Basically, my baby loves Santa

While I've only been a mom for five months now, I'm fully aware that part of my job as a parent includes building up my son's illusions until they're slowly destroyed by some punk kid with rotten parents who tells him on the bus that Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny all live in the same house… and look exactly like his parents. I will remember that kid. And I'll be there siphoning the gas out of his tank on the way to the prom. But I digress.

I can honestly say that I'm not sure I really ever remember going to see Santa as a kid. I'm sure we did, I'm sure we must have, and there has to be a picture somewhere of one time or another, but I really don't remember it. And while my son probably won't either, I'm pretty sure we have the cutest "Baby's First Visit With Santa" picture in existence (no offense to any other moms out there who think theirs is better. I'm just saying you're wrong.)

The weekend before Thanksgiving, I checked the mall's website to make sure the jolly ol' guy would be there -- one thing I do remember as a kid was that that giant purple chair outside Sears and below the escalator at the Crystal Mall seemed like it was set up and ready right around Halloween. As it turns out this year, Santa wasn't visiting eastern Connecticut until mid-November. Thanks recession.

We debated taking him, as it's flu season, freezing cold and we don't know how he's going to be at any given point. But at the same time, we really wanted that photo. We could taste that photo. (And the ridiculous amount of money we'd have to pay to get it.)

We went early for two reasons -- one, we knew we wanted the picture for our Christmas card, which we'd have to order in advance, and two, because we wanted to beat the crowds. We figured there couldn't be that many crazy (or really, really smart?) people out as early as us. As it turns out, we were right.

We went to the mall and got right in line -- second only behind four kids dressed identically and their parents. As the argyle quartet jumped in Santa's lap for their photo op, we got the little guy out of his stroller. I was kind of nervous, but we thought of it this way -- we can HOPE he takes a good picture. He might, he might not. If he does, it'll be a great card. If he doesn't, and he goes batshit bananas, well, that'll be a cute Christmas card too. It's honest. It's cute. It's truthful. And everyone knows, you should never lie to kids. Unless it's about an elderly overeater (potentially diabetic) in a red velvet suit breaking and entering their house to leave them presents made by a bunch of little people in pointy shoes at a place too cold for anything to live. You lie about that.

As the family in front of us moved away to look at their pictures and pay, we moved in for the kill.

Santa asked us, "Who's this little guy?" and we told him Johnny, and he's four months old (my husband also felt compelled to tell him that it was the baby's first Christmas. It's okay, honey. The man delivers presents to MILLIONS/BILLIONS of people per night… he can do the math). We handed the baby to Santa, and he didn't cry at all. We took that as a good sign, but still stood next to him just in case he panicked while we waited for the other family to be done. See honey? Santa's not scary at all. He's magical!

My husband then turns and asks, "Hey Santa, do you guys take debit?"

I didn't have words. I wanted to laugh and at the same time wanted to ask what the hell was wrong with him. I gave him the look that all wives give their husbands when a question like this one is asked, and he said, "WHAT?? IF ANYONE'S GOING TO KNOW, SANTA WILL!" You're right, sweetheart. You got me there.

As it turned out, the baby did just fine. Didn't cry one bit. (I can't say the same for us, as we had to fork out $19.95 for two 5x7s [that would have cost me $1.29 total at CVS] and $9.99 for the copyright of the photo. Yes, you heard me right. We needed the copyright to be able to put a picture of OUR child on our Christmas card. Grumble grumble hiring a private Santa next year grumble grumble.) He sat on his knee and looked up at Santa with awe. Every time I look at the picture, I can't help but think Johnny's thinking, "So YOU'RE Santa…"

But it was odd for John and I, being in the parent roles. We were the ones standing below the camera acting like morons hoping the baby might look at us and smile (he didn't). We were the ones trying to quiet him down after we took him back from Santa (he didn't). We were the ones who ended up taking him to Build-a-Bear hoping his new fuzzy friend that "he" built, Mr. Wigglesworth, would cheer him up (he did). It was just odd. Not bad, just different. We actually walked away from Santa in a bit of a daze -- as if to say, did that just happen?

We still feel like we are kids. We still feel too young to have a baby. Not in a bad way -- not in a "where's the nearest 'safe zone' drop off place for him" kind of way. Just in a "still can't believe this is real" kind of way. The same way we felt our first night after bringing the little guy home from the hospital. We knew what we had to do, but "this doesn't seem like it could be happening."

