Entertain Thy Self

Samson was lying on the living room floor on his fuzzy blanket this morning--I'm a genius, see, I've been training the dogs to KEEP OFF of this one fuzzy blanket and to KEEP THEIR NASTY GERMY DOG TOYS OFF of this one fuzzy blanket so that Samson can have a nice little place to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling or eat dog hair or do whatever 3 1/2 month old babies do when they can't roll over or sit up. Um. And let me tell you, there is NOTHING that Ozzy wants to do more than lay on that one fuzzy blanket. And there is NOTHING that Nanna wants to do more than place her disgusting slobbery tennis ball or dead pheasant on that one fuzzy blanket. It takes great control of every fiber in her being to place the disgusting dead pheasant half an inch from the blanket and not on the blanket. She's such a good dog.

I was reading this article in Parents magazine--you know, the one that contains nice orderly lists of all of the things I'm doing wrong? And nice four-page layouts of all of the things my baby should be doing at this age but isn't? It wasn't an article as much as a brightly colored ad for various baby products I need in order to be a good mommy. It was in the form of a time line on what to do during the day to keep your baby happy. And there were at least three different activities that called for baby to entertain himself, amuse himself, and hang out solo, and there were little captions about how important this skill is and how if your baby doesn't master this crucial skill immediately, he will most likely grow up to become a serial killer or a dog kicker or a republican.

Samson's big on NOT being alone. He can spend a few minutes here and there entertaining himself while I feed the animals in the morning or fix lunch, and we have a very specific routine that buys me about 20 minutes, allowing me to take a shower and, if I'm very lucky, wash my hair. But all this self-entertainment is kind of like some wonderful dream, one where my baby plays contently in my spotless living room, my impeccably groomed pets at least 12 inches from his fuzzy blanket, and I am folding laundry UNINTERRUPTED for THIRTY WHOLE MINUTES.

So of course this article-advertisement made me feel incompetent and I decided that today Samson would play BY HIMSELF in the morning, the time during which I am usually lying on the floor next to him, endlessly shaking jingly jangly toys above him and encouraging him to reach and grab (he's getting soooo good at grabbing, by the way), or inflicting the cruel torture of tummy time upon him, or reapplying a sock that has been expertly removed. I'm also singing dumb ass little songs to him about zebras jumping on beds and where the hell is Thumbkin and an itsy bitsy spider who crawls up to Samson's nose over and over again. It would probably be quite amusing and more than a little pathetic to be a fly on my wall.

Instead of all that fun togetherness, I gave Samson a pacifier, put his softer than god's toilet paper giraffe in his arms and made sure there were at least 800 toys under his arms and at his fingertips, easy for even the most sedentary of babies to grab and shove in their mouths. Then I sat on the sofa, about three feet away from him and began to fold laundry. Everything was awesome for about four minutes and then his squeals of delight started to morph into moans of discontent. Anyone who's met this baby knows that he can go from zero to sixty in no time flat, so once he started furrowing his eyebrows, I knew that this experiment was going to end badly. The horrible whiny fussing started, and I did my best to ignore it and fold laundry while Samson figured out that we was going to have to AMUSE HIS OWN DAMN SELF so that he could grow up well adjusted with a high earning potential. But oh the howling. Ozzy looked up at me with eyes that said Why aren't you doing something to make it stop? And Nanna looked up at me with eyes that said WHY AREN'T YOU DOING SOMETHING TO MAKE IT STOP??? And I crawled over to Samson and sang him the song about the zebra jumping on the bed and all was right with the world.

Maybe we'll work on self-amusement next month.

But who's counting

Here's me one year ago this week, hanging out in an Irish pub in Ennis, County Clare.



Notice the lack of Guinness in my hand. That's right, one year ago this week, I peed on a plastic stick that would change my life. Unlike all those plastic sticks I had peed on just cause, well, you know. Who doesn't like to pee on stuff. Becoming pregnant was lots of fun for me (ahem); I had a very easy time of it. We made it on the first try, no morning sickness, no scary test results or bed rest or anything like that. Other than being so far from our friends and family for the first 6 months, it was a real cake walk. Even the distance thing wasn't so awful, I found a real great support network in Dublin that continues to be a part of my life back in the states.

Nothing can really prepare you to go from this to this. Read all the books you want, go to all the classes, bug your friends and read the blogs and adopt an exceedingly needy dog and you still won't be ready to be a first time parent. Thankfully, they're too cute in the beginning to get rid of, and by the time the cuteness wears off and the sleep deprivation sets in, you've already bonded so you have to keep them. God is very sneaky like that.

I've been a mom for 112 days and 5 hours. I'm pretty sure that's longer than the time the people in Lost have spent on the island. I won't even try to count how many diapers or bottles that is, although I thinks it's 2,417,236 and 1,284,702 respectively. It's one hell of a lot of spit up, buckets of tears (baby and mommy tears both--the baby tears are tastier, according to Ozzy), and an awful lot of bouncing and jiggling (maybe that explains the copious amounts of spit up?). 112 days and 5 hours of totally awesome. One year of having Samson in my life, and it has been fantastic. Even the emotional roller coaster bits, the hormonal changes, the extra 35 pounds. Let us celebrate this amazing year with a new batch of pictures and a giant ice cream sundae.

The rest of the story

OK, yes Ozzy has a malignant tumor on his hip. But the vet is real confident that she can remove it without any complications and that it hasn't spread. While he's under, they're also going to remove the tumor on his third eyelid, the fatty tumor on his ribs, the benign lump on his chest, and the two small but getting bigger skin tags on his regular eyelids. And they'll clean his teeth while they're at it.

So after the vet explained everything to me and it became clear that this was most likely not a life threatening episode, I showed my true colors and began to obsess over just how much money this is going to cost us. I love my pets, don't me wrong. But I loved them so much more when they were young, cute, and didn't get mortally ill every other Tuesday. (Keep that in mind, Samson. As long as you're cute, young, healthy, and relatively soft and fuzzy, you're in.) Ozzy is ten this year, and that's like, 400 in dog years, so it's not too surprising that he should start to show some wear and tear. Guess I should have bought that extended warranty.

But none of this really bothered me, not even today's astronomical vet bill for the cats' regularly scheduled dental cleaning (and Milhouse's unscheduled tooth extraction--now he has one less weapon.). Why? Two words.

Rock. Band.

I am so totally and utterly hooked, and I tell you what, I look damn fine jamming out to Weezer and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs with Samson strapped to my chest in the Baby Bjorn.

Happy Valentine's Day Yesterday

It's been respectfully requested that I hurry up and blog already so that yesterday's depressing post can get moved down out of view. Out of sight, out of mind. So please to enjoy this lovely video. And yes, it is the girl from the Juno soundtrack. Yum!

Crap

Can I just have one dog without cancer? Just one? Please? Stupid Ozzy's stupid lump is a stupid malignant tumor. So now he gets to eat whatever he wants, sleep wherever he wants and fart as often as he wants until he makes a full recovery.

Stupid tumor. I'm so sick of this crap. CRAP.

