Sean and Katie's Place, Take Two

First family selfie in the new yard.

When I first started writing this blog, the tag line was "A blog about our first house, our first baby, and our adventures along the way." I'm really glad I documented some of this stuff--especially the stories about Millie---because I don't remember any of it. Apparently, my brain is like "I'm just going to block out any memories involving xylophone music, cool?" And I'm like, "No brain! I want to remember this stuff." And my brain is like "I NEED THIS, OK."Consequently, Millie's early years are just one slobbery, screamy, cuddly blur to me. Five years later, we seem to have circled back around.  New house. New Baby. New Sean and Katie. (Again.) This time, I know how important it will be for me to write it all down.

We welcomed our son, Ben in July, and moved out of our beautiful first home in Oberlin, Ohio a month and a half later.  After crashing with friends in NC and renting a truly tiny apartment, we've finally settled into our new house.  IT'S A GOOD ONE. We found a place in the country, with a super big wooded lot. Like-- ten acres big.  We've got a creek in the back where we can sit and drink beer in the summer, and by "summer" I mean "in March" because we live in North Carolina now, and it's delightfully mild here. According to my neighbors, there is even a white deer that lives in our woods. Obviously I've been freaking out about that because A WHITE DEER IS BASICALLY A UNICORN. And then, they told me that the horse farm down the street raises peacocks and sometimes they escape and run wild through the woods, and now I'm like "THE WORLD I LIVE IN IS MAGIC, AND ALSO HOW DO I BUILD A PEACOCK TRAP?"I know at this point you have a lot of questions.  Have you started building trails into your forest? (Yes.) Has Millie started her wilderness skills survival training yet? (Yes.) What are you going to name your peacock? (Reginald.) Is it pretentious for you to refer to your grounds as "Pemberley?" (Try and stop me.)

Anyways to update you all, I'm including some photos of the new house. I also have a before and after to show off of our guest room because I know how much you like makeover magic!

Cricket surveys her new kingdom, on the alert for any rogue peacocks.

Look at this flippin deck!!!

The guest room when we first moved in. This carpet smelled like funky mouse balls.

The guest room after Sean finished with it. #seanwillyoumakeoutwithme?

The white deer living in our woods. *visual approximation

All in all, things are going well for us.  Of course I'm going crazy trying to take care of a new baby and an almost 5 year old through all these moves, but that's a different blog post. Now, if you;ll excuse me, I need to go to home depot-- Millie and I are going to build a peacock trap.

#reginald
#tryandstopme

The Grapefruit I Will Never Eat

There's a grapefruit on my kitchen counter and it's reminding me of all my inadequacies as a parent. I should have fucking known better.  I should have learned by now not to buy fruit that can't be consumed one-handed.  I am a mom.  I cannot reasonably be expected to get out a bowl, peel a piece of fruit, divide it into edible pieces, separate the fruit from the nasty skin, eat it, and then wipe my hands WITH A NAPKIN of all things.  Can you imagine? A NAPKIN. Christ what was I thinking?

I knew better in the grocery store.  I knew I should have gone with bananas or something.  Or apples. You can't go wrong with apples.  You can eat them one handed AND you can cut them up to take to the playground as a snack.  Oh JESUS I am out of apples and I am about to take my kids to the playground.  I have a mutiny on my hands. I guess I could pack up this grapefruit, but OH WAIT THAT WILL NEVER WORK.

I will never, ever eat this.

You know what?  I'm just going to throw this thing away.  It's taunting me, and making me feel undue pressure. I will try again in another year.  When I am not breastfeeding, I will have the capacity to peel and eat citrus without having to enlist childcare services. It's probably all shriveled up inside anyways.

Actually, now that I think of it, I could probably send it to work with Sean.  I bet at his office people have free usage of both of their hands, and can peel grapefruits as they please. Those bastards. They probably just sit around eating tropical tree fruits like anything. I bet they are scarfing down kumquats between their conference calls over there. Curse them.  Curse them all.  They do not deserve this grapefruit.

Nope, there is only one course of action.  I will keep my grapefruit--my sweet bauble of ambrosia--on my counter.  There I will dream.  There it will rot. I will keep it there until it becomes green with mold. One day, both my children will be sleeping at the same time and I will go to eat it.  Then, I will discover the mold and throw it out.  Eventually, I'll eat one of the sensible apples I just bought at the store.

This is my life now.

We survive the move to NC-- with one major casualty

By this time, many of you are wondering how we've been hanging in there-- what with a newborn baby and a cross country move and all. The good news is, we've made it to North Carolina, and-- weeks later-- our belongings also made it to North Carolina! (Thanks for nothing-- North American Van lines!) All of us are now happily hunkered down in an apt in Durham while we look for a house.

This same house in Durham would cost $400,000.
I'll miss you, mid-western real-estate prices!

We are thrilled with the new opportunities before us, but at this point, we're also in survival mode. Here is a rough breakdown of how I've been spending my days.

• 30% riding in a car with a screaming newborn
• 60% Digging through boxes, searching for assorted kitchenwares.*
• 10% Going to bed at 9:30

*where for art though, pizza cutter?


