Seriously? Where did my time go?

With all the manic window display sketches and flickr boutique studying and power point presentations (no joke) in preparation for Mothersville's spa day, my poor little blog has been getting the shaft. So, to recap:

I still have a baby. She has lots of rolls. She fell off of the couch on Friday and lucky for me and my marriage landed on the boppy pillow and not the hard, noggin-busting tiles. I am really, really glad for those rolls.

Harlow is just a few days shy of five months. She doesn't know that she has a few months to go before its time to start crawling, walking, or standing, but I'm not going to be the one to tell her. She puts the roly in roly-poly. She's interested in checking out the world while upside down and especially NOT while in the car seat. The pumping has gotten easier. The bottle feeding? Not so much. Warm, soft, nuzzly mom or plastic? I don't see the problem here.



She really digs her exersaucer, spending the majority of her time gumming the poor Albi the dragon to death. But he's racist, so I figure he deserves it.

Bring All Your Dreams Alive

So I have another baby.

It’s been keeping me up at night. It’s making it hard to update this blog regularly, let alone fold some laundry or remember to feed the pets. But it’s worth it.

I’m a bidness lady!

I’m so thrilled to announce that in the glorious tradition of English major mamas with negligible retail experience, I’m the newest co-owner of Mothersville, a natural parenting store in Cooper-Young. I’ve recalled here how much the store came to mean to me in the foggy early days of postpartumpalooza. The Wednesday playgroup welcomed me and my snoozy baby with open arms. Then there was the owner Andria, nine months pregnant and still showing up to work every morning. Picture the wit of Hugh Laurie without the acid, the ratatat comebacks of a Nora Charles, the cool blonde of a Hitchcock heroine - AND a completely nonjudgemental attitude when it comes to Parenting 101, and you'll understand why she maintains such a loyal following. There was her plea to the universe for help, and the stunning realization that one of the coolest, most unique stores in Memphis - I'll be honest - one of the few reasons I was happy to have moved to Memphis, period - was going to be taken away from us. So, with a lot of thought but with a much stronger gut reaction, I decided to jump into the fray. I know it couldn't have been the easiest decision for her to take on a partnership with someone she is just getting to know, let alone someone with the spastic energy equivalent of a Scrappy Doo. (I do eventually simmer down. I promise!) But as I remind her every five minutes, I'm truly excited to help usher Mothersville into its next incarnation.

Which will be a Xanadu rollerskating themed boutique! Breastfeeding on skates. Disco balls and boobs. Hell, Michael Beck is from Memphis. We can totally do an in-store appearance.

It's gonna be magic.

Some serious catching up to do

Monday marked the anniversary of my gorgeous niece Avery's arrival on the planet, but because Monday parties are lovely in theory but trickier to arrange around work days, the Subers, Andersons and Sweazys converged in the Lakeland on Saturday for some cake eating (her first ever), present opening (she's already a seasoned vet) and allergic reactions (Caleb's). He managed to finagle his second allergic reaction in 2 months - there were hives, women clucking and a hectic doctor visit, and then the man went and managed to play a show later that evening without even incorporating his extreme discomfort into his stage patter.

Avery took the liberty of using the party to announce her first word. I promise to get the video footage uploaded so you can witness the moment yourself. In the meantime, here's a hint. George Carlin would approve. And as my sister swears on the tape that that word is not used in their house, apparently he taught it to her as well.

Grandma Sue stayed the weekend with us, so there were dates to be had! But in order for their to be dates, I had to pump which, unfortunately, has become a problem over the past several weeks. Three visits to Mothersville and various shields and membranes and tubing later, I got it working. I don't know what did it, but there was milk for the baby and Matt Damon for me. And we had dinner! Sans baby! We cruised over to Spindini and had some excellent wine, some not so excellent toasted ravioli and some pretty decent pollo parmigiana. I was just psyched to see the place packed on a Sunday night.

Which brings us to last Monday - and another giant milestone that slipped by quietly and unnoticed.

It's been a year since we moved here.

One whole year of misgivings and extreme doubt and la craigslist surfing and sad emails and wouldn't you know it? I was too busy with projects and baby wrangling and new friends to even notice.

