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Month: November, 2009

The amount of red in this photo makes my soul hurt

We waited in line for a full two hours to capture the magic (read: capitalism) that is Christmas and Santa Claus. Addison was awed by the big man. We hoped for an epic scream cry so that we could send a killer BAH-HUMBUG holiday card, but alas, our child already does not want to please her parents.

Getting in the spirit. And it’s not even December.

I swore I’d never be one of those people. <le sigh>

Turk turk-a-lurk. (Otherwise known as the predictable post about gratitude, thanks and PIE!)

It’s the Bug’s first Thanksgiving and we’re keeping it mellow. Auntie Kimmy flew into town, and we will be celebrating,  just the four of us. Now that Addison’s on solid food, we will be serving her mashed up squash and sweet potatoes BECAUSE WE ARE FESTIVE, damnit. And James, Kimmy and I will be consuming the four, I repeat, FOUR pies that we spent all afternoon preparing.

Four pies. Three people. Perfect math.

Mmm. Pie.

There’s a bazillion and one things I’m grateful for this Thanksgiving. Namely, that I will be consuming four pies on the big day. But, on a less fat kid club note, I walked into the nursery this evening to find James and Sunny twirling and swirling around to some Sinatra while the Bug beamed with her open-mouthed, toothy grin, hair fluttering in the wake of each twist and dip. I was stopped dead in my tracks as I flashed forward to age five when she’ll be led by his toes, and again to her wedding day, when she’ll be filled with the kind of love that I feel pulsing in my heart every moment of every day since she entered the world. Because of her, everything just makes sense.

So this Thanksgiving, I am grateful to be whole. Complete. A family.

Raspberries and spoon farting to boot.

I get the hiccups just listening to this.

Today Sunny was in her ridiculous rainforest bouncer, blissfully jumping on ONLY her left foot (oh my aspiring Irish step dancer) while I was making dinner in the other room. Suddenly I heard some riotous giggling. You know, the guttural, deep-in-the-soul baby giggle that gives you the hiccups just listening to it?

Nothing in particular was happening, besides the bouncing. But lordy did she find it funny. And so I captured the hilarity.

Twinsies. (oh, and the hair)

Momar gave Addison her 1st babydoll. And Momar’s best friend from childhood gave the Bug a pair of PJ’s that match the dollie’s outfit to a T! I guess that’s why they’ve been besties for almost 50 years- the symbios.

Anyway, I can’t get enough of putting them together… like TWINS! I look at James and I’m all, Don’t you want like 6 more daughters so they can all be this adorable and matchy ?! This is a  vision of our potential future!

And then James goes and weeps in a corner.

Check out that ragged haircut.

Also, birthday letter in the works. This damn THESIS is somehow taking precedence over such important tasks like blogging. What is this horseshit!?

Succumbing to peer pressure is never a good idea, especially when it comes to your child’s hair.

The Bug’s hair is long and flowing. It’s been long and flowing since the day she entered the world. And while everyone swore that it would fall out, it’s done anything but. It’s continued to grow like a weed, finally weighing it down so as to lose the au natural mohawk. <Tear> My little hipster now just looks like an awkward baby Beetle. And we’re on our way to baby mullet. Oh yeah, business in the front, PARTY in the back. And by party, I mean a rattail, but the 80s are TOTALLY making a comeback. She is SO in vogue- ahead of the trend.



It’s gotten so long and flowing that it has begun to fall into her eyes, causing many a blinking and lots of feeble attempts to pin it back and away from the offended eyeballs. You attempt to barrett back a wee babe’s fine, silky hair while she squirms and wiggles and protests. It’s like a game of greased watermelon but with hair and without the Crisco. So kind of a bad analogy, but you get the idea.

It ain’t easy.

James has been encouraging me to cut it for some time, claiming that I am causing the Bug much trauma by forcing her to deal with bangs in her face. I’ve resisted, because who honestly cuts a five-month old’s hair?

Probably parents with hairy babies but details.

Then my dad came into town, and he jumped on the cut-the-Bug’s-locks bandwagon, offering additional peer pressure and sympathy for my POOR, LONG SUFFERING, hair-in-eyes child. How could I be so cruel?! I might as well club a baby seal. It would be LESS deleterious.

So I began to feel like Cruella Deville, proposing to make puppy skin coats out of our family’s ancient Dalmatian while my cousin IT babe looked on. The guilt was profound and I’m not even JEWISH! Or Catholic!

So I caved.

And because it is impossible to cut a five-month old baby’s hair before she can properly sit up right sans assistance without causing the loss of an appendage, I did it while breastfeeding. As in, when she was horizontal, on my bare boob, offering to pierce my nipples while I wielded sharp scissors. Needless to say, it was a scene. The Bug may have swallowed some of her own hair thanks to the snow-fall of locks during snack time, and the cut may be anything but even.

If I were her, I would DEMAND my money back.

James kept swearing that it wasn’t THAT bad- until I sent a picture to my mother and sister who threw a fit. HOW COULD I DO THAT TO MY BABY?! Turn her into a little Dutch Boy, except even MORE awkward. As though that were possible.

