older. Will he be like me? There are some traits I would love to see in him: my shining intellect, charm, and hilarious wit, for instance.

(And my modesty.)

But there’s one thing I desperately hope does NOT infect my precious boy’s personality…

Like a Normal Person!

Before we had the baby and our neurotic “love me pet me please don’t leave me I’ll do anything!!!” dog Connie, TFW and I had a wild and freakishly adorable mutt: the late great Tucker. He was 50% doberman, 50% afghan hound, and 100000% awesome.

Here he is, bringing Christmas Cheer to the world just a week before his tragic demise (an experience so traumatic I still tear up at the very thought of it, over a year and a half later; the very sight of a jaunty doberman with a spring in his step is enough to bring on the waterworks):

Here he is, wearing a Bad Religion shirt (cuz that’s what we do in our household):

Tucker really was awesome…but he was also perhaps 1% infuriating.

The Crazy Files, Vol III: Dear Abby-In-My-Brain

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved advice columns. Why reading letters about marital problems, etiquette, and relationships would interest an eight-year-old is a question for another time, but boy did I love reading Dear Abby and Ann Landers dish out their sensitive and savvy guidance every morning before school.

(Sidenote: I also loved Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal, and even had subscriptions! At least I had the self-awareness to be ashamed of this – I remember trying to fabricate some explanation for why the magazines were addressed to me and not my mom when a friend saw them. I needed my Dear Heloise and Can This Marriage Be Saved fix!)

Anyway, I’m not sure why I had a 70 year old woman trapped inside my body in elementary school, but the point is, I got hooked on reading these succinct pleas for help and how logically Abby and Ann could solve any problem. Both Abby’s and Ann’s responses are almost always my favorite type of advice: not patronizing (both of those old bats have no qualms about telling fools when they’re in the wrong) and straight to the point (you deserve better, ditch the loser boyfriend! Your mother is a whacko, mourn your childhood and cut her off! Talk to a trusted adult about your creepy biology teacher!).

At this point, you’re probably thinking “well that’s not so crazy – lots of people like advice columns. Maybe not kids (weirdo), but you’re an adult now. Where’s the crazy?”

I’m getting there.

A Half Birthday Card for Bubba

Last Friday marked Bubba’s half birthday, AKA the six month anniversary of my labor-induced tailbone injury. Seriously, I had no idea that it was a) possible to injure your tailbone giving birth, or b) possible for a tailbone injury to NOT HEAL FOR SIX MONTHS. Please, send me sympathy and/or painkillers.

Joking aside, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting these past few days, marveling at all the amazing moments we’ve had so far and how much he’s changed already. He won’t be able to read this for another few months (I’m kidding, obviously… he has till he’s two to learn how to read before we move on to algebra), but for posterity’s sake, I thought I’d write the dear boy a little note to mark the milestone: