I'd like to see Jack Bauer survive these 24 hours

Groan. Heavy sigh. Eye roll. This is largely what my day consisted of yesterday.

It all began at about 10:30 p.m. on Sunday night, when my daughter began waking up every hour on the hour to eat, pee, chat about John Edward’s love child or make enough noise to rouse me from my (brief) slumber and then start snoring as soon as I appeared at the foot of her crib.

When my alarm clock went off at 5:30 a.m. the next day, I wanted to wrap the cord around Monday morning’s throat and hang a Kick Me sign from it so Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday would all make fun of it (you know Saturday and Sunday are too cool for those shenanigans).

Ironically, the baby who caused my sleep-deprived state snapped me out of my funk with one huge grin. I’d like to believe it was because she was happy to see me, but chances are it was because she had added to the delight of my day by peeing through her overnight diapers (12 hours of dryness my ass) and soaking her pajamas and sheets. I guess after an extra 26 feedings, she had to get rid of all that liquid somehow.

Since it was a cold and icy day in Wisconsin, I dressed her in some long underwear and booties, which made her look like a lumberjack. Had she looked silly, it would’ve been my revenge on her, but of course, she outsmarted me and just looked ridiculously adorable instead.





I dropped her at her grandparents, where she was a perfect angel, and when we were reunited, the antics began again.

While preparing a gourmet meal of rice cereal and baby oatmeal, I briefly forgot that when I turn my back, Adeline grows 14 go-go gadget arms that grab for anything in sight. In the time it took me to pick up a spoon from the counter behind me, she had grabbed her open box of oatmeal and thrown it on the ground, right on top of the bag I use to lug my breast pump to work.


Maybe it was her way of suggesting I mix the oatmeal with the milk as soon as it’s mechanically sucked from my boob because she does not have the time nor the patience to wait for me to mix it up at home.



Once I cleaned the millions of finely ground flakes of oatmeal out of my pump...


...I lifted Addy from her Bumbo only to be met with the foulest of odors. Adeline had just dispensed a poop of epic proportions. Seriously, tales will be told of it. Once I unearthed my daughter from the mound of poo with enough wipes to clean the butts of America, she proceeded to spit up all over her father. And that’s when my day dramatically improved and it’s been on an upswing ever since.

Zzzzzzzzzz

I have never been so happy that it’s Friday in my life. With the exception of one day last week, Adeline has been waking up to eat every night between midnight and 4 a.m. for the past 3 weeks. It usually takes 30 minutes to feed her and another 30 for me to fall back to sleep.

Needless to say, I’m tired. So very tired. I think I can actually feel my eyelids quivering from the exertion of staying open and my eyeballs are about to roll out my head and curl up in the folds of my sweater.

Have a good weekend! Sleep in.

Welcome to the Jungle

In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a mother. And part of my mothering duties, besides keeping my baby alive, is to show my child the world’s many wonders. And since the world’s wonders are vast, I’ve latched on to every opportunity to share them with Adeline.

For example, the Department of Motor Vehicles. It is wondrous that all of humanity deplores it, even babies.


Just look at her face. She’s miserable. And despite the fact that there were only 5 other people waiting in line, the employees were all still grumpy. I don’t get it. Not even a smile. Not even when my cute little baby let out a precious little toot. For a minute, I thought they were going to eat her.



We then moved on to being employed, which, in this economic recession, is a wondrous thing to be.


Here, Adeline had just finished her first spreadsheet, right before telling her father she needed his TPS Report on her changing table immediately.



Then it was time to share a sacred tradition with my daughter: wedding dress shopping.


Here she is with Courtney, the bride-to-be, shortly after learning the difference between white, diamond white and pearl white. Thus far in her life, Adeline had only thought there was “white.” She has so much to learn.


And finally, I taught my beloved bundle of joy that sometimes things from the ‘80s come back.


Like 3D movies. Which I experienced for the first time when I saw Avatar – which was also the first movie I've seen since becoming a mother.





And as I was busy sharing life's experiences with Addy, I learned that everything, even the DMV, is enjoyable in a whole new way when she's there with me. Except I have to admit I really loved going out with my husband and having a real meal at a real restaurant where I could use both hands and didn't get puked on, and watching an entire movie uninterrupted...that was complete bliss.

