Be Wary: Wearing the Baby Could Leave You Worn Out

Here's Jack in a rare moment-- he's not attached to me, nor is he screaming. Usually, he is one of those things. Wearing him can mean that no noise emanates from his cryhole, or it can mean that his screams are THAT MUCH CLOSER to my ear. Either way, kind of a pain in the shoulders. Also? It's kind of hard to keep the floor as clean as I'd like it to be-- I am having a hard time seeing around him, and as a result, I sometimes miss a spot and see it only when the sun is shining and I have (finally) removed the sleeping baby from his pouch and curled up on the couch. Yeah. I am kind of a psycho about cleaning these days, but it makes me feel a little calmer in the midst of all the screams to have a shiny clean house.

Also the whining. I know it's typical toddler behavior, but I think it might be enhanced by Caillou, Harry's favorite cartoon of the moment, who is a total whiny little jerk. Also, he is a bald 4 year-old, something that has always baffled me. But I just now Googled him to find his link, and I found a Caillou merchandise website-- which? Perfect for Harry's b-day-- what a find-- that explains that "Caillou" means pebble or stone, which may give insight as to why the little brat is bald. Finally! A mystery solved! Parents of toddlers rejoice!


Speaking of-- here's Harry rejoicing in the shower.

Rhymes With Bacon

On Sunday morning, Harry enjoyed a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel from Einstein's. He enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he not only demanded more bacon, he kept talking about bacon all day. His toys wanted to eat bacon; Harry himself was hungry for more bacon, and he thought he might even learn how to make bacon in the cooking class he's taking in July (as it's at a vegetarian cafe, this is highly unlikely).

Harry's love of all things bacon amused Ben to no end. Ben encouraged Harry to think of the smoked pork product as his favorite color, and he soon had Harry claiming bacon as the absolute superlative. Favorite animal? Bacon. Best rock band of all time? Bacon. Most awesome wonder of the ancient world? Had to be bacon.

Monday, as we strolled from Target to the grocery store, we played a round of the bacon game, which went like this:
Ben: What's your favorite smell?
Harry: (amused giggle) Bacon.
Ben: What's the best book you've ever read?
Harry: (delighted chortle) Bacon.
Ben: Who's the greatest president in history?
Harry: (totally serious) McCain

McCain? McCain?! Mcain!?!?

This answer stunned and bemused us on at least 2 levels. This is an Obama/Clinton house for one thing, and how he hell does he even know who that is, for the other?

After we bought groceries (and by the way, organic milk is suddenly over $7 a gallon in a dairy state-- we're just going to give him premium gas from now on), we asked him who the next president would be, and he again said McCain. I hope he's not clairvoyant.

Speaking of McCain, Jack is, indeed a boob man. Also a redhead. And grumpy.


Harry's "Unc Ben" was in town this weekend (along with the adorable Mr. Kaleb (and my cousin Heidi and her husband Jeremy) and our friends Eric and Jaime), and as soon as Harry found out Unc Ben was bringing presents, he rolled out the welcome mat. Guess which part Harry spelled-- I'll give you a hint: It starts with the letter cow.

Here he is hanging with Unc Ben and enjoying a refreshing watte.






Again with the healthy snacks



At the petting zoo

Jack's view of the petting zoo

Harry is very bossy these days-- my own personal zoo-er guide.


Ben got to ride the Conservation Carousel a lot today, the lucky guy.

I'm not saying everyone who drives a Hummer is an asshole, but this guy sure is. Nice park job.


We always know when to leave a party-- or in his case a zoo. Tantrum time, of course!

Harry'd "yike a watte." Whole milk. Heavy on the ice.

A sign that you might drink too much coffee? Your toddler , uh, toddles, up to the counter at your favorite sandwich shop and says, "I'd yike a watte, police." By police, I am pretty sure he meant please.

It was actually a bit of relief, because Jen was just making fun of us for knowing the sandwich selection at that place so well, we could order for ourselves and recommend sandwiches to others by number sans menu. I mean, he could have asked for a number 4, skinny, on wheat. Although now that I think about it, that's no worse than the coffee thing. Ever since I gave birth, I've been on a coffee and lunch meat rampage-- all the pregnancy forbidden stuff is so thrilling to me. Like dental x-rays. Can't get enough of them.

So, Harry has ben capping off his mornings or afternoons with an iced latte (read: chocolate milk with ice cubes), and we've been getting lots of disapproving clucks when we refer to his beverage as a latte-- but the derision of strangers is infinitely preferable to the shrieks of a latte-less toddler.

Watte. And bedhead.

Ben doesn't even like espresso. He's pretending he's a giant.

Crappy decaf latte not pictured.-- ever since I got so old, I can't have caffeine past like noon. But my god do I need it-- see wakeful, hungry infant strapped to chest.

For Jack on the eve of his 5 week birthday

First of all, don't think you'll always be celebrating birthdays every 5 weeks because that is going to get expensive. You should hear the list of stuff your brother wants for his second birthday. Your dad and I just innocently asked him what he wanted one day, and he rattled off his requests without hesitation-- with a little reproach, actually, as if to say What took you so long to ask me? (And if anyone out there knows where I can get an Elmo watch, please let me know!)

You probably already know this, but there are times when you cry, and no one can come get you. Sorry about that-- I really am. I know that you're fine and that you will be fine, even though you occasionally cry in your Pack n Play while Daddy and I finish washing the dishes really quick or keep putting the last few towels away or help your brother find his socks. Sometimes, I have to leave you for second or two so I can carry Harry-- he always needs carrying when your cries reach a fever pitch, and I think to myself that he'll remember if I tend to you first. You? Probably will have no memories of your infanthood. Unless you're wicked smart, which, let's face it, you probably will be.

