So, this morning, I was fixing some breakfast for the baby and while we were waiting for the toaster, I said, “Hey, come here!” He immediately jumped into my arms and we hugged and hugged and hugged. I gave him some kisses and he started giggling and peppering my face and neck with kisses. I laughed and tried to hide my neck and it was such a gag-worthy, cute moment.
Until the baby said, “You bastard!”
Sigh. I mean, obviously, he has no idea what that means. At least, I don’t think so. I just told him not to say it again and we moved on with our lives. I did NOT get super immature and snot, “Yeah, well, at least my parents were married when I was born.” Because that would be mean and stupid and a tad messed up.
So, I was all impressed with myself (and the sister-in-law) after the success of our cupcakes and decided to tackle a baking project that I’ve had my eye on for awhile: homemade English Muffins. I’ve had the tab for that recipe open in my browser for like two months and last night I finally decided to go for it, since I actually had all of the ingredients and some time to mess around.
It’s probably obvious to many of you smart folks that baking yeasty products on a humid June night in Pittsburgh is a Dumb Idea, but I’ve always turned my nose up at conventional wisdom.
See, everything was pretty much fine until I got to the kneading part. I’m sure that I’ve bitched about my tiny kitchen on here before, but let me reiterate that I do NOT have counters. Like, there just aren’t any. I have a patch of space next to the sink that houses the dish rack (er, well, a towel that I rest pots and pans on to dry), an apartment dishwasher with a few feet of space on top, and the stove. That’s it. Those are my working surfaces. I’ve moved prep operations out to the dining room table before but it’s obviously kind of a pain. So last night I decided to just clean the six or seven inches of space between the burners of the stove and do the kneading there.
So, not only did the dough start touching the gross burners almost immediately, since it was hot, the dough just got stickier and stickier…and I could not extract my hands from it. I spent about 15 minutes going, “Oh my god. Oh my god. I don’t believe this shit. Oh, shit. Where’s my wedding ring?”
Sigh. I let the dough rise in the fridge overnight and haven’t had a chance to actually cook the suckers, so whether or not the whole project is a failure remains to be seen.
However, I am happy to report that the baby and I went to the dentist today and neither of us has cavities! Woohoo! I was pretty concerned about the state of my teeth since it’s been about a year since I had them cleaned and I had a very sensitive spot in between two of my bottom teeth. I braced myself for them to say things like “root canal” or “fuck this, you’re getting dentures,” but it turns out that one of my gums is receding a little and I just need to be a little more vigilant with my brushing and flossing.
The hygienist lectured me on letting the baby brush his own teeth and I was starting to feel a little irritated since she kept saying stuff like, “And MOMMY is going to brush your teeth, right?” and “Yes, Dr. Dentist, and the baby’s mom agreed to pay more attention to his brushing habits.” God, lady, back off. She reminded me of the Wii balance board which, if you didn’t know, is a snarky little asshole. The last time I got on that thing it asked me if the baby had improved any and I said no because I’ve pretty much accepted that he’s going to be in the -15th percentile for weight until puberty. And you know what that thing said to me? It said, “Maybe you should pay more attention to the baby.” So I “accidentally” jumped on it during the ski jump game. I don’t like passive aggressive electronics.
Of course, it’s been like two weeks since I’ve done the Wii Fit and I can just imagine the earful I’m going to hear from that thing now.
Brace yourself, betches. I bring the mushiness with this post.
Left: first day of kindergarten. Right: last day of kindergarten.
I feel the need to explain that he is standing a few feet closer to the camera in the second picture, so his little growth spurt is exaggerated. He’s not that much taller, but he is shooting up faster than I can say “flood pants.”
These pictures make me think of the ending scenes in Juno. As Juno recovers with Bleeker, Vanessa peers into the nursery trying to peek at the new baby. The nurse steps out and asks Vanessa if she would like to meet her son. Vanessa, stunned, does not answer yes or no, but instead repeats, incredulously, “I have a son.”
The incredible thing about parenthood is how different it is for everyone, and how similar at the same time. Vanessa does not give birth to her child, but the moment she says the words, “I have a son,” for the first time, their bond is solidified. As incredible as it was to say, “I have a son,” on December 6, 2001, it’s even more amazing every time I say it. Today, saying, “I have a son. He is now a first-grader,” I feel the same thrill that I did when I declared that he was a member of this world, that he shall forever be known as a human being and a citizen of this planet, as my son.
Parenthood does not have a single origin or formula, but the results are always thrilling.
I have a son. He is a first-grader. He reads. He writes. He still wraps his arms and legs around me in the morning when I get him out of bed.
Internets, I don’t mind telling you that I had a rather lovely and restful weekend. On Saturday morning, we took the baby to tee-ball and were happy to sit in some shaded bleachers. The moms in front of us provided the entertainment by talking in hushed tones about their psychic, who told one mom that she saw a flooded basement in the future. There was much gasping when that mom revealed that not six weeks later, there was some heavy rain (in Pittsburgh of all places!) and her brother’s girlfriend’s roommate’s dog’s basement flooded. Freaky, right?
