Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Monday, December 13, 2010

Betcha Wishya Didn't Ask

No, I haven't posted anything in two weeks. Because if I don't have anything worth saying, I won't say anything at all. Unless it's in conversation and I'm trying to avoid awkward silence. In that case, I blather on like an idiot.

I wouldn't be surprised if the readership on this little blog is solely comprised of Nathan's grandmothers now, but for those of you who aren't, you may regret your curiosity, because this is what has been going on in our lives:

1. I get nothing done. Not even cleaning. My house looks like a recreation of Jon's dorm room in college. Minus the rats. And also minus the lightbulb hanging on a wire from the bathroom ceiling. I never used the restroom at that house.

2. Yesterday, Jon was dancing with Nathan in the kitchen and observed that Nathan seemed to have spit up, as it was in the corners of his mouth. We looked down and realized it was also on Henry's head. That boy has good aim. Dear Nathan's Second Grade teacher, Beware the spitballs.
3. The uber-comforter mechanism these days is my exercise ball. Jon lays Nate across it and bounces him. While this makes me nervous and worried and fills me with angst, Nate loves it and immediately calms down and starts drooling.

4. I am still a size bigger in all clothing (t-shirts, jeans, etc) than I was before I got pregnant, and it isn't changing. I'm coming to terms, but still a bit grumpy about it all. I miss my Joes Jeans.

5. Jon and I already gave eachother our Christmas presents. Because we didn't want to take them to Virginia. But mostly because we have no patience. Also, I got Jon the wrong present and we had to return it. Which would make me a bad wife, but I'm not owning up to anything negative until I've had more sleep.


There you have it. The updated state of my hazy life. Things are on the up, though, as the man child has started sleeping through the night again and I might regain consciousness sometime in the future.

I desperately want a piece of chocolate cake.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

It's Almost December and I am Almost Old.

Sometimes all you need is a pretty centerpiece to change the seasons. Especially if you live in a place where "winter" is defined as less than 70 degrees and is as green as "summer" (which hovers around 75 and balmy).

Today Nathan was fussing (read: screaming) but I was trying to get ready to walk out the door, so I was not picking him up from his carseat. I looked in, though, to check on him and there stood Henry, his toy in his slobbery mouth, offering it to Nate. The dog looked at me and I at him. He wagged his tail. Then he turned back to the baby to try to quiet his tiny wailing master... with a de-stuffed toy pumpkin.

He's a pretty thoughtful dog.

It's not the first time he's tried to calm the baby by placing one of his toys in a screaming Nathan's lap. But you would too, if you saw this face:
Too bad it doesn't work.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

An Open Letter

An Open Letter to the manager at the warehouse gym on base:

Dear Gym Manager,

I don't know whose idea it was to face the treadmills in the "bring your child" area of the gym towards the mirrors. I wonder, in fact, if it was intentional. I wonder if, in your gym-humor, you and the gym rats thought it would be funny to put new moms in that position.

At first it wasn't really a big deal. I had put makeup on that day. I didn't look too bad. And actually, once I started to think about it, it was a bit motivational. There I was, running again for the second time in something like a year, my ponytail bobbing with each step, my headphones sounding theme music. I saw myself in slow motion, movie-style (never mind that the slow-mo was because the pace was set at "snail"). My feet hit the treadmill on beat, heightening the drama. I could run a marathon, looking this good.

Then I passed the first half mile.

I felt the prickle of sweat starting to form on my forehead, but never mind. It barely glistened and made the reality of my athleticism more believable. Swish swish went my pony tail in the mirror. Thump Thump pounded my feet, on beat with the music. I considered creating a new playlist. I envisioned the Rocky soundtrack playing as I raced, gazelle-like, up the stairs in front of the Philadelphia Art Museum. "Smart gym manager", I thought naively.