So in the car on the way home, I just sat and thought. Wow, I still can't believe I'm a mom. I have this awesome little tiny mini-me and I still can't believe he's real and not just some thumping bump in my sweater. I looked over at John, and asked to get his perspective on being a parent versus the kid standing next to Santa.

"It made me sad," he said. Me too, I thought. "It made me sad because that Santa said he only took that job because he has too much credit card debt."

I turned and looked at him again. Wait, what?

"I know it's not the real one," he said. "But I want to think Santa takes care of those guys."

And now I present to you the CUTEST BABY'S FIRST PICTURE WITH SANTA OF ALL TIME:

Don't worry, he doesn't ALWAYS sleep under there.

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Baby Johnny... elf-ed

I've been wanting to do one of these for years, but not til this year did it have the potential to be so cute. Consider baby Johnny... elfed! Ohhhhh yeah!

http://bit.ly/4C5e5D

You will LISTEN to "A Christmas Gift For You," AND YOU WILL LOVE EVERY MINUTE OF IT.

It's a beautiful thing when two people come together and fall in love. They dote on each other, they hold hands, they take romantic strolls along a moonlit path kissing and caressing and enjoying time together.

The first holiday season together rolls around and they delight in trying to come up with the perfect gift to surprise one another. Pearls? Diamonds? A fishing rod? The lights, the sparkles, the sounds of the season are all-encompassing.

Until the holiday CDs (and dare I say it -- cassettes) rear their ugly heads.

Well, I don’t care if YOU want to hear Neil Diamond's "O, Come All Ye Faithful," I'm not listening to that crap. It's Trans-Siberian Orchestra all the way. And then it starts. You realize the fa-la-la-la-loser you're dating likes crappy Christmas music.

For music that we generally hear only maybe two months out of the year, people sure can be defensive and particular about their Christmas tunage. With radio stations starting to play it non-FRIGGING-stop (and that's coming from someone who aspires to some day work in a mall and wear an elf costume) the day after Halloween, you wants what you wants.

I will say that even if it's not a particular choir or chorus singing, I am a fan of almost all the classic Christmas songs when sung like they would be in church (said by someone who doesn't go to church and hasn't since my wedding with the exception of other people's weddings and funerals). I don't really know why that is, but it's just traditional. When you start bringing bad musical artists to good songs… you're breaking my heart, Arista Records.

(Also, since having my son, it's a little secret dream of mine that he'll someday have the singing voice of a prepubescent angel and rocket to stardom after a stint in the Vienna Boys Choir. At least that was my dream until I realized the Vienna Boys Choir members are made to wear these outfits.



I love you, baby Johnny, but I cannot do this to you. They are wonderful singers, but I am not stuffing you into a sailor suit. Much less at eight years old. You're free to audition for Americal Idol though.)

Sure, I may love when Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters sing "Jingle Bells," but I *loathe to the nth degree* Barbara Streisand's version. The Ronettes singing "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" is a classic to me, but listening to The Cheetah Girls' version of it hurts my feelings and makes the baby Jesus cry.

For example, "Sleigh Ride." To me, there is no better version than the instrumental by the Boston Pops. The words are lovely and all, but I like the rawness of the Pops' version. It makes me think of wrapping presents with my mom and sister listening to music. It makes me think of the big Christmas Eve party at my parents' house. At first I thought it was just me -- every time I hear THAT version, and only that version -- on the radio in December, I turn it up. Then I mentioned it to my sister who said she too had the same attachment to that song. SEE, IT'S NOT JUST ME!

"The Christmas Song," sung by Nat King Cole, which everyone VERY WRONGLY AND STOP DOING IT calls "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" (haven't had my valium yet today) is one of my absolute favorite songs of all time, and probably my absolute favorite Christmas song. It makes me think of (Chrissy, back me up on this) sitting in my parents' living room on a night in December, with all the lights but the Christmas tree and the candles in the windows off. Even just sitting on the floor, playing with the little angel candle chime my mom had (has? Mom, if you still have this, and don't use it I WANT IT), and being so excited. We didn't care about the presents, really. In fact, it's always been more fun for us to give the presents than get them (and we walked 10 miles uphill both ways in the snow).There was some kind of special glitter to the room. Some kind of, "so THIS is why it's special" feeling to it. The kind of feeling that makes me want to knock someone's teeth out when they say they don't like that song.