You Vet Your Life

Have I mentioned lately how much I like difficult things? I'm a huge fan of impossible tasks, or at least doing stuff that involves military-style planning and a small army to get them done. And I like to do these things alone. And when they don't go smoothly, I get pissy and blame other people. Yeah, I'm a real doll.

So my day today appeared to be calm, not too much running around or getting dressed, just a leisurely lunch with my mom and my brother Paul who's visiting from Brooklyn.

Well screw that.

I decided that today would be a great day to bring the cats to the vet for their annual check ups and their vaccines in preparation for their teeth cleaning appointments next week. Not so horrible on the surface, except for catching, caging and transporting two furious 14-ish pound cats. And let's not forget about the baby.

Since I was already going to the vet, I might as well bring the dogs just to get their intranasal bordatella vaccines so that they can go to doggie day care tomorrow while we're all having lunch at Greene's in the city. They were just in last month for their respective lumps, so we know that nothing's wrong with them.

Ha!

The vet noticed Ozzy's new red eye spot--it's been there about 2 days and I've applied my new "watch and see for one month before freaking out and going to the vet" philospophy to it. After looking at his eye, the vet announced that Ozzy probably has a tumor on his third eyelid, a common condition in dogs with unpigmented eyelids. Since we were there, the vet might as well check out the new lump on his rear end--another "wait and see" test for me--and that one had to be sent out to the lab for further diagnostics.

Sigh.

Let me just add that my mom rocks for not letting me take on such tasks solo. Even if she did lock herself in the backseat of the car with Samson, ha ha.

Baby Boot Camp, or Oh, Walking Lunges, How I Hate Thee

Samson and I started Baby Boot Camp today. Because, you know, I like it when my legs ache and my arms feel like jell-o. And Samson likes to watch me huff and puff and get red in the face while I curse the nice instructor lady under my breath.

Wow, I have gotten really out of shape. I knew this was going to be hard, getting active again and maintaining some sort of physical routine. And as hard as it was this morning, I really did enjoy it. This crazy awesome Spring weather didn't hurt either. Every time I start a new fitness routine I'm reminded how good it makes me feel. I say to Max, "Max," I say, "the next time I complain about feeling down in the dumps or I get the blahs, remind me that I like exercise, remind me that it makes me feel better about my self and the world." Or maybe it's just the sun and fresh air.

And somebody better remind me of that tomorrow when I can't climb up the stairs or lift my own baby.

Off My Game

First it was that super catchy "Doing things is what I like to do. Yes!" commercial for Dunkin' Donuts. I thought that perhaps it was the funniest commercial I'd ever seen, and surely the catchiest. Can't get the damn song out of my head, not that I care to. Then it was the Fritalian ad, truly hilarious. Clever, right on the money, and again, can't get this jungle out of my head, which, really, is fine by me. Even Max picked up on something at the end of that commercial, "Hey! That's John Goodman!" Which it is. Bravo, Max. Good ears.

But it wasn't until I was cruising around on the interwebs tonight when I read TOTALLY BY CHANCE in some random article that all of the music for this genius ad campaign is by my beloved They Might Be Giants! I totally missed it, never even occurred to me. I can only blame Samson for depleting me of all of the necessary energy used to make these kinds of associations. Or to resist impulse purchases at the grocery store. That's his fault, too.

Check out all of their wicked awesome jingles here. Especially Alarm Clock Catastrophe and Get Your 8 Year Old Out of That Tree. Genius!

ps. I love TMBG. We all know that. But they have some pretty stiff competition if they want to knock my current number one commercial out of the winner's circle.

You're lookin' fancy and I like your style

Last night, while doing the dishes together.

Max: (singing) I gotta rock and roll all night and party everyday.
Me: Did you just say, "I like to rock and roll all night and party everyday?
Max: No. I said, (singing) "I gotta rock and roll all night and party everyday."
Me: So it's like something you have to do? Like a principle thing? Like, (singing) "I must rock and roll all night and party everyday?"
Max: I don't understand what you're saying.
Me: (singing) I'm required to rock and roll all night and party everyday.
Max: No, it's more like this is just the way it is. I've got to rock and roll all night and party everyday.
Me: So it's like it is what it is. You've got to rock and roll all night and party everyday.
Max: Yep.
Me: singing) I might rock and roll all night and party everyday.
Max: You're weird.
Me: (singing) I'm seriously considering rocking and rolling all night and partying everyday.

The gas we pass

A few posts back, Scott made this heartwarming comment:

"...this blog is probably one of the best gifts a mother can give her future son."

He's right. A lovingly and thoughtfully crafted chronicle of Samson's first few months--the trials and tribulations, the milestones and overwhelming emotions. The anecdotes, the pictures, everything. Hopefully, Samson will look back on this blog one day and smile as he reads through this tastefully written account of his early days, full of cute and adorable and not so much embarrassing.

Until now. This post will blow all of that out of the water.

My son farts. Yes, we all fart, and little babies do so much involving bodily fluids I think farting is the least of our worries. But it's the way this kid farts, the SOUND BARRIER BREAKING LOUDNESS of his farts. He's a teeny tiny little boy and he farts like a grown man, like a frat boy, like a professional wrestler.

It. Is. Freaking. Adorable.

Especially since they're odorless. Just really, really loud. I can recall one night when he was about 3 weeks old, still sleeping in our room, and his fart woke me out of a dead sleep. Louder than Nanna snoring, louder than the squeaky floorboards his farts are.

Future Samson, I ask your forgiveness. I tried not to write about this, and I got through three months without mentioning it on the blog (unlike your father who has told every guest we've had so far, "You should hear him fart! It's really loud! He farts like a MAN!"). But tonight before I put you to bed, after your massage and during your bottle, you let one rip so loud that the cat came running from the other room to see what all the hubub was about. The dog lifted her head and looked at you, concerned and scared. Were you about to explode? Should she take cover?

And you never even opened your eyes.

I'm sorry, but it had to be done. You're just too cute, and it's just too much a part of who you've been so far for me to leave it out of these entries. I'll make it up to you by getting you that hover bike you've been asking for.

This little piggy went to a meeting of the Sock Liberation Underground

Don't tell the Sock Police, but I've been letting Samson hang out sans socks the past few days. Only with the heat cranked up to a bazillion degrees, but it seems to make him very happy. Also being pantsless. This kid is going to be one of those patently naked babies.

All of my bragging about Samson's sleep habits have finally bitten me square on the ass. He's still sleeping for long stretches, about 10 hours or so, but he's been getting BEYOND CRANKY at around 6:30 pm, and putting him to bed seems to be the only solution. Well, the only one that won't get me in trouble with Child Protective Services. So he's waking up a lot earlier, and I'm sorry but Mamma doesn't get up at 4 am for longer than it takes to change and feed a baby, swaddle him and put him back to bed and promise god that I'll start volunteering and donating and living a more pious life if only he lets Samson sleep for 3 more hours PLEASE GOD just do me this one solid.



His crankiness in general has been way more contained this week by preemptive naps and walks in the fresh air. I'm careful about how much I complain about the weather after my year in Dublin, but can I just say that I CANNOT WAIT until winter is over? It's been sunny and clear since Sunday and it's supposed to remain this way through the weekend! Whichever candidate can promise me less rain and more non-rain can have my vote. And a thousand dollars of Samson's college fund.