And before I dive into what has gotten me so preoccupied as of late, some baby recaps:

Harlow took a spin in her first exersaucer. It creeped me out to no end to be purchasing something with the words Baby Einstein on the box, yet, at the end of the day after she played in it happily for 45 minutes, I was considering redoing the entire house so that it is one giant Baby Einstein obstacle course.

No toof, no proof - YET - I swear that child is teething. It's the gumming everything within 2 feet, the buckets of drool, the waking up 3 times a night and the tiniest shadow of a bump that's got me thinking.

4:13 AM

Dear Baby,

Please stop waking up.

I know you are capable of sleeping through the night.

You've done it before.

Seems like weeks ago.

When you woke up at 1? And it's now 4:13? And I've watched every minute tick by in between?

That felt like weeks ago too.

Hopeless

Yep. Still a crappy baker.




At least I have an adorable sous chef.

Cool

It only occurred to me today that trying to take a picture of Harlow with my camera phone while she was nursing because I thought from that angle she looked like my mom - and then sent it to her - might be kind of weird.

Today, from a similar angle, I thought she resembled Sam Eagle. Didn't get a pic of that one.

Milestone recaps of the week:

Murphy made her giggle for like five minutes straight. I don't know how rushing up to her car seat and taking off again was comedy gold, but he made her laugh. So he gets to stay.
She has discovered her feet. She seems to think they will taste good.
She rolled over from back to front, which isn't exactly new, but this time she actually pushed herself up into her tummy time position.
She was called a boy only 37 times this week, down from the average 59 or so.
Someone called me a cool mom. It's kindof my own milestone. I didn't think you could really qualify as one until word got out that you let your kid sip some wine with dinner or that you stock the pantry with contraband sugary cereal. Not sure if I really did anything to warrant such praise, but I'm taking it.

Nephews

And for my final catchup post of the day...

We were very excited to have Caleb's sister Lara and her boys Max and Thomas hang out with us in Memphis for a quick trip. Max is seven and sly. Extremely observant, almost scarily so. Thomas is fond of animals and asking questions. LOTS of them. Here are some of my favorite from the trip:

1. Do graveyard dogs exist?

2. Has Murphy ever bitten anyone? Has Harlow?

3. Can dogs get black eyes?

4. Does Murphy have one human tooth?

5. If a mosquito bites you and it dies, does it hurt?

6. When you die, can I have your guitar?

Four Months Status Report

Dear Harlow,

You are four months old. You are 17 and a half pounds and 26 inches long, making you the most handsome 6 month old boy Memphis has ever seen. They've broken me, sweet baby. You wear a lot of pink these days, and flowers. I even found a bow on your skirt the other day, buried as it was under the mountains of ruffles. And they still address you as Lil Buddy. I don't know. Maybe baby business cards are next.

You are in the 95th percentile for weight, height and head size, so it should come as no surprise that I have guns that outmuscle Linda Hamilton. Need me to help move your couch? Your car? Your 17 and half pound baby and their carseat? I'm your girl. I am officially no longer worrying about your size as you are truly one of the strongest, most energetic, happiest babies I've ever seen. I will choose to worry about that self-inflicted cut on your tongue instead.

You are drooling. A lot. I was absolutely convinced you were teething until the doc said those little white specks on your gums are cysts. And that's ok. I've never heard of the Cyst Fairy but I'm sure he or she would be thrilled for the work. You love to sing, especially when your dad sings and plays the guitar. Sometimes you sound like a baby owl, and then you do this screechy, excited squeal, which is what I imagine a baby pterodactyl sounds like.

It turns out your eyes are blue. Who knew? said your hazel-eyed parents. They are this gorgeous shade of sapphire that truly isn't causing any feelings of jealousy in me to stir at all. Really.

Missouri

Dear Harlow,

In the four months you've been a citizen of the planet, you've already traveled to five states: Arkansas, Illinois, Florida, Colorado and Missouri. If only the state of bliss you travel to when you've managed to lure myself or your father into the backseat to keep you company was part of our country's glorious union, you'd be up to six by now. This recent trip to Missouri was bittersweet: a memorial service for your great grandparents, the stunningly gorgeous Idabelle Brown and her handsome, adoring husband Robert Rushin. I'm not being generous.



The Ava Gardner lookalike second from right? That would be Idabelle. That rock you occasionally try to chew off of my finger? Robert gave that to his bride who in turn gave it to your dad for me to wear. When he pulled it from his pocket, he said some words that were almost as pretty as she was.