People can be very territorial about their Christmas music, and I think it comes from not wanting to stray from what we listened to as kids. Notice I didn't say "liked as kids." That's because there are plenty of songs that signal the start of the season to me that I have hated since I was a kid, but it still wouldn't be Christmas without them. A prime example -- "Mary's Boy Child" by The Jingle Belles. This song has rocked me to my core since I was a kid, and not in a good way. It hits me the same way a bout of pregnancy nausea used to hit me. Quick, hard, fast, and ugh -- sure, in a few minutes I'll feel better, but in the interim, it's hell on earth. When sung by, say, ONE person, minus the steel drums in the background and with a little less of a calypso tempo, it's a beautiful song (listen to the Harry Belafonte or Nat King Cole versions). But when you play it as if it's Christmas in Jamaica, I get the strong urge to tear out my radio receiver and chuck it at a group of of unsuspecting street musicians. That said, the ridiculous sound of it has been making me laugh since I was little, and if I didn't hear it, I'd wonder what happened to it.

The other song that tips the craptastic scales for me is "Wonderful Christmastime" by Paul McCartney. It's too synthesizery (word?). It's too new age. To put it bluntly, it sucks. It sucks dirty diapers. It sucks meconium diapers.

When we were kids, we liked what our parents played, which was what they liked -- most memorably Phil Spector's "A Christmas Gift For You" and "When My Heart Finds Christmas" by Harry Connick Jr. Both awesome albums that I have owned since I was a teenager. To us, they WERE Christmas.

So imagine the shock I face when I'm hit with a naysayer. Um, what do you mean you don’t think Ave Maria is a Christmas song? IT IS ON HARRY CONNICK JR.'S CHRISTMAS ALBUM. What do you mean you don't know "Marshmallow World?" What is wrong with you, man? And of course, you then feel the need to play whatever song it is they don't know or like, to try to convince them. "See? It's such a great song." You then get legitimately pissed when they respond with, "I don't know, I just don't like it." Well, then you're an idiot if you don't like that. That is the best Christmas music there ever was. Why, what, you'd rather listen to Jessica Simpson murder Jingle Bell Rock? Whatever.

We get so defensive, I think, because we know what Christmas felt like when we were kids. And we just want someone else to feel the same -- be it a friend or a child, or whoever. It's fun as an adult, but I think far more fun when you have kids to introduce to it (read: me). I just want to someday have him say he can't wait for Christmas. I have a mind to mold here.

So it made me start to wonder… if the music that I like and my husband likes (Mitch Miller and The Gang from the '50s -- he told me this tonight, and that it was what they listened to as kids, and I took a listen expecting an album called "Christmas Sing-a-long with Mitch and the Gang" to be completely awful. It's actually not. It's very traditionally sung music, and I can dig that) came out in the '50's and '60's -- when our parents were kids -- does that mean our son is going to someday be telling his kids how much he loves music that at that time will be (gulp) 75 years old? Holy crap.

I don't know if he'll like what we do, but I can promise you this, when he is old enough to appreciate Christmas music, there will be no Jessica Simpson in my house. There will be no fur bikini-clad girls on Christmas album covers. There will be no steel drums. We will be Christmas purists, dammit.

So, in the spirit of the season, everyone has a favorite Christmas song -- what's yours? And better yet -- which one(s) take you thisclose to hoping a seizure will thrust your head through your car window?

My boy's wicked smah-t

Occasionally for the past six weeks, we've heard a tiny TINY giggle here and there. Last night, while my husband was changing him, the baby was laughing hysterically. I ran in to tape him, and to my dismay... the camera wasn't charged. Oh well.

So we made it our mission today to get him to laugh... and it worked! Our boy is wicked smah-t, and here's video proof!




You can also find the video at

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOrQxi1CPQM

Ode to our little family

Happy Thanksgiving!

Once you wipe the turkey sweats off your forehead this afternoon, and after you take that wine and stuffing nap, I urge you to take a second and hop online. Go visit Mama's Losin' It, and complete one of her Thanksgiving challenges. I did, and the result -- a poem about what I'm grateful for -- is below. Enjoy, and have a wonderful Thanksgiving!


Ode To Our Little Family


Grateful for the night sweats,
love the aching hips,
the ever growing belly,
and color-changing nips.

Grateful for the stretch marks,
the zits that mean I "glow."
In the bathroom fifty times,
'cuz once again, I have to go.

Grateful for the rib kicks,
and the swollen ankles too,
all the clothes that don't fit,
another day without a poo.

Grateful for the weight gain,
My hair ever so thick.
Rolling out of bed
and yet again I'm feeling sick.

Then again, hey there's a kick,
head is pointing down.
"Heartbeat sounds real good,"
what a lovely little sound.