Let me count the ways

Turns out we've been using our car seat incorrectly since, well, forever. I'm glad that I had breakfast with Ira and that he pointed this out. I'd always heard that something like 80 or 90 percent of people use car seats incorrectly, so I'm not too shocked to learn that I am among them. The odds are simply stacked against me. But like every other little thing that tends to add up, I'm feeling pretty down on myself as a parent this week. It doesn't help that Samson is still in his crying all the time phase (although it's getting better; frequent naps help. And drinking.). It makes me wonder, what else am I doing wrong? Overfeeding? Too much TV? Too much heat? Not enough fresh air? Not enough reading? And of course, the whole failure in the breastfeeding department thing. Sigh.

He's a great baby, adorable, healthy, developing normally. I'm pretty confident that he'll grow to be a great kid and a great teenager and a great adult. In spite of me and my faulty car seat ways. But he's going to have to work a bit harder to survive his bumbling mother and her crippling self-deprecation. Not to mention the shards of broken glass that I leave everywhere and the burning hot pokers that I stick in his eyes.

And the loud sneezing. Musn't forget that.

Samson: Month Three

January started out cold and wet, and month three started out with one angry baby. But the Week of the Furious Infant gave way to more of what I've become accustomed to--a lot of laying around, looking at things, eating hands, a few hard-earned smiles. Samson's two month check up involved being stuck with all sorts of horrible needles and lots of screaming, plus a weigh-in of 12 pounds 11 ounces (by the end of the month, he had reached 14 pounds 5 ounces). LDB came to visit for a few days, and Max went on his first post-Samson overnight business trip. Bedtime remained steady at 9 pm, sleeping through to 8 the next morning.



Then everything changed.

According to my all-purpose online baby development resource, at eleven weeks: "Your enterprising youngster is well on his way to mastering the concept of cause and effect. He’s already learned that his cries evoke a response from you and other caregivers. He’ll now begin to vary his cry to signal different needs".

Samson has one need and one need only. He asks only that you hold him. Hold him and engage him and entertain him and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T PUT HIM DOWN. Oh, the crying. The screaming and howling and whining and crying. If that's what they meant by beginning "to vary his cry," then they're NUTS. Way not to warn me about my soon to be intolerable baby, iVillage.



Of course, when he's receiving proper attention, he's cute as a button. Lots of smiles, his first couple of laughs even (!) and his first attempts at screeching (greeeeeeaaaaaaaat). He can officially grasp some objects in his hand or hands and successfully hold on to them for extended periods of time, shake them, and cram them into his mouth. This to me is the giant milestone of month three. It was so wild the first time I put the green rattle that Maggie sent us in his hand and he held on to it and shook it. It was like he'd made this huge leap from being a newborn to being an infant. I remember it like it was just last Tuesday. Oh wait, it was just last Tuesday. What a great birthday present.



He still sleeps a good 10 hours or so at night (THANK GOD) but his bedtime has gotten progressively earlier. He's now asleep by 7:30 or 8, which means he wakes up a little earlier, too. And I tell you, 6:30 am is a lot better than it could be. I want to complain about having to get up so early every day, including weekends, but he's usually so happy to see me that I really can't.



January saw lots of trips to the dog park, countless excursions to Grandma and Grandpa's house, and one new exciting addition to our routine: playgroups. Samson joined two regular weekly playgroups and seems to be loving it. As much as a three month old can love lying on the floor with a bunch of other three month olds. As much as a three month old can love anything.

There were other things that happened during month three, bad things. Shameful things. Like when I was clipping Samson's fingernails and accidentally clipped the top of his finger. OH THE HORROR! THE TEARS! THE SCREAMING! And that was just me. Month three also saw the first usage of TV as baby sitter. Go ahead, judge me. I deserve it. But if it means I can have five minutes to make coffee and feed the dogs, TV is welcome in my home anytime, thank you very much. To take the associated guilt down a notch, I bought a Baby Einstein video, so at least Samson's TV time is educational. Right?



All in all, month three kicked ass. Samson is definitely developing into a real live baby, and even though I really enjoy this move from newborn to infant, I kind of miss the fleshy little bundle that used to lay swaddled in my arms (we dropped the swaddling around week 12 and moved up to sleep sacks). I barely recognize him in the pictures from his first two weeks at home, so scrawny and small and absolutely perfect. If this is how it feels to look back after three months, I can't even imagine how it will feel after six months. Or a year. Once again, to those people who keep telling me to "cherish every moment," I say you suck, but you're right. It's hard for an impatient person to learn to enjoy the present as much as it deserves to be enjoyed, but I'm trying my hardest.

This is not a Mommy Blog

Oh, wait. Crap.



Those poor, poor dogs. The cats are used to it, but the dogs were always center stage. Eventually the baby will stop doing cute things allllllllll the time and I'll remember how Nanna has been my best friend for over 11 years and how Ozzy has consistently provided me with hours of entertainment, if not headaches and an ulcer.



I'm so ashamed. I didn't even post about the lumps. That's right--two for Nanna and one for Ozzy. (They were all either fatty tumors or benign sarcomas, so we came out ahead in that match.) Nor did I post about the bangs (I got BANGS last week. The jury is still out, waaay out.) Honestly, what kind of person have I become? I person with lumpy dogs and a questionable hair do, apparently.

It's a lethal combination of spending 24/7 with Samson and...spending 24/7 with Samson. Makes for some difficult blogging. Either type one-handed--and I have a hard enough time typing with both hands--or use my precious sleeping baby time to blog, laundry and hygiene be damned. And even if I did blog more, there's not much to blog about other than my fleshy pink master. I could blog about the social hierarchy of my Friday afternoon playgroup. Did you know that infant playgroups have cliques? It's absolutely ridiculous. Or I could blog about the wonders of Baby Einstein videos and damn how I wish they had these when I was in high school. But it all comes back to Samson.

And poor Nanna, she knows it. She's lying on the floor, looking up at me with those big brown eyes. Do you even know where my belly is?

But I've got to make more of an effort, for the sake of my own identity. Wait, I do have an identity, right? Or did I loose it in that pile of onsies waiting to be laundered?

Don't switch the blade on the guy in shades

Mmmmmm, nice and sunny today. Damn cold, but a gorgeous blue sky and big bright sun. It was the perfect opportunity to try out Samson's new 100% UV ray blocking sunglasses on our walk.



Of course, he hates them. HATES THEM. Good thing he's just a baby and I can still boss him around. As soon as he can eat vegetables, I will so totally make him.

Lots of excitement coming up in the Extra Super Fantastic household. Samson's Uncle from Israel is coming for a visit this weekend, then Dad is off to Disneyland--and Samson and I will not be joining him, boo hoo. Then Brooklyn Uncle comes to visit, and pretty soon we'll be flying to Chicago to meet Samson's Great Grandma.

But first things first. Mommy gets to go out and play this weekend. And by play I mean get drunk with Ira and avoid getting hit in the head with a wind instrument.

Obsess much?

I spent my birthday dyeing more yarn. It's dried, skeined and photographed and up on my Etsy store now. You know what else is dried, skeined and photographed? Samson.