About this time, I was nearing a mile and my face began to turn pink. My forehead looked a bit wet and the song had changed, so my stride was off. Tired, I decided to look away from my own face. I looked down at my feet. They looked less glamorous. I never noticed before how scrawny my legs were, wholly devoid of muscle or tone. Those legs wouldn't make it up the Art Museum steps. I switched the song to something faster.

Then, as I told myself I had to run more than a mile and a half, I started to realize your motivation, oh Gym Manager. You want us new-mom types out. Maybe it's the screaming kids. Maybe it's the unwieldy strollers. Either way, you knew that the longer I ran, the redder my face would get. The less attractive my form would look and the more useless and defeating my theme music, because I was staring at myself with nowhere else to look. Flop flop went my tired ponytail in my reflection. Clomp clomp went my leaden feet. My face, I noticed, was very puffy red.

I barely made two miles running and was forced to walk the last half mile, not entirely because my body was tired, but because I was tired of staring at my sweaty tomato of a face in the cursed mirror. Still, I mused, two miles isn't terrible. I can still run a race... maybe a 1K.

The final defeat, evil manager of the gym, was rigging the treadmill's calorie count. Surely my hard work had burned a significant amount of calories. Surely all of that pain was worth it. But you must have sneaked in, worried that the mirror wasn't repulsive enough, and messed with the machine, because it informed me, upon completion of my workout, that I had only burned 272 calories. Nonsense, I tell you.

That's not even a bowl of ice cream.

Please remove the mirrors.

Sincerely,
Tomato-Face Butterfield

Monday, November 8, 2010

Goal Oriented

Being goal oriented can be a bit stressful. I don't feel like a legitimate use of oxygen unless I've successfully accomplished something in the day. Which is good and bad. Ask Jon if you'd like to hear a first hand account of where that makes life a bit difficult (who, me?). On the good side, being goal oriented makes life more exciting. For instance:

As I watched my pregnant body stretch and widen and stretch some more, shrinking my wardrobe with every expanding inch, I promised myself that once that baby came out and once I shrunk back down to the size I was before (please laugh here), I would buy myself some new clothing. Specifically, skinny jeans. The goal-orientation eased the panic of knowing my sexy glory days were over and I was officially past the "Best I Ever Looked" part of my life.

So today, impatient and realizing that my hips were never -ever - going to be the same size, I purchased some practice skinny jeans (practice because they were only $20 and I really need to figure out what I want before I go spending real money on these things). I didn't take the tags off, but did put them on when I got home to make sure they'd stretch well before I committed to keeping them.

Then the baby peed on me. And on my jeans.

I will not be returning them.

This is the part of the commercial when the music goes from victory-inspirational to - WAH wah waaaah- reality.

The other problem with being goal- oriented is the anticlimax.

Thanks, little Buddy. Ruin my body and pee on my consolation.

Monday, October 25, 2010

This is my problem. And it is so typical.

I sit down to the computer, while munching potato chips and Killah' Clam Dip (if you want the recipe, I will post it - it's very delicious and one of the few foods I've made since the Chunk took up residence in our house)... so I am sitting at the computer to look up spanish rice recipes (yum) and in my search, somehow, I happen upon a white chocolate pumpkin truffle pie recipe and a recipe for peaches baked with pecans and almond paste and brown sugar and stuff. So now I don't want to make Spanish Rice and Jalapeno sausage for dinner. I want to make pumpkin doughnuts or chocolate spice cake or at least milkshakes.

Milk has calcium.

Meg- just between the two of us, I bought all the ingredients for pumpkin doughnut holes and also you're coming here on Thursday, so I thought... maybe we should utilize that recipe.

Anywho - for the rest of you, who aren't coming to San Diddly Ego on Thursday for Meg and Bek's World Famous Pumpkin Doughnut Holes, I found this in my distracted internetting. You can buy me this for Christmas, just check to make sure you all coordinate and I don't get too many copies: http://bakednyc.com/page/book/

I want to make everything in these cookbooks. Especially the New York Style Crumb Cake (Hallelujah!).

