One Year Wrap-Up: We Survived!

OK, technically it hasn’t quite been a year yet — Bubba won’t actually turn one till Saturday. But in anticipation of his first birthday, I’ve been in a reminiscing sort of mood, pouring over the thousands of photos I’ve taken of the dear lad and alternating between smiling at all the happy memories and getting choked up as I wonder where all the time went (ugh, could I be any cornier? I’m rolling my eyes at myself so you don’t have to).

Somehow it simultaneously feels like it’s been five minutes and five years since we went from this:

(taken exactly one year ago today!)

To this:

And then, seemingly in a blink of the eye, this:

So what have we been doing this past year? I’m so glad you asked! Let’s pull out the ol’ TI-89 and crunch the numbers (because everything’s more fun when quantified!):

5: Number of hours post-birth it took me to realize that I really and truly wasn’t going to get any sleep for a long, long time. I cried.

3: Maximum number of consecutive hours the baby slept for the first six weeks of his life. Here’s a sampling of my agony, courtesy of Facebook:

3: Days it took me to admit that I HATED breastfeeding (I’m sorry, Bubba!).

7: Weeks I managed to keep up the nursing (purely motivated by guilt!) before I finally allowed myself to quit (I’m so sorry, Bubba!).

100 to 1: Ratio of feelings of relief versus guilt I’ve experienced since putting the kibosh on the boob-feeding (apparently I wasn’t really all that sorry).

$960: Approximate number of dollars we’ve spent on formula since then.

5: Minutes I spent gagging after calculating that just now.

300: Approximate number of times I cried during the first month of Bubba’s life.

99: Percentage of said cry-fests that were a direct result of lack of sleep (“I’m so….sob, hiccup, sob…TIRED!!!!”).

1: Number of times I cried because I wanted to consume a giant fountain Dr. Pepper but couldn’t because I feared the caffeine might seep into my breastmilk and make the baby’s sleep issues worse (this one may or may not have been due to the lack of sleep as well, to be fair. That, and fountain Dr. Pepper is just so good).

4: Months it took Bubba to even begin to master the art of sleeping through the night.

10: Number of times I woke up to check on him that first glorious sleep-filled night, certain that something was wrong with him.

2: Average number of times I wake up to check on him during the night nowadays, still unconvinced that he could really be sleeping so peacefully for so many uninterrupted hours.

1,825: Number of times TFW has rolled his eyes and said “the baby is FINE!” in reply to one of my neurotic fears (figuring conservatively at 5 times per day).

8: Months it took for my tailbone (which somehow sustained an injury during labor; were you aware that was possible? I sure wasn’t) to heal. EIGHT MONTHS!

9: Months it took me to lose the baby weight. I’m still getting over the shock — I was certain I was going to give birth to a 30 pound baby. Six pounds?!

2: Pairs of pre-baby jeans that STILL DON’T FIT. These hips don’t lie 😦

<10: Number of times TFW and I have gone out sans baby. Maybe next year…

2,000+: Number of photos I’ve taken of the poor kid. And unlike some of these other figures, this is sadly not an exaggeration.

10: Number of times per day I have to restrain myself from posting gushing/bragging baby-related photos and statuses to Facebook lest I irritate every human gracious enough to put up with me (and I’m sure I still manage to annoy people with the few items I do share…but seriously, if you don’t enjoy photos of a cute baby trying to climb into various boxes and baskets, perhaps the internet is not the place for you).

54,750: Number of times I’ve told Bubba I love him (figuring conservatively at 150 times per day).

0: Number of moments I’ve regretted having this child.

Uh oh, I’m getting all sappy and teary-eyed again…

OK, I’m smiling again.

Cut The Mullet

Whilst celebrating Thanksgiving with the family last week, one of my sisters helpfully pointed out that Bubba was sporting a serious mullet. I hadn’t noticed any issues with his wee coiffure, but a quick gander at the sweet tendrils growing over his ears and lusciously long locks covering the back of his neck confirmed her assessment — there was definitely a party going on back there:

Regardless of my child’s undeniable cuteness (stop denying it! you know you love him), I think we can all agree that a mullet is not a good look on anyone, whether you’re a mustachioed baseball player from the late 1980’s or an adorable mud-covered toddler (look closely at that second photo for a good laugh).