Things weren't always this great between me and the kid. There was that one time a couple of days ago when I sneezed.



See, I have this fear (what? really?) that if I don't let everything out when I sneeze, my retinas will detach. (Thanks, mom!) Well, to Samson, sneezing is just about the worst thing you can do. Especially when you do it loudly, and when you forget that the baby doesn't like it. And you sneeze loudly in the same room as the baby. And then instead of picking him up immediately to comfort him, you take his picture. And maybe you laughed a little bit because his face just got so damn red. Hmmm. Mother of the year, anyone?

It's OK to like fuschia

Oh boy! My first batch of dyes came last week, and I got to play with them over the weekend while DKL entertained the young one. Wow, I forgot how much I LOVE to dye wool. Something about technocolor cuticles and the smell of wet sheep.

The fruits of my labor are up in Extra Super Fantastic's Etsy Shop. Yum!

Vote No on Prop 124-B: The Sock Enforcement Proposition

This message was paid for by the Council for No Socks, the Sock Reformation Board and the Foundation for a Sockless Tomorrow and approved by the Babyville Department of Socks and Sock Removal.

The time has come to rise up against the tyranny of foot confinement! It was bad enough when our parents imposed the Toe Restriction Act of 2007 (TRA) which required feet to be enclosed within socks or footy pajamas nearly 100% of the time. The TRA was unfair and unjust then, and it's unfair and unjust now, almost three months later. We've all heard the promises from our "loving" parents: "Just wait until Summer, sweetie. Then you can have bare feet. It's just too cold right now." Do they think we're stupid? Do they think we've never heard of global warming?

The TRA was bad enough. But now they're taking it too far. The Sock Enforcement Proposition will allow parents to require us to wear SHOES over our socks, further restricting our right to bear feet. If this proposition passes, the efforts of the Toe Liberation Front will be effectively cut in half, and all actions taken on behalf of toes and feet everywhere to quickly and repeatedly remove socks will be halted as we figure a new way to remove these damn shoes first.

All hope is not lost. Great strides have been made in ongoing studies of the removal of many types of footwear, and new studies are being funded into the prevention of footwear in general. The maniacal-kicking-to-reduce-footy-pajama-usage study has been underway for over a week now, and the results appear to be promising. One of our field operatives has sent in this photo, which we believe to be undoctored:



This is proof positive that shoe prevention is possible. Together, we can prevent the spread of this injustice. Together, we can end the use of socks and shoes in our lifetime. Together, we can free our toes from their socky prison and let them breathe fresh air as god intended.

Remember, vote NO on PROP 124-B. If the shoe fits, kick it off.

The stuff nightmares are made of

Can't blog. Hard to type. Must hold baby. MUST. HOLD. BABY.

Here is video #2 that was promised last week. I told you.



When Max went to Las Vegas on business last week, I told him that he had to bring something home for Samson.

I didn't mean this.

Yikes.

Etsy Update

Wow, you guys really cleaned me out. Thanks to everyone who picked up some yarn, and thanks to those of you told friends about the store...word of mouth rocks! I'm going to try and get some more yarn spun this weekend, and hopefully I'll be able to add two or three skeins a week to the store...it's modest, but it really keeps me sane. I love to spin, and I love it even more that you guys are making stuff with my yarn. This really kicks ass.

I'll try to get video number two that I alluded to yesterday posted this afternoon--it's worth waiting for. Trust me.

Video Number One

First of two videos I intend to post today. Sadly, video number two will be much more disturbing than this one.

(Via Clamhead)

Second Chance at Hockey

Before anyone corrects my last post (mom), it turned out that I was lucky and had misread the schedule--no Sharks game last night, it's tonight instead. Because I would have hated to have missed the game in order to find out that Smells Like Teen Spirit was the number one song of the nineties. Apparently. I'm not sure I can argue with that, no matter how much I want to.

Licky Boom Boom Down

No Law and Order for me tonight. Not even the Sharks/Canucks game in HD. Why? VH1 is running the Top 100 Songs of the Nineties. Ahem.

You knew Informer would be up there. Mamma Said Knock You Out, no duh. But Cannonball? That was a pleasant surprise.

So why am I blogging instead of watching Top 100 Songs of the Nineties, entries 43-1? Even I have to pee sometimes, and the computer room is situated between the couch and the bathroom.

Why didn't I roll my eyes when Color Me Badd came on and turn to the hockey game instead? Can't. Stop. Watching. Commercials are only for getting more Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches and making sure that my baby is still breathing.

Etsy Super Fantastic

So have you noticed that new sidebar element? To the right? Below the links to other blogs and above the archives? The Extra Super Fantastic Etsy store is now open for business! If you are a knitter, crocheter, weaver, or some other type of yarn user, or know someone who is, you'll want to check out the yarns I've been spinning. They're mostly wool, and only a handful of skeins are in the store right now, but I hope to be adding new yarns often--as often as Samson gives me time to spin them. I've really been enjoying spinning them, and I hope you enjoy making wonderful things with them. I'm going to start dyeing soon, too, so keep your eye out for that.

Sneak Preview

My good pal LDB has been visiting for the past few days, getting a glimpse of what life will be like for her come late April. Here's to Samson's little future playmate in Portland, Oregon! May you take it easy on your mommy and daddy; they're nice people.

Samson certainly had his best face forward for our first overnight house guest since his arrival. And by "best," of course I mean "crybabyiest." I won't lie to you. Something happened on January 1st, and apparently Samson hates 2008. I may be exaggerating slightly, but the boy has spent a considerable amount of time in the last week crying, spitting up, and getting ready to cry. To be fair, I'm comparing this new Angry Baby Syndrome to weeks of a quiet, watchful, sleepy baby, so any amount of crying or unsettledness will translate from my perspective as wrathful baby vengeance for something I must have done to displease him. But, thankfully, he's still sleeping all night, saving his energy so he can cry and spit up on me.

Samson: Month Two

Two months old! Amazing! What a terrific month it's been. First bath, first smile, first night out for mommy and daddy...



Month two started out with a serious growth spurt that seems to have carried on throughout December--he's been putting on about a pound a week. When we go to the doctor on Friday for his 2 month check up, I'm betting dollars to donuts that he hits 13 pounds.

Mmmmmm, donuts.

All that weight gain caused a shortage of baby clothes, not to mention a pile of too-small diapers. He outgrew both the newborn and size 1 diapers this month, and he's mostly wearing his 3 month-sized clothes now. Some of his favorites are the Sutro Tower shirt from Uncle Paul and Kristy in Brooklyn, and the stripy terrycloth dinosaur snuggy. Can an infant have favorite articles of clothing?

We started to get comfortable with leaving the house this month. We took Samson to his first restaurant--Black Angus, because every 5 week old baby loves a good top sirloin--and to our first mommy and me type of group at the local hospital. I continued my blatant disregard for nearby diners by taking him to more restaurants throughout the month: The Planning Shop's annual holiday luncheon at Left Bank, lunch with Dana at Modern Tea ("It's not called Modern Coffee"), a sushi outing with 5 other couples and 3 other babies, none of whom we'd ever met before (intrigued? More on that later), and last but not least, breakfast at Ihop. Most surprising, we got comfortable leaving the house without Samson, and went on TWO date nights while the grandparents completed their re-education in diapering.