The nine months that came before
were not a lot of fun.
Bye-bye martinis, hello water,
better take care of that bun.

But then I saw his face
and his teeny little toes,
his eyes just like his daddy's
and he's got his mama's nose.

It was all so very worth it,
once I saw my little one.
Most grateful for my husband
and our gorgeous baby son.

Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, so let's take a magical, drunken, flaming trip down memory lane

Ah, turkey day. A glorious and festive excuse to sleep late, stay in pajamas all day (wait -- just me?), gorge yourself on enough animal flesh to fill a dump truck (turkey dump truck? Hmm. Maybe next year.), cover all your food with spectacular fat-riddled gravy and watch with delight as a giant Snoopy ballon floats down Columbus Avenue ANDOHMYGODTHATMEANSSANTASNEXT. Yum yum delicious.

I have loved this time of year since I was just a tot, though the below picture of me -- from during the Thanksgiving celebration at our nursery school, I'm the back left, my sister is the bottom left in red, you can click for the larger version -- doesn't quite show that.


(Un)Happy Thanksgiving to you!

I can still remember how much my sister and I looked forward to waking up Thanksgiving morning, knowing mom had gotten up early and started working her magic on that glistening bird, to the smell of turkey in the oven. Ah, there is no smell like it, and we would wake up, talk to each other and just lay in bed for a while just smelling that smell. I swear we were more excited waking up that day than on Christmas morning. Sure, there were presents on Christmas, but... TURKEY.

We loved the holiday also because as soon as the dishes were cleared, it meant the beginning of the Christmas season (to us). Our family had our own Thanksgiving tradition -- from the time we were two or three til we moved out, we'd eat dinner, have dessert and the four of us would make our way into the family room where we'd pop in "A Christmas Story" (of course, it was the VHS version that we'd taped off TV years ago, so we'd have to deal with the commercials) and take a family nap. Ah, childhood.

Thanksgiving in our family was all mom right up until that movie and the nap, but that's not to say there weren't some memorable moments for the rest of us.

When my sister and I were little, we liked to sleep with the radio on. Not blaring, just softly. It actually started with my dad putting on classical music to help us sleep when we were really young. Eventually we grew out of it, but between Thanksgiving and Christmas, it was a must. There was nothing better than listening to a little Christmas tunage as we were nodding off. It made it feel like you were surrounded by the season, and we shared a room so when one of us was excited, we got the other one excited.

So we woke up like we did any Thanksgiving morning to the smell of turkey in the oven. We laid around talking about nothing but decided we'd get up after the song on was over. It was Adam Sandler's "The Thanksgiving Song," and of course at nine and 10 years old, it was hilarious (holy crap, I just looked that up... that song came out in 1993. I am frigging OLD.). So that was that, song got over and we went downstairs.

Fast forward to a couple hours later where Chrissy, my mom's "mini me," is helping her in the kitchen. She's being goofy and singing that song to her and my mom is laughing. Til she gets to THE line. The line that will forever live in infamy in our family. She said it, she said it WRONG, and it will forever be remembered. As she sang it:

"Wrap that turkey up in aluminum foil... my brother likes to masturBAKE with
baby oil..."

I was 10. I didn't know what it meant, but from the look on my mom's face, a) that wasn't the word, and b) although hilarious, it was NOT something we were supposed to know about. We knew it was bad, but we didn't know how bad. My mom was simultaneously horrifically embarrassed and hysterical, and of course -- rubbing it in, now that we knew it was something bad -- made her repeat it for my dad, and possibly grandparents over the phone. My sister just thought it was some method of cooking. I love you, Chrissy.

Then there was the year that I'd decided to get dressed for once -- sure the rest of my family was already at the table, turkey steaming away, waiting for me -- and thought that hey, that white turtleneck sweater would look nice. It was nice, not too formal, and nice and warm for the post-meal nap.

It WAS the perfect shirt until my dad passed me the rolls, that is. I reached over the table, my hand extended waiting for him to pass the plate, and got a whiff of something odd. What's that smell? Why am I getting so warm? I, in my 12-year old quest for carbs, had unknowingly lit my sleeve on fire over a lovely pumpkin-scented aromatherapy candle on the table. I watched as the gravy-filled smiles on my family's faces turned to "Oh shit! Shit! You're on... you're on FIRE! Amy, your sleeve is on FIRE!" horror.

It all turned out fine. I blew out the small flame, which had turned the sleeve of my elegant white turtleneck black, and carried on with my meal. Change? Why change? Can't let the flamey bastards get you down.

