Seven Year (B)Itch

This Monday, June 21st, marks my seven-year wedding anniversary with my hubs and we hit the "Seven Year Itch." Based on pre-conceived and popular notions, I believe this seven year milestone entitles me to a Pool Boy. Or a Gardner.

I mean, seriously. It's hot here and I've got some overgrown bushes. No, really, I do.

:)

Welcome to Harry's Baby Life

As is well documented, my baby makes no small show when he is making "presents." So while my sister was enjoying the lunch I made for her, my darling baby decided to start grunting like a pig in heat.

Rushing like a footballer, I tucked him under my arm and rushed to the changing table and, breathing only through my mouth lest I pass out from the foulness and squish my newbie, I pulled down his diaper. Elmo seemed to be warning me from the waistband, but I pressed on.

It was empty.

"Well, Harry!" I said and stepped off to the side to grab the nail clippers as his tiny toe just cut a gash in my arm.

I turned back around to see - a fountain. My baby was grinning and peeing a stream that was reaching a good two feet in the air and drowning the yellow duckies on his footy pajamas.

"You did that on purpose," I said to him as I stripped him down to his (new) diaper.

He's been like that all day.

Earlier he grabbed my thumb between his two pink gums and chomped and then licked it. When I asked for it back - he grinned - not releasing my digit but instead having a grand ol' time increasing pressure slowly - just to see what I would do.

I may have watched too much "Family Guy" while I was pregnant...

I'm scared of my baby. :)

Will Work for Sparkles

Today I revisited my youth by volunteering mine and my sister's services as pageant judges. In the pre-JeanBenet world of pageantry, the biggest "Glitz" accessory was the occasional can of spray glitter or a "flipper" to fill in that one missing front tooth. So I am often unprepared for the amount of preparation that goes into pageants nowadays.

Case in point - a two year old today rocked a red, white and blue outfit as per the pageant requirements. But her mother had also sewn little seahorses and fish to the bottom of her sailor dress.

"Ohmygaw!" Summer gasped as the little girl turned to leave the stage and showed us the back of the tiny dress adorning her two year old frame.

Her bottom was completely covered in a red and white Lifesaver Tube.

As Summer and I left the pageant today, we were all a twitter (the emo not the app) because the director saw fit to give us two of the leftover star-spangled crowns. You'd have thought we won them the way we oohed and awwed over the tiny crowns with a red, white and blue star upon each.

"Arewegonnawearthemhome?" my sister asked in her normal non-pausing way, face shining with hope and anticipation.

"Well, duh!" I said and, as soon as we were safe inside her rustic Ford pickup - we plunked them on to our heads and adjusted our hair appropriately as any princess knows that hair placement is as important as the crown placement.

Pulling up to the window at Burger King we watched as each employee came to the window and handed us our change/food. And then paused. And looked at our sparkly heads.

We grinned.

It really is hard being this cool. hahaahha!

And Then There Were Two

Big Harry: "You feed him - I'll go get breakfast!"
Me: "Yay!"
Baby Harry: "UNNNNNNNH!"
Big Harry: "Byeeeee!" (cloud of dust in his wake)
Baby Harry: "UNNNNNNH! UNNNNH!"
Me: "Crap..." (begins mouth-breathing only)

My Changing Life

Today, for the first time, I changed my baby in a public restroom. I had, previously, been there for changings on relative's furniture and even for the occasional change in the back of my SUV (the latter of which had to be done in three different stops since my kid is not one to waste time and only defecates once a day. A BIG ONE. Once a day.).

Big Harry and I are strolling through Target and, once again, I am stuck muttering in the deodorant aisle since my particular brand seems to now be geared toward sweaty pre-teens instead of glistening housewives. I was delving through row after row of "pear blossom" and "cherry daffodil" or some crap like that when I heard a familiar sound coming from the cart.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnh!"

"Is he poopin'?" I asked Big Harry as he continued to prattle on about air filters or horsepower or percentages - things beyond my stuttered and drugged comprehension - "Is he?" I peered closely at my serious-faced child. His head was to the left. His blue eyes were shiny and - his face was beet red.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnh!" he repeated, lips pursed and face turning tomato-like.

I look at my husband. He looks at me. We race to the checkout line, unwilling to forgo our over-priced toiletries but praying that we can make it back to our home, a mere five minutes

down the road, before Poopgate 2010 began.

"Unnnnnnnh!" We're in the lane, and the cashiers, obviously being paid hourly, continue their slow and oh-so-difficult job of running items over a scanner in a speed usually reserved for Nursing Home relay races.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnnnh!" My baby grunted again - a loud and evil sound. And then the smell filled the air. That smell that can only be known by the parents of fussy children with sensitive systems being run on things like soy milk and oatmeal.

"Oh no," I said and sighed. I grabbed my Kate Spade overfilled diaper bag and plucked my child from his seat.