With that determined, the obvious course of action would be to get the kid to a barber, stat. But since I am both cheap and in possession of precisely zero faith in my child’s ability to sit still while a stranger attacks his head with sharp implements (do other people’s one-year-old children sit quietly when told? Cuz this one sure doesn’t), I decided to tackle the problem myself.

What’s that, you ask? Do I have any hair-cutting ability or experience, or even the proper tools?

No, no I do not.

But I do own a pair of nice sharp sewing scissors (totally the same as hair-cutting shears, right?), so I plopped him in his activity center thingy with some of his beloved puffs and started hacking away!

After this confidence-inspiring build-up, I bet you’re all assuming I f*cked it up, right? (Don’t worry, I would assume the same thing.) Well, you’re all WRONG! It’s not perfect…or exactly even, per se. But it’s not noticeably jacked up, and I’m counting that as a win:

See?

My sewing scissors and I are officially open for business if anyone else needs a mullet repaired!

What a Difference a Year Makes…Happy Thanksgiving!

All day yesterday, I kept getting tripped out that last Thanksgiving I was a million months pregnant:

And I spent most of the holiday sitting on the couch, my nieces running over every five minutes to feel their soon-to-be cousin kick:

Now just one year later, that baby is playing with/eating his cousins’ toys:

And he can walk and climb and get into trouble:

And eat actual Thanksgiving food (tentatively) like a real human being:

And does cute stuff I never would have imagined a year ago, like attempting to hide in a box when I’m trying to change his damn clothes:

(how I wish that last photo wasn’t so blurry!)

Needless to say, it was easily my best Thanksgiving yet. Even though the baby refused to smile on command for a darling family photo:

Still cute.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Top Ten Tuesday: Daycare Dilemma

When I was pregnant with Bubba, any discussions revolving around him as an actual human baby seemed very abstract. I was so focused on the pregnancy and just getting him safely out of my loins that I honestly couldn’t really conceptualize what life with him would be like weeks or months down the line.

Case in point: childcare. Obviously I knew we would need childcare, since, as my dear husband is fond of reminding me, I married “the wrong kind of Jew” (i.e. not a doctor or a lawyer) and hence we need both of our incomes to survive in this godforsaken expensive city (necessary disclaimer: he’s Jewish and has assured me that his joke is both hilarious and inoffensive; I am inclined to agree despite my own lack of jewishness, but if you disagree you are welcome to beat him with a menorah or something*). So of course we discussed it like responsible parents-to-be, and we formulated what seemed at the time to be a solid plan: for the first year, a babysitter would come to the house to watch him (remember, I work from home, so I liked the idea of being near my kid and knowing what he and the sitter are up to while I worked; it seemed like a small consolation for having to work at all) and then we’d switch to daycare since it’s so much cheaper and he’d be old enough that I wouldn’t worry about him as much (ha!).

It sounded fine at the time, because a) it was so far away and b) I had no idea what being a mom was actually going to be like and how I’d feel about someone else watching the little beast while I worked. Now that the time is drawing near and it’s time to actually start thinking about getting him into daycare, I kind of want to cry/scream/vomit.

I’m so used to our current situation, and the thought of changing it terrifies me! How will I possibly get through the workday without seeing my baby every time I get up for water soda? Surely I’ll go crazy not knowing what he’s doing all day or how they’re treating him or whether he’s napped or what he’s eaten or how he’s behaving…and won’t he miss me?! Or, worse yet, since he’ll rarely see me, he probably won’t care about me at all anymore! Who was I kidding, thinking I would be less worried about these things once he was one?!

But of course, I know countless moms send their kids to daycare every day, and they all survive. It can’t be all bad. And I did agree to this tentative plan last year, so I suppose it’s time for me to be a mature woman and think logically about the potential positive aspects of handing my kid over to be raised by strangers 40 hours a week.

And we all know what the mature way to contemplate things is: write a Top Ten Tuesdays list, of course!

Here you go, the Top Ten Reasons Daycare Won’t Necessarily Be the Worst Thing to Ever Happen to Both Me and My Child:

10) Socialization: Aside from playing with his older cousins once a week or so, Bubba is really never around other kids. It would probably be wise to allow him to interact with other humans at some point lest he become a hermit like his mother.