Friday, October 15, 2010

The One Where She Says 'Breastfeeding'

How do you type while holding a baby? With one hand. This might be the longest time I've ever spent on a post.

Why not put the baby down?

Hah.

Peace. I do it all for peace and a sleepy baby.

Gone are my idealistic notions of motherhood being friends... even aquaintances ... with productivity. It is noon thirty and all I've done today (other than nurture one very small human male) is eat two poptarts. I toasted them first, though... while holding a baby.

Here is the picture of this morning's six-thirty a.m.:

I am trying to breastfeed a boy child who should have gotten the hang of it a week ago... and since he hasn't, I have milk soaking my shirt and his clothes (he squirms a lot). Within minutes I have spit up drooling down my back. Soon after, he has managed (despite my best efforts) to dip, not one, but both heels into his poopy diaper in his angry flailing whilst I try to change him.

Good morning, sunrise. We have become friends over the past three and a half weeks. I'd only met you a time or two before this and I honestly would rather get back to that trend.

I must say, though, as I look down into this face:
(and that is exactly what I see right now... I took a picture with my phone and emailed it to myself and downloaded it to my computer and uploaded it onto this post... all with one hand)

...as I look at him, I kind of don't mind so much.

You'd be willing to type with one hand, too.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Monkey Ears

Believe it or not, this boy is real. And we made him. And I might get a little stuck up about it.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Because He Loves Me

The Mother in Law is in town and she has been taking good care of us. She and the Husband went to the grocery store for me today. I asked the Hus to pick up something that tasted good, but had no specifics as to what I wanted.

Jon came home with: one chocolate covered donut, gushers, corn chips and cheese dip, a Starbucks Passion Tea Lemonade and Haagen Dazs Five Lemon... my absolutely favorite ice cream ever. All for me.

I love him.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

We're in Love

Nathan Scott
September 21, 2010
10 lb, 1 oz., 22 inches

Jon came in and sang to our boy.
Selections included, "Play the Game" and "Kissed by a Rose"
All questionable lyrics with sex, booze and drugs were appropriately replaced with references to milk, eating and poop.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Megan will roll her eyes when she sees that we painted the walls gray...

We finished the baby's room and he hadn't come yet, so we decided to redo our room. Over Labor Day weekend, we repainted, I sewed curtains and pillows and we bought a new duvet cover and a yellow candle. There's a rug in the mail to match. I thought that all of my antsy-ness would be used up, but it hasn't been. So I'm making kitchen curtains now. If this baby doesn't come out soon, I'm going to run out of windows on which to take out my impatience.
Here are updated pictures of the gargantuan belly that is still growing. Help.



Desperate Times...

video video

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Those Pretzel M&M's Really Aren't That Bad

The Man-Child's room is finally done (almost). We're going to repaint that side table if we have time before the Child is born.
This is his changing table, refinished and full of clothes and blankets and bibs and diapers.
This is the corner where the glider will go when it arrives.
I love the vintage pictures - Jon built the frames and cut the glass (we will never cut glass again, by the way. Don't really recommend it).
This is my favorite room of the house. It's not at all cutesy and it's all boy. Now all we need is a baby to put in it. Henry has already graced the carpet with dog hair, so we're ready.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Setting an Example

What Fatty really wanted this morning was a perfectly ripe banana. But none were to be found. So she ate a banana that would have been vastly improved by another 24 hours.

Fatty knew that she had to feed herself something with carbs (she was, after all, growing a baby) but everything she looked at made her a bit queasy. No to cereal. No to toast. No to last night's leftovers. So Fatty ate a corndog... for breakfast.

Please don't tell Fatty's doctor. He would be very disappointed. He would threaten Fatty with a huge baby. He wouldn't be so kind as to move Fatty's due date up. Only threats.