After tee-ball, the husband went to work and the baby and I pretty much just relaxed the rest of the day. We put in some quality time with the Wii.
When the husband came home from work, we walked to the main boulevard. We passed some honeysuckle and the smell was intoxicating. The husband helped me to drink a drop of honeysuckle water and I finally believed that summer was here. We stopped into the state store so that I could gather the materials necessary to quench my craving for chilled white wine. Then we got some ice cream and practically skipped home, it was all so la-di-da.
Sunday morning, I rolled out of bed and rustled the family together. We go to the tee-ball field and were dismayed to see that no one was there. Alas, it was Junior Pirates day at PNC Park. But we had no desire to sit at the ballpark on a 90+ degree day, so we just went home. We ate some breakfast on the porch and just sat out there for a few hours, reading and enjoying the lovely day. Later, we went over to my mother-in-law’s house where I spent at least 3 hours drifting around on a raft in the pool. And I didn’t even get sunburned.
I love summer.
The husband noted that over the weekend, we watched three movies, all of which were about someone(s) being held captive: Turistas, Black Snake Moan, and An American Crime.
Turistas was just rather stupid, I fell asleep halfway through Black Snake Moan but what I saw of it was pretty meh. It also made me want to take a shower really badly. An American Crime was complicated. I felt that the way the story was presented, with the victim as the first-person, posthumous, omniscient narrator was tacky. Of course, Ellen Page and Catherine Keener are amazing no matter what they do and it was a very blunt way of showing how abuse can turn even its victims into monsters, thus continuing the cycle, but that often the people who say nothing in a situation like that are almost as disgusting as the abusers themselves. Obviously, since it was based on a true story, it was really depressing and there were more than a few moments where I had to emotionally distance myself from what I was watching. Otherwise, I would have had some kind of breakdown.
Ahem. Anyway. On Wednesday, the baby will finish up kindergarten and I will officially be the mother of a first-grader. Oh my holy hell.
I am so tired. So, so tired. I will have more substantial posts tomorrow, but for now I want to tell you what sucks about coming home in the middle of the week from your vacation in Detroit that included the ER at Henry Ford Hospital, alcohol, roller skating, British guys, and Moby.
What sucks is that I had to just drop back into life and, like, parent and shit. This morning, I pried my eyes open after a grand total of 3 hours of sleep and when I got downstairs and started packing the baby’s lunch, I realized that the bread was moldy. Of course it was; it’s got to be two weeks old at this point. For the past few weeks, the baby has been whining that he wants peanut butter crackers for lunch and I would argue that that isn’t a substantial lunch and blah blah blah I want you to thrive or some shit. So, this morning, I’m sure you can imagine me standing at the counter (read: the stove…we don’t have any counters and FUCK), eyes half-closed, hair all askew, toaster oven ticking away, and moldy bread poised to incite hallucinations to those brave enough to eat it, realizing that oh my god, I am going to have to send my child to school with peanut butter crackers for lunch.
I played it off pretty well, though. I went into the living room where the baby was and said, “Hey! Guess what’s for lunch today? PEANUT BUTTER CRACKERS HOLY SHIT YOU ARE THE LUCKIEST KID ALIVE!” The baby was, in fact, pretty excited. However, he didn’t see me flailing at the heavens when I realized that the box of Saltines that I never pay attention to was two years old. But since I am Mom Bot 5000, I had a back-up box in the pantry. That box only expired in March so I declare myself officially On Top of Shit.
I sent him off with his peanut butter crackers, some applesauce, and a small bag of pumpernickel-and-onion pretzel sticks that I bought at a rest stop in Ohio yesterday. I think he had shoes on, but I can’t be sure.
I went back inside and realized that my brilliant idea to get started on the laundry last night was maybe not so brilliant since all of my bras were soaking in the wash tub, gleefully sopping wet. Also, did I mention that I put the baby on the bus sans brasserie? And the bus driver was blasting “Summertime” by Will Smith and I had to resist the urge to go, “Awwwwwwwwww shit, son!” I tossed the bras in the dryer and reveled in the fact that I had such a great excuse for showing up to work late.
The more I write down the details of my life, the more I find myself struggling to complete sentences.
Tee-ball started yesterday and that means that I no longer get to sleep in on weekends. The fact that I then sit and watch the baby be all cute for two hours mostly makes up for it, though. I forgot my camera, but trust me when I tell you that tee-ball is adorable. The baby, being a veteran at this point with one season of tee-ball already under his belt, got to swing at some live pitches and actually connected with the ball twice. That means that his hitting skills have already surpassed mine by 3,000%.
Youth baseball is so fun in our neighborhood if for no other reason than the people-watching. The yinzer population is high and yesterday a woman walked past us and, in a pristine Pittsburgh accent, said to her unhappy child, “Stawp cryin’. I bawt yew some Cawmbows.” You plain-tongued folks would pronounce it, “Stop crying. I bought you some Combos.” Awesome on multiple levels.
