Monthly Archives: August 2005

Hot August blues

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I hate August. It’s depressing.

I’ve eaten far too many Utz Cheese Balls [apparently, I have a history of doing this] and now I don’t fit in my pants.

I’ve cried both times I’ve dropped Owen off at day care this week. It’s way worse at almost-eight months than it was at three or four months — he understands that I’m going away from him. Howdy, Separation Anxiety, nice to meet you, just please don’t make my baby cry. Seriously. Because he only says “mama” when he’s crying, and it breaks my tender heart to hear him wailing “Maaaaaaaammmmmmmaaaaaaaa” as I blunder out the door.

Did I mention that I don’t fit in my pants? And that I finished all the cheese balls? I really don’t know what to do with myself.

The long road ahead

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Today is the first day Iain is back to school and Owen is back to day care. Plus, I work a double.

All on five and a half hours of sleep. Sigh.

Confidential to Mom: He’s fine. You’re right, I worry too much.

When squirrels attack

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Nasty little fuckers, these squirrels. When Clint and Iain were chucking acorns at each other, it was in a playful spirit. But the squirrels! They shoot to kill, or at the very least maim.

Dozens of times a day, tiny nibbled bits of acorn are hurled at our heads, often striking with alarming accuracy, bouncing off skulls and vinyl siding and camp chairs and deck railings. It’s like a hailstorm of bitter, rodentine hatred.

And I don’t believe it could be very sanitary, either. Who knows what kind of germs one could get from squirrel spit.

Adventures in chmod !@#$: I’m busy creating the back-end of a photo web site for a friend of mine, and the nerd world of php and MySQL and file permissions and file paths is KICKING MY EVER-LOVIN’ ASS.

I tried out Birch, which was really nice but not nearly customizable enough. So I turned to Pixelpost, which is cool, but do you remember trying to learn Blogger tags or Movable Type templates? It’s a bitch, to say the least. So I’ve finally got the database set up and files in the right places, and it’s back to dinky HTML and CSS and template tweaking.

All this as the squirrels rain their nutty vengeance on my head.

Why, it’s all about shoes, shopping and Mister Right, of course!

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If you’re a fan of motherbloggers [as I am] and chick lit [as I am — don’t knock it, man, there’s some good shit under that pink label] then you ought to be reading Jennifer Weiner’s blog. She’s a big time best-selling [I think] author of such goodies as “Little Earthquakes,” and mama to a little girl called Lucy.

She’s also fighting the good fight while being snidely spat upon by people who think chick lit authors should be kicked until they’re dead.

There are people out there — usually men, but not necessarily — who just can’t stop the hateration on “chick lit,” “chick flicks,” “mommybloggers” and the like. I’m still amazed at the pink ghetto that women are instantly tossed into when they decide to create something, especially if that something has a female protagonist or a “women’s interest” topic [oh, like parenthood, for example, or relationships. Ooh, run for the hills]. The easiest way to dismiss something still is to call it women’s work, and it’s so much easier to slap a demeaning label on a piece of work than it is to actually consume that work and critique it on its own merits.

tags: chick lit, JenniferWeiner, books. [What the hell are tags?]

A Frog He Would A-Wooing Go

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toleration

So Owen is seven and a half months old. And, if it’s possible, he just keeps getting cuter.

He has two tiny spiky teeth on the bottom, which he enjoys using to gnaw my fingers to threads. Lately he’s also taken to blowing farty kisses on my arms, and grabbing my ears to bring my face to his. It’s cute.

These days he’s all about the standing. It’s an imperative, no matter what we’re doing. It’s not enough to play with Momma, oh no, we must play and be standing tall. Up! Up! UP! Woman, up! He grabs my hair, my shirt, digs his fingers into my sunburned upper arms, whatever it takes to drag himself vertical. And lord, laying down is for babies. I think I need to get him a straw for his bottle, because he simply can’t be bothered to recline further than 91 degrees in order to drink it.

I’m still paranoid about him choking, ever since the acorn incident at Rock’n’Romp a couple weeks ago, so anything not in paste form gets put in the “biter bag.” “Biter bag” sounds kind of gross, but Baby Safe Feeder sounds worse. So into the bag go mandarin orange slices, frozen bagels, bits of chicken, even spaghetti and sauce. He gets kind of duckfaced about it, where he’ll just stick the mesh bit in and suck away, hands-free, as he goes about his business fingerpainting in carrot juice. But this way I get to show him a wide world of culinary delight without driving myself nuts with the anxiety. I do hope, however, that he doesn’t reach teenagerhood thinking his three squares need to be strained through a sock to taste good.

This is his last week at home with Dad. School starts back up [for teachers and babies, anyway] next Monday. I’m not sure how the reintroduction to daycare is going to go, seeing as he’s acquired an obstinate preference for me and me only, no substitutes please. Seriously, if I’m even within earshot but not holding him, he gets very upset. Dad is just a pale imitation. I don’t know how much of this is age-appropriate stranger-danger type stuff, and how much is his personality; I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

Christ. He’s almost eight months old. Where did the time go? I want a rain check! I’m beginning to realize why people have second [and third, and fourth …] children — I’d do anything to stop time, although recreating babyhood in a new kid isn’t really the same thing. It just goes so fast, all of it, and next thing you know you’re nostalgic for February. Stay a little baby, Owen. Don’t grow up and go out into the big bad world. Stay here with your Momma, and we’ll blow farty raspberry kisses on each other, hidden in the air-conditioned house.

Dang.

Everytime I write one of these I get all teary. Motherhood, man, it fucks you up, tearwise. It’s like having a kid makes the whole world more important, and every little moment inside it important, too.

I love you, little Bun! You and your two tiny teeth and your grippy little hands and your eyes just like mine.

Dark and quiet days

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Doctor D passed away this evening.

He’s my uncle, but we’re not related. It’s a very long story involving “chosen family,” but the point is that, in the end, he’s my uncle. And as such, I love him. And now he’s gone.

I need to sit down and figure out what’s going on.

***

Owen is teething [still or again, take your pick] and experiencing teenager-like fits of moodiness and sullen screaming, interspersed with angelic beaming grins. He’s so beautiful he’s gonna break my heart. And then he gets pissy and screams — gonna break a window, instead.

I think we know what his first word is: ba-ba. [A genius child: he speaks and I obey.] I don’t know if this is too early to be talking, but if it isn’t, mark this entry as Baby’s First Word. Runners up are mama and dada, tied for second.

Otherwise, we’re feelin’ pretty low-key around these parts. A loooong drive back yesterday, work and errands today, and now I think I’m going to retire with a very small glass of Luna Di Luna and watch The Muppet Show [on DVD, a gift I hold as proof that my parents really love me].

I’m going to unwind and just think about stuff.

Tell your husband or your dad that you love him, OK? Cause things happen, and it sucks.

Dad? Iain? I love you.