Top Ten Tuesday: No More Babies (Yet)

Growing up with five sisters and loads of cousins, I always assumed I’d wind up with a bunch of kids myself. I harbored a secret pity for only children: aren’t they lonely? Isn’t the boredom just crushing? With whom do they mock people at church and family parties? And how do they know what’s cool without an older sibling to copy? I would never consider inflicting such a fate on my child — siblings were surely a must!

Just look at how much I loved having a big family — I wrote a freakin’ thank you note to my mom after she had my twin little sisters, as if they existed purely for my enjoyment:

I also took them to show-and-tell — as the exhibit! — in both first and second grade. They were a big hit and I was totally proud of my status as Big Sis.

TFW, on the other hand, grew up with the complete opposite mindset. He has no siblings, precisely one cousin, and never once wished he hadn’t been an only child, largely because of all the wrestling action figures and video games his grandparents showered upon him at every visit. I had to do a lot of hard work to convince him that having actual human beings to grow up with could possibly outweigh the benefits of being the sole benefactor of grandparent spoiling.

Before we even got pregnant with Bubba, we reached a compromise and a tentative plan: we’d have two babies — at least five years apart, so the elder would be somewhat self-sufficient before we had to start over with the baby stuff again — and leave it at that.

This sounded great to me right up until about a week after having Bubba. Exhausted, hormonal, and in a great deal of pain thanks to my busted tailbone, I sobbed to TFW: “I don’t think I can ever do this again!!! (sob, hiccup, sob) It’s so ha-a-a-a-a-rd!”

Of course, I lived through those first few rough weeks, and with Bubba being such a joy to be around, I often have a hard time even remembering how hard those early days were. In fact, approximately 20 times a day I find myself so drunk on love and happiness that my brain tries to tempt me: “Isn’t this wonderful? Why don’t you have another baby? Your life will be even MORE wonderful!”

Luckily, thus far I’ve been able to shove these delusions back into the (gravely overworked) Nonsense Center of my brain where they belong, but the better life with Ry Ry gets, the more they persist. Just in case the Nonsense Center ever accidentally overflows into the neighboring Logic And Good Choices Department, I’ve decided to document exactly why having another baby any time soon is NOT a good idea.

Here they are… the top ten reasons Bubba must remain an only child for (at least) several more years:

Mama vs Baby: Showdown!

I know that kids are bound to push the limits with their parents at some point, but I always assumed that Bubba and I would get along beautifully until he was at least 16, at which time we would engage in precisely one minor scuffle regarding him missing his curfew by eight minutes (because he was busy doing something noble like helping an old lady cross the street or returning a stray pup to its owner, presumably) and then resume our perfect mother-son relationship/best-friendship. Is that so unrealistic?

Apparently so.

This morning, Ry Ry decided eight months of good behavior was plenty and initiated an outright attack on his poor unsuspecting mother.

The blitzkrieg started at the ungodly hour of NOT EVEN 6:00AM. To be fair, I think it was about 5:58…but still. There’s something about seeing a FIVE on the left side of the clock that makes it very hard to accept that sleepy time is really over. There’s no hope for achieving that “yes, I am pumped and ready for this day!” feeling at 5:58am. Bubba knows this. I’ve told him many times that Mama needs her sleep and to check the positioning of the sun before waking up for the day (it’s easy, kid: is the sun all the way up? No? Back to sleep!).

He was picking a fight.

Baby Prison Break

For the past couple of months, the baby and I have worked out a splendid morning routine: like an adorable rooster, he wakes at dawn and alerts me by banging one of the toys in his crib against the wall (far better than screaming); I feed him a bottle, and then I drag his saucer toy thingy over to the kitchen so he can play in there while I make Daddy’s lunch (one of the few wifely things I do).

For the past couple of weeks, that last step of the itinerary has been a struggle. He finally figured out that the saucer is really just a dolled-up penitentiary, holding him hostage when he should be roaming free, scurrying into corners and attempting to pry open the cabinets. He’s decided that he is not going to tolerate any more unjustified confinement — there is exploring to be done, dammit! The minute I set him in the seat, he stages a prison riot and petitions the governor for clemency.

The rest of the day, though, he LOVES the saucer. Not going IN it, of course. But it makes a pretty sweet fort:

And while the toys are totally boring when you’re sitting in the seat, they are SUPER fun to play with from this angle:

And of course everything is more interesting from a standing position:

At least it’s still going to good use! I’m just hoping he doesn’t figure out that the high chair’s true identity is Baby Prison 2.0 any time soon, because I’m all out of ideas for corralling him in the kitchen…

My Martha Stewart Moment

Despite a couple of admittedly serious obstacles — namely, scarcity of creativity and an even more pronounced lack of talent — I love crafts and “projects” of all sorts. Sewing, scrapbooking, jewelry-making, pitiful attempts at painting…I love it all!

Unfortunately, the cruel twist of fate that has rendered me both a craft-lover and a sucks-at-crafts-er results in very few crafts actually coming to fruition.

The lack of creativity is a problem, obviously. There have been many times that I’ve been struck by a crafting mood, only to stare at my box of assorted “art supplies” (I use that term loosely as the box contains little more than some half-dried tubes of paint, a lot of construction paper, and a few stickers; it is fitting that my materials, much like my finished crafts, would fit right in at any preschool) for an hour trying to decide what to do. The right side of my brain simply refuses to cooperate in my crafting ambitions. Sometimes I’ll be able to formulate a vague idea of what I might like to create (“what this house needs is some Christmas spirit! Red and green! And…like…Christmas stuff?”) but that’s typically as far as I get.