The other reason Chrissy and I looked forward to the holiday was the booze. See, our parents would give us a little wine with our meals. They didn't force it on us (they didn't have to), and you could just have Diet Coke if you wanted it. But hell no, if given the opportunity, this six- and eight-year old likes thems a glass of wine (and by "glass," I mean little more than half an actual glass. It was just enough to feel like a grown up).

We looked forward to it, and no matter how bad it tasted when we were that age, we knew it could come with a little buzz. Turkey and a buzz -- what's not to like, for any adolescent? (And you should have seen the cats!)

So one year we got our usual half glass of wine, ate dinner, had dessert and were taking our "waiting for mom to put all the food away and wash the dishes" break -- what awesome kids and husband my mom has -- before the movie went in. Dad was already nodding off on the couch, I was probably stealing desserts PUMPKINPIE but Chrissy was no where to be found. Til maybe 10 or so minutes later, that is, when we found her sitting on the toilet singing to herself.

While "helping mom clear the table," she'd been finishing everyone else's unfinished glasses of wine and had herself a pretty good little buzz going on.

Ah, the memories.

It's been a while since we were ALL together for Thanksgiving. Now that Chrissy and I are married, John and I have our own home and Chrissy lives in Georgia, we don't generally eat together anymore.

This is the first year that I'll be cooking -- it's just the two of us (as much as I wouldn't mind getting a bit of tryptophan pumping through the little guy's veins), so we just have a small turkey. It's even better that we found a small turkey since my husband doesn't eat turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, vegetables or pie (read: weirdo), and I've never cooked one before. At least that way, if I make a grave roasting error, it's between me, him and the oven (crap, I have to clean it now).

My sister and I have tons of memories with our parents for Thanksgiving, and we do get a little bummed that we aren't together for that day. But you know, that's okay. While we will never forget the Thanksgivings of past years (couldn't if we wanted to, we've told too many people these stories), it's time to make new memories with our own families now.

Where ever you're going, whatever you're doing, whatever you're eating (JOHN), I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving and end the day with a full belly.

If you have any leftovers, send them my way. Unless it's wine -- that's all Chrissy.

Freak out

A weird thing happened yesterday.

We had a great day with the baby – went to the mall to see Santa, stopped at Build a Bear and made his first teddy bear, and stopped quickly to visit with my parents. We were also able to get out of the house pretty early, so we were already on our way home from my parents at about 5pm.

With the baby sound asleep in the back (no nap all day + Santa + new furry toy = cranky baby who sleeps 7-8 hours at a time), we headed up the highway to home.

To finish the story, I have to tell you this story… before we bought our house, we lived in a really tiny town (it was literally called “The Village of …”). We had a small apartment, and my boss at the newspaper and her husband were our landlords. We lived there for just over two years, and moved a few months after we got married when we were able to move into this house. It was a great two years. The rent was cheap, the apartment was adorable, and our landlords were good friends.

We hadn’t seen them since we moved in March of 2008, but we had them both of Facebook and chatted every so often. We’d do a little wave and a smile when we passed exit 89.

While I was home on maternity leave, I got a message on Facebook from another friend of our old landlords who I used to work with. He told me the husband had been in an accident, and was in really serious condition. That afternoon, he sent a message that he was sorry to report that he had passed away.

He was such a good guy – a great husband, a wonderful father, and an awesome friend. He was someone who could fix anything with a motor, would help you with anything – from fixing your oil heater when it clunks out at 5am to getting the motor on your windshield wipers to function again. He was also a volunteer firefighter with the department in town and EMT who went to every call he could, and really loved what he did.

Now back to yesterday – we were headed up the highway, which is not generally busy. It’s New England, it’s November, and it’s dark. Not exactly a metropolitan area.

Just as we passed exit 89, we noticed the brake lights. Traffic had started to slow down. We figured a car accident, likely a deer. It was a complete standstill. We heard sirens and both lanes of traffic pulled off to the sides of the road to let the fire truck through – the same fire truck that had carried the jacket and helmet of our friend at his funeral.

Eventually traffic began crawling along and we saw the accident. No deer involved, but a wrong way driver. We saw two completely demolished cars, both with their front ends missing. As we drove by, someone was on a stretcher, and another person was being removed through the smashed windshield of the other car. I don’t know why, but I got choked up. And then, as I thought about it, I did know why.
When we were leaving my parents house, I made John stop so I could give my parents something to throw out for me as we pulled away. Just a little delay, but it made all the difference. Bottom line – we missed this accident by less than half a mile and 2 minutes. That could have been us.