9) Learning: Daycares do educational activities, right? Sometimes, at least? Alphabet, counting, something? This would be great, because I have high hopes for Bubba to be a smart kid, but I am also quite lazy and don’t want to have to do all the hard work of teaching him shit.

8) Energy: As in, my kid has a lot of it and I’m pretty sure a busy daycare environment will tire him out more than spending 8 hours attempting to climb to the top of the TV stand in our living room day in and day out.

7) Reliability: I love our babysitter, but she is just one person and like anyone, she gets sick or has emergencies or appointments or traffic issues or whatever from time to time. When she’s not available, I’m screwed. Daycares typically don’t have a lot of last-minute “whoops, we’re closed today, sorry!” type of situations.

6) Money: This is the big one, folks. We pay an obscene amount of money for the luxury of having the childcare take place one-on-one in our own house, and while technically we can afford it, it’s admittedly somewhat silly when a cheaper alternative does exist. MUCH cheaper. Like, half the price. With those savings, maybe I could convince the hubs that we can afford to have another baby! Wait, then we’d be back in the same predicament. OK, maybe I can convince him to buy a soda fountain for the house! I’d settle for that.

5) ….

That’s…all I’ve got. When I started writing this post, I honestly thought I’d be able to come up with 10 reasons, but…I’m empty. I’m wracking my brain, but all I can think about is how quiet the house is going to be all day while STRANGERS RAISE MY CHILD MILES AWAY FROM ME.

Help me, people. Finish my list for me. Tell me daycare won’t kill me (or Bubba). I’m pleading for your reassurance!

Because it’s going to be really hard to give up getting office visits from this kid…even if his primary motivation for visiting is to throw stuff off my shelves and try to spin my chair around:

*this is arguably far more offensive than the original joke. It’s a hugely satisfying visual, though!

Quote of the Day: That Weird Kid With the Twitch

The scene: It’s the morning after I returned home from my work trip, and I’ve brought the baby into our room for a quick family snuggle before work. As usual, Bubba wants nothing to do with this boring “cuddle quietly” nonsense and has embarked on a climbing/jumping/crawling exploration mission atop the hubs and myself. After wrangling him away from the curtains and plopping him back securely in my lap, Bubba does a cute little rapid head-shake move (like shaking your head “no”) I’d never seen him do before.

TFW practically leaps out of bed. “Did you see that?! He was doing that the whole time you were gone! What is it?!”

I shrugged, for once the unconcerned party. “I don’t know…he probably just figured out how to do it and he thinks it’s funny.”

“Please tell me he’s not gonna be that weird kid with the twitch! Every school has one…and no one likes him!”

And now, of course, I can’t stop noticing him shaking his damn head all the damn time. Thank you, TFW, for giving me a brand new worry to obsess over.

Although I’m not sure if being known as Twitch Boy at school would be better or worse for him than being That Kid Who Sits In Baskets:

Let’s just hope both habits don’t stick, or he’s in trouble.

Absentee Mother

I will readily admit that a lot of the things I worried about during the first few months of Bubba’s life were, in a word, ridiculous. My fear that my preference for giving him his bottles in my left arm would cause him to develop a misshapen head, for instance, was, in hindsight, a waste of valuable brain space. The same can be said for all the sleep I lost when we first moved him out of our room and into his crib; I was so terrified that the baby monitor would fail to alert me of some variety of doom (kidnappers? choking on stuffed animals?) that I set alarms to wake me up multiple times during the night so I could peek into his room and confirm his existence/alive-ness.

So yes, I have been known to worry about some serious nonsense. But not all of my worries are so loony.

Ever since I went back to work and started turning over the care of my child to a babysitter all day every day, I have fretted nonstop about all the time I miss with him. I hate that all week long my interactions with my son amount to little more than errand-running and morning and nighttime routines while the babysitter gets him during peak Fun Time hours. I always feel like I’m missing out, and today I was proven right!

I took the afternoon off work so the babysitter could go to an appointment, and I took advantage of the daylight by taking the baby out for a nice 3pm stroll around the neighborhood. As we rounded the corner at the end of my block, we encountered a couple of elderly women who presumably are my around-the-corner neighbors. Upon seeing my son, both women squealed with excitement and engaged me in a lovely conversation about the dear boy:

“Oooh look, it’s Ryan! Hi Ryan!”

