Let Me Tell You A Little Story, Again.

As previously mentioned, Tegan is constantly changing. What she wanted for dinner last week now gets pitched to the floor, playing with the shoes in the closet is boring, and even Samson seems to be getting the cold shoulder as of late. Everything seems to come and go in Tegan's world except for her love of raspberries (which we'll get to another time) and books.

The kid loves books. She will spend half an hour flipping the pages back and forth, obsessively trying to master the thin pages (without ripping them to shit). For the most  part, I love that Tegan loves books. One very compelling reason is that it comes in very handy when she is having a meltdown. Let me be clear, when these tantrums occur I would rather be a half drunk call girl stuck in a room with Patrick Bateman than try to calm her down with any traditional methods.  A book is the only thing to tame this one.

While her love for books never fades, her acceptance of new books is with much reluctance. She has her favorites and that's that. We go to the library every week where I grab the ten board books look the least likely to be carrying the plague, and we go home and give them all a test run.  On a good week, I'm lucky if I can get two.

This basically means that I am stuck reading the same books over and over and over. I shouldn't call it reading because at this point I don't even need to look at the pages. If you think watching the same kids shows over and over again is the most suicide inducing aspect of parenting, let me tell you, reading about a car going beep beep over and over is equally annoying.

Honestly, I'm pretty thrilled she loves books so much. It's better than loving TV or Barnie or methamphetamine. Hey, and maybe this will stick around, and she'll actually complete her reading assignments in school (unlike her mother who despised reading until she found out not all writing was done by old, boring white men) and maybe become a writer...a really famous talented one and write the next great masterpiece like War and Peace, or Catcher in The Rye...or Twilight!

Okay, okay, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Although, this whole fantasy of how Tegan will support me in old age is a much better (and less psychologically damaging) pipe dream than say, pageanting. For now I'll settle for reading the same five books over and over again, and attempting to broaden her literary horizons. The Truth is, if she's happy to listen, I'm happy to read...again.

(book worm/future NY Times best selling author)

Giving The Finger

Tegan is officially pointing...at everything. In addition to the finger gesture comes the word "that? or more like "dat?" with a very clear question mark attached to it. Is is fucking adorable. (my use of "fuck" indicates a level of cute that far exceeds that of puppies and kittens cuddling in a hay filled barn.)

Aside from the obvious point (pun intended) that she is expressing herself, and wanting to know what EVERYTHING is, it's the opening of the parenting door I have most looked forward to. Questions. I love the things kids come up with. Even before I was a parent or an expectant one, I loved to see all my friends post things their kids would ask and say. Classic comedy that can't be rivaled. I mean, Bill Cosby made a whole damn show for it.

Right now I am simply telling her what something is. "Dat?" Tree.  "Dat?"  Toothbrush.  "Dat?" cat vomit.  But one day comes my much anticipated chance to come up with equally clever answers to questions like "why do my ears stick out?" "So that Batman has something to pick you up by when he wants to take you out to dinner"

I realize that this is a slippery slope, and that when the day comes for such answers I want to make sure I pick and choose when to insert some "creative license" as I'll call it. After all, I don't want my kid showing up to kindergarten telling her classmates that the grass is green because leprechauns pee out their feet.

For now we'll stick to "dat?" and (mostly) correct explanations. Although, I make no promises. If my child points at you and says "wiener" I had nothing to do with it.

("dat?")

God Made Dirt...

Tegan is almost walking. She is in this funny "middle" phase where she crawls around with her ass in the air from crawling on her hands and feet rather than her knees. While this is a super exciting milestone, it has also required me to be a bit quicker on my toes and definitely more creative.

A few months ago, I could get away with having her play in the office while I worked on school stuff (okay, okay, while I played on Facebook and daydreamed about items on Etsy). Now, I might get 3 minutes of that when I'll suddenly realize "it's gotten awfully quite in here", and discover Tegan in the living room watching tv.

Along with my need to watch her like a hawk, I must also come with new "exciting" things to do. The closet full of shoes, and pushing the cart out front are old hat. So I have yet again had to expand my parenting repertoire. And the scariest new place, our backyard.

It was once a well manicured oasis (blatant exaggeration), but seeing as we know our house will soon be a banks house, saying we've let it get a little overgrown would be an understatement. There are weeds as tall as her out there, and old dog turds, and rotten grapefruits and decayed bird heads for all I know. Okay, okay, so I'm painting a pretty terrifying picture, it's not quite so bad, but overgrown for sure.