I started to think about it and nearly had an anxiety attack. It’s one thing to get stuck in traffic and eventually pass the accident. To see it and see the wrecked cars. It’s another to see that someone barreled down the highway for more than a mile in your direction and hit someone less than a half a mile ahead of where you were. That could have been us. With the baby in the back, and one of us being pulled out the windshield. That could have been us. Our friend would have been a first responder. That could have been us.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but it completely freaked me out. Maybe our friend is looking down on us and delayed us a few minutes. I don’t know. Maybe that’s not what happened at all. Maybe it was just luck. It just made me want to hug my husband and my son a little tighter.

It’s amazing what small things make you think about the whole ooga booga of the universe, huh?

Wondering who's the boss, mom? Um, see the binkie?

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Parenting 101: Professional crying

I had my baby nearly four months ago. Immediately after his birth, I was very emotional. I got teary listening to one of the nurses, Diane, tell us about the surge of emotions that would most likely envelope me in the next few days. I got upset being told I might have to stay an extra few days because my c-section incision was 'pink' (I didn't). I got teary walking down to the car when we were being discharged from the hospital. I never imagined that this shit would still be around after four months.

Could someone please tell me what button was pushed during my son's birth to make me uber-emotional for the rest of my life?

In the past few weeks (and no, I'm not pregnant -- I've checked) I cry at everything. I cry when my baby rolls over. I cry at "Forever Young" on the radio. I cry reading an email about Applebee's inviting veterans to eat free on Veterans' Day. Seriously. I cried at that last one at work TODAY.

Pre-pregnancy, my sister used to tell me (with love) that I had no heart. In fact, I was "stone hearted" Amy. I made my fun of my mom for crying (to be fair though, it wasn't JUST for crying. It was for crying AND doing the "I'm going to stop the tears before the come" wave at her face) at... well, everything from Oprah to cat food commercials.

I was driving to work this morning -- today was the hubs' birthday, so he took the day off and spent it with the baby -- and heard the song "The Living Years" on my way. I started bawling right there in the car. At a song. About people I've never met.

Why, why, why is this happening to me? Aren't my crazy pregnancy and post-partum emotions supposed to be in check by this point? Does this get any easier?

Now, all I can think of is the baby graduating high school. The baby getting married and dancing with me at his reception. The baby and his wife having a baby. Oh god. I can feel it. The tears are coming.

What's the deal? It's as if when they took this beautiful smiley baby boy out of my uterus, they simultaneously removed my ability to remain emotionless and impartial in difficult situations.

Has anyone else gone through this? What's going on with me?

Making new memories

Since my husband's birthday is Monday and he has the day off but I'm working, we decided to celebrate Saturday. We went to see "A Christmas Carol" in 3-D at an IMAX Theatre (great movie, awesome effects, but totally not for kids), and went out to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory.

Other than for work, it was the longest we'd ever been away from the baby at any one time. My mom watched him at our house for us. We thought of the day as a chance to get away for 'just the two of us,' but of course we started talking about the baby on the way to the movies.

The topic of conversation (naturally) was Christmas. While we are so excited for this Christmas since we have a little guy to buy for, we were talking about what it's going to be like when someday he makes a list for Santa and really believes.

I am (and always have been) BIG into Christmas. It sounds ridiculous, but I can remmeber -- and describe in vivid detail -- what our house looked like at Christmas when we were kids. I can tell you what it looked like sitting down on our living room floor, playing with the little angel chime my mom used to have sitting on our coffee table. I remember our HUGE Christmas Eve parties where it seemed our house was filled with about 100 people (closer to 30, really), and that people who we only saw once a year would come over that night. I remember wanting to sneak and open presents from our family members sitting under the tree. I remember (as a VERY little girl) how big of a deal it was to get ready, and how excited we were. My sister Christina and I couldn't have cared less what we were wearing -- though as the photographic evidence below will show.


Thanks for making us look like the twins from "The Shining," Mom. And for making us not only wear possibly THE most uncomfortable and itchy tights, but to accent them with matching socks.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Where's Gladys Knight? We look like the goddamned Pips.

As a kid, the excitement surrounding Christmas (despite the matching outfits THANKS AGAIN MOM) was something we looked forward to, and we have so many memories of -- listening to Christmas music (particularly Harry Connick Jr.'s "When My Heart Finds Christmas," and Phil Spector's "A Gift For You") and wrapping gifts, decorating the tree, putting candles in all the windows. Those are things that haven't happened in 20 years in some cases, and yet I remember them as clearly as if they were yesterday, and John is the same way about his memories from his childhood Christmases.