The memorial service was held at a small wooded cemetery which apparently doubles as a vacation spot for our planet's sun. The car said it was 105 outside. I think it was being polite. Within minutes I had an impressive river of sweat running down both legs, but I was too busy trying to hold the umbrella over your head, sneak a few shots with the camera, and retrieve the bulk of my hair from my mouth as a gale force wind decided to kick up right as the pastor began to speak. Your great grandfather served in the military, so he was given a military sendoff, complete with a gun salute. You barely jumped when the rifles fired off. But honestly, we were more worried about the older gentlemen doing the shooting in polyester black slacks.


What truly was worrisome was the scarlet shade of red your face turned after I got you back to the car. Turns out you're not so good with the sweating thing yet. You eventually reverted back to a pleasant shade of cream, just in time for the Celebration of Life. With very yummy cake.




You're doing this thing now, where you squeal and wiggle and divebomb the necks of whoever's holding you like you're a baby vampire. Rather than expressing alarm, most folks at the party found this to be rather charming. I think a few of the older ladies almost came to blows rather than take turns holding you. I briefly got to eat some cake, chat with fellow new mom and dad Darcy and Mike and follow your squeals around the auditorium. You've got a pretty kickass family. They even reluctantly handed you over so we could make the trek back to Tennessee.

Roller Buggy!

Holy Crap! I. Must. Own. This.


More pics here.

Babycam

What the babycam sees

Rocky Mountain Babies

One of the things I love about my dad, in addition to his being a Mac and digital Nikon enthusiast happy to pass along the scraps, is his utter contempt of all things hot and humid, which is why you won't see him in Memphis in August. Instead, he and mom chill out in the Keystone pad in Colorado where humidity is banished at the gates, night time temperatures hover in the 40s and bakers with dreams of giant, buttery goodness offer up chocolately, butterscotchey cookies a mere scenic drive away. For the first time in two years, the whole family with babies in tow converged on the house for a week of hiking, eating, fly fishing, hottubbing, Harry Pottering, and generally doing nothing. Except working on my Memphis Magazine fiction contest entry when everyone went to bed, or when there wasn't a Flight of the Conchords episode on, or more cookies that needed to be eaten...

The weeks leading up to the trip found both of us stressed to high heaven, worried about the altitude's potential affect on the bebe. The Keystone house is at 9500 feet - anything above 8000 is considered high altitude. I know I feel like crap the first day or two after getting there, but what about the bebe? Screaming doesn't tell me if her head hurts, if her nose is dry, if she's dehydrated, if her brain is swelling and about to explode... You can pretty much find what you are looking for online, so a few keystrokes informed me that swelling of the brain is indeed a potential threat travelling from sea level to altitude. Several panicked phone calls and emails later, mom informed me that she had polled the Colorado neighbors who swore up and down that their grandbabies had visited when they were brand new - and no, their brains didn't explode.

And neither did Harlow's. Aside from eating every couple of hours around the clock like a newborn, all was well. I have pics to prove it, although it looks like we never even left the living room.

Overprotective

It's days like these that I can begin to understand why a girl may grow up to write treacly pop songs, shave her head and forget to wear underwear for a week.

We're trying hard not to be such freaks over the well being and safety of our child. But you take a pontoon boat, 45 degree water, high altitude sun and near non-stop images of my child sinking like an adorable stone to the bottom of Lake Dillon and we let that parental freak flag fly. To Harlow's dismay, we took full advantage of the life jackets on board, cramming her into a heavy knit sweater and then stuffing her into an inflatable jacket so confining it made her arms stick straight out at the sides, so she kinda resembled a rainbow colored 747 ready for takeoff. She couldn't bend at the waist, reach her hands to chew on them - much less do anything but blink or scream - so scream she chose. I can't say I blame her. I spent most of the trip functioning as her shade, holding up a large windbreaker to block any and all sunlight in the vicinity. And then there was my 11 month old niece, doing baby gymnastics in her father's lap just to taunt us. It wasn't until the Cristal and Wheat Thins got passed around that we started to relax. Because you can't be that classy and stressed at the same time.

HAPPY!

I'm happy! I swear! Here are some things that make me happy!