Which brings me to the reason I'm writing: memories. So far, Daddy and I are doing a good job-- you have a "Dear Baby" book that started when we found out you were a boy and ends with your brand new footprints (just like Harry's). I am hard at work on a Hallmark scrapbook of your first year (just like I was for Harry), and we've already filled a pastel blue picture album with hundreds of shots of your tiny face (just like we did for Harry). The thing is, most of the pictures aren't just of you-- they're of you and Harry because there's never been a you without a Harry, so I just wanted to tell you a little about you.

You have six fat rolls on each thigh, and it's hard to keep them clean. You hate to have a dirty diaper, and you love the feeling of warm water running down your head. Your acne is worse on the left side of your face, and you sleep best swaddled and snuggled under my right arm. Sometimes at night, you'll hold a pacifier between your lips and suck it ferociously, with your eyelids at half mast and your hands balled into fists. You cross your feet at the ankles when you nurse, and you roll your mouth into a perfect "O" when you pee. Between the hours of 8 and 10 in the evening, you're only really comfortable on your tummy on top of Daddy-- and that's only after he's chugged a mini Miller Light, turned off all the lights, muffled his Obama-worshipping "news" channel, wrapped you in at least 2 blankets, and run laps around the living room. It's true you're going through a bit of an awkward phase right now with the acne and the cradle cap and the witching hour, but your toothless mouth smells sweetly like milk, and your breath is so warm against my cheek when you wrap your long fingers in my hair and hoist yourself toward my face.

In the hospital, you and I wore matching bracelets to prevent any movie-of-the-week type mix ups-- they were programmed to chime a lullaby when the two of us came back together after being apart more than 10 minutes. Except for the time you had a bath and a hearing test and the couple of times I showered, we were never away from each other for that long. Even if we had been separated, those bracelets weren't necessary for us . I knew you, Jack, when you were just a few hours old-- could look at your squishy bald head and your cloudy blue eyes and recognize you instantly, even if you were in a scrawny, chicken-winged, peely newborn baby line up.

We've been waiting for you, Jacky, before we even knew we were missing you.

Least there ain't 3 of 'em, or Ben just gave himself a vasectomy, or do they make baby ether?

{Edited to add: Since you asked, what happened at the video store was that Harry only left with Dora and The Fox and the Hound, not the ten other titles he clutched in his grubby little hands. To add insult to injury, he had to come home and take a bath instead of watching his movies tonight. But the trip was doomed from the start-- he wanted to drive, but we wouldn't let him because we are SO MEAN.}

Wow! Buying diapers for 2 is expensive and other ways we spent our weekend

And you thought he couldn't get any cuter! Harry got a haircut, and I swear to you, as the hair started to fall, he began to look more and more like his dad-- it was kind of creepy to watch Ben's face emerge. Harry was blown away by how much hair littered his cape and the floor around him-- he kept saying "Mess! Harry's hair is a mess!" Now that's what he says if people mention his new coif. He pats his head with his pudgy hand and says "It's a mess." Then he reveals that his mama puts hairspray-- or hairpay-- in it.

Erica came over to pay with Harry (so I could do stuff like laundry! and scrubbing the bathroom! and mopping the floor!), and they had so much fun. Harry has been naming all of his stuffed animals and Little People Erica for weeks now, and he was beside himself with joy when I told him she was coming over. When she pulled up outside, he was so overcome that he cried a little because he could not wait for her to get from the car to the door. Anywho, they went to the park, and Harry came home with a dandelion crown, which he called his king.

We spend a lot of our time watching Harry eat chocolate ice cream. This outing was particularly memorable because Harry got ice cream on his back (HOW?) and because this really odd woman was sitting near us, and she dropped her cone on the ground and screamed "Oh FUDGE!" at the top of her lungs. As we were leaving, Harry smiled nervously at her and said, "Bye, person."



We went to a park by the lake so Harry could see some sailbutts, and he did a little swinging-- luckily he still has enough hair to blow in the breeze-- phew.




Hey, Jack, buddy, the reason you are single? Might have something to do with your sunny disposition. Followed closely by your acne. Which? Actually might be my fault because I always carry you in the Bjorn, and your zits are n the exact pattern of where the Bjorn mashes your face-- and also where your face gets smushed against my chest. Hmmmm...

Here's Harry playing on the capitol lawn yesterday morning. Instead of buying produce at the farmer's market, we spent our cash on cookies, cinnamon rolls, and toys trucks. Nutritious.

Bath time! Also, yes, my bangs are totally screwed up, and it is Jack's fault. I had to take him with me to the salon yesterday, and he woke up screaming right at the end-- when she was doing my bangs and the final shaping of my bob. Urgh. So, I meant to get Kati Holmes' old do (before the weird thing she has going on now), but instead, I got Suri's haircut. I also got lots of angry stares from other customers and clucks of disapproval because I didn't get my baby until my stylist was done. (I also had to get nasty with a shampoo girl who tried to comfort him and was going to stick her fingers in his mouth-- oh my god!) Then I got grossed out stares when I fed him in the reception area. Also? There's too much of my face showing, and I had to tip a ton because of the aforementioned screaming. Not the most relaxing hour I've ever spent getting groomed.

He is screaming while I write this

Yes, the zitty, screamy little beastie baby is a whole moth old today, and I am typing with one hand and bouncing him against my chest with the other. A few minutes ago, I ate an entire column of Golden Oreos with him on my lap, lying facedown while I patted his back and used him like he was an angry, squalling napkin.

As you can see, he was not so thrilled about the photo shoot:




He does actually like a bath, so he'll be getting them frequently. Maybe as soon as I hit "publish" because these screams are starting to get to me, man. And it's all about me-- not about, like, why the baby is crying right?

Here he is looking like a teeny Monty Burns

and also just like Ben

So far, thirty rocks