John and I want to create the same memories for the baby. Sure, he won't be able to remember this Christmas, but for us it's still special.

For the first time this year, we won't be going anywhere on Christmas Day. We'll likely have some guests in the afternoon, but now that we have the baby, it's not worth the rushing around to get to everyone's houses. We want to create our own memories, and our own traditions, and maybe someday Johnny will look back on our Christmases and think about how much fun they were.

I know it's only November 8th, and I know it's not even Thanksgiving yet, but I can't help already be excited for Christmas. After all, we have a new little elf to introduce to the holiday.

A day of milestones

Just when we're settling into our little guy's routine, he hits us with a big day of unexpectedness.

Johnny will be four months old on the 14th, and we were slightly concerned because he hadn't shown any signs of rolling over. My mother-in-law watches him two days a week and has said he'd roll to one side a bit when she'd put him on a blanket, but he hadn't really done it for us.

I got a good picture of him half rolled onto his side the other day, but I hadn't seen much additional action... 'til last night.

We put the little guy down for a nap when we got home and went to check on him at around 8pm. We walked in and saw...



The little guy laying on his side for the first time ever.

After we got over crying because OUR LITTLE BOY IS GROWING UP AND I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING TO BE LITTLE FOREVER AND HE'S SUPPOSED TO STILL BE DEPENDENT ON US FOR EVERYTHING AND NEXT THING YOU KNOW HE'LL BE ASKING TO BORROW MONEY FOR PROM TICKETS AND TELLING US HE'S SORRY BUT HE'S GOING TO BE ON MAURY BECAUSE SOME GIRL IS SAYING HE COULD BE THE DADDY, we sat down and started talking about how much he's grown since he was born. Before we went to bed, we got over it. We heaved a collective sigh of, "So this is what it means when people say 'They grow up so fast,'" and found him sleeping the same way this morning. Que sera, sera. We thought we were all set, til we then got hit with a double whammy today.

As I go to play with the little man on my lunch break (I worked from home today), we settle into our spot on the blanket, and he does it. IT. HE DOES IT. HE FRIGGIN' GOES AND DOES IT ON HIS OWN.



He rolls right over, onto his little tummy, all by himself. Sigh. Not again.

I felt bad that my husband missed it, but I was glad one of us was here. That's not to say it would have been any less great (or tear-worthy) if he had been at daycare or with my mother-in-law, but it's just something I'm glad I witnessed. One of the downfalls of not being able to be a stay-at-home is a fear of missing all these milestones. We want to be there to see him (if, because apparently a lot of babies don't) crawl, stand, walk, talk. It's not like it won't happen again, or like we won't ever be able to see him do it when we go to pick him up or whatever, but it's just something we'd like to see if we can.

I was holding him when he smiled (a non-gas, non-asleep smile) for the first time, and I can remember looking at him falling even more in love with him at that exact moment.

Since then, we've heard him coo non-stop, "talk," and squeal with delight, but we weren't expecting the side sleeping, much less the roll-over, no matter how many times the pediatrician at the hospital told us when we "checked out" that he'd be doing it around 3 or 4 months.

So wow, I thought to myself, this guy is just growing by leaps and bounds. Any day now he'll be...

LAUGHING. Like he did at just that moment.

This wasn't a little noise. This wasn't a squeal. This was a good ol' fashioned hardy-har-har type laugh. I was ecstatic, but the poor kid probably couldn't tell that from the way I sat there staring at him like an idiot for the next 30 seconds, not sure if I'd actually just heard what I thought I had. I did. He laughed.

He slept on his side, he rolled over and he laughed. Today. Like a big boy. And I heard and saw it all. Man, I love being a mom.

My baby is a genius

My son is a genius.

He's at the stage in his tiny infant life where he's learned he can make noises by himself beyond yawning loudly. Every night, we have "conversations" with him, and while most of them are, well, pretty one sided, once in a while he'll go on a five minute long tangent of nonsensical baby gurgly noises.

About three weeks ago, I was trying to capture some of his "talking" on my cell phone to send to my sister. I got three very good clips, sent them along, and presto whammo... "the bean" (as he's come to be known since my father started calling him that when he was actual bean-size snuggled comfortably in my uterus) was done talking, rubbing his eyes and ready for bed.