It’s the talent deficiency that is the real hindrance, though. On the extraordinarily rare occasion that I’m able to get past the planning stage and actually attempt to create something, the finished product is virtually unrecognizable compared to the vision my creativity-starved brain agonized to cobble together. I am incapable of cutting or sewing in a straight line, I have NO eye for color or design, and I have a serious problem with neatness. Please examine the below samples as evidence of my deficits:

Reserve a Spot on the Raw Roster for Bubba!

Prior to 2004, my exposure to wrestling was limited to the 90 seconds of WWE Smackdown I would unintentionally watch every Thursday when I tuned in a bit early for the 10pm Seinfeld re-runs on channel 13. That, and one time Stone Cold Steve Austin went on Late Night With Conan O’Brien (another every day must-watch for me) and spilled beer all over Conan and his desk. Having no brothers, very few male cousins, and a father whose TV-watching time was spent sobbing to The Wonder Years rather than keeping tabs on with whom Hulk Hogan was currently feuding, I simply was not exposed to it.

And then I met my husband.

TFW is one of those nerds (not that I am in any position to judge) who was really, really into wrestling as a kid…and never got “too cool” for it. He remained a fan growing up and even wrote for a wrestling company in college (he got to meet CM Punk while covering a live event! Take my word for it, that’s a cool thing). He’s the type of die-hard fan that can identify virtually any wrestler from any era within the first two bars of their entrance music and says stuff like “So-and-so was a big star in Japan, but his style didn’t really work for the WWE” and be both dead serious and totally accurate.

Granny Daycare

Every Friday, my wonderful mama gives my budget a break and watches Bubba for me while I work at her house. This is obviously awesome for me – in addition to the money savings, I love seeing my mom every week; plus, since it’s the only day of the week I have to commute, I treat myself to a delicious Goldstein’s blueberry bagel and a large Mr. Pibb (breakfast of champions) as a reward for getting up at the crack of dawn to battle LA traffic – but Ry Ry is an even bigger fan of the arrangement than I!

Everything is fresh and exciting at Grandma’s, and her house is perfect for a curious little lad: lots of carpet to crawl on (and no pesky stairs!), a plethora of toys (most of them are pink and girly, thanks to The Big Girl Cousins’ dominance over Grandma’s house, but no matter), and Grandma doesn’t mind if you do stuff like to chase around a pillar candle as if it were a soccer ball:

And she agrees that the hearth makes a perfect training platform to practice going up and down a step:

And takes you outside to help with the yardwork (I wasn’t joking about all the pink toys – pink or not, that saucer is bitchin’):

And gives you cookies in the cool big kid booster seat:

And even lets you practice your crime solving by breaking into Grandpa’s safe:

Grandma is the coolest!

Thanks for operating the world famous You Can Count On Grandma Daycare Service – the top choice of grateful (and cheap) daughters everywhere since 1998. Please never close up shop!

Forced Playtime (Alternate Title: Worst Mom Ever)

Every day when I’m done with work, I emerge from my cave/office eager to begin my daily process of jamming as much quality mommy/baby time in as possible before Bubba heads to snooze-ville for the night. Thanks to my job and his immature and selfish insistence upon going to bed ridiculously early (who does he think he is, a baby?), I only get a few hours with him per day during the week. As a result, I am determined to make the most of our time together after work. I crawl around on the floor with him. We go on walks with the dog. We play outside (well, he plays while I pray that he won’t get stung by one of the evil bees that stalks our yard).

Can you tell that I have a serious case of Working Mama Guilt? Please, send medication and a therapist.

Top Ten Tuesday: It Was Only One Night!

Yesterday was my dear hubbins’ 30th birthday, and while I would have loved to whisk him away for a romantic weekend in a beachfront resort (or even better, Vegas!), we have a baby who a) requires no fewer than $987326234 per day to keep flush in diapers and childcare and b) I can barely stand to be apart from long enough to get my nails done, and thus the best I could do this year was plan a one-night stay at one of San Diego’s finest gaming resorts (read: Indian casino!).

In the weeks leading up to our very first baby-free night out, TFW excitedly planned our every move from where we’d stop to eat on the drive down (a breakfast joint called Mo’s Egg House, obv!) to what time we should hit the pool (early evening, to avoid sunburn). While he busied himself with those details, I worked on developing an ulcer from worrying about leaving the baby overnight.

Baby Down!

There are so many exciting “firsts” to enjoy during a baby’s first year: first smile, first time sleeping through the night, first time he sits in a highchair in a restaurant so Mama can eat a burrito without a baby her lap.

And then there are some bad firsts, like the first time your kid gets a fever, or the first time he teethes for like a month straight without ever actually producing a damn tooth.

Or the worst one of all, the first time your baby sustains an injury.

Plea to E.T.

Since the age of 6 when I saw E.T.
I assumed any alien would be good to me

But my recent experience with the extraterrestrial lot
Shows they’re bigger bastards than I’d thought

It’s been two weeks since they made their presence known
Replacing my baby with a crybaby clone

Daytime is fine, but watch out at night:
He’s screechy and fussy and ready to fight

Nothing will soothe him when he gets on a jag
I’ve tried it all – Tylenol to frozen rag:

Night after night we rock while he cries
Each minute causing Mama’s blood pressure to rise

Grandma says it’s teething, even making a vow:
“The crying, the drooling – he’ll have teeth any time now!”

Yet each morning’s the same, not a tooth in his head!
Hence the conclusion that it’s aliens instead

So listen up, you extraterrestrial creeps
Release my son so we can all get some sleep(s)

I know you’ve got him, just tell me the truth
And if it’s really teething…can you bring us a toof?

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Thanks to Mama Kat‘s writer’s workshop prompt (“Write a poem about a time you felt betrayed.”) for the inspiration!