This is the haps
Basement: smells like poo.
My shoe: smells like poo.
Baby: crying.
Preschooler: conked the hell out.
Yarn: purchased.
Buyer’s remorse: experienced.
Blog: updated.
Word.
Ticking along
So, things are going well. We got the inspection report and repairs request from the sellers last weekend and it wasn’t too bad, considering. We’re looking at a grand or two of repairs, I think: trimming a big old oak tree, inspecting the chimney, some small electrical repairs, a few other things. We have to hire contractors to do the work in a “workmanlike manner,” with receipts. Weird. I mean, just weird that we are hiring contractors to do the work, because I have never hired “a guy” to do house stuff since my husband and father-in-law are practically experts. It’s actually kind of nice. Like hiring a maid: someone else to do the dirty work.
So I’ve been on the horn with contractor guys all week, or at least trying to get them on the horn, and set up dates, and have them come out to look at things. Then we still have under a month to get things packed up and outta here. Holy crap.
We’ve also been in talks with a new mortgage guy, who sounds good and came recommended; he’s going to present us with a list of financial options tonight after the kids go to bed, and I sure hope one of those options is labeled YOUR DREAM HOUSE HERE.
In other, totally unrelated news, we found out yesterday that Mackie has a heart murmur. Surprise! (Does that explain the screeching?) Fortunately it’s a functional heart murmur and nothing to be shook up about. I have one, too, and I think my dad does as well. But it’s still a little unnerving to find out your heart’s heart isn’t working as pristinely as you want it to be.
Mackie and the cake
This is what happens when you wake a baby up from a perfectly serviceable nap to have his birthday cake.
One year
Mackie, you turned one year old on Sunday. Truth be told, there were times this year when I wasn’t sure either one of us was going to make it this far. But you and I have prevailed, and things are just getting good.
While I make Chewbacca noises in the background
Video, as promised. This is Mackie quickly, seamlessly, and loudly spanning the emotional range one encounters while trapped in a truck moving 75 miles per hour: laughter, tears, and barely-contained frustration.
Also in there is Owen disclosing the state of his bowels. You’ll be pleased to know that the cab remained unsullied for the duration of the trip.
Plus, his smiles make the world sing
Reprinted from another, private online forum in which I was ruminating on my youngest:
breakthrough Duh moment over the weekend. We were at the grocery store, shopping, waiting in line. Iain had taken Owen to the truck to pull up and wait for Mac and I, who were waiting to pay for the groceries. Checker was all up in Mac’s face. But he was all up in hers, too — grabbing at her plastic bags, talking at her, trying to type on the keypad, trying to take things from her — no stranger danger at all, whereas his brother would have been studiously avoiding eye contact and turning red. I was reminded of an instance a week or two ago, when I was vacuuming. Mac came right up and started yelling at the vacuum. It was messing his shit up and so he got up at the vac to tell it so. Suddenly, I realized — the character traits that I had been seeing as ornery, exhausting, difficult, just plain loud, could be spun in a different way. He stands up for himself, he is assertive. Here is a kid, unlike Owen, who takes no guff from anyone — not his mama, not the vacuum, and not the checker at the grocery store. He’s exactly the way I wish I was.
For all the times I’ve sighed and called him difficult, I’m posting this, to remember that “difficult” is nothing but a transitory experience, five minutes’ confrontation between distinct personalities and objectives, and that perspective is everything.
And, just for a change of pace, Cormac was as golden, warm and fuzzy as a Retriever puppy today. He played with his brother, rode sidesaddle on my hip this afternoon, silently taking in our guests, and obligingly ate most of his dinner.
There is also this:
It’s also a good reminder to me not to judge a kid solely on his louder qualities, but on his good ones, too — he is a total dream to take places, never throws a fuss in public but stares wide-eyed at everything going on. He throws himself into me for hugs and kisses, still likes to chomp on my chin, and I even saw him today trying to wear Owen’s pirate hat [which was so cute I wanted to die]. In fact, today was such a good day that I’m trying to remember what the heck I’ve been complaining about before.
I like to joke about my little Gemini baby running hot or cold and never in between, and he does — that’s what I love about him so fiercely. He, at ten months old, has strength of character to a degree I can only dream of attaining. I’m proud he’s mine.
Cormac, nine months
- Crawls
- pulls himself to standing
- says “mama”
- is wearing diapers a size too small because his mama is an idiot and bought the wrong size
- is learning (unwillingly) how to soothe himself to sleep
- idolizes his big brother, has eyes only for him, and will not eat his dinner if it means he can’t watch what his brother is doing
Never take your babies to the mall.