On a whim about a week ago, I started playing the clips for the baby just to see his reaction. He thought it was the best thing ever (since formula was sweetened with Karo and HELLO SUGAR!). He stopped moving, crying, or whatever he was doing to listen to some mysterious tiny baby in my phone make noises IDENTICAL TO HIS right back at him. So cool.

I went to show my husband the funny reaction, and started playing the clips. I got to the third one and about 5 seconds in, he asked me to stop the clip and play it again. It took me three times, but then... I heard it. (Click the link below... ignore my stupid mom-baby talk, and listen right after I say "hello")

The most beautiful little noise in the world.

I'm obviously not convinced that it was a legitimate word (and before I get the "UM BABIES CAN'T TALK AT THREE MONTHS OLD AND PS YOU'RE A TERRIBLE MOTHER FOR MAKING HIM USE HIS VOCAL CORDS THAT EARLY" responses... I know, it just so happened he made two little sounds, maybe repeating the noise I had made), but it was awesome.

If nothing else, it was a little preview of what's to come.

On one hand, it feels like yesterday that our families were walking into my hospital room to meet the little guy, and on the other it feels like it's been an eternity since we brought him home. Either way, when we first did get him here, we had ourselves our own little family. Our own screaming, crying, turning himself red, too-big-for-his-newborn-clothing, molting, non-stop pooping, nudity-disliking little man was here.

And as much as we love him, he wasn't nearly as much fun to play with as he is now -- he was no where NEAR as good at Mario Kart as he is now (haha, anti-TV moms. Don't worry. Just a little jokey-joke). He likes grabbing my thumbs and pulling himself up to sit. He likes grabbing a rattle because he can make it make noise. And, thank goodness, he loves talking to us.

Or, as we like to put it, he's not just a tiny fleshy ball of obligation anymore.

It sinks in a little more everyday that he's actually a little person who really will grow up someday. I never believed when people told me "enjoy it, they grow up so fast," but now... hell, we cry at his hospital pictures when we realize how big he's gotten already.

It's not that I didn't realize he'd grow up -- I had no Bonzai Baby plans or anything, but still -- but I didn't think I'd already be thinking "I remember when." And now, as much as I love his little voice and listen to the clips everyday, now I have a tangible reminder... my baby boy is growing up.



What memories of your little ones as tiny babies make you teary thinking back?

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Happy Halloween!

For our little guy's first Halloween, he went as a monkey. Since he has no teeth for sugar-filled candy to stick to, and John and I would feel guilty eating it on his behalf, we brought him around to visit with our parents. He didn't seem to mind the costume at first -- it was really soft, but it was freakishly warm here yesterday -- but then became not such a big fan of it, and ended up being paraded around in a little pawprint onesie. Well, at least we got a few cute pics before the little man had to be stripped down. Enjoy!

Congratulations, here's your baby

Woo. Finally feel like I'm at least semi-qualified to start writing this.

My baby boy Johnny is now three months old. My life is as back to "normal" as it will ever be again, the c-section scar is healed and I am back to work (as much as I would prefer to be home with him). I'm actually a mom.

It's still weird to me. It's still weird to look up (or down), depending on where he's seated and how I'm posed trying to amuse him at that particular moment, and realize that he's actually ours. Like, we get to (and have to) keep him. I have a tiny human who can't communicate with me in any other way than crying and smiling, and he's actually a little party of me and a little part of my husband.

We brought him home three and a half months ago now, and still... wow.

I think back on the day I went to the hospital to be induced, and I can remember every single minute of it. It was actually the day after going to the actual hospital that I had him, and yet it seems absolutely impossible that the crying/smiling/wiggling/growing little boy in my arms is the same one I saw on ultrasound pictures, felt the prying eyes of strangers stare at when he'd move my shirt while I was shopping, and who I planned for for nine months (about 2 years, really) of my life. It just doesn't feel real.

But it is. The diaper changes and feedings are real. Going to the store at 11pm because we're almost out of formula is real. Getting teary as we drop him off at daycare is real. And it's amazing.

I'm a little nervous about having all this open to everyone to see... I hope I don't say anything that offends (but I probably will), I hope I don't start any drama (but I probably will), and I hope I get you to stick with me. I know there are about... oh, a billion "mommyblogs" on the web, but I hope you'll find this one amusing enough to stick to. Since I have a little more room for creativity on this blog than on the other one (not that it's not a great blog because it totally is and you can check it out here: Madame Menu), and it's easy to post tons of updates when they don't require a bunch of formatting and photos and such (though Madame Menu isn't going anywhere)... you can count on hearing from me more often.

Stay tuned!