1. Tonight's pre-pre-birthday dinner at the anti-foodie Mecca, Benihana

2. Saturday's pre-birthday dinner at Automatic Slims.

3. Colorado and Harry Potter for my birthday.

And happy pics!

Murphy

This was our first baby:



Murphy was found in Highland Park, a rougher burb of LA (you've got street cred, Jen!) and a fitting home for the 4 mo. old scrappy, sweet boy who was scooped up wearing a collar so tight it was about to choke him. The couple who found him fell in love but couldn't keep him, and after random emails made their way across the internet to me, Caleb and I picked up our feisty, pukey-in-the-car bundle of love and brought him home to stay.

And there was much love, and fighting with cats, and working with trainers, and chasing squirrels, and charming passersby, and nearly getting a doggy agent and the moving to Memphis and trying to kill the UPS guy and lunging at people on walks while I was pregnant but promises that no matter what, we were a family and he was loved and the growing denial that something was wrong but nothing was going to change. And then Harlow happened.

We had been warned that your pets become just that after the birth of your child, just pets, not the sweet baby that you rolled around with and took 1000s of pictures of in stupid hats and bored people at dinner parties with stories about how CUTE he was at the dog park (except you can get away with those stories in LA because no one has kids - they have dogs, too). But what I was not prepared for was how fast the change happened. How Murphy went from beloved pet to walking allergen, to a nightmare of sharp claws and shedding fur and behavior problems. The problems had started before we had moved - the rising aggression, the lack of respect on his part, the rising neglect on ours, but then there was the baby, and suddenly, here was this dog who tried to kill whoever rang the doorbell and wouldn't stay or behave on a leash who was constantly ignored. A BORDER COLLIE who had nothing better to do than herd the cats because he wasn't being taken on long hikes and exericed properly.

So it really should not have come as a surprise when he tried to bite the kid at doggy day care. The kid was fine, no skin was broken, but my heart was. Murphy is a good dog. We were warned by more than one trainer that due to his intelligence and stubborn streak that he was not the easiest dog for first time dog owners. But we didn't care. He made us really happy. We were a great fit as we were avid hikers and dog park aficianados and had access to kickass doggie day care. And now we have none of that, and it makes us sad because he is sad. He still gets morning and evening walks, but it's not the same. We are trying harder, looking into agility classes and working on commands and just simple time spent. But the bottom line is that we do not have the time we used to, and Murphy is suffering because of it.

Screw Polka Dots

You know what?

Stacey was right.

Screw the polka dots.

Flickr Rocks

Milestones

An interesting funfact I've picked up from those evil, evil parenting books is that when babies cluster feed, i.e. demand dinner on average every 1-2 hours for, ooh, what, the past week or so? It's in preparation for a growth spurt - which could be physical (and I'm sorry sweet babe but really? You? Needing a growth spurt?) or a mental one, as if they are preparing for a developmental milestone. With Harlow crazy for hunger this past week and to my eye not appearing to need much in the way of poundage, I got all excited wondering what she was going to be pulling out of her tiny bag of baby tricks. Rolling over? Pulling up? Teething? The teething thing has been on our minds lately with the sudden manifestation of howling banshee shrieks when she's hungry, but today when I was feeding her next to a Missouri soybean field - more on that later - I swear I saw the tiniest white fleck on her gums. There's no mistaking that there actually IS something tiny and white on her gums, but if it is a tooth remains to be seen.

Milestone recaps of the week:

1. She cannot be contained. She's been sitting in the bumbo, building that core and neck strength, and now she can (briefly) pull her self up by her neck when she's in her stroller.

2. She giggles. Usually it's at the ghosts that hang out in the ceiling, but today, she looked right at me and giggled. Twice. And I didn't even do anything funny. Being the eternal straight man in my romantical pairing, I rather enjoyed being the funny one for once.

3.She met her uncle, cousins and cousins' cousins.

Caleb's family reunion was this past weekend, so we had our first roadtrip up to Southern Illinois, and Harlow could not have been more fabulous, sleeping and hanging out in her seat like a seasoned veteran. Aunt Lara had told us how excited the boys were to meet their cousin, but privately I had my doubts. How excited could a 5 and 7 year old be about a baby? Apparently massively. They could not get enough of her. They hated it when she was asleep because it was less time they got to spend with her. They fought over who could hold her, competed over making her smile, brawled over who could carry her carseat. And the first thing Thomas said when he laid eyes on Harlow?