“Aw, he got his top tooth!”

“Isn’t his birthday coming up?”

Totally sweet, right?

Except for the fact that I had NEVER SEEN THESE WOMEN BEFORE IN MY LIFE. How the hell did they know my son if I don’t even know them?!

Work Trip Wrap-Up: Cold Snap!

I’m back!

I survived! And so did the baby!

My first work trip since becoming a mother has come and gone, and we all lived to tell the tale. I’m sure you’re all dying to know how many times I checked in on Mr. Mom and how many times the baby got bathed (spoiler alert: zero, obv), so let’s dive into the by-the-numbers wrap-up!

56: total number of hours I was gone

23093890234: approximate number of text messages I sent to TFW and the babysitter during the first 24 hours alone (the consensus, if you’re wondering, was that the baby was fine and apparently did not miss me in the slightest)

3: number of rowdy Chicago Bears fans seated in the row ahead of me on the flight to Chicago Sunday evening

12: level of said Bears fans’ excitement, on a scale of 1-10, when they determined that they were able to watch the Bears game during the flight (thanks for that, Virgin America and Dish Network)

0: level of said Bears fans’ understanding, on a scale of 1-10, that they were on an airplane and NOT A ROWDY SPORTS BAR (shouting! clapping! cheering! high-fiving! booing! cursing the players, refs, coaches, and announcers!)

123980231809132890: exact number of times (I counted) I had to physically restrain myself from reaching around and punching said Bears fans in their respective mouths in hopes of shutting them up

12: level of difficulty, on a scale of 1-10, I had containing my laughter when the Bears lost the game and finally silenced those SOBs

30: temperature in Chicago when I landed

20: temperature the next morning when I left the hotel for work

5: number of layers I wore…just on my upper half (long-sleeved shirt, sweater, denim jacket, then some other jacket whose style I can’t even identify since I have never had a need for a winter coat before [I purchased it at Target 24 hours before I left when I realized that I owned virtually nothing remotely appropriate for actual cold weather], and finally a scarf)

600: number of times I commented on the weather to my poor coworkers over the course of two days. I’m sorry! But guys, IT SNOWED:

80: high temp back in LA

0: number of times I anticipated worrying about the weather back at home. Why would I, right? Wait for it….

53: temperature in the baby’s room on Tuesday morning (the baby monitor reports the temperature). I found this out via the following text message exchange with my dear husband:

TFW: Good morning 🙂 Heater wouldn’t work all night, poor guy. Was 53 in his room this morning 😦 He’s OK though.

(note: in case you’ve forgotten, our house has climate control issues)

Me: Poor kid! You shouldn’t have told me that!!!

TFW: He didn’t seem to mind, slept through the night just fine!

Me: yes, I’m sure he did, since he was IN A HYPOTHERMIC COMA

23482393: number of subsequent texts messages I sent “gently insisting” that he figure out the damn heater before I got home or the baby would be sleeping in our room with me while TFW endured the icy tundra in Bubba’s crib

5: number of photos of a sweatshirt-clad Bubba TFW texted me in attempts to prove that he had taken appropriate measures to warm the kid up and that he really was a-ok despite having spent the night in a freezer:

75: temperature in the baby’s room right now (TFW fixed the heater and was allowed to sleep in our bed after all)

0: baths the baby received while I was gone. But TFW assured me that he did remember to wipe the kid’s hands off a few times, and by the time I got home I was just glad that neither the baby nor I had succumbed to our icy environments, so…we’ll call it a win.

12: my level of excitement, on a scale of 1-10, to be back home with my boys last night!

Yes, ’twas quite an adventure — for both me and the adorably clueless dudes I left behind. I arrived home exhausted to a messy house and a stinky baby, but I’m proud of all of us for surviving a few days apart!

Next time, though, I’ll schedule the trip for a warmer time of year.

In Da Club

People who aren’t interested in having kids (or who are waiting to get cracking) often cite not wanting to give up their freewheelin’ lifestyle as a reason for staying childfree. This makes a lot of sense for people who live even marginally exciting lives, since it really is a lot harder to do things with a baby around. People tend to look down upon babies being brought into bars or planes or concerts or restaurants or…anywhere, really. The public hates babies. Plus, you’re too tired and haggard to do much of anything outside the house for the first year or eight anyway.