We went to San Francisco a few times this month, and Samson got to meet a lot of his honorary aunts and uncles for the first time. Hopefully, we have successfully fooled our age appropriate coupled friends into thinking that babies are all sunshine and lollipops, and they will start popping out little playmates for Samson 9 months from now.



His first smiles started coming this month, too. It's the best. thing. ever. He's still making us work for them; there's more funny face making and bleh-bleh-blehing than I care to admit, but it's fantastic when he throws us a bone. Equally as fantastic are his sleeping habits. We began doing the bedtime routine early in the month. We knew that he wouldn't be sleeping any differently, it was more to get him and us used to a routine so that when he was able to sleep longer, he'd already have a familiar set of cues that would help him know it was time to do so. Who knew that time would come so soon! Go ahead and hate us, but our awesome little baby has been sleeping through the night for almost three weeks now. I once heard a statistic that all mothers lie about when their baby starts sleeping through the night--"through the night" is defined as five hours, by the way. I swear to you, I am NOT LYING. Samson regularly sleeps for 7-10 hours at night. It's fantastic. I don't know how long it will last--could this be some sort of wonderful flukey phase?--so I thank my lucky stars every time I wake up and the sun has already begun to rise and the baby's quietly sleeping in the next room. This is what heaven must be like.



This has also been the month for noticing the animals. Samson has begun to really enjoy staring at Ozzy and Miru in particular. He's also started to make little cooing noises, lots of "oh" and "ooh" types of sounds. And then there's the grabbing. Of course, we consider all of these to be signs of great intelligence and have already enrolled him in advanced placement calculus classes.

This month also saw the triumphant forward-facing usage of the Baby Bjorn, and a blossoming love of hand-eating, which are, like, the two cutest things on the face of the planet. Obviously, it's been quite a month. It's been a lot closer to what I think of as "normal" than the first month was, and I'm betting that this trend will continue. It's really sinking in: I'm a Mom. This is my Son. This is who I am now. It's not the only thing that I am, but it's a pretty big thing, and it's a pretty new thing. And I think it's a pretty damn great thing.

Law and Orderererer

Where have I been? Why no blog? Have I been inventing a new way to keep baby socks in place? Sadly, no.

Sunday: Law and Order SVU marathon
Monday: Law and Order CI marathon
Tuesday: Law and Order marathon

Too much Law and Order? Heck no!

Happy Law and Order! I mean New Year!

Memo from Babyville that I didn't get

OFFICIAL BABYVILLE MEMO

To: All Babies

Re: Socks

Importance: High

------------------------------------

Dear Baby,

By now, you will have noticed that your parents insist on putting socks on your feet. It is imperative that you do everything in your power to remove the socks. Please be advised that removal of socks normally results in the immediate re-installation of socks. Should this be the case with your situation, do not become discouraged. Simply remove the socks again. Repeat as necessary.

One Babyland field agent has submitted this tip regarding successful sock removal: wait until the parent lays you down somewhere--your crib, vibrating infant chair, gymini play mat, anywhere will do--and places a blanket over you. In this scenario, you can remove the socks undetected. While sock re-installation continues to be unavoidable, using the blanket as cover can usually extend the period of socklessness.

Remember, socks should be removed from feet at all costs. It is your duty as a baby to fight the sock movement. Together, we can end socks in our lifetime. Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

The Department of Socks and Sock Removal

CC: The Department of Hats and Hat Removal

I dare you not to get this song stuck in your head

A couple of weeks ago, my mom sent me an article about bisphenol A. As it so happened, the fancy shatter-proof gas-reducing bottles we'd been using to feed Samson had this horrible chemical in them. Sure, they wouldn't shatter and they'd reduce gas, but they'd also give him all sorts of reproductive cancer and horrible testicular problems. Hardly a fair trade off. Hooray for Amazon.com and overnight shipping. We of course switched to good old fashioned glass bottles. They're a little heavier and require a little more attention during use (I still tend to drift off during the 4 am feeding...), but they look oh so retro cool, and they hopefully won't screw with my only son's long or short term health.

Tangent: speaking of long or short term health. Before anyone rides me for bottle feeding, I will say that I've been struggling with low milk production since the very beginning. That doesn't mean Samson isn't getting breast milk; I take fenugreek and drink beer and pump umpteen times a day. While it's still necessary for us to supplement with formula, Samson's getting a good couple of meals a day of breast milk, and that will hopefully increase with time as I regularly pump into the wee hours of the morning. Of course, this is nobody's business. But this subject tends to make me defensive, and where can I rant and defend myself if not my own blog?

Digression. These glass bottles are very cool looking, and when we first started using them they reminded me of the glass bottles they use to feed baby goats and lambs and pigs and what not. Or, at least, somewhere in the recesses of my mind they do. (OK, really disturbing side note: when I was using Google image search to find that picture, I found this one, too.) I'm not sure where I would have ever seen baby farm animals being bottle fed, but it was probably Sesame Street. Somehow, that reminded me of one of my favorite Sesame Street segments of all times:



I know that there was no bottle feeding in that segment, but if someone did have to bottle feed a baby llama, they would probably use an Evenflo classic glass nurser.

I don't know which is more unbelievable--the prospect of a little girl walking a llama down a New York City sidewalk, or that haircut. Eesh.

Wow, what a long post about essentially nothing.

You like me! You really like me!

It seemed like everyone was catching a glimpse of the elusive baby smile. Everyone except me. Grandparents saw it. Dad saw it. I'm pretty sure Ozzy saw it. But all I saw was the business end of a diaper, the bottom of a slowly draining bottle and the never ending pile of laundry. Until yesterday! Score one for the mommy. I even caught today's encore on the camera.



I know that time flies. I know that one day, I'll wake up and my little piglet will be off to college. All those people who told me to cherish every moment are right. Still, I can't wait until Samson's big enough to hug me, run to me, say those three little, magical words (no, not "buy me that"). I'm constantly exploding with love for him, and every time I look at him I'm put back together and refilled, ready for next explosion. It's all I can do not to stare at him and cry tears of joy all day long.



I am a very very very very very lucky girl.

This blog is laborious

So I added a site meter to my blog last weekend. The reasons were twofold. Mainly it was pure curiosity; I wanted to see if anyone besides my mom and a sprinkling of supportive friends were actually reading this thing. Not that it would matter--I blog for me. I blog because it helps me feel like I'm doing something creative on a fairly regular basis, and I blog to keep in touch with my near and dear ones who may not be as near as I'd like them to be. But I was curious, and I knew that if I got more than 5 hits a day it would be a real boost to my ego, and you can't have too many of them. Second, I'm considering running Adsense on my blog. I've always been opposed to doing this because I think it makes my blog look cheap. Not an entirely logical reason, but, like a fine wine, my blog is to be enjoyed slowly and deliberately and without the visual invasion fo some kind of sponsor. But now that I'm a stay at home mom, I'm kind of sort of running us into the poor house. Rather than go back to work and leave my infant son in the care of someone other than me (seriously, you could be the kindest, gentlest, most well educated caregiver in the Bay Area, and I would kick you rather than see you spend 8 hours a day with Samson. HANDS OFF.), I've begun to fantasize about little tiny ways to earn a little tiny bit of money, just to soften the blow. I'm not looking to get rich or even make a living. It would be more like an experiment: can I earn money doing more or less what I already do? Blog, knit and craft stuff, hanging out with dogs. It's not entirely impossible.