"Wow. She has a lot of muscles."

The ride home was a little trickier, not because of Harlow but because I was feeling charitable and offered to drive part of the way home so Caleb could hang out in the back with the bebe. We munched on m&m's, laughed, talked politics, and listened to the sweet song Caleb improv-ed on his guitar to his daughter, when he realized we - or I - was lost. We had driven about 30 minutes in the wrong direction because like the cliched girl driver I have become, I just assumed Caleb would tell me where to turn. So that kinda messed up our feeding schedule, which brings us to lunch next to a soybean field off the interstate somewhere in Missouri. Which leads me to my top 10 favorite places I've breastfed so far:

10. The aforementioned soybean field.
9. BBQ Fest
8. Inside a private plane
7. The backseat of a moving car doing donuts around a gas station.
6. The beach
5. India Palace
4. The Lodge in Giant City, underneath the giant elk head
3. in what used to be my old bedroom at my parents' house
2. Mothersville

And my #1 Favorite place I've breastfed?

1. A restaurant called Booby's.

Rockstar Babies

When my husband is not playing the part of sweet, studly baby-raiser, mower of grass and putter of things on high shelves, he can often be found with a guitar in hand or with pen to random scraps of paper, breaking off little pieces of song that put my writerly notions to shame. It's been a tough year with a new town, a new job, a new baby, and a new CD that needed some love and care whenever he found the thirty minutes of free time to devote to it. And last Saturday night all that sweat and angst paid off as he released his badass CD into the world at Otherlands in front of devoted fans.

It's a shame Harlow wasn't really in the mood to celebrate.

The little lady has been seriously cranky as of late. I know we are the last parents who deserve any pity as she has been -and still is - a sweet, mellow baby doll. But the cranky has come from nowhere we can determine. Teething? Is it something to do with that rash on her leg? Memphis?

The likely culprit from those polled?

It's her personality emerging.

But what if we liked her personality before?

I finally found a window of time to get my hair done last week, and after about two hours of blissful head rubbing and trashy magazine reading, I got a frantic phone call from Caleb. He was in the attic, the one place he thought he might not be able to hear our baby screaming while her Nana tried to coax her to take a bottle of mom juice. 7 minutes later, I sprinted through the front door and swept up my red-faced, tear streaked exhausted little screamer and peace reigned throughout the kingdom. For a bit. The screaming seems to be centered around feeding - the timing, the amount, the force of the letdown - all of which are mysteries wrapped inside the enigmas that are my boobs. I think it's time we go back to Breastfeeding 101 at Mothersville.

I also think it's time to clean off the dried poop on my leg.

Florida

Why is Harlow crying?

Is it because she is preparing for her first ever swim lesson?

Is it because she has already fallen in love with the sugar white sand, the sound of the ocean, her Nana and Pop's undivided attention and will be leaving soon?

Is it because her mother looks like she should be working the pit crew for Formula Un?

Florida was warm, caloric, grandparentastic and over way too fast. Like the rockstar baby she is, Harlow smiled, ate and napped on the plane and turned on the super wattage for Nana and Pop who were beginning to wonder if their grandchild was perhaps a reincarnated narcoleptic. Caleb and I managed to steal a few blissful soaks in the ocean - as blissful as keeping one eye open for bull sharks can be - and had a lovely dinner out with Lauren and Tommy. Sans baby. For the first time ever. We got a nice soaking our last afternoon there, and the ocean got really still and tangled up with algae. It kinda looked like the earth underwater.



Back at home, Harlow has decided that things would run much more efficiently if she told us what she wanted, so she has been using those brand new vocal chords to coo, la, gah, screech and what we can only guess is a pretty good Stephen Hawking impression. She turned 3 months old a week ago, the date that the fourth trimester ends and things start to "get easier." As much as I like to deny that I am a superstitious person, the very fact that every baby book I've read has insisted things get better after week 12 meant our super sweet, easy , mellow baby was getting ready to reveal her true nature. Which, apparently, is still very sweet and mellow but with a couple of Glenn Close-worthy I WILL NOT BE IGNORED freakouts when dinner was not ready fast enough. That was new and the staff quickly took note.

Ooh - last night? 9:30 PM to 5:30 AM. And right back to sleep until 7:30. Hell. Yes.