But she loves it, and I can see why. And I loved that stuff too when I was little. Ask my mom about pulling leeches off me after catching frogs in a pond. Who wants to sit inside and play with dolls when there's mud and dirt and grass outside to romp in and ultimately shove in your mouth? Not this girl.

Yes, her clothes get dirty and I'm sure she's gotten into plenty of nasty things that would make a grown person vomit, but that's being a kid. And that's learning. We keep babies inside because we worry about germs and what not, but then we wonder why kids are fat and depressed and don't play outside later in life...really? So I let my kid eat dirt. I let her get messy. She scrapes her knees and gets bruises, and as a result, she's going to kick some major ass...and definitely have a better immune system.

(Trouble)

Who Are You, And What Have You Done With My Baby!

There are a lot of things you hear over and over and over again as a new or expectant parent. "Good luck getting any sleep" is a classic, or "GET THE DRUGS!" and even "whatever you do, don't rock them to sleep!"   While all of these and about a half dozen more got shared with you everyday whether the advice was requested or not, the great thing is, you can choose to ignore it, which in a lot of cases, I did. The one that every experienced parent always says (particularly older ladies) is that it all goes by so fast. This one takes the cake. 

And it does. (I'm going to do my damnedest to avoid crying on my keyboard and try to stick to my usual banter, but I make no promises.)  I've accepted that just when I get something mastered, she changes. When her sleeping is down pat, it's time to cut a nap. When she stopped falling on her face (this actually still happens quite a lot), she started slamming her fingers in doors. Once I've put everything just out of reach, she's to the next shelf. Oh, and the clothes, and amount of food they eat...you get the point. They are constantly evolving...literally.

I can handle all of this. I can handle the constant changes and need for adaptation. In fact, I like it. What I don't like is that I never feel like I will remember her previous stages enough.  I have moments where I wish I could just slow it all down or bottle my state of mind or something. No matter how many photographs I take, or videos I shoot, or blogs I write,  I will never get her just right.

When you see someone everyday it can be hard to notice gradual change. It's like that with kids, and then one day I will be holding her and catch a glimpse of us in the mirror and realize how big she looks in my arms. It is mind blowing.

I know it will just keep going faster, and in what feels like a few months, she'll be borrowing the car and asking for a tattoo (to which I will reply with a raised eyebrow and a quick flash of the then faded and saggy skull and crossbones on my back that I thought was super cool at 18). And boys (sorry Josh), and college and marriage, and then her having a baby. Okay, my heads about to implode. 

In 24 days Tegan will be a year old. And in that year, she has never been away from me for more than 5 hours. You may think this makes me insane. It does. It also makes for an indescribable bond.  And at 11 months I already find myself saddened by her independence...and then I remind myself that a little independence means the occasional happy hour with the bff, and a date with the husband, so I relax a bit. With turning 1 will come walking, and running, and expressing herself with more (human like) speech, sleepovers at the grandparents, big girl beds, mommy going back to work and a lot of other new things. And I'm beyond excited to see what the 1 year old Tegan has to offer. I just wish I could have had this one a little longer.

(341 days ago)

Take Me To Your Linguist

Every aspect of watching Tegan develop is entertaining and often times very humorous. She learned to crawl by chasing cats, motor skills from diligent practice and learned to eat by watching her dad (or so I'm guessing by the way she seems to be a bottomless pit and always seems to make a mess). The area of her development that I find to be the most interesting and coinsidently, the most hilarious, is her speech.

Now I need you to take a moment to remember a few classic films from the 80's, Gremlins and E.T. Now take these two "voices" (particularly E.T.'s drunk voice) and mash them together, add in a little velociraptor from Jurassic Park and some Darth Vader and that is what my child sounds like when she "baby talks". Honestly. yes, she throws in the occasional "dadda" and what not, but most of the time she sounds like something from another planet or at least a different species. 

I know it's just her way of practicing speech, and that all those silly sounds that remind me of a singing Mogwi will eventually turn into "mama's",  "I love you's" and "I hate folding the laundry!'s".  It's just not what I expected. I thought kids were supposed to make some cute "gaga" sounds and laugh, not scream and yell and make death metal growls. 

So I guess for now, I'll just enjoy Tegan's stellar ability to imitate aliens and fuzzy little monsters before her words turn into things I'll wish she never learned how to say. I mean, aside from maybe singing like Hall and Oates or turning into a unicorn, there aren't many cooler things than a kid who can do a spot on E.T. voice.