I left it up to my babysitter to gauge the damage. She hadn’t seen Addison in two weeks, and this morning when she arrived I didn’t mention what I had done. Not five minutes went by, and I hear, Hey Ashley? Did you cut Addison’s bangs?


Every gal’s gotta go through one bad haircut, right? RIGHT?!

(I promise I’ll attach a picture- my laptop from the Jurassic era is having a mini-meltdown so give me a couple days to coax her back to health. And in the meantime, refer to above Dutch boy image. It gives you a sense of what we’re dealing with).

Pearly whites

The Bug has sprouted a tooth. As in a pearly white, calcium-filled, razor sharp dagger.

Nipples, be afraid. Be very afraid.

This has meant that the past few evenings have been less than restful and breastfeeding has taken on a whole new dimension of pain. It’s like I have my very own Edward Cullen.  Except more like one of those little evil baby vampires that make an appearance in the last DON’T YOU DARE HAVE SEX BEFORE MARRIAGE OR EVEN THINK ABOUT AN ABORTION EVEN IF THE FETUS IS GOING TO EAT OUT YOUR INSIDES book Breaking Dawn. Let’s just say that the Bug lacks Edward’s cool restraint and gentlemanly control.

The other evening, during one of FOUR midnight wakings between 11pm and 5am, I was dozing while letting the ornery one work it out on the boob. James was assed out next to us, snoring to high heaven. When all of a sudden, CHOP! The lady nips got their first taste of life with teeth. I reacted so violently that James about fell out of bed AND the dog jolted awake in the other room thanks to my ever so graceful, FFFFUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK!

I thought I had been dismembered. Turning my child into a cannibal. I anticipated blood from my little vampire. Except, as I mentioned, not in the sexy R.Patz sense. If I ever wondered about the sensation of a nipple piercing…wonder gone! Life with a piranha? UNDERSTOOD!

And to add to this desire to nom nom nom the boob, Addison’s motor control has grown leaps and bounds. Now, while she nurses, her baby hands grasp and yank and pull at whatever they can reach while ensuring that her mouth stays latched to the motherload. My head has fallen victim to a number of bald patches and my eyes have dodged the raptor claws, just barely. She may or may not have picked my nose. I guess pay back for my forging her boogies.

Who knew that that my sweet baby girl would be such a deadly weapon?

(Okay, we’ve known about the bazooka for awhile, but this is next level).

See, that’s her munching on my shoulder. Now just insert my nipple. Or don’t, that could be damaging.

nom nom nom

I’ll spare you. Because I am such a kind kind considerate human being.

So my dad’s in town. And the Bug’s on another poop-strike. (Shocking, I know)

Hoarder. Hoarder. Hoarder. HOARDER!

It’s been yet another 9 days since we’ve had a rumbling, but now that she’s on solid food, the doctor is not so thrilled about this stopped up system.

Living terd!

I haven’t been terribly concerned given that this seems to be a pattern. Slow-Bowels-McGee.  And, approximately 1% of the food we feed her actually makes it into her system. Have you seen us try to feed her peas? But I’ve been spiking her cereal with prune juice, just to try and move things along.

Today, I headed off to class and my father offered to babysit. (He was indeed aware of the stopped up bazooka but had flown all the way cross country so really what options did he have). He put bets on the fact that she would erupt within moments of my departure. And if only he’d put money down, oh he would be a filthy rich bastard. Sure enough, mid-class, an email pops onto my iPhone that reads: The BIG One! During break I open this email and SWEET MOTHER OF GOD. My father has photographed the poop. The 9 days of built up feces. He photographed that shit (pun intended) in all of its slimy, explosive glory. And sent it. To my phone.

Thanks dad, for that precious, vivid memory.

Not only that. He also sent it to James with the subject line: Eaten lunch yet? And James, the unsuspecting fool that he is, opened it thinking that my dad was offering to meet him for lunch. Poor poor man.

AND THEN, he passed it along to my mother. His darling wife and partner of almost 35 years with the subject line: Wish you were here.

I guess this was his revenge for having to spend the morning up to his elbows in baby poo. GREEN PEAS baby poo.

And I will spare you all and not attach that image. I do not want to scar all of my child free friends for fear that I will remain the only mother in the crowd for eternity. And for my fellow parents, it’s nothing that you haven’t seen before.

Let’s all just revel in this highly deceptive cute little face. Free from the smears and stains of feces.




Peas are the new toe jam

We’ve introduced solid foods. And not just the rice cereal, but yes, green vegetables. As in slimmy, goober colored, eewie gooie stinky baby veggies. And the Bug has learned to make raspberries. Raspberries + green poo colored food= a Jackson Pollock-style painting of mommy, but smellier.

Mappy Malloween!

Our lady bug was the talk of the town in this here outfit. Granted, it was a warm evening, so she wound up stripped down to her diaper and t-shirt fairly quickly, but at least we were able to photo document the gloriousness.

I must admit that she enjoyed her daddy’s tiki drink costume (complete with umbrella hat) more than her own. She does have an obsession with glasses, and the flaccid straw dangling off his shoulder was the kicker. She was in awe.

One day, darling, you may wear a similarly ridiculous, plus sized costume of your choosing, but for now, mommy rules.
Lady bug costume