In case you haven't noticed, I am a (new) mother. And it is the smallest of wonders that make me the happiest.

cookies

Joey and I had an intense craving for homemade chocolate chip cookies yesterday afternoon. I have a no-fail recipe that I swear by from The Joy of Cooking.

Since I’ve been doing the mom thing for over 5 months now and can usually hold my ground in the kitchen, I felt confident in my ability to bake while simultaneously entertaining my baby.

I was wrong.


Not only did I char the bottom of every cookie, I also managed to mangle the tops of them.

My no-fail cookie recipe totally failed. And for the record, cooking them was not a joy.

I Am That Girl

Last week, my father’s brother, otherwise known as Uncle Bob, left a comment on one of my posts that I would like to call your attention to. By the way, Uncle Bob – can you believe the comment you so innocently left is now the subject of a post? It’s like you’re famous. You better start practicing fancy ways to sign Uncle Bob because people will be asking for your autograph.

So, my Uncle Bob, who I find to be an interesting and rather humorous guy, left this tongue-in-cheek comment on a post last week:


“Why aren’t you this funny in person?”



I would like to say three things in response. One, thank you for taking the time to read my blog, Uncle Bob. I know how very busy your days have become. Two, thank you for thinking my blog is funny. It’s a real compliment. And three, I am not this funny in person because I am That Girl.

I am That Girl, who, in person, tries to be funny, but typically comes off as lame. I am That Girl who tries to deliver a clever retort to a teasing remark and only musters up, “Yeah? Well…you’re…I…” then makes a pouty face. And since I’m on the subject, I might as well admit that I am also That Girl who always ALWAYS got hit in the head with the volleyball or basketball in gym class and I’m also That Girl who can either be awesome or incredibly awkward in social settings.

What I'm trying to say is that although wit does come naturally to me, I am typically the only one who finds it to be funny. In other words, no one else thinks I’m as funny as I do. Don’t get me wrong; I do have occasional moments where I entertain more than just myself and you can be sure I feel a swell of shock and pride any time I make another person genuinely laugh.

All this brings me to one conclusion. There is a reason I like to write, and it doesn’t stem from a sneaky way to avoid athletic activities or interacting with other people. I like to write because it affords me the time to think and rethink every word I put down (however, these days, I barely have time to proofread for spelling errors and there are times when that shows). Writing lets me make up for all those times when I didn’t know what to say back, but ironically found the perfect words hours later.

So, I guess, Uncle Bob, this is my long-winded version of a "clever" retort to your witty comment. Be glad you asked via my blog, cause my response in person would’ve been “Ummmmmm…Hey, look! There’s a ham roll!” (Sorry, that’s a top-secret family joke).

P.S. Thanks again for reading, Uncle Bob! We're wishing you the best.

Mini Me

There is a great debate going on in the world that you may not be aware of and I fear it will never end. The debate began just over 5 months ago, when a small human was ejected from my body and The Question was first murmured.


“Who does the baby look like?”



“Well, she’s got her father’s cleft chin.”

“But those are her mother’s blue eyes. And she’s got a head full of hair just like her mommy did when she was born.”

“See the shape of the eyes though? That’s definitely her father. And her hair is staying dark like daddy’s rather than turning blond.”



Thus far, Joey and I have acted as innocent by standards with no opinion on the subject. And while I’ll continue to remain neutral, I just wanted to share the following photos in case they might be of use to the debaters.

And seeing that Joey doesn’t allow me to post his face on this blog, he’s destroyed your ability to cast a fair vote, unwittingly causing you all to see Adeline’s resemblance to me. That sure is a bummer.

May I present the following pieces of evidence to be used as the debaters see fit.

Here is a baby photo of me:

And here is a baby photo of my daughter:

Here is a baby photo of me:

And here is a baby photo of my daughter:

Not that I'm taking sides or trying to sway votes or anything.