It's exactly this sleep deprivation that leads me to today's story, however.

The other day, Sean started his new job.  Now, it just so happens that he was running on about two hours of sleep because we had just driven to see the solar eclipse (which deserves a whole separate blog post because it was so fucking incredible--seriously) and we were delayed in the apocalyptic traffic jam afterwards.

In the morning, Sean woke up and began to trim his beard.  If you've seen Sean's beard, you know it is a thing of beauty. It gives him a rugged, lumber-sexual flare that is appealing to men and women alike. For some reason, it makes me weirdly proud when other men comment enviously about his lack of patchiness. Whenever our friends are like "Man Sean, I wish I could grow a beard as full as yours!" Internally I'm all like "yeah Suckers--- my husband is a REAL man--- bow down before his full-faced follicles you sprinkle-bearded half-men!" I'm the worst.

Anyways, perhaps the universe was punishing me for gloating, because-- unbeknownst to Sean, his trimmers had gotten bumped during the move, and somehow ended up on a shorter setting. When he went to trim up before the all-employee meeting where he would be meeting his new colleagues-- he accidentally shaved one side of it off. You heard that right. Sean ACCIDENTALLY SHAVED HALF HIS BEARD OFF because when you are a new parent, you do shit like that*, and I suppose I should just be grateful he didn't accidentally put my morning coffee in the gas tank of our Prius. He came in the baby's room and was like--- "uh honey-- do you want to see something funny?" And then I actually screamed because my FAVORITE BEARD was ruined. But also I was trying to be supportive so I told him it didn't look that bad. (Which is partially true because Sean is disgustingly handsome and it would take a lot to stop that dream train--but still.) Then, he trimmed the other side to match and then he started to shorten the front and I got pretty emotional and I was like STOP CUTTING IT RIGHT NOW.

*new parents are operating on about 40% of our normal brain cells, and 400% of our normal caffeine intake.

Sean's beard, driving us to North Carolina. RIP good friend. 

This story is admittedly hilarious, but I think what I love most about it is that it's so uncharacteristic for Sean to have a slip up like this.  Normally, it is the sort of thing I would do. For example, when I started my last job-- I cleverly decided to run through my endless supply of boy-scout popcorn* and turn my office into "the cool office with snacks." Unfortunately, on my first bag I had a microwave mishap that caused all of my new co-workers to evacuate the building while the fire department was called. "Nice to meet you," I told them, as we waited outside in the cold Ohio winter. "My name is Katie. Would you like some popcorn?" I added, miserably.

*The neighbor's kid was a scout, and very persuasive

After all these years of me being sort of a disaster, it's nice to know Sean can have his moments too.  Even Smaug the magnificent had one penetrable section to his diamond waistcoat, and Sean is no different.  Also, incidentally, Sean could grow a better beard than Smaug the magnificent, and you can tell him I said so.  I'm sure a few months from now, we'll emerge from this sleep deprived cloud and laugh about all this. But for now, it's almost 9:30, and I think I'll go and try to microwave some popcorn before bed.

The Six Needs of A Laboring Woman

I have some very, very, good news.  I'M PREGNANT.  I know! You're probably thinking HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?  For those of you following what Sean and I have been through, you know that after the events of the last two years---my uterus was left as uninhabitable as the frozen ice-planet of Hoth.* Then, last August, a fancy doctor in Cleveland did an experimental surgery on me to repair "The Ole Gal." When he described the procedure to us, only 9 other women had gone through with it, and of those, 3 of them had gone on to have babies. ** Sean and I knew the odds were against us, but we decided to give it a try anyways. We were frankly shocked when I became pregnant almost immediately.

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*If you are reading this blog to seek actual medical information and not Star Wars references, the medical term for what was wrong with me was Asherman's syndrome, caused by multiple D&C's following a placenta accreta. The hospital I went to was University Hospital- MacDonald Women's Hospital.
** Pro-tip-  If you nearly die 3 times from pregnancy complications and then conceive a baby who is an ACTUAL medical miracle,  the hospital will feature you in their annual development campaign and you can get some free family photography out of it! Woot Woot!
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I won't lie to y'all-- this pregnancy has been hard.  If I had to pick one word to describe it, it would be "vulnerability," although a close second would be "Cramps," then followed by "salt-and-vinegar-potato-chips." I found myself jealously thinking of my relaxed mental state with my previous two pregnancies.  Remember when the biggest concerns I had were axe-body spray and cabbage related office smells? This time around, I've been scared basically the whole time.  That's probably why I waited until I was 33 weeks along to type this blog post.

The good news is, Millie's sense of optimism is unhindered, and she recently made me this drawing, which is my new all-time favorite work of art:

Lately, I've been letting the exciting reality sink in: Oh my god! I'm really going to have this baby! But unfortunately, the other reality has started to sink in too: OH MY GOD, I'M REALLY GOING TO HAVE THIS BABY.

Shit. Shit. Double Shit.  Childbirth is not the funnest thing I've ever done. So, I broke out my trusty book on "The Bradley Method," to brush up on my skills. For those of you unfamiliar, the Bradley method is a tried and tested natural childbirth technique, which for nearly 30 years has helped expectant mothers see graphic pictures of other women's vaginas.