Oy! I always think it will be an enjoyable capitalist experience but it always makes me nauseated in some form or another. So last week, at my wit’s end, I remembered that the Murder Mall (where that professor guy was shot in the parking lot) has an indoor playground called Tiny Tot Town or somesuch saccharine swill. I promptly readied my offspring for the trip and, two hours later, when everyone finally had no urine stains on their pants (I’m not naming names, here, PRESCHOOLER), we set off.
Here’s what you do. You got to park on the fourth level, because that’s the level the Apple store is on, and you cannot go to the mall without stopping to lay some drool on Steve Jobs’ babies. Unload the stroller that is almost as big as your sedan. Do it without injuring yourself this time. Unbuckle the preschooler from his car seat and force him into the stroller. Walk around to unbuckle the baby and realize that he’s finally fallen asleep in the seven minutes it took to drive here. Do you: resign yourself, fold your child, your stroller and yourself back into the car and drive around aimlessly for two hours so he will remain asleep? No. You are out of gas. Also, peckish. The baby will survive.
So you unbuckle the baby as gently as humanly possible and carefully set him in the stroller, which, by the way, is not a double stroller, because you are a cheap bastard and those things are like $200. It is a stroller meant for one kid but you always fold the seat back so you can squash both of them in there and no one has arrested you yet. So you gently, carefully, quietly lay the baby in the back of the stroller, with each leg gently resting against the preschooler occupying the forward space, and thank God that he didn’t wake up. Lock the car so that no one will steal your cheerios and mismatched mittens. Turn around and see that your preschooler is plonking his Star Wars Sand Trooper against the baby’s (red, wailing) face.
Restrain yourself. You may wish to leave the parking lot for this, but you should probably stay near the kids.
Still with me? Now you have to get into the mall. Sometimes you’ll get lucky and hoodlums with a conscience will be smoking near the entrance, ready and willing to hold the double doors for you and your Continental of a child-moving device. But usually it is hairstylists on a smoke break, and they don’t hold doors. Fortunately you are lithe. Bend backwards, grasp the door with your left hand, push the stroller with your right, and tell your children to keep their legs, arms and heads inside the vehicle until the ride comes to a complete stop. Inevitably, someone will be mildly injured, but it is nothing that several Gerber Puffs won’t amnesiate.
Amnesiate.
OK! Onward! It’s 12 noon and you are famished, and you promised the preschooler a hotdog, and the baby doesn’t understand why he’s being jostled about. Head to the food court. But brave the Elevator Button Tantrum you know is coming — it’s best just to let him push it a few times, and then, when he’s distracted, push it firmly yourself so the car actually arrives. Head on down to Boardwalk Fries. Order the hotdog, and some french fries. And a coke. And for dog’s sake, get the nacho cheese for dipping. I would recommend ordering a beverage for the kid, too, because once you’re seated and have the baby in the high chair and the preschooler half-undressed with a napkin tucked into his t-shirt, there is no getting back in line.
Feeding children at a food court is no more difficult than feeding them at home. Mind the adolescent girls, though. They will make funny faces and talk in pipsqueaked voices to the kids, flirting and cooing. They will ignore you completely but your children? They love. Which works out because they keep the kids occupied while you wolf down your fries. Here’s a tip: Make sure your lunch is not the same color as your baby’s baby food. Otherwise you will, without fail, dip your french fry into Gerber Stage Two Sweet Potato Casserole rather than the nacho cheese God intended. You can’t spit it out, either, because you are in public. At a food court. Where teenagers and security guards are. Also, I suppose that would be gross. I guess.
Make sure you take three times as many napkins as you feel comfortable taking. Take an embarrassing amount of napkins. You will use them all and want to steal more.
When everyone is fed, it’s time to wander aimlessly along the third level, hoping for an elevator that will take you to floors one and two. Hint: It’s by Nordstrom. This will let you out near H&M, where you can laugh at the skinny young people buying fashionable clothes that will remain unbarfed upon for hours, and then only receiving barf that has a high Jack and Coke content. On the inside, they are jealous of you and your sturdy hips, and your practical shoes. It’s best not to remind them of what they are missing. No, press onward: cock your ear for the headsplitting shrieks that herald the open doors of Tiny Tot Town and its Tiny Community Association. Park your stroller, but don’t leave anything of value underneath it, because frankly, I don’t trust the kind of people who take their children to a mall playground. They’d probably get fake cheese on your Graco, maybe steal your diaper bag. I realize that I consume fake cheese and take my own children to a mall playground but at least I am not conducting cold calls to international residents like the ponytailed man sitting in the corner, taking notes on a clipboard and not even pretending to be watching over a kid. He must rack up some kind of minutes on that phone of his. (“Is this Maria? Maria? Is there a Maria there? Maria. Is there one? I’m trying to reach a Maria?”) Don’t sit next to that guy.