This, by the way, is what I found almost an hour after I got out of bed this morning. The dog had crawled up to Jon's pillow (thank God it wasn't mine, because I do believe that's drool) and fallen asleep. Pardon me, Henry, for interrupting your beauty rest.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Multigrain Cheerios

Yesterday Jon told me he'd had his first baby dream. I've been having them for months. Mine seem to reveal my worries about being ready. For instance, I keep dreaming that the baby comes out a girl, which has caused me to ask at every ultrasound, "Is he still a boy?" In my last one, I had just had the baby and was trying to nurse him. I was going through a mental checklist of the proper procedure, when the baby unlatched and looked up at me and said, "You're doing it wrong." He then told me how I was supposed to feed him. Too bad they don't really do that.

Jon's dream seems to reveal how little he worries in general. He dreamt that he had the baby in his arms, but then got bored, so he put him down on the bed and started trying to find clothes to change into, but all his shirts became women's shirts when he pulled them out. That's it. That was the main frustration in the dream.

I dream that things go really wrong and I turn out to be an inadequate mother. Jon dreams that things go really wrong and his clothing turns to women's clothing whenever he tries it on.

There's something to be said for being a man after all.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

If We Build it, He Will Come

...at least that's what we're hoping. Here are updated nursery pictures. We had the wrong lens on, so there are but a few. More to come.


Jon made the shelf, I made the curtains (Jon helped) and the crib linens. Perhaps if we make the nursery all ready, then the child will be tempted to come out. We're trying.


Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Pass-on Worthy

I found this interesting article on signs of autism in newborns and infants (suggesting that autism is a life-long disorder, not the result of a post-birth exposure). Researchers found subtle deviations that parents may not pick up on starting as young as the baby's stay in the NICU and growing more and more noticeable as the baby gets older. Finally, parents start to observe differences after children are over a year, "By about 13 months, the development of children with autism started to diverge markedly from those without, according to the study."

Very interesting. Unfortunately, the things researchers notice in autistic infants that deviate from the norm are kind of specific and you'd have to have seen a ton of babies to notice them... meaning it's not very helpful for parents spotting the disorder in their own children. Still, it's progress!

Monday, August 2, 2010

The Other Members of This Family

The main member participated in Mustache July at the squadron. He claims it was due to peer pressure, but we all know that he really just likes having a mustache because it looks funny.

Henry with the monstrous amount of hair we got off him last week.
Henry climbed up and cuddled with a gestating Nate while I skyped the Mother, the Father and Nana. He was probably communicating with the man child, plotting Nathan's escape and their coming misadventures together. Don't let the sleepy eyes fool you. He's plotting.

See? Plotting away like the sneaky yellow dog he is. Yellow dogs have very few morals.

I know you want another picture of Chester (the official name of the 'Stache), so here it is. Don't worry. He shaved it off after taking these this morning.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

"...What heights of peace, when fears are stilled..."

I found something today. Two posts by someone I immediately admire after reading only two of her blog posts. She could steal lollipops from babies for all I care. I love her.

As you know (read: "As I continually elaborate"), I prefer research-proven methods. I'm all scientific like that. I'm totally into the CDC vaccine schedule and multivitamins and exercise and the health-promoting benefits of having friends. Because they're proven. So when I discovered the following posts on the evidence pertaining to mom jeans - specifically to their negative impact on the shape of one's butt, legs and entire figure, I just about peed my pants (sorry, Mom, I know you hate it when I say that, but I'll make it up to you).

Please read the following posts and view the following pictures (read them in order) and just try to contain your glee. Let your fears of waking up one day and finding yourself looking like that mom, die here.

Research on Mom Jeans 1
Research on Mom Jeans 2 (note, this is the same post as the link at the bottom of #1)

Friday, July 23, 2010

You know you're a Martha when...

... when in the middle of chores this morning you thought, "Well... I'm not really a Martha... I have 'sitting at Jesus' feet' on my to-do list..."

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Baby Class

Baby class is watching videos of babies being born and babies being nursed. Which means baby class is wondering how second babies ever get made if the husband is present at the first birth... and is not blind.