Now that I'm reading it with the trained eye, I can see that parts of this book are total bullshit.

For example, it contains these reassurances:
"Natural Childbirth can be painless."
(Throws head back and laughs.) Please. 


"Partners-- don't let your wife sit on a comfortable couch while she is pregnant. She will secretly appreciate that you make her sit on the hard floor! Even if you overhear her complaining to her friends about you, she's actually just low key bragging that you're such a good birth coach!"
Partners-- don't be fooled by this lying book. I know it seems medically legit because there are so many pictures of vaginas in it, but this is BAD ADVICE.  

"Many women actually have orgasms when giving birth."
Yeah, so I'm not buying this one.  I get that every labor and delivery is different. Some women like aroma therapy--I preferred for my hospital room NOT to smell like a cheap head shop where teenagers buy bongs. Some women are meaner than snakes-- the meanest thing I told Sean during labor was "don't sing," as he tried to comfort me by crooning along with the playlist. 

When I had Millie I actually BROKE MY TAILBONE, and was so preoccupied that I DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE. So, all I'm saying is that if some women get to have ORGASMS-- that's not fair, and I hope all of those women have colicky babies, or, at the least-- really out of tune xylophones. 

So, as a public service announcement, I've decided to improve on the Bradley Method's "Six needs of a laboring woman."  


The Bradley Method's List:

1. Deep, complete relaxation
2. Abdominal breathing
3. Darkness and solitude
4. Physical comfort
5. Closed eyes
6. The appearance of sleep

Katie's List:

1. Deep, warm Hot tub
2. Husband, Stop Singing 
3. Die Aroma Therapy, Die
4. Delivery Room Ban on Axe body spray
5. Open bag of Salt and Vinegar Chips 
6. Silence from woman one room over, who's painless childbirth is climaxing in a loud orgasm. 

If you're a first time mom, the Bradley Method book CAN actually be immensely helpful. However, for those of us who are doing this for a second time, I'd like to recommend Dave Barry's Book, Babies and other Hazards of Sex,  as alternate reading.  This book, which is subtitled, How to make a tiny person in just 9 months with tools you probably have around the house, will not prepare you in any way for childbirth, but it contains far fewer graphic pictures of vaginas and makes for much more pleasant reading while you are sitting on your coach, enjoying your salt and vinegar potato chips. 

Millie's Birthday Time Capsule!

Today we celebrated Millie's first birthday.  That's right, Millie is ONE.  I was racking my brain trying to decide what AWESOME gift we could get her, when I realized that she won't remember it anyways.  So, if she ever asks you about it, please tell her that for her first birthday we got her a pony but it already died.

*The pony's name was Thunder, and it had a rainbow mane.
** No young lady! Of course you can't have another pony! Not after you let the first one die!

I know I'll always remember today-- the way we woke Millie up by singing "Happy Birthday" as she bounced in her crib, how it felt to watch her open her first birthday present, and the surgical precision in which she disemboweled her birthday cake----but I'm worried that Millie will forget all about this time of her life.  That's why, for her birthday I've decided to make her this time capsule, to remind her of all the most important things in her life at year one.

Dear Millie,

Happy birthday little one!  If you're reading this time capsule, you are probably already really mad at me, because you have found this blog.*
*Just kidding, you can't stay mad at me!I bought you a pony!
Anyways, here is a sample of a few of the most important things in your life at age one: 

#1: Kingsley Snuggle Bear

You may not remember him now, but he used to be pretty much the center of your universe. He went to bed with you every night, and protected you from all the dangers of the world, such as homemade peach baby food and non-xylophone based musical expression.  

#2: Cup

Did you know that you could say "cup" when you were 8 months old?  It's true. Say it with me now. "Cup." Feel good? There was a time in your life when you had no greater thrill than to say "cup" repeatedly.  Every morning when you would wake up, you would look at me urgently and yell "CUP!" to me until we walked into the living room and found your cup. 

3#: The Television Remote

Oh what wonders lie within this magical device? What secrets will you unlock? What treasures will you seek? With what courage and fortitude will you display SUBTITLES. Millie, there was a time in which you could operate a television remote with such alarming dexterity that all but the most sophisticated technophile was POWERLESS TO STOP YOU. 

*note to self- The next time Millie is bored, take her to best buy and let her wreak havoc on the AV salesmen. 
** other note to self- while I am there, ask them to show me how to make these subtitles stop displaying. 

# 4:Bedtime Songs

When you were young Millie, I would sing you to sleep every night. I would cradle you in my arms and sing "swing low" and "edelweiss" and "plastic Jesus" to you until you shut your tiny, exhausted eyes. Then, I would creep into the other room and write snarky blog posts and drink wine, because even mommies need a break sometimes. And by "break" I mean "drink." 

#5: ROAR ROAR

This is the title of a book that you used to really love.  "ROAR ROAR" was not much of a verbal masterpiece, but it did have some pretty sweet photos of tigers, bears, and a creepy little panda cub with a fury crotch. Every day you would beg for us to read ROAR ROAR, and then you would snatch the book out of our hands and throw it across the room shouting "ROAR ROAR!"  You are awesome.

