The cutest & saddest time of day begins like this: mommy and baby are lying on their tummies, facing each other. Z now insists on being on his tummy at all times – backs are SO last month. (Backs are for babies, mommy.) So there we are, on our tummies, looking into each other’s eyes. Z wants to come climb Mt. Mommy. Huge drooly grin. He pulls his knees up. Thrusts his arms out straight. Pushes his head high in the air, so that he can see where he is going. And then…boom, shuffle, shuffle. He propels himself 3 inches backwards. Knees up, arms out, head high…3 more inches backwards. And again. His smile dims with each attempt, until finally he is far away, marooned at the wrong end of the blanket. Confused. Alone. Staring at mommy on her tummy, now so far out of reach. Cry!
WITF: Baby Edition
In dejapoo on August 8, 2009 at 11:05 pm
Wake up! Time to feed the baby!
I have no time. I know other people SAY they have no time, but they have time. Me? No time. My child wakes super early, feeds super often (approx. 19 times per day, per boobie) and does not nap. Whether or not I am exaggerating, the point remains: I have no time. And to all those people with more children, more responsibilities and who still get more done? SHUT IT. This is my blog and I’ll cry if I want to.
So this is my grand excuse for writing so few blog entries. Sorry, dear fan! In the meantime, allow me to dull your pain with a WITF: Baby Edition. Yes, it is similar to my WITF: Pregnancy Edition, and yes, it is a cop-out. But typing a longer entry is hard….and time-consuming. And I have-no-time (see above.)
1. Societal Ass-umptions: I called the credit card company today to check my balance and was immediately asked to verify my ID by typing in my mother’s birthday. A little piece of me melted as I listened to the automaton agent explain how to type in the “month” and “day.” Why the warming of the heart-cockles? Because society assumes I will know this information because it assumes that our mothers are the most important persons in our universes – which means that <<I>> am the most important person in the world to Z. And someday, when he is much older, he is going to be asked to verify HIS identity by typing in MY birthday. Aww. (For those of you thinking, “by then we’ll have nano-laser-eyeball scans and instantaneous-gravitational-telepathy instead of relying on such banal information,” I say again, SHUT IT.)
2. My husband’s sense of humor: There is a reason I married him (ha ha, honey, I’m just kidding. There are two.) In my slaphappy state, I’ve invented some ridiculous words to describe our son’s bodily functions and some ridiculous nicknames to capture their essence. And Hubs not only appreciates these nuggets, but he then uses them in a sentence. Like when he wonders aloud what Poorash (Z’s Indian nickname) would like from the Tandoori menu.
3. Baby Bjorn: When Z was recently promoted to Big Boy Who Sits in a Stroller Like A Big Boy, he went from living high above the stroller in his car seat, facing me, to down in the belly of the stroller, facing the world. I hate this. There is no more eye contact, no more hand-holding, no more special quiet talk. No more comforting. (I need a LOT of comforting.) So thank goodness he still fits in the Bjorn, which I can stuff him in facing ME. Sure, he now twists himself completely backwards and upside-down, trying to see the stupid world he loves so much instead of gazing adoringly at his mommy. But at least I can still snuggle him against my body while he tries to wriggle free.
4. Toy Names: Let’s face it. Anything called an “exersaucer” has to be a blast. Ditto for “Skip Hop Funky Farmyard Funny Face Mirror” and “Tub Joy Funny Farm Squirters.” Or, really, anything at all with the word “farm” in the name. Farms are silly.
5. Ninny Nannies: Although the search process has made me feel a few times like I AM ON CRAZY PILLS, I have to give thanks to all the bad nannies out there. There are quite a lot of you, and I’m just so grateful that you all managed to find my ad. Dumb and disheveled, tragic and tardy, clueless and clumsy – you are all gems to me and my someday novel/screenplay/open mic act. And although I cannot name you all, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least shout-out to the two we actually hired and then quickly dismissed – the Oops I Forgot I Already Had Another Job At The Same Time lady (who showed up 50% of the time, apparently to both jobs) and the Baby is A Fragile Creature Who I Should Not Try to Touch, Pick Up, Move or Speak To lady. You’re great!
What does green mean?
In dejapoo on July 23, 2009 at 5:57 pm
Is it for a boy? Is it a girl? Let's all guess!
It kills me that all it would take is a well-placed bow and you’d assume my son is a girl.
I “get” that babies are all asexual globs of chubby, puffy scrumptious-ness. But it’s hard to spend so much time with one’s child and have anyone ever question something so basic. OF COURSE it’s a boy, I growl when strangers have the audacity to ask. How could you possibly think otherwise? He’s so….um….manly? Right.
This is why I am a huge fan of blue & pink. People need to stop whining about the evils of stereotyping. Please, I don’t need my baby son to explore his femininity just yet. If he gets older and wants to wear the fuscia shirt, so be it. But right now, any attempts by me to clothe him in “neutral” colors, or to show the world that I don’t “buy in” to the idea of boy & girl hues is just setting the stage for confusion & embarrassment. And we all know he’ll encounter enough of that later in life when his mother is still leashed onto him with one of those kid-harnesses at age 17.
When I encounter other infants (there are so many in my now diaper-centric universe! whoopee!), my relief is instantaneous when said baby is decked out in ribbons, ruffles and lace. Or a head-to-toe BMX, racing-striped ensemble. Dresses & tuxedos are helpful, too. I don’t have to search awkwardly for the correct pronoun to use when addressing this child’s parents, or stumble to make conversation using words like “angel” “buttercup” and “lil one.” With my luck, the baby will turn out to be named Kris anyway, in herhis yellow-and-brown onesie.
I was out for a walk with Re-Ken (thanks to those of you trying to come up with creative ways that my son “looks like me” but you are fooling no one — he is a total repeat right now of the hubs) a while back when an older couple stopped me to ask if they could see my baby. He was all bundled up that day because a) it was a breezy morning; and b) I’m a first-time mom who at this point was still convinced that no portion of my baby’s skin could come in contact with a chill, for fear that it would immediately crystallize and shatter like glass. This was around the same time when I was afraid of maneuvering my baby’s arm through a short-sleeve shirt, positive that I would break all of his bones and injure him permanently by gently encouraging his arm in an upward direction.
So here was this smiley couple wanting to see the adorable bundle strapped to my body and I was flattered. Of course they could bask in his cuteness! As soon as I had obliged, though, I immediately wished I could recant. My mind raced.
What if they got really close and breathed on my baby?
What if, while breathing their old-person breath on my baby, they felt compelled to touch him?
What if, while caressing him with their diseased old hands and breathing their stale air on my baby, they were overcome with love for him and actually kissed him?
What if, while smothering him with their crinkly, diseased hands, suffocating him with their foul, ancient air, and sliming him with their sour, aged kisses, they went for some lip-on-lip loving?
Of course, at this point they had instead already finished looking (from the same distance they started at), and just said – with enough foreign-sounding inflection at the end to indicate a question – “Ees a girl?”
What gave it away? Was it the blue hat he was wearing? His blue mittens? Or maybe it was his blue shirt, blue sweatpants and blue socks? Apparently in Eurasia, blue clothes (with sporty, truck things on them) signal “female.” Or, apparently in Eurasia, people are idiots. Either way, all I took away from the encounter was that I needed to go buy even more masculine-looking attire for my son. So forget the blue onesies and the socks with little footballs. My son shall now leave the house every day wearing a five-piece suit, a gold watch, pinkie ring and fedora. He may look like the tiniest member of the Jewtalian mafia, but at least he’ll look like a man.