Baby class is practicing contractions with relaxation techniques. Which means baby class can get a bit awkward when 19 women are pretending to be in pain, while holding various birthing positions and breathing in "hee"s and "hoo"s as their partners look uncomfortably on.

Baby class is comparing the size of your baby bump to 18 other baby bumps and trying to calculate how long it will take each one of you to look normal again. And hoping you will look normal again.

Baby class is a tool to show how very immature you and your partner are, because you still follow many of the instructors comments with, "that's how we got into this mess..." whispered in each others ears and you find yourself snickering at videos the rest of the class is taking very seriously.

Baby class is showing up with Starbucks coffee and feeling awkward because all the other pregnant mothers are sipping water and eating fruit.

Baby class is wondering if you can get an epidural just to tide you over until the end of the car seat video.

Baby class is wondering if you can just adopt the rest.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Three Most Recent Pregnancy Comments

During a quick trip to Costco, I was reminded that pregnancy is as good as an introduction in getting people to talk to you. I don't really aspire to talk to people at Costco - I aspire to buy food - so it was a bit awkward for me. The first comment was a compliment. Thank you. I will take those all day long.

The second was from a sleeze-bag who said "Congratulations" in the sleeze-baggiest way possible while staring at my stomach. I don't know. No comment. Except blech.

The third was the most interesting. I was head and arm deep in the milk refrigerator, reaching for the two percent (skim is for people who aren't pregnant) and I hear a high-pitched voice in my ear saying, "Oooh, when is the baby DUE?" Once again, caught up in food purchasing and not expecting strangers to make themselves familiar with me in Costco, it took me a minute before I answered.
"Uh... September 16th"
More mutterings and high pitched squeals (am I the only person who thinks it's weird that total strangers are giddy that I'm pregnant?). Then, reaching out to touch my stomach and quickly pulling her hand back, she says, "Oh! I just want to TOUCH it! But I was in.. hmm... where was I?" More deliberation, "Ah... I think it was the Wal-Mart!"
I didn't say anything, but mentally filed away that she had said "the" Wal-Mart, so that I could complain about people who don't speak correctly, like I do.
She then explained that in THE Wal-Mart she had been talking to a new mom and had reached out to touch her baby. When she did, the mother recoiled and said, "NO! No, touching!" The milk-interrupter gasped and "could not BELIEVE it".
It took many more "I can't believe it"s until I figured out that, instead of being appalled with her audacity in making herself comfortable with other people's bellies and babies, she was appalled that someone would mind a stranger poking at their child. Huh.
Then she patted my stomach (!), thanked me for being pregnant (!!) and walked away.

I wanted to ask her why she didn't learn her lesson the first time. I should have touched HER stomach. Then again, it may not have worked.

I'm not sure, folks. But you're welcome. You're welcome for being pregnant. You are not, however, welcome to my stomach, no matter how round it is.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Zucchini in California are not for Equal Opportunity

Alternately titled "How to Overcrowd your Vegetable Garden"
Alternately titled "When Maybe You Didn't Need That Second Helping of Miracle Grow"

When we planted the tomatoes, I had in mind the tall, slender tomatoes my dad grew in Virginia. Then we Miracle-Grew them because we're afraid of killing all our plants (please see grass in the picture of Henry below). They are planning their premier in "The Incredible Hulk" and are twice as wide as my expectations. The zucchini... to be fair, the zucchini also happened to be over the sprinkler line we had cracked (before we fixed it) and was routinely receiving LOTS of extra water. (Our fix didn't last too long, either, so we're not using the sprinkler system (hello, hose!) until the garden dies out and we can get to the crack again.) Apparently, it is impossible to over-water zucchini.