(Calling the mother ship)

The Land of Oz

So we traveled to Texas. It was great to see family and have them meet Tegan. The biggest realization, traveling with a child is not allowed to be called "vacation." That term is reserved for trips involving at least on of the following criteria: a nanny, hammocks/lounge furniture, and/or alcohol. While my mother and Maggie were about as helpful as a nanny and I spent an hour on a gliding chair with my cousin, none the above criteria was actually met.

In my mind, the purpose of travel is to experience something new, or to get away from the daily grind as to avoid the desire to throw yourself of the roof of your office building. Not so much when traveling with a child. You are essentially taking the animal out of its natural habitat, but then spend an exhaustive amount of effort trying to make the new place like home.  Does this scenario sound familiar...a zoo perhaps?

Maybe I'm crazy. I will accept that. Perhaps packing a sound machine and video monitor makes me less of a "go with the flow" mom as I thought I would be, but who want to spend 3 nights sharing a room with a screaming, crying, tired baby...not this girl. 

Essentially I did my damnedest to take home to Texas, and it kinda work...kinda. She still slept poorly, and had some melt downs, but at least I had a mass of experienced ladies to help entertain her just as I was ready to step into oncoming traffic (kidding). 

I know it sounds like the trip was miserable, but it wasn't. It just wasn't the relaxing, sit around and shoot the shit kind of thing I was used to. 

The weirdest thing is that coming home to my much missed partner in crime and our familiar surrounding was what felt like the needed vacation after all that work. I guess Dorothy had it right. 

Oh, and you may be wondering, will we be traveling again soon? No. And that's okay with us. 

(Live-in nanny)

My Bags Are Packed, I'm ready To Go.

I've always been a "throw some shit in a duffle bag, and pray you have enough chonies" kind of packer. None of this spending two days laying out clothes, creating checklist and strategically calculating laundry. I already know a handful of you (Erin) who are wondering if this means there's something wrong with you, and until three days ago, I would have said yes.

Oh children, how they change EVERYTHING. If you are a soon to be parent, or just someone dabbling at the idea of starting a family, let me be very clear...EVERYTHING. Sleep, personal life, eating habits, clothing selection, weekend activities, spending, travel, housing, social life, and even friends. I'm not complaining in any way. I would give up friends and vacations, and even mexican food to have this crazy kid in my life.

So there I was, transformed into some crazy packing mommy machine, creating a list and checking it twice. Packing things like baby spoons, bath toys, bedtime stories and sound machines. It was a process that one would think should relieve some stress of trying to remember so much, but the reality is, I was far more stressed trying to remember to remember than not remembering would have actually caused. Phew.

The two-headed packing monster has crawled back into its cave and the house (mainly Josh) is free from its wrath until next trip. So we are off to Texas this afternoon which means I will not be blogging while there, but there isn't a doubt in my mind that the plane ride, sleeping away from home, and Tegan meeting all her little cousins (all firsts) will result in some delightful reading material. This is of course assuming I survive the whole ordeal.

So we are all packed (I think) or at least Tegan is, and ready for what couldn't be called anything other than a (mis)adventure. It remains to be seen if I will have enough chonies, or hell, pants for that matter.

("Helping")

Time For A Little Bubbly

Tegan loves bath time. Loves it. Almost as much as she loves Samson. She scurries like a little coachroach towards the bathroom as soon as she hears the water turn on. Into the bathroom and pulls up on the tub to watch her favorite bath friends (a purple octopus and washcloth) swirl around in the water while she impatiently awaits her plunge.

It's great! I mean, I hear stories of babies who HATE water. As in, mom's can't get their kid's face wet without a wrestling match, and parents equating their child's bath experiences to those of bathing a cat. Have you ever bathed a cat? Well, I don't recommend it, and if Miss Tegan reacted to baths in such a way, she would sooner resemble Pig Pen from Charlie Brown than get a bath.

Tegan is just the opposite. She doesn't mind me just dumping water on her head (Josh does mind this however, so he always lets her off easy). She even dunks her face in the water on her own. It's pretty hilarious. It sort of reminds me of a Dog Whisperer episode where this collie had a compulisve disorder and always bits at water. Yes I compared my child to a compulsive pooch. I love her, so I can do things like this.

The problem with Tegan is the getting out of the bath part. Problem is probably a bit of an understatement. More like a "the world is about to