Otherwise, it doesn’t matter quite where you sit, because this place has zero visibility. Kids are hanging from the rafters but you can’t see them. There’s some sort of bend in time-space, maybe a mirage/light refraction thing going on, because no matter where you sit you will not be able to see more than three feet on either side of you. It might be better if you remember to bring a bell to tie around your preschooler’s neck. If you don’t hear it jingling, you’ll know to alert mall security.
Oh, and just when you remove your kid’s shoes and shove him off into the jungle of strange, germy, strangey kids, your other child, the baby, will just … how can I euphemize this? He will drop one. A big one. The smell alone will alienate other parents from your bench.
You have two choices: Pretend it didn’t happen, leaving your precious infant to stew in rash-causing matter. Gross. Or, change him right there, knowing the risk of getting diaper-blowout poop everywhere. Also gross. You could call that diaper Morton’s Fork. I leave the decision up to you, as an individual, and your public-poop comfort level.
Once you’ve made peace with your decision, try to find your kid so you can take a cameraphone shot of him having a good time. You’ll be able to wield it as proof, later, when your spouse wonders why you let the kids watch so much TV — because getting them out of the house is a motherfucker, that’s why. Only, guess what? You can’t find the kid! I told you to bring a bell.
This portion will get your heart racing and really test your reflexes, because you’ll need to hang on to your baby as you run around the Greater Metropolitan Tiny Tot Area, panicked. Don’t worry, your kid is safe. He is laying on his back at the foot of the slide, having some sort of moody, adolescent crisis because the boy in the cool Ravens jersey isn’t playing with him. Tip: Never let them see you sweat. Kids can smell fear, as you know. Pretend you were just going to remind him of how much fun he’s having; otherwise, be prepared for a meltdown. Actually, prepare for a meltdown, regardless. In T-minus three minutes, your baby is going to finally vocalize his opinion of a napless afternoon, and you are going to have to convince a preschooler at the zenith of a good time to put his shoes on and go home.
It’s time to withdraw the troops before further casualties occur. Once the screaming subsides, package the kids up in the stroller and aim for the elevator. Kick yourself for parking near the Apple store, which will taunt you with teeny, glossy, touch-screened sirens. Kick yourself for spilling the last of your Coke. Kick yourself for — oh, any number of things. But the kicking can wait until you’ve figured out a way to get you and your precious cargo up three floors and out the double doors without causing harm to innocent bystanders. If you can manage that, I’ve got a country for you to run.
Or at the very least, two precious children for you to baby-sit.
Cormac, eight months
Hard to believe Mac is eight months old already. He has one tooth, enjoys standing, and is sleeping through the night again. He shrieks with joy when he wakes up in the morning and is a holy terror if he doesn’t go to bed on time. He loves pears. Hates green vegetables. Just mastered the pincher grasp and enjoys picking up Rice Krispies.
He is skinny thing but long. Kicks every hour of every day, just like he did in utero. Loves his brother. Hates being on his tummy. Has no patience for rolling over from back to front but is chomping at the bit to walk. Does this thing where he sucks in his upper lip and makes a face. Recently learned to clap. Still spits up on a regular basis. Will chew on everything he gets his hands on. Likes to play peekaboo with me.
Answers to Cormac, Mac, Mackie, Bitty Boo, Mick-Mack, Mickey, Macro and Bubba.
Makes me fall in love with him all over again on minute-by-minute basis.
I’m learning to speak Cormackese
Cormac taught me a new word. He made it up; you can see it above. It’s sign language. He puts his left arm in the air, and then brings his head down to that shoulder. After a lot of trial and error, I found that he does that to mean, Pick me up, which in Owen parlance was “Uppee.” Most kids just hold their arms out, I think, but Cormac does a definitive archer-type pose and then the head movement.
I haven’t done as much signing with Mac as I did with Owen, but nevertheless he is learning to communicate in his own preverbal way. This is one of the reasons I find having children to be a fascinating anthropological study — watching them develop communication, for one. Watching Mac develop a relationship with his older brother is another. It’s all kind of universal to humans, and it’s all kind of specific to each kid. Fascinating.
And way cute.
recent flickr
-
my sewing tutorials
See my tutorials featured on SMS' Handmade Holidays!
Me, elsewhere
- del.icio.us bookmarks
- flickr photolog
- last.FM music profile
- please send vodka
- ravelry knitting notebook
- twitter tiny updates
Et cetera
blog hosting: Meancode Media