Mom years

At the pinnacle of my top 10 list of things I don't want to hear while showering on a Sunday morning? "Look, I'm not dropping Hyrum!" This is particularly true if the sound originates mere feet from the bathtub when I know I left the baby on the other side of the apartment.*

Other contenders? "Don't worry, I already cleaned it up myself!" (especially if the speaker is wearing a different outfit than he or she was 10 minutes ago), and another favorite from this morning, "Mommy, Hyrum can't have this anymore because it's covered in throw ups."

Yesterday, we were hanging out in Tribeca, just eating some gelato because we're still hip like that. (Really, we're pretty much the opposite of hip and were in Tribeca so John could show us the sites of some projects his firm has considered financing over the past year. The gelato was partially a noise reduction technique, an attempt to minimize repetitions of, "I want to go home now! Are we going home? When are we going home?") Anyway, we're sitting there, eating our gelato, and this guy comes up to us and asks if we know the title of the last song played. No, we didn't. He hung around a few seconds longer and then said, "Oh? I'm pretty sure it's from the early 80s." When that didn't provoke an answer, he shrugged and walked back to his seat.

Well, my friend, the joke's on you because I was in diapers in the early 80s. Wait a minute . . . .

I'm pretty sure I'm now aging in mom years, like dog years, but shorter.

But then last night, John gave me a bite of his gelato because he said his was bigger than mine. And after that Evelyn decided to share about every other bite of hers with me. "I think mine was a little bit bigger than yours Mommy." So, in the end, the fact that I'm spending the most attractive years of my life in a phase where I can only wear things that look good covered in orange vomit and I don't even own a decent tube of lipstick is probably OK. I'd rather kiss my baby than sport colorful lips anyway.

And 20 years from now, when that guy is changing diapers (or if he stays in the city, 30 years from now when he and his second wife are paying someone else to change their twins' diapers), I'll be sending my third child off to college and finally getting my nails done every week.

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*Although I am grateful to no longer live in an apartment in which every part of the apartment is mere feet from the bathtub.

I think he knows his days are numbered

Last night, I officially started the month-long process of weaning Hyrum. I have many reasons, some of which are for his benefit, most of which are for mine, and the biggest of which is that I just want to. This is my Christmas present to myself.

My original goal was to go six months without supplementing, so I was planning to wait until his six-month birthday to start. Then, last night, I counted my freezer supply. With 113 ounces taking up 25 percent of our precious cold storage space, I figured I could go ahead and eliminate that night-time bottle a few days early without needing to buy any formula just yet.

Even though I am the one with the power here and I'm doing what I want to do (as opposed to weaning Evelyn, where she made all the decisions), I feel a little tinge of regret. It was so much easier this time around, and therefore, more pleasant.  It's been a good run.

That said, I look forward eagerly to NOT nursing in public while sitting on the floor of Barnes and Noble and trying to monitor my toddler without flashing anyone.

Oh, the hardships of being a baby

1. You never get to hold the remote so you can watch your shows.

2. You look ridiculous half the time (a post-it-note hat? really?).

 

3. Just in general, you control practically nothing. (Me: "Evelyn, he doesn't like having the blanket over his face." Evelyn: "No, he said he does! He loves it!" Hyrum: crying)

Wait, this is starting to sound a little like being a mother . . .

1. More Signing Time, anyone?

2. Yesterday = 6 massive spit up stains, all orange

3. Explains itself.

No, really

Yesterday, Evelyn decided to throw an enormous tantrum on the way home from school. We were approximately 15% of the way home when she started whining because her feet hurt. Well, get off your scooter and into the stroller and ride then, I logically replied. No, her feet hurt too much to stop whining but not enough to ride in the stroller. After about 1/2 a block of this (1/2 a block if you count this one day, several miles if you add up all the blocks over all the days on which this same thing has happened), I insisted that she get in the stroller.

She demurred. Loudly. So, I put Hyrum in the ergo and proceeded to tell her I would have to force her to get into the stroller if she did not get in herself. I counted. Finally, I strong armed her in, a long, arduous process. Every single person walking down the street stopped to ask if they could help. Let me just take the baby, they said, as Evelyn's wild thrashing nearly decapitated the helpless 6-month-old hanging practically upside down in the carrier while his mother persisted her attempts to force his sister into the stroller. That would be great, but I can't really hand him over seeing as how he's strapped to me and all. And who hands their baby to a complete stranger on the street then turns their back to deal with a toddler anyway, right? Probably not the best idea.

Not that the alternative was much better, mind you. We were a complete and utter spectacle, and several of those passersby probably think I am abusive, although thankfully none of them told me so.

Fast forward to school pickup today. Evelyn's teacher says, "I noticed a pretty bad welt on her forehead, but I don't think she got it here. I asked, and at first she said it happened at school but then she said she hit your knee?" I attempted to explain how Evelyn had run full-speed down the hall to flatten/hug me on her way out the door this morning, tripped a foot away from me, and fell forward into my knee. As I listened to myself, I realized this is the kind of stupid story people tell when they are hitting their kids. "She just ran into my knee. I swear!"

This makes the third bruise on her face. The picture doesn't do it justice really. She has a welt from this morning in the middle of her forehead and old bruises on her chin ("Anna Sue hit me at school today!") and on the right side of her forehead. Guess how she got that last one? She ran into a wall. Yeah, I know how it sounds.

As long as we're not into keeping up appearances anymore, I might as well admit that I parked my kids in front of Baby Einstein Monday while I watched back episodes of Modern Family online. Go ahead, judge. You won't be the only one.

Halloween: a photo essay

The costume and its inspiration.

Flash + glasses combo ruins yet another adorable picture

Getting ready for party #1: 7 days to D-day

Why are they doing this to me?

Whew, that's better!

Sponge curlers: cuter in the preparatory phase than in the final execution (we ended up borrowing a tiny curling iron)

Three friends pose for the papparazzi during the school Halloween parade.

One insists on trying to ruin every shot.

Her plan is foiled when her mother manages to get one decent shot over a three-day period.

Would you like a ghost cookie?

Is that a serious question? Does this look like a face that says no to cookies?

Why do you keep shoving that thing in my face? What is the point of this holiday?



Happy Halloween!