So the site meter. It's invisible (I'm sneaky like that), and it tells me how many people have come to my site and via which search terms. So like that one time with the Paris Hilton entry , I get to see that people come my blog for reasons other than to get updates on my life. And as it turns out, I show up on a lot of searches about labor. See? Complain enough about something, and it will make your blog appear to Google to be a source of information. There are your run of the mill "how to go into labor" and "bouncing to induce labor." But then there are the unexpected "inducing dog labor" and "inducing a dog when in labor." Hmmm. Sorry guys, Nanna's been spayed.

Long story short, it's been fun to see where I stand, blog-wise. I'm no Dooce or Mighty Girl, but there's a chance you'll start to see little tiny unobtrusive Adsense ads here someday. Who knows, maybe I'll even start and Etsy store. Anybody out there need hand-knit beer can coozies?

You're so cute, I could eat you up...how many points are you?

I've gone and joined Weight Watchers. Yup. I'm going to try and get rid of some of this baby weight. Then I'm going to try to drop the "I'm leaving Ireland soon so I better get my fill of curry fries" weight. Then I'll try to loose the Turkey, France, Italy and Portugal weight. Then I'll work on the "I'm leaving San Francisco to live in Ireland for a year so I better get my fill of Raja's Indian Pizza" weight. I mean come on, they have pizza with tandoori on it. It's especially good when dipped in chicken tikka sauce. And they deliver. Sigh.

I've heard good things about people's experience with the whole points system, especially after having a baby. So far, I like keeping track of all of the points. It's like a game. A game where I go to bed hungry and dream about cheeseburgers.

It's working well with the Disneyland trip; I get to set two-month short term goals, like fitting into pre-pregnancy clothes and getting to the point where I eat 3 different kinds of veggies each day. And I can celebrate my inevitable success with cotton candy! Can you say counter-productive?

On a completely unrelated note, I discovered today while listening to Andrew Bird that I only like "blues" music when the part traditionally played by the harmonica is played by a violin or a trumpet or some other horn, but not a saxophone. I found this to be interesting and enlightening.

...aaaaaaand we're back

What, I'm supposed to go more than post without blogging about my beautiful little baby?

Every year, Max's company takes it's employees on a ski trip. This year, instead of a ski trip, the whole office is going to--wait for it--DISNEYLAND. That's right, complete with company-only extended hours after the park closes at night. It's like a dream come true. For me. And I can't go. No spouses, kids, or SOs. Employees only. On the up side, they're making it really easy for everyone to take a couple days off afterwards so their families can come meet them for a late week Disney getaway. So this February, at the tender age of 3 months, Samson will go to Disneyland for the first time! Lots of firsts. First plane ride, first night sleeping away from home, first hug from a giant mouse, first time seeing Mommy go crazy over cotton candy...

There have been a number of firsts recently. Last night, Samson grabbed something for the first time. With his own hands. With the grabbed item being placed into his hand. He reached up to his activity gym and grabbed the hell out of that dangling giraffe's foot. I almost exploded with pride.



Last week, we took Samson to a restaurant for the first time. It was also the first time he wore a sweater. And shoes.



Samson even watched his first Sharks game! He likes Rivet.



We have this awesome baby book where we're supposed to record all these firsts. First holiday (Thanksgiving), first smile (any day now!), first word (I'm sure it will be "bacon"), first trip (Disneyland, here we come!). But there's no page for the first time Mommy dropped the mobile on the baby, causing much screaming and crying from everyone involved, especially Mommy. Because that would never happen. Ahem.

A whole post without mentioning Samson

I love it when commercials try to manipulate me. It's not that I enjoy being manipulated per se, but it's the thought that I'm worth manipulating, that some company spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to figure what makes me feel warm and spendy inside, somehow makes me feel, I don't know, important. Real. Valuable. Luck for them, I'm super easy to manipulate.

I knew that something was happening back when Quizno's came out with the singing tree rat commercial. All of a sudden, obscure bands that made me cool were doing commercials for Chevron and Outback Steakhouse. The random pop culture quirkiness that had always kept me on the fringes had become mainstream--and, surprisingly, it didn't bother me. Instead, I felt validated. There were times, more insecure, high-schoolish times, when I would freak if one of my beloved bands, actors, or what have you became popular. It was as if I identified myself through this penchant for obscurity, and mainstream popularity, by definition, negated the individuality that these bands, actors, or what have you provided for me. Now that I am older and wiser and have evolved to a place where I am defined by my beliefs and values and views and other decidedly more grown up things, hearing a favorite obscure band like Pavement in the soundtrac of a major network sitcom (coughhowimetyourmothercough) makes me squeal with delight. It's like the producers knew that I would be watching, and they knew that they had to win me over into their viewership, so they all sat around a big wood laminate table, sent the intern out for Starbuck's, and proceeded to brainstorm about how to get ultra cool urban 30 something professional females to watch their show--and they had a picture of ME up on the their white board. I am honored that you want so very much for me to watch your show or buy your product.

But like I said, I'm pretty easy to manipulate. There's no need to sit around the big wood laminate table or spend hundreds of thousands on the marketing campaign. Want me to watch your show? Pop a They Might Be Giants song in there. (note: I was already a huge fan of this show long before this episode. I mean, a show with Kristen Chenoweth and Audry from Little Shop of Horrors? Come on. Besides, I love Chuck's wardrobe.) Want me to buy your product? Make me feel smart, clever, in the know. And all that takes is a pop culture reference so witty, so obscure that anyone not living under a rock would get it. And I, my friends, do not live under a rock. Now, where's the nearest Hallmark store?

Only one life away

We recently started putting Samson to bed in his own room (gasp!), in his own crib (gasp gasp!). For the first few nights, it was amazing. Longer stretches of sleep between feedings, plenty of room for dogs in and around our bed, and cute little baby barely 10 steps away from me. But the best part is the bedtime routine--thanks again to Maggie for tips and advice on this and dozens of other topics--and it is the best part due in no small way to the best bedtime playlist EVAH. From diaper change to bedtime massage to jammies to feeding my little piglet in the rocking chair, our nightly soundtrack is chock full of mellow sing along goodness.

Forever Young--Bob Dylan
Lazyhead and Sleepybones--They Might Be Giants
I Know Where the Summer Goes--Belle & Sebastian
Town and Country--Chris & Tad
I'll be Yr Bird--M. Ward.
All Out of Love--Air Supply
Involuntary--M. Ward
Oh God, Where Are You Now?--Sufan Stevens

We don't usually make it past Air Supply, although the past couple of nights have involved one very un-sleepy baby so we got to listen to the whole thing. And it rocks.