A Drink with Dr. Seuss

I meant to post this approximately 7.5 weeks ago when the holiday spirit was still upon us, but, like so many other things, I never got around to it. And it’s probably because I was too busy imbibing the deliciousness of this post’s subject: coquito, otherwise known as Puerto Rican Eggnog, or as I like to call it, Christmas Flavored Milky Goodness That Could Easily Cause The Worlds Most Foul Hangover.

So, lets all close our eyes for a moment, envision some sugar plum fairies and pretend we’re in the midst of Christmas 2009. If you try hard enough, you just might hear the thwap, thwap of Santa’s belly as he runs for his sleigh.


Once upon a time, on a crisp winter’s day, a young woman and babe made tracks towards a farmhouse to cook, chat and play.



On this quaint little farm, lived a quaint little man and his quaint little wife. Parents they were, but they played host for the night. ‘Twas time for coquito, a drink that’s not light.



In the heart of the farm was a brightly-lit kitchen, where a counter held up the drink’s magic fixings. There was oodles of cans and legions of bottles from the makers of Carnation, Bacardi and more.



Huddled up to the stove was a fine man and fine woman, the masters of drinks, brews and libations. They cracked open each egg...



...drained every bottle and flung around cans, each one at full throttle.



Lickety-split, the beverage was made...




Nestled in snow banks to cool and give thanks.


"To cool and give thanks?" Did I just say that bottles were giving thanks? Clearly it's time not to rhyme because it’s totally lost its novelty.

Here's what really happened. Last year my dad brought home a creamy spiced drink called coquito that was being sold as a fundraiser for a Latino organization. It was fantastic and had I not been pregnant, I would have guzzled down quarts of it. So this year, he invited over the couple who helped make the fundraiser coquito to assist in making about 20 bottles of the stuff to give as gifts. It was a relatively easy process. So, next year, I strongly recommend whipping up a batch of this stuff to share with friends or to send yourself into a milky drunken stupor. At least you'll be getting some calcium and learning about a new culture, which should alleviate some of the shame from drinking alone.

Old Hags

It’s birthday day in our house today. I officially turned 31 at 9:49 this morning and my daughter turned 5 months at 5:04 a.m.


Here’s a picture of us last night, while I was still 30 and Addy was 4 months.





Here we are this morning, me as a 31-year-old and Addy as a 5-month-old. She's very excited about all the awesome things that come with her age, like eating her fingers and sucking on her toes.



The overnight metamorphosis from young girls to elderly women is incredible and almost as undeniable as the sarcasm found in this sentence.

Happily, this birthday is a much less melodramatic event than last year’s “Sweet Jesus I’m Knocked Up and Turning 30” event. In fact, I am 100 percent okay with officially being in my thirties. Maybe it’s because I’m really happy with where I am in my life or because my baby is a good distraction from reality. But most likely, it’s because having a baby was life's way of smacking me in the head hard enough to give me a better perspective on things. And for that, and so very many other things, I am grateful.

So, Birthday Gods, bring it on. I'm done being freaked out by you...at least until I turn 38 and start fretting my forties.

A sure sign of my age

Back in the day, before I had adult accessories like a house and a baby, I used to get excited about cute shoes, going out dancing and new episodes of Friends.

Now, as my 31st birthday approaches (it's next Wednesday and I'd like a trip to Italy please), I find excitement in much more practical items. Like this one:

It's a new water softener. Whoo hoo! I am livin' large!

Our old water softener, which was just 5 years younger than me, died a slow death that left hard water stains in my shower and a soapy film on my skin. 

Sadly, this water softener might as well be a pair of Jimmy Choos, because that's about how much it cost and I really am excited about it. I've been daydreaming about the softness of my hair, the brightness of my whites, the cleanness of my dishes and the lack of soap scum in my shower. It's almost as exciting as the time I was in Vegas and ran into Soleil Moon Frye (of Punky Brewster fame) at the Hard Rock and she busted out a "HENRY!" on my behalf after I described how I used to tie bandanas around my jeans. Except that didn't really happen. Which is why things like water softeners excite me. 

 

How to help haiti

After hearing and seeing the extreme devastation in Haiti, all I can think about is how I can help. In case you're wondering this, too, here's a link to the CBS Web site, which has compiled a list of nonprofits that provide aid to Haiti. Let's do what we can to help.