For people like me, though, this is a non-issue. There has never been a period in my adult life where my calendar was filled with exciting travels or nights out on the town with a pack of gal pals (do you like how I specify “adult” life here, as if when I was younger I did have some raging social life jam-packed with drunken shenanigans and spring break roadtrips? I assure you I did not). That’s just…not me. I read constantly. I honestly enjoy watching TV for hours on end. Board games are great fun (as long as I win). Taking a drive on the coast for the sole purpose of being able to sing along (loudly; also badly) with some tunes is my idea of a thrilling adventure. And with the exception of the occasional punk rock concert (there are precisely four bands that can motivate me to endure a sweaty moshpit at this stage in my life), I see zero reason to ever step foot in a “club” (or as Liz Lemon would say, a discotheque) when there are pajamas to be worn and seemingly countless (kountless) Kardashians with whom to be kept up.

Lest you think I just don’t know what I’m missing, allow me to assure you that I have actually been to a club! Like, people invited me and I got dressed up and went downtown and stood in line and everything. OK, so it was for my sister’s bachelorette party and thus they kinda had to include me, but we’ll ignore that part. The point is, I have indeed experienced this baffling activity.

Wordless Wednesday: How’d You Get In There?!

Allow me to preface this week’s series of photos by assuring you that not a single one of these was staged or encouraged in any fashion. My child is just a crafty little beast. And he likes a cozy space!

Also danger. He likes danger.

Time to Try!

As you may have inferred from my embarrassing lack of effort on Halloween, I don’t believe in spending money nor time on holiday stuff for the baby when said baby will certainly not take any notice. In addition to my Halloween dis-interest, you may be appalled to learn that last year I did virtually NOTHING for the poor child for Christmas. No stocking. No presents. We didn’t get a tree and there was nary a single Santa decoration in the entire house. He was three weeks old and I had enjoyed a combined total of about 38 minutes of sleep since his birth — he’s lucky I sprung for a Christmas-themed pajama from Target to commemorate the occasion:

And a few family members bought him presents, so in the future I can show him photos like this and fool him into believing I’m NOT in fact a horrible mother and did indeed shower him with gifts:

We will all know the truth, though. Sorry, Bubba!

Now that the kid is older (his birthday is just 25 days away!! Where did the time go, etc etc), I know that I need to step up my game. He definitely didn’t care about Halloween and I have zero regrets about not wasting my precious energy on those shenanigans this year, but even I am not heartless enough to try to gloss over his first birthday. I will make a glorious cake (naturally-sweetened and sans food coloring, of course, because I’m a filthy hypocrite) and there shall be presents galore (even though we all know he’s going to be way more into trying to eat the wrapping paper and climbing into the boxes than the gifts themselves). We’re even going to the ultimate birthday destination for kids of all ages: Disneyland (admittedly, this is more for my own enjoyment/churro consumption than anything else; I can’t say with certainty that this would be on the docket if kids under two didn’t get in free)! But there will be lots of cute photo ops (assuming he isn’t terrified of Mickey and his brethren) and I am 100% positive that taking your kid to Disneyland on his or her birthday automatically makes you an awesome parent, so…we’re going!

And just 25 days after his birthday comes Christmas, and while I highly doubt he will understand what’s going on, he’s certainly old enough to enjoy the the magic of the season. I will get a tree this year, and most likely decorate it (pending my energy vs laziness levels). I will bust out the sewing machine finally and make him a stocking (or buy one…pending my sentimentality vs laziness levels). I’m envisioning a photo with him in a Santa hat, and perhaps I’ll let him taste a tiny crumb of my mom’s delicious cookies. I swear, I won’t have to stage pictures with presents from other people this year! I’ll even write “from Santa” on one even though I think that sort of thing is ridiculous, because THAT’S WHAT MOMS WHO TRY DO.

And starting now, I’m totally a mom who tries.

PS: I wasn’t joking about my prediction that he’ll prefer the wrapping to the presents — he played with this giant piece of brown packing paper left over from an Amazon order for TEN STRAIGHT MINUTES this weekend (for non-parents, that is the equivalent of an ETERNITY):

Bring on the presents!