"I'll do it," Big Harry said, looking every bit the martyr as he heaved his large manly

shoulders and hung his large-but-cute-head in defeat.

"That's okay - I have my diaper bag. I'll do it."

"Okay!" he said and waved to me as my squirmy, stinky child and I headed toward the Target lavatory.

I had noticed the changing tables BK (Before Kid) but had always considered them to be, well, too icky to contemplate. A place where poop was harvested and pee was captured. The ironic part of it being located directly next to a toilet was lost on me.

Carefully, I plucked a paper towel from the dispenser and approached the plastic slab on the wall. Using the towel as a shield, I flipped the table down and set my bag upon it. I then laid

down my own changing pad (carefully constructed to match my Kate Spade bag but not, as it happens, to stay put as I chased my squirmy kid from one end to the other, dodging sneaky pee streams all the way).

"Unnnnnnnnnh!" Baby Harry grunted again as I laid him on the pad, removed his Jordan shoes and bright orange shorts and surveyed the damage.

One tiny pebble stared at me from the confines of his Big Bird diaper.

"Well that's not so bad!" I grinned at my baby and dug in my bag for a wipe - as he grunted again - a fierce and mighty UNNNNNNNNNNNH and - covered himself, my hand, and the rest

of his Big Bird diaper with yellow goo.

"Ewwwwww! Harry! Ewwww!" I laughed and tried to remember not to breathe through my nose.

"Well, that's still not so - AAAGH! HOW ARE YOU STILL POOPING?!?!" Like a secret agent my small child had lined up the shot, folded his chubby legs in the air and grunted like a sliverback gorilla as he delivered another barrage of poopy play-doh into the filled diaper.

A bag of wipes, two diapers and three handwashings later, I walked out to meet my husband. He took one look at me, a sweaty, disheveled mess with red cheeks and then looked at his happy, giggling son.

I expected him to offer to take the next round of poop roulette. Or to offer to get me a cool

beverage so as to recoup from the stank war I'd just waged - and sorta won. At the very least I expected him to lovingly wipe the beads of sweat from my hair so as to keep it from curling into a hick-fro.

"Hey," he offered instead. "What did you do with his shoes?"

Luckily, I was too parched to answer him with the string of curses that filled my mind as it would've required oral acrobatics that my tired self and dry mouth could not perform.

"In bag," I managed to reply and tossed (not literally) our kid at him. I slowly shuffled to the concession stand and purchased a bag of popcorn and a large Cherry Coke to make myself feel like a real person instead of a walking latrine. I savored the drink, letting its sweetness fill my mouth, bubble on my tongue and rehydrate my very soul (I'm country. We like our pop. Get over it.).

I then dug into my popcorn, grabbing a handful with glee and stuffing it into my face - when I realized something.

My hand smelled like poop.

Even after multiple handwashings up to each elbow - the stinky baby butt smell permeated from the pores in my hand - which was now filled with popcorn.

Which I ate anyway.

I really am adjusting to motherhood...

Sleeping Beauties Green with Envy

Both Harrys are sleeping peacefully right now. Both have arms and legs flailed and both are snoring softly. United in slumber I am again reminded how outnumbered I am as they frolic through dreamland and I stare at the wall trying to remember if I took the sheets out of the washer.
My days are filled with the stresses of keeping my baby, Señor Fussybutt, fed and happy. This is my new job. And, to discredit myself as a mother, it really can suck sometimes. As much as I love my baby, I find myself yearning for those things I now miss: movies, free time to write, personal hygeine and showering daily. Sigh. Oh and sleep. I miss lazy Saturdays and sleeeeeeeep!
Sometimes I'll be watching tv and see a mom with curled hair and darkened lashes and think: "When did she have time for THAT?!" and then I remember --it's fiction.
So although I have little time for fashion, romance, and, unfotunately, hygeine, I am constantly amazed at my little guy and his ability to make me smile one minute and be terrified of his lil' 12 pound ass the next.
Motherhood, so far, is kinda smelly, kinda weird, kinda tiring (a lot!) and kinda great.

One Month - Really?

A month ago today I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Harry, who was named after his father, grandfather and great-grandfather.

I'd love to say that things have been easy but as many of you parents know - babies are hard! Baby Harry has had tummy issues, gas issues, spit-up issues, latching issues and pretty much any other issue that a kid who's only been around for a few weeks could have. Which, to say the least, has drained this new mother to the point of having to ask the doctor for "Happy Pills." I'm not one to admit defeat easy so trying to pretend that everything was hunky dory while sobbing hysterically 24 hours a day, not eating and puking more than when I was prego - well - that was not a fun task.

But he really is a beautiful baby.

He's strong.

He's loud.

He's mine.

I'd post more but due to my lack of brain power, sleep and properly balanced hormones, I will have to save it for later.

Oh - his stats: Birth date: 3/25/10. 8 pounds, 3 ounces. 21.5 inches long and he has a full head of hair, pretty olive skin and blue-grey eyes.