*more fury than a normal Panda crotch I mean.
** let me explain. Here is the photo of the panda crotch I'm talking about. 

It will be 15 years until you read this Millie, and by then *fingers crossed* you'll have learned not to pet panda crotches, and you probably won't let me sing you to sleep anymore. We'll probably still be fighting over the remote, but at least you'll be able to retrieve your own cup.  

Little one, I want you to know that no matter how many birthdays you have, I'll always be here with you, delighting in the things you love, and loving them because they are important to you (except your boyfriends, I will hate those guys.) I also want to make sure that you never ever forget THUNDER, your awesome childhood pony.  There's no need to thank us Millie, that's just the kind of parents we are. Happy Birthday Baby Girl!

Going Back To Work

Some of you may have already heard that I quit my job a few weeks ago.

It's true, I did.  My boss was a real piece of work.  She expected me to work at ALL HOURS, and to clean up her messes whenever she got herself into a shitty situation.

So, I quit my job as a stay-at-home mom and went back to the 8-5 working world.  Say goodbye to the days when I have puke covered pajamas on at 1:00 in the afternoon--- these days I'll be sporting puke-covered pencil skirts instead!

Now, I may joke about Millie being a tyrannical boss, but as any of you who've returned to work know, it's a pretty heart wrenching situation. And, when I say "heart wrenching" I want you to know I'm not being flippant about that term.  Every morning it feels as if someone LITERALLY  throwing wrenches at my heart.

ALL THE WRENCHES.

I would be pretty upset about this if I wasn't so busy packing Millie's bag for the babysitter.  Every morning is now a frenetic race to avoid being late for work.  Sean and I pass Millie back and forth, like the cutest game of hot potato in the world, and in the space of about an hour and a half, we get 2 adults showered, 1 baby fed, all 3 of us dressed, the Cricket potty-ed, and the lunches packed for work. (Oh crap--- we forgot the lunches!) Fortunately, I'm married to a man who has taken graduate level Project Management classes,  and so we accomplish these tasks with the speed and efficiency of a Nascar pit-crew.

If parents had corporate sponsors like Nascar racing teams do, then our mornings would be brought to you by COFFEE (motto: The only thing keeping us awake right now!) and Millie's car-seat would have a gigantic decal for BOUDREAUX'S BUTT PASTE.

Millie has accepted the change gracefully.  She loves going to stay at her cool Uncle Randy's house during the days, and she doesn't cry or throw a fit when I drop her off in the mornings.  Mostly, she has adapted by waking up 4-5 times per night, thoughtfully enabling us to still spend some quality time together.  Thursday night, she woke up around 3am saying "WELL, I FEEL REFRESHED! What shall we do today Mommy?"

Needless to say, Friday morning I was more dependent than ever on our corporate coffee sponsorship.

Sleep loss aside, I really like my new job.  I'm able to do meaningful work with smart and capable colleagues, and it's nice to be around adults for a change.  Even with all this, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss my old boss, Millie sometimes.

Tough and demanding though she was, I don't think I'll ever find a job I love more than taking care of that snotty, wondrous little poop-factory.  Luckily, she's agreed to let me pick up some contract work- mostly in the evenings.  In fact, I'm working tonight, with my first shift brought to you by WINE (motto: I know it's only 8:30, but you'd better go to bed soon because that baby's asleep. Wine!).  My shift starts around 3am.

Why having a baby is harder than having a dog

Before Sean and I had a baby, I often used to think that our dog Cricket was sort of like a kid.

"She's our first born," I would tell people jokingly, indicating her whiskers and adding---"she's really  hairy, just like her dad."  Then I would go about my day, never knowing that the people I had been talking to--you know the ones with actual children in their care, probably wanted to kick me in the teeth.

Looking back on this situation now, I definitely want to kick myself in the teeth, and if I had access to a Delorian, I would travel back in time and do just that.  I would go back a few years, to a point in time before Millie was born, but after we got dental insurance, and wait for myself to say something like "She's really high maintenance.  A few times she's even woken me up at night to go to the bathroom." KAPOWEE!  I would Ninja kick myself  right in my stupid trap.  It wouldn't make much of a difference you know, since my foot was already in my mouth.

So, animal lovers--- let's clear one thing up:  Your dog is NOT like your kid.  I know you love your dog, I love mine too.  I would spend every last penny I own to save her life, but it's not about that.  It's about how much time and energy your dog requires.

Cat Owners--- don't even get me started with you.  Your pet is self cleaning.  YOUR PET LITERALLY CLEANS ITS OWN ASSHOLE.  It's not like your kid.

In case you are curious as to whether or not your pet is actually like a kid, I've made this handy reference chart:

As you can see, babies are higher maintenance than your pet, especially in the areas of vomit, feeding, and having to listen to horrible boy-band music.  The good news is, they also offer a pretty good return on investment, since you can guilt them into paying for your nursing home one day.  Also, they don't go through many toys-shaped-like-waterfowl, and they usually don't vomit in your shoes. *

*That was a lie. The truth is, babies are in-discriminatory vomiters and will frequently vomit in your shoes, but--unlike your cat-- they don't do it out of spite. 