After tee-ball, I had to go to a “ladies’ lunch.” My grandmother invites all of my hammy-armed aunts (and me!) to lunch at her country club twice a year. Well, “invites” is a strong word. In my case, anyway. Usually my invitation comes in the form of a phone call in which my mom or grandmother tells me, “The ladies’ lunch is on x date. You have to go.” And it’s remarkable because the lunches are always smack dab in the middle of my busiest times. I’ve bowed out of the last few, but even though I told those wannabe matriarchs that I have, like, four projects due for school plus other shit I need to do, they still insisted. My mom told me that my absence would be disrespectful, which…you know fucking whatever. I’m not going to get into it, but that brand of manipulation really doesn’t sit well with me.
Me: “Dude, I don’t have time for this shit. Those lunches always take four hours.”
Mom: “It will not take four hours. We’ll stay for lunch and that’s it.”
So I went. And FIVE hours later I finally got home. The husband and the baby and I went to the Waterfront to try to buy shoes since we’re all sporting some stinky, disintegrating kicks. DSW was, of course, closed at that point so we just zipped over to the movie theater to catch Iron Man.
Dudes. That movie is kind of the shit. It’s all about redefining the American Hero. And also the CGI is rad and Robert Downey, Jr. is amazing and also BOOM SMASH RAHHHH FLYING!
They showed the preview for the new Indiana Jones movie and I don’t know if I can get more impatient for a movie to come out. I am so geeked for some Nazis and for some offensively generic tribal people.
That’s all I wanted to say. Also, the baby is, I guess, entering that phase where he tries to touch everything with his penis. That’s a phase, right? Like, I’m not raising a flasher, right?
Things are starting to go into warp speed. In the next week, I have to finish up a big project for one class that includes a website redesign, a report, and a presentation. I have a final paper due in two weeks for my other class and I’m putting that off until I’m done with the other project. I have big stuff coming up for my job in the next two weeks as well.
Also, our car died a few weeks ago and we’re trying to figure out how to procure a new one. I wish we could just do without one, but it’s absolutely not an option. Not in this city. So, basically we’re trying to determine just how much debt we want to go into. I’m scared, frankly.
All of this is making me more than a little tense. I’m unconsciously clenching my jaw constantly, and that’s just giving me headaches and making me tired.
But in just two weeks, I can relax a little.
Of course, the crappiest part of all of this is how little time I’ve had to spend with the baby and when I have had time I’ve been either exhausted or a humongous bitch.
Last night, after he put his pajamas on, I sent him to the bathroom to brush his teeth. While he was doing that, I laid down on the bed and closed my eyes. When he was done, he came in and crawled onto the bed with me.
“Are you sad?” he asked.
“No, I’m just tired, buddy.”
He reached over and rubbed my back and then kissed me on the forehead. I looked at him and smiled.
“Thanks, buddy.”
He smiled back, then said, “Your eyes look like the ocean.”
I was going to write about how this morning when I woke up the baby he sleepily told me to “put on a talent show,” and how I was like, “I do everything else for you, I’m not fucking tapdancing, too,” and then how later, when I was trying to get him dressed, he simultaneously got a nosebleed, started peeing, farting, and sneezing and then a few minutes later wiped a gigantic booger on the hand towel and how he seems to have grown 3 inches since 7 p.m. last night because his pants are way too short and I’ve been having these really bizarre nightmares that I can’t remember any details of, other than “there were some people.”
But I thought about all of that and I said to myself, “This is all stupid,” so I didn’t post this. So the fact that you’re reading this is truly a feat of science. You should contact the media about your awesome ability to conjure non-existent blog posts.
That’s my son in a picture I took a few seconds ago.* He’s wearing his storm trooper costume and has been for the better part of the last 30 hours or so. Yesterday morning he woke me up and told me he was cold and I told him to go put his robe on. A few minutes later, I walked past his room on my way to the bathroom and saw him wearing that.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, I couldn’t find my robe so I put this on instead,” he replied.
Of course.
I just realized that you can also see our cat, Greedo, in that picture and that currently the Star Wars dorkiness factor in this room alone is through the roof.
In really awesome news, our car hoopty died once and for all. We’re trying to come up with creative methods of paying for a new one. So far, we’ve come up with:
1) yard sale
2) ?
Right now, we’re sharing our mother-in-law’s car and obviously that’s no long-term solution. But something has to happen this week, so that’ll be interesting.
Regarding my recent neglect of this area of the internet, I can only point to school and work as the culprit. In fact, my life over the past two weeks and probably for the next three weeks can be best summed up by this video:
I chose to get in the tire that is grad school, but during my descent I quickly realized that I am a total masochist. At the end of this semester, I will emerge dazed and say, “I hate that. I hate it so bad.” Then I will repeat this for at least four more semesters or until I chew my own face off. Whichever comes first.
Anyway, as if I haven’t saturated these internets enough, I finally got some twitter action, which sounds rather dirty. So, if you have a hankering for some stream-of-consciousness diddy, check that space.
*by pointing my laptop at him and snapping the shot with Photobooth. What? The digital camera is in the next room and it’s Sunday and I’m exercising my right to fuse my ass to the couch.