It does occur to me--rather frequently, in fact--that I blog about absolutely nothing other than the baby. I'm not thrilled about it; I hold fast to the belief that I am more than Samson's mom, and that things other than Samson interest me. He turned six weeks old today, and I'm hard pressed to think of something else that has held even five minutes of my attention in the past 54 days. Even the dogs and and cats are just going through the motions with me--I feed them, pet them, love them, walk them and take them to the dog park, but they know it's not like it was, I'm not like I was. I know I'm a new and improved me, that I'm still finding my feet with this whole parenting thing. I'm looking forward to someday soon when I'll start blogging and it will be all about knitting and Disneyland and that asshole who cut in front of me Starbucks and how I wanted to say something smart and humiliating but couldn't. Maybe after Samson stops being so gosh darn cute. Right.

How's this for bile inducing? Max and I are going on a date tomorrow night. Japanese buffet and I Am Legend while the grandfolks stuff Samson full of sugar and lies about his mother. LIES.

Bring it on

This week's theme was social interaction. Samson had three play dates this week, two trips to Target and Family Chanukah! No wonder I'm so exhausted.

First we went to Dave and Sab's house to visit with Isaac who was born 3 1/2 weeks before Samson. Dave and Sab are old high school friends of mine. After years of being out of touch, we've recently reconnected. Having babies at the same time gives us plenty of stuff to talk about (you can only catch up and gossip about old friends for so long, right?), and it's really fostered this feeling of social nostalgia within me. It's the kind of reminiscing that makes me think of old friends and people who I lost touch with--I've always been horrible at keeping in touch with people--and wish I'd been better about writing or calling or emailing because now it's too late, now if I were to contact them it would just be weird. Right? Wrong. I google-stalked some folks from my past and found an email address for an old college roommate of mine. I sent her an email, she wrote back, and we've been corresponding ever since. True story. And she had a baby this year, too--I swear, it's something in the water (or the 30th-31st birthday cake). But I digress.



Social outing number two was the local hospital's weekly infant group. So imagine a room full of mommies and babies, none of which were as cute as my little nugget but that's beside the point. So all of these babies of varying ages from about 2 months to 9 months were laying around doing baby things...like SITTING UP and ROLLING OVER and GRABBING THINGS AND CHEWING ON THEM and it occurred to me, as I sat there wide eyes and freaking the hell out like a deer int he headlights that Samson will eventually do these things also. I mean, I knew that because I have lots of dogs and cats and everyone knows that puppies and kittens eventually become dogs and cats so it stands to reason that infants become babies and toddlers and kids and god help me teenagers and I'm nothing if not reasonable. So I know this. But it was like sitting there watching a coming attraction for all of things my little lump of warm, pink, aromatic flesh will be doing in the coming months. More than a little intimidating. But it also made me impatient, because those babies seemed to be having the time of their lives.

We capped off the play dates with another old-time-friend-turned-recent-parent, and entertained Amy and her 8 month old daughter Draven. Amy and I met in 1980. In kindergarten. Ahem. We've drifted in and out of each other's social circles throughout the years, so it wasn't too weird to see her. Plus her daughter's adorable so it's not like I paid much attention to Amy anyways. It's hard to compete with big eyes, a drool covered chin and a game that involves throwing the rubber ducky so that mommy can pick it up and hand it back to you. That kid is adorable--I really feel sorry for her dad.



And then there was first night of Chanukah! Joined by grandparents, both in person and live via satellite, we celebrated with Samson and bestowed upon him his first, and what will no doubt be his most treasured Chanukah gift ever: a plush ostrich. Yet to be named.

Speaking of the most treasured Chanukah gift ever...I love Max.

Samson turn six weeks old on Thursday, and that truly boggles my mind. The little half smiles have begun, and soon--any day now--the honest to goodness smiles are going to start. Every now and then I wake up to the realization that it's been 5 HOURS since Samson last woke me up to feed him, and it shows. I can form complete sentences again. And carry on conversations with people. It's astounding. And maybe I'll even be able to blog regularly again. Hmm.

Samson: Month One

Wait, what? A whole month has gone by? Or, it's only been one month? I feel both ways, simultaneously. Once again, time has lost it's grip on me. Finally.

Month One kind of went like this:

Me: Damn trick-or-treaters, they took all the candy. Let's go to bed. Wait--ow. No, seriously, OW. OW OW OW OW OW.

Max: Um...

Me: This can't be labor. What happened to early labor? Where's those 4-10 hours where my contractions get gradually more pronounced and I'm supposed to bake pie to pass the time so I don't go to the hospital too early?? OW! Get the car.

Me: OW. Drugs, please.

Me: ...

Me: So this is what they mean when they say it's not so much pain as it is pressure. Ow.

Doctor: Mommy, Daddy, meet Samson.

Samson: Meh.



The above process took about 6 hours, from first contraction to delivery. Yeah, I know. How awesome are my mom's genes?? 400 awesome!

And then we watched Lawrence of Arabia, Chicago, Slap Shot, and the entire first season of Seinfeld on DVD while in the hospital because there's not much else to do while you're in the hospital for two days. Except hold the baby. And cry. And watch the baby sleep. And cry. And feed the baby. And cry.

When we drove Samson home, Max carefully undermined the entirety of my future musical domination over my son by playing Metalica. I'm working to correct this injustice by building the master of all bedtime playlists for the little guy.

And when I say little, I'm not kidding...



He started out as 6 pounds and 14 ounces of cuddlesome fury. He has now reached gargantuan proportions--8 pounds 6 ounces as of last Tuesday. Must be all the Thanksgiving turkey.

According to the website that I check to learn about weekly baby developmental milestones, Samson has recently learned two important things:

1) Being held by mom or dad rocks. It is way better than, say, not being help by mom or dad.
2) If you need something (like, to be held, for instance), cry. Mom and dad will come running to serve you. In fact, try this: let out a sort of squawking cry. Just a little bit. Watch how fast they come running! Now close your eyes and go back to sleep. When they walk away and get comfortable on the couch, try it again! Repeat as necessary.

Seriously. I've already gotten up to hold him 17 times since starting this post.

Another thing Samson is learning this month: all men have beards. Seriously, every man he's met has at the very least a goatee, and mostly a full facial fur factory. When he finally meets a clean-shaven guy, he's going to be all like, where's your purse? Cause you know, you're, like, a girl. Oh, snap.



Mostly, Samson spends his time being totally freaking adorable. Other than sleeping, pooping and eating, his days are comprised of sitting on dad's lap and mimicking various expressions--he's especially adept at the retarded monkey look--and being carried around to look at high-contrast things like trees, shadows and dogs. He's gone on very few outings other than the doctor's office and grandparent's houses, although we did totally bust out and go to the dog park on Friday. So if you were at the Seal Point dog park and saw the sleep-deprived-looking lady with two beautiful dogs and Baby Bjorn full of super cuteness trying ever so gracefully to pick up dog poop without bailing, that was me. I rock.

I'm a big fan of swaddling. I know there are people out there who don't quite get it; they seem to think that swaddling is too restrictive and somehow equate it to the practice of foot binding. I'm not saying that Dr. Karp is some kind of genius--the whole fourth trimester thing smells way too faddish for me. But Samson loves a good swaddle. And it keeps him more or less quiet, so I love a good swaddle, too. Plus it leads to all sorts of cute nicknames--we now affectionately refer to a swaddled Samson as The Bindle.