So, Pet owners, the next time you find yourself telling a new parent that your pet is just like a baby, really,  I want you to picture this face:

Dr. Emmett Brown, noted time-traveler and recycling aficionado

If the face of the person you are talking to bears a striking resemblance to Back to the Future's Dr. Emmett Brown, chances are they are a new parent dealing with some major sleep depravation. Do yourself a favor and go back in time to stop yourself from making that comment.  While you're there, you also might want to put down a deposit on some nursing homes, because your Cat is certainly not going to make that a priority-- it's too busy cleaning it's own asshole. 

What to do when your baby calls the UPS man Daddy

Sean and I used to work as field reps for a large publishing company. This was a job that required a great deal of travel, and the frequent delivery of boxes of books to our home offices.  The running joke among the older reps that we worked with was that their kids called the UPS man "Daddy." (Motto: what can brown do for you?!)

This joke was brought home yesterday when our baby ACTUALLY DID CALL THE UPS MAN DADDY. Here's what I think happened.

All babies come equipped with standard sensory equipment-- ears, nose, mouth, and two eyes.  But, especially during the first 8 months, your baby's sense of vision is so underdeveloped that they can't distinguish between you, their parent, and an oval-shaped piece of fruit such as your typical melon or kumquat.

As Millie's vision develops, she is sort of like a cyborg with some of those computerized goggles to analyze what she is seeing. You know, like in the TERMINATOR movies. Here is my estimation of what she sees as she looks around our house.

item: disgusting piece of floor trash
color: brownish
edible: almost certainly
action: put in mouth

item: homemade peach baby food
color: orange
edible: no
action: grimace and/or scream


Lately, she is able to recognize her Daddy as a man with dark hair and a beard. Naturally, she sees him wherever we go.

item: man

location: home

hair color: brown

beard: yes

daddy? yes

item: man

location: large brown truck

hair color: brown

beard: yes

daddy? definitely

item: man

location: check out line in grocery store 

hair color: brown

beard: yes

daddy? probably

That's why yesterday, when she saw "Daddy" at the door to make a delivery, she decided to give him a real treat and say her first words. "Da-tah" She told him lovingly. pointing and waving.  "please sign here ma'am," he replied, looking embarrassed.

When he got home from work, Sean took the news in stride. "At least I know why Cricket always barks at the UPS man," he told me jokingly.  For my part, I think that Millie's cyborg computer must be malfunctioning, which is why I've ordered her a new one.  I hope her Daddy gets here soon to deliver it.

My sick baby, Lethal Weapon, and the Blue Snot Sucker Cartel

I'm at home with a sick baby today.  I thought she was sick a few months ago, but I realize now that I was wrong.  In my arrogance and naivety, I mistook a few sniffles and coughs 4 months ago for the "sick baby" that is so feared by parents around the world. My current self looks back at my 4 months ago self with the level of disdain Lethal Weapon's Sergeant Murtaugh may show to a wet-behind-the-ears, rookie cop wanting to swap war stories at his retirement party.

For one thing, I never realized how much snot Millie has.  Until recently, I assumed that her little baby folds, chubby thighs, and plump cheeks just contained extra "baby fat."  I assumed wrong.  These folds contain her strategic snot reserves, which are saved up for times of emergency, when they gush forth from her nostrils in flows sufficient for generating hydro-electric energy.

"Not to worry" you may think-- "this must be why all parents come equipped with one of these devices:" 

I foolishly thought the same thing. It is impossible to deliver a baby in today's modern society without being given at least five of these snot suckers by the time your baby is born.  In fact, some women are given a new snot sucker at each of her monthly OB visits, just as a precaution.  It is only after your baby is born that you will realize how utterly useless they are.  Millie thinks of these devices as the BLUE SNOT SUCKERS OF DEATH, and (if anything) they only increase the amount of snot she is producing, due to her excessive crying with each torture session use.

An assortment of BLUE SNOT SUCKERS OF DEATH, selected at random from Millie's medicine drawer.

The only way I can account for the powerful hold these devices seem to have on our nation's obstetricians, is by assuming that our medical community has been infiltrated by the seedy and ruthless Blue Snot-Sucker Cartel, a powerful organization with an uncanny knack for obtaining incriminating photos of your obstetrician or mid-wife.

This is why I have an ingenious idea for a new Lethal Weapon Movie. In "Lethal Weapon 5: Beat to Snot,"  Sergeant Riggs and Sergeant Murtaugh have to thwart the powerful Blue Snot Sucker Cartel, which has an evil plan to torture the babies in daycare centers across Los Angeles and capture their snot for use in hydro-electric energy production.  The Cartel's sophisticated and brutal leader will be played by Jane Lynch from Glee, and the young rookie cop that goes undercover in the daycare center will be played by the e-trade baby.  The trailer will just be Murtaugh looking at one of the snot-sucking devices and muttering, "I'm too Old for this Shit."

10 Reasons Why Your Baby Loves Church

We've recently decided to stop being heathens and take our baby to church.  We figured since Millie is almost seven months old we really don't have any excuses for not taking her, and besides, we'll need THE LORD on our side in our upcoming battle against Dora the Explorer, Tracy the Teenage Prostitute, and whatever other mass marketed toddler Cover Girl that will soon penetrate our otherwise peaceful existence.

