Party Planning Post-party 'pocalypse

Baby Harry is turning one this Friday.

Which turns this chubby monster...

...into THIS grinning monster!!!

And this rather angelic looking monster, too! :)

So, since it's been a year - Baby Harry is turning one this Friday.

And, to quote every mother everywhere, it hardly seems like that much time has passed.

I think it was just a few weeks ago that I was holding him while he cried, fed him while he cried, and bounced him - while he cried.

And although his tears are now saved for frustration fits and for making me feel like crap for not letting him lick the china cabinet, I am still planning his first party.

I had originally wanted a small, informal, party but his father wanted different.

So I gave in.

And did ya'all know that you have to give party bags/favors to all kids just for attending?

I mean, all we got when I was a kid was a free piece of icing-less cake (my sister had convinced me it was gross so she could eat all the sugary goodness) and maybe a tiny scoop of PET ice cream.

But now you are expected to have coordinating plates, napkins, themes, tableware, cups, and food and snacks as well as cake and cupcakes.

And the damn favor bags.

So, as I'm pouring over my todo's last night, taking in "buy ice" and "serving utensils?" my husband sighed and, with the look of a well-seasoned traveler said: "I wish we would've just had a small family party."

So I stabbed him in the eye with a Banana Tootsie Pop.

Nah, but I wanted to.

Instead, I turned the page in my Dr. Suess-themed notebook and wrote "Family Party" on the top and started making lists for a small party - IN ADDITION to the bigger one on Saturday.

Lord give me strength to do what is asked of me as a mother.

And to, ya know, not stab my hubs with candy confections.

:)

Now You See Me...

Baby Harry can be quite the handful. He will love on you like you are his long-lost friend one minute and then the next he will headbutt you and kick you in your man-junk to get at your Iphone.

But he's cute - so he gets away with it.

Case in point:

My dad came over to watch Baby Harry so that I could empty the car of groceries, take out the trash and, I dunno, BREATHE for a minute. Harry is always very excited to see his Papaw ever since my father got down in the floor of his colonial-based home and pretended to be a cat to make the kid giggle. Complete with cat toys. And sound effects. For ten minutes.

Tonight, Dad came in, leather bomber jacket on, smile on his face and hair, as usual, sticking up like he had just been electrocuted (which, for those who know my father, we all know this could be a reality).

He swooped up his grandchild who smiled sweetly at him, snuggled up against him --- and grabbed his glasses from around his neck and tossed them deftly into the murky sink water three feet away.

I instantly admonished him for his baby-rudeness but, while I cleaned the bits of cobbler off of my father's glasses, I couldn't help but be slightly impressed with his aim.

:)

Oh, and, just a thought - anyone know if the Terrible Two's can start early - say at eleven and a half months????

The Mentalist

I was perusing the newly released DVDs when I felt a pair of eyes on me -staring. Not wishing to be rude, I flipped around to the endcap and shuffled down the next aisle.

"Hello!" said the staring stranger as he managed to block an entire Walmart aisle with his 5 foot frame. He smiled warmly at me from under a barrage af misplaced tattoos, piercings and rebel flag gear.
Not wanting to be rude --- or hacked into a zillion pieces in the Media section , I chirped "Hi!" back, smiled a big fake smile and then walked briskly back to my menfolk.

When the Harrys and I finally left I remarked I was relieved and told him about the guy who was staring at me.

"Oh," he said. "What, was he like old or something? Mental?"

I paused in the act of strapping in our wiggly 11 month old and met Big Harry's eyes in the rearview.

"So, lemmie get this straight. You think that the only reason a guy would stare at me is if he was senile or crazy." I tried to keep a straight face. "NOT that he thought I was cute or anything? Dick!"

"No, I, no!" my husband sputtered as he put the car in gear and avoided my gaze. "You said he- you made it sound - see? THIS is why people think I'm an ass! Don't post this on Facebook!"

"I won't," I assured him. "Dick."

Winkies, Pinkies and Ding Dongs

Why do parents insist on naming their child's man bits things that are bound to scar them for life?

I know grown men who still blush at the word "penis" and balk at the word "vagina."

I blame the baby boomers.

THEIR parents just didn't talk about body parts. Such things weren't discussed but baby Boomers? They were Bound and determined to be more open.

Mostly.

So "willy" and "johnson" and "peepee" and "dinky" were so christened.

My mother followed this crooked path as well. I was in my twenties before I could pronounce the name of the female and male sex organs without dissolving into ugly fits of girlish laughter.

But I still can't look anyone named "Lucy" straight in the eye.

;)

Cherry-poppin' McD's

Tonight I decided to partake in a little fast food "food." since nutritional value was not a concern my first instinct was for a nice frothy, simple milkshake from McDonald's.
I wanted that sweet, cold, sinful beverage to carry me through the remainder of the night as I catered to the every whim and demand of my increasingly violent 11 month old. (He totally gave Daddy a fatlip yesterday. Awwwwwesome!).
But when the man/woman/Overly-made-up worker handed me a plastic cup - I was a little taken back.
And then I spied it.
A cherry.
On my vanilla milkshake.
Infiltrating it.
Oozing into it.
So I steered with one hand, pulled over into a space and flicked the offensive and intrusive semi-fruit into the parking lot.
I was not pleased and was tempted to go back and ask them for another, minus the fruufruu.
Instead I took a massive gulp, closed my eyes - and gagged. The shake tasted like it was made with refrozen ice cream and vomit.
Yay.
So I flipped the rest of the "treat" out the window.
Nah. Not really.
But I shoulda!!!!

Behind Door #1

Tonight I pushed open my car door, felt it resist, cursed at it for being "broken," and shoved it as hard as I could.
"AAAAAGH!" I heard someone yell and saw my Husband flying across the driveway.
"Oh! I thought you were getting in the back!" I said.
"No," he said, rubbing his stomach where the car door had slammed into him, " I was coming to help you!"
"Oh. And I - I - HIT YOU WITH THE DOOR!" I screamed with laughter as he took the child from me, shook his head and walked away.
"I HIT YOU WITH THE DOOOOOOOR!" I laughed even harder. "THE DOOR!" ;)

Princess and the Pee

Before I had a child, I was completely self-obsessed. And really happy about it.

I slept when I want.

I ate when I want.

I went to the bathroom when I so pleased.

And I was content.

Then I had a baby.

And here was this little screaming monster/angel (depending upon his mood) who needed me to make sure he could eat when he wanted, poop when he wanted and sleep when he wanted.

And I oblige.

But tonight I was hoping for a miracle. I was praying for an easy bottle/cuddle/bed and off he would go into Dreamland. So, to say I was not paying attention when I was changing his diaper would be a gross understatement. Anyone who has ever faced the infant penis knows this - approach with caution - it's loaded. But I, in my stupor and lack of sleep, forgot.

So I lowered the diaper and - was super soaked.

He grabbed the new diaper from me and started giggling hysterical while twisting like a curly fry on an Arby's platter - and just as warm and greasy as one too!

And that, my dear friends, is how this Princess met her Pee.

Look for the next installment in this series: Whiney the Pooh, out soon!