Anyhow. The garden has taken over the yard and is plotting to take over all of California. With produce for all. The zucchini however, is not into sharing sunlight and is currently trying to crowd out the tomato and basil with huge hand-like leaves. Just like a younger sibling. Please compare with our first picture of the garden with baby tomato plants, a teeny tiny (manipulating) zucchini and kolanchoe (the flowers.. they've since been removed due to overcrowding) with this current view of the jungle:
The tomatoes do not appear to be phased and are producing blossoms and shiny green pre-tomatoes at an alarming rate.

The zucchini blossoms on the other plant (which is incidentally, not using the TONS of room it has in its own garden across the patio) are starting to fall off to make room for edible things.


Today is Henry's first birthday. He is celebrating in his usual manner... with lots of attention and naps.

A sneak preview of the baby's room with its new coat of paint and recently-assembled crib (FULL of baby shower clothing). It will be classy and it will be all boy. Stay tuned.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Guilty of Stalking

Dear Brett Baker, I stalk your blog. Despite having met you one time ever. But I knew your husband in highschool... does that make it less... or more... creepy?

Either way, you read mine too.

With that said, I found this quote on the Bakery today and I loved it:

"normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. let me not pass you by in quest of some rare & perfect tomorrow. let me hold you while i may, for it may not always be so. one day, i shall dig my nails into earth, or bury my face in a pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky & want, more than all of the world, your return."
-mary jean iron

Friday, June 11, 2010

My Pregnancy, 6 1/2 Months

Today I stopped by the grocery store to pick up eggs and milk. I got the carton with 18 eggs, instead of 12, rationalizing that we use eggs often and they'd get used up before I knew it. When I came home, I promptly dropped the entire closed carton onto the floor, cracking 17 of the 18 eggs. We're having quiche for dinner. And omelets for breakfast.

We're watching a friend's dog for the weekend. So last night, it was me and three snoring boys. I think if Nate wasn't receiving all his oxygen from me, he would have snored, too.

My physical therapist said if the muscles in my hip/leg don't chill out, she's going to have to order a maternity belt for me (think: girdle). This was Jon's solution. Tie the dog's leash under my belly. Thanks, Honey.

Monday, June 7, 2010

When I Call Toll Free, I Expect to Have to Fight for Help

Which is usually the case. I mean it. Almost always.

I had to call AT&T three times. THREE TIMES. to cancel our internet in Pensacola. Each time they said, "No problem. You'll stop receiving bills now." Each time I received a bill in my inbox the next month. Guess what just showed up in my inbox two days ago? I try to reserve this insult for slow drivers in the left lane, but I can assure you that AT&T is entirely worthless.

This is why I love USAA and OXO (the kitchen gadget company), because they are 100% helpful, every single time I call, bend over backwards to help me and I always understand what's going on and receive prompt, efficient service. We can now add Wusthof (the German knife manufacturer) to the list.

Today I call. I explain that although I adore the knives I've been using for two and a half years (not kidding. best knives in the universe.), my kitchen scissors seem to be rusting on one edge. "Oh," is the reply, "send it to our customer service and we'll send you a replacement!" Just like that. No questions. I must only include a phone number and my address.
Dear Wusthof, you exceed my pessimistic expectations. I will remain faithful in return. Brand loyalty status achieved.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

A Little Boy Quilt

I finally finished the first quilt for the boy child. I have to say, I am very pleased with this one. I made mistakes, but I'm probably the only person who'll notice. I love the manly colors with a bit of little boy softness. It looks like a serious circus.I can't wait to wrap up my sweet baby in it and kiss his tiny nose. Henry also is ready for him to arrive. He needs a little boy to play with him.
Look at the garden we made! We dug up the nasty grass, cracked the sprinkler pipe, fixed the sprinkler pipe (Home Depot stocks instant fix-it kits! Who knew?), built a wall with stone (muscle flex) and filled it up with dirt and tomatoes and zucchinis and rosemary and basil and marigolds and green onions and flowers. I hope it works.

Also I am getting huge. I ate dinner at the coffee table last night, sitting on the floor, and my tummy got stuck under it. Jon had to push the table out so I could escape. Yikes.