The good news is that Millie LOVES church.  Odds are, your baby loves church too, and I think I know why:

1. Church Clothes-  All babies love getting dressed in fancy clothes for church!  In fact, Millie loves it so much that she projectile vomits all over herself immediately after being dressed, just so that she can do it over again! She also projectile vomits on me, and (once) directly inside her chest-of-drawers! Our baby believes in being thorough.

2. Hymnals- Hymnals are very baby friendly, but only if your congregation uses their hymnals primarily to produce small, finely shredded paper for lighting campfires or--potentially--for use as hamster bedding.  If your congregation uses their hymnals primarily for singing, it's best not to let your baby touch them.

3.  Call and Response-  We were amazed to see how our baby intuitively understood the concept of call and response! For example, whenever the priest says the words "let us pray" or "lets take a moment of silence" Millie INTUITIVELY understands that she is supposed to respond, and loudly announces "DaDAHaBadGah!" to the stunned congregation (*Literal translation: "I've made you some Hamster Bedding!"*)

4. Organ Music-  Let's face it, Organs are kind of like giant xylophones.

5.  Jingle Cow-  Millie has a favorite toy named Jingle Cow, which hangs from her carseat.  I have no idea how parents who do not own this toy make their babies behave in public.

Jingle Cow

6. Praying-- It's hard to tell if Millie is praying or not, but if she is, I can guarantee her prayer goes something like this:

Dear Lord,

Please bless Mommy, Daddy, Jingle Cow, and Cricket. Protect me from the horrible homemade peach baby food, and from wearing any outfit with SLEEVES, which are the absolute worst.   Please give me the strength to eat this entire page of hymnal before Mommy notices. 

Amen

7. The Narthex-  Every church has one-- the room just outside of the sanctuary where the Preacher stands and greets people after the service.  This is also a convenient place to take a screaming baby when she is throwing a tantrum because you will not let her eat today's scripture readings.

8. Today's Scripture Readings- Today's scripture readings are delicious, and pair nicely with the Liturgical Response.

9.  Napping-  Hahaha! I'm just joshing with you.  The only time your baby will sleep during church is at the very first service she attends.  You (her parents) will likely announce to everyone that you would have taken her to church sooner, but she's been colicky and you didn't want to disrupt the service, and it's not like you are heathens or something, it's just that this baby screams-all-the-time.  Your baby will then sleep angelically for the next two solid hours, because even God enjoys a good joke.

10.  Anxiety Attacks-  If you are taking your baby to church for the first time, you are probably having a major anxiety attack, which your baby thinks is hilarious.  That's why I recommend that you parents take a deep breath, relax, and join me in a quick prayer.

Dear Lord,

Please bless my baby and help her not to scream in church.  But if she screamed a little, that would be ok too, cause then everyone would know that I'm not a heathen, and I've just been avoiding church to be considerate.

Thank you for all of your creations, but especially for Jingle Cow, who is surely proof that you are a benevolent and loving God.  Shield me Oh Lord, from Tracy the Teenage Prostitute, and the years of trials before us. And give us this day, a hamster, so that we will have a use for all this hamster bedding. 

In your name,
Amen

How to Make Homemade Baby Food Which Your Child Will Refuse to Eat

If you're a new mom like me, you are probably really concerned about the integrity of the solid foods you are feeding your baby.  I took a jar of sweet potatoes and did a little research. Here are the hard-hitting areas my study focused on:

• What is the nutritional value of this jar of sweet potatoes? 
• What is their carbon footprint? 
• What about pesticides?
• Does your product come with a complimentary stain remover?  
• Theoretically, if the entire jar of your product was poured on top of a mother's head, and then the mother did not have time to shower that night, how orange would it turn her hair? 
• Are we talking sexy strawberry highlights, or the full Carrot Top?
• Do you think this gob of sweet potato in my hair is noticeable?

Not a single baby food manufacturer was able to answer these questions, leaving me boggled with the lack of accountability in the baby food industry. That is why most moms agree that it is best to make your baby's food at home using fresh, local, and organic ingredients.  This solution is a no-brainer, in the sense that if you think you are actually going to have time to make baby food from scratch, you have no brain.

The other day, I made some baby food from scratch---using peaches I bought at the Farmers Market. (That's right, other moms- suck it!)  This process was a huge pain in the ass, but I knew Millie loved them, so I did it anyways.  I stock-piled so many servings of frozen pureed peaches, that I could have been filming an episode of Doomsday Preppers. After it was over I felt like I deserved a medal or something.  That's why I made this medal for myself.  If you are a mom out there making her own baby food, feel free to print yourself out a copy!

Here is the method I used for preparing the food, in case any of you are experiencing a similar lapse in your ability to distinguish a "good idea" from a "life-sucking waste of time!"

Fresh Peaches, halved, pitted, and sitting in baking dishes about 1/2 full of water

After the Peaches have been baked at 400 degrees for 12 minutes, the skins are ready to slip off

Skins Slipped off and into the Food Processor

Pureed Peaches

Into a large pitcher for ease of pouring

Into these handy little bags designed for freezing breast milk, so I can have individual portions of Peaches ready to go for Millie all winter!