And then there's the inevitable wobbly head factor. To help Samson learn to hold his own head up, we have daily tummy time. And let me tell you folks, it's a fine line between tummy time and screaming baby.



Max and I thank our lucky stars every single day. Our baby was born healthy, labor was a breeze, and everything seems to be going according to plan. Samson doesn't cry all that much, and when he does it's very easy to soothe him--all it usually takes is a hug, and I mean come on, try and stop us from hugging him anyway, right? If he's fussy, it almost always means he needs to be fed or changed, and he really sleeps pretty soundly. Even the destructive sounds of Halo 3 don't seem to bother him.

Let's hope that Month Two's report is more of the same.

I'm Gonna Git You Sucka

Check out my sucky baby:



He's like one of those suckerfishes that eats algae off the sides of fish tanks.

My folks got us an awesome camcorder so that we could document important milestones in Samson's life. Day 16: suck suck suck suck suck.

Exhauated and Happy

I know that I'll eventually stop feeling so completely pooped, or that I'll become immune to tiredness, or something. Right?

Every time Samson finishes eating and is either peacefully asleep or laying there, quietly attempting to focus on the stuffed zebra hovering above his noggin, I find myself thinking, "Quick! You've got about 90 minutes to do something! Nap! Blog! Run an errand! Laundry! Shower! Blarrrrgh!" That "blarrrrgh" bit was my head exploding from the pressure.

It's been a little bit more intense the past couple of days due to the Sickness that's been making it's rounds through my family. Max is finishing up his bout, and mine started on Thanksgiving. It's not real bad at all, but it is difficult to keep the snot from dripping on the baby's head while he nurses. Yes, I know, ew. Deal with it.

All that being said, I am 50 jillion times more in love with Samson than I was the last time I posted, and I'm starting to figure out that it's totally exponential, and that there is no limit. I'm pretty damn sure that there's never been a baby this cute before.

Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed

A clarification: in the title of my last post, Bessie is meant as a reference to a dairy cow. Bessie is by far the most popular cow name, and I was trying to equate motherhood with the life of a dairy cow.

Now that we have that cleared up. Samson slept for two 3-hour chunks last night! Add that to the cup of coffee I just finished, and I can ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING TODAY. Until the next wave of exhaustion hits around 5 pm and I start to get cranky. But before that happens, we're going to do something new and exciting today! All 5 of us (Max, Samson, the dogs and myself) are going to go for a walk! Outside! This is a big event as our life for the last 2 weeks has consisted of little more than eating, sleeping, various visitors, doctor's appointments, Tivo and Xbox. Fresh air! Sunshine! And of course, pictures.

Motherhood, thy name is Bessie

Day 12 of parenting...never has time held such little meaning for me. Twelve days? Twelve days? I've only been doing this for TWELVE DAYS?! Even though I've been relegated to the position of an on call dairy cow, I'm definitely feeling the love. 2007 has been an amazing year, and this culmination of awesomeness has really given our little family a capital F. It's still so early, and things will change big time when Max goes back to work, but we've really established some routine-like behaviors, as much as one can have a routine with a newborn in the house. Which is not at all.

Max is a terrific father (DUH). He's making sure to spend an adequate amount of time teaching Samson the ins and outs of Halo 3 while Samson sleeps curled up Daddy's chest, clenching precious, tiny fistfulls of chest hair. As a long time Xbox hater, I've surprisingly found myself calmed and soothed by the sounds of Halo. The familiarity, the background noise and lights, just knowing that these sounds mean that Max is contentedly sitting on the sofa, playing, make me feel so comforted. It means I have one less person to worry about, one less person/dog/cat who needs me right now at this moment. Someone who I love and care about tremendously is happy and content and it doesn't require anything from me. Not that Max is needy, it's more that I'm one of those over-giver-type of personalities, so just by the virtue of being in the same room as me, Max is entitled to the lion's share of my physical and emotional energy. And now that there's someone around who actually needs that portion of energy, it's nice to be able to give it to him and not worry about Max. Who is a grown up and can take care of himself. And the dogs. And the cats. And oftentimes me. Why do I need to keep reminding myself of that?



So day 12. So far, day 12 has consisted of eating, pooping, sleeping, and peeing on one of our precious few newborn-sized snuggies--the kind of garment that buttons up the front instead being pulled over the head. We learned back on day 5 or so that Samson hates hates HATES having clothes pulled over his head. Looking back, it's kind of like, duh, of course he hates it, but we were not prepared for this hatred and hence had zero newborn-sized clothes that did not induce screams of frustration from our son. Since then, we've remedied the situation but still have to do laundry daily in order to satisfy our snuggy demand. I would buy more, but I have the feeling that he won't be wearing the newborn-sized stuff for too much longer, so I'm holding out.

The dogs and cats have really adapted well to the fleshy pink intruder. Nobody really seems to care about him, even if he's crying. Which is perfect, because the last thing I need is for my already nervous dog to get anxious when the baby cries, or for my prone-to-grossness dog to devote his time to trying to get into the diaper genie. Or for one of my two generally unremarkable cats to decide that warm baby bodies are where it's at and we'd like to sleep in the crib now please. No, it's pretty much business as usual for the animal set, and I hope they appreciate the extra spoonful of wet food they've been getting at night or the very deliberate love and attention we've been trying to dole out regularly. Or the copious amounts of treats.



Later today we've got our 2nd appointment with the pediatrician. I can't wait to find out how much weight Samson has gained! I'm sure he must weigh like 10 pounds already. He eats SO MUCH and looks SO MUCH bigger than he did when we brought him home 8 days ago. We're raising a real prize piggie over here.

How could I not mention the brit? On Thursday, AKA day 8, the mohel did unspeakable things to Samson who was a real trooper about the whole affair. The secret ingredient: wine. They got the baby drunk first, and after watching him sleep ALL afternoon like a perfect little angel, it's really tempting to just dip a few fingers in bourbon before bedtime and let him suckle away.

One last thing. Hands. HANDS. Samson's favorite thing to eat is his own little hands. What's for breakfast? Hands. Lunch? Hands. Dinners. Hands, dammit. Hands.

Samson Update

So the baby. He does things. Really adorable squishy things! Eating, sleeping and pooping mostly, and I'm guessing that nobody really needs to read about that. I'm thinking that I'll take a page from Maggie's book and try to do a weekly update on life in general, which be 99% Samson related. Yes, I know I referred to him as Max Jr. in the last post, but he was Samson for 9 months, and in a way he'll always be Samson.

Did I mention that he has a ton of hair? Furry little guy, that baby. Really takes after Milhouse. Sometimes Max and I have to ro sham bo for who's turn it is to pet him.

Make room for Junior

He's here! Max Junior has officially joined our little family. Our wriggly, cuddly, delicious smelling baby boy was born just before 6 am on Thursday. Of course, he's perfect and beautiful. Max and I are first thrilled, exhausted next. As I get a handle on this whole sleeping-eating-parenting deal, posts will be minimal. But keep checking this spot for updates and adorable baby anecdotes.