I know you all must be impressed! I know I was!  I know Sean was! You know who wasn't impressed? Millie.  That's right.  Millie watched me carefully processing a milk crate full of raw peaches, and made a solemn vow to herself, "I will never eat one those again. Ever." 

So, now I have a stockpile of pureed peaches in my freezer, which I'm hoping to unload in some creative and lucrative way. (Note- if any of you reading this happen to write for a health and beauty magazine, I could really use an article on the restorative and anti-aging properties of organic peach puree!) In the meantime, I'll be at my house, cleaning up the shrapnel of rejected peach baby food, and  polishing my Congressional Medal of Motherhood, which is a little sticky at the moment. 

College Move-In Week

Sean and I love living in a college town. There's plenty of art, culture, and smart people around, and there's always something to do. There's also the long, lazy summers, and the feeling of "having the place to ourselves" when the students are gone.

Now that school is starting back, there's an awesome feeling of excitement in the air.  Every college town needs this kind of energy-- the energy that comes from the new freshmen moving in, getting ready to make friends, reinvent themselves, and-- if given the opportunity--hit on their roommate's serendipitously hot older brother.

In all this excitement, it's easy to overlook the parents.  At least, it was easy to overlook them before we had a baby.  Earlier this week, Millie and I decided to increase Sean's love for us by bringing him a burrito at work (see also this article.) As we stood in line at the burrito place I noticed some eyes on us. Lots of eyes.  Eyes filling up with tears.

Ohhhhh! I get it.  It's the baby.  YOUR baby is going off to college, and you remember when he/she was the size of MY baby.  And now, you are so moved by that memory you are tearing up in the build-your-own burrito line. (Or, alternatively, you could be so moved by my Davinci-esque ability to dress a burrito with chipotle cream sauce that you are crying.) Either way, I understand.

Parents, I am so sorry to have caused you pain.  If it makes you feel any better, one day I too will be in your situation, and my heart will be ripped out by the sight of little babies too.  Then, it will be further ripped out over the next four years as I see my daughter only intermittently as her dirty laundry dictates, or when she needs to introduce me to some simpering young man whose name starts with a B-- like Blaine, or Blake, or Brett or something.... who I will loathe.

So, in preparation, I have decided to write a Millie a letter for when we move her off to College. Here's how it goes.

Dear Millie,

Your father and I are exhausted! How many more trips to do we need to make up these stairs?! Honestly, How many pairs of shoes can you possibly require?? In other news, we are SO STINKING PROUD OF YOU.  We know you are going to learn so much, and have so much fun at College.  Please don't tell us about the latter.  Seriously, the less we know the better. Incidentally, I saw you staring at your roommate's serendipitously hot older brother. He is way too old for you young lady! What did you say his name was? Brent...Brad...Brett? Wait a minute. Shit. 

Love,
Mom

Introducing Solids, "HYPNOTOAD," and the pit of the ALMIGHTY SARLACC

We gave Millie her first solid foods yesterday!  Actually, she's been eating solid food for months now if you count dog hair.*  So, I guess I should clarify that yesterday was the first time she tried solid foods apart from dog hair.

Anyways, she was pretty psyched about it, and graciously overlooked the fact that she had to eat rice cereal, while the rest of us had spicy thai bisque.

This momentous event has been a long time coming.  At about 3 and a half months old, Millie started showing an extreme interest in our food, specifically the portion of it that was contained in Sean's coffee mug.  The effect this coffee mug had on our baby can only be compared to the effects of the character, "hypno-toad" from the TV show Futurama. Next, she began gnawing on Sean's coffee mug, and--to a lesser degree---all other coffee mugs.  Now she is in full-blown consumption mode, leaving no vessel of liquid unassailed, and snatching at our forks as we transfer food from our plates to our mouths.  It has been many weeks since Sean's coffee mug was safe at all.  

Much like THE ALMIGHTY SARLACC,  the pit-dwelling monster featured in Star Wars, Return of the Jedi,  our baby features a lightning fast, almost octopine reflex which enables her to reach out and grab any unwitting food that comes across her path.   The ALMIGHTY SARLACC used this technique in Return of the Jedi to  to capture Boba Fett and slowly digest him over a period of 1,000 years.  Similarly, Millie used this technique to capture our plate of Asian Pot-Stitckers two nights ago, before being thwarted by her sleep deprived yet street-wise parents. 

Hypnotoad

Nesting place of the Almighty Sarlacc

In the end, she consumed her rice cereal with every indication of enjoyment, despite the fact that we did not serve it to her out of Sean's coffee mug.   

At least so far, the introduction of solid foods hasn't disrupted our lives too much. Of course we've been warned that this introduction will result in the nastification of her baby poop, but we're not worried about that.  She's already been processing the dog hair without any significant fecal shift.  It's a mystery where this dog hair goes after she's eaten it---we've never seen any in her poop---but if I had to venture a guess, I would assume that it's still in her belly, being slowly digested over 1,000 years. 

* No matter how many times we lint-roll her activity mat, the ubiquitous dog hair prevails!

I'm becoming my mom.

Oh my God.  I'm becoming my mom.

My mother used to come into our rooms each night to check that we were still breathing.  She did this our entire childhood, and by "childhood" I mean "the period of time in which we were her children." One time, I was home from COLLEGE, and I heard a rustling in my room at 2:00 am. I naturally assumed that it was an intruder coming to ravage me, and prepared to attack him with a rack of decorative porcelain figurines that hung near my bed. (These were a relic of my youth, a time in which collecting porcelin figurines seemed like a good investment, and after many trips to THE DOLLAR TREE with my indulgent grandmother, I was now the curator of an impressive collection.  It would be a shame to break them all, but it was undoubtedly preferable to being ravaged.)  I reached out into the darkness to grab the rack.  At the same time, a hand groped in the darkness towards my face....

....and stuck its finger underneath  my nose.  A familiar finger.  My mother's finger.  "What the hell are you doing?" I asked her-- still clutching the porcelain figurine rack.  "Oh, you know, just checking that you are still breathing," she said casually, as if this were a completely normal behavior.  Obviously, without her constant vigilance, her healthy 20 year old daughter with no known diseases or illnesses would perish in the night.

We used to tease my mother about this all the time. "Wait until you have children," she would tell us, "then you'll see."  "Whatever." We replied, like the insolent little assholes that we were.

My mother also used to confuse our names, especially when yelling at us.  "Dammit Kelly! I mean Tori! I mean Brandi--Katie-- whoever you are!" She would yell. We would laugh at this especially because Brandi was the dog.  Silly Mommy! Why was it so hard to tell us apart from the DOG?  Surely we would never be so foolish as to make that mistake.

Fast forward 20 years.  Now I have a daughter, and what do I do? "Millie sit down!" I tell her, "Stop licking the baby!"  Then I add, "Cricket, do you want to read a book with Mommy?" Oh my God. I'm becoming my mom.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

And I think owe her an apology.

Mom,

I am so sorry that I teased you about confusing my name with the dog.  You were right, it was harder than it looked, and I was being kind of a bitch.  Also, thanks for checking on me so many times to make sure I was still alive.  Do you think Millie's still alive?  Hang on, I'd better go check on her....

Ok. I'm back.  Anyway, please accept my collection of decorative porcelain figurines as a token of my appreciation.  I see now that I was being an ungrateful little twat. 

With love,
Katie


I'm so lucky that my mom is still with us, but I know it wont always be that way.  Now that I'm a mother too, I'm 100% certain about what will happen to my mom when she goes. She will DEFINITELY turn into a ghost, that way she can haunt me and my sisters. She will sneak into our bedrooms and night and wail sage advice as us in a ghostly voice such as, "don't sleep in your bathing suit, it will give you crotch rot!" Then, as we lay dreaming, an eldritch hand will reach out from beyond the pale towards our faces.... and she'll check that we're still breathing. 

Our Video baby Monitor and the Harry/Voldemort Connection

I love our baby monitor.  I mean LOVE. Sean also loves our baby monitor, in that he would LOVE to smash it with a hammer in the driveway.

My argument is that the baby monitor saves me tons of time and sleep.  Since I have become a mom, I hear every sound my baby makes in her crib.  Every coo, every cry, every fart, every gurgle, and every grunt.  I can hear these sounds if I am elsewhere in the house, or even outside in the garden. If I'm sleeping, it always wakes me up.

My sister-in-law recently likened my strange connection with Millie to the link between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort. This is an analogy that totally holds up. You know how Harry can tell what Voldemort is up to even though they are separated by distances? I can certainly do that with Millie. Also, Millie was born without eyebrows, which doesn't prove anything, but you have to admit it's suspicious. (Yes, in this comparison I am Harry and my baby is Lord Voldemort, stop judging me! I think that makes Sean Hermione, but I'm not sure.)

Our baby monitor is awesome because it has a live VIDEO STREAM from the baby's crib.  That means that when Millie wakes up in the middle of the night, I can glance at the monitor and tell if she needs my assistance. If she's stuck against the rails, or has rolled over on her belly and is now trapped, or has cast the dark mark onto the ceiling of her nursery, I can go help her. If she's just throwing a fit, I let her work it out on her own. It's a system that works for us, and by "works for us," I mean, "doesn't require us to get out of bed."

On the other side of the argument is Sean, who says that the baby monitor turns me into a crazed junkie who can't stop checking to see if the baby is ok.  This is a totally unfair accusation, just because I watch it continuously throughout the day and evening, and physically confront anyone who blocks my view of the screen! That proves nothing!  I don't want to switch fantasy-series analogies on you, but my relationship to the baby monitor is exactly like that of Smeagol and the PRECIOUS ring of power.

One day, when Millie is old enough, we will stab the baby monitor with a Basilisk fang, or maybe throw it into the cracks of Mount Doom-- I'm not sure.  Either way, there is going to be a shitload of spells and general wizardry, which will be BAD ASS. In the meantime, I'll have my work cut out for me here, because I can see from my baby monitor that Millie is awake, and has started speaking to her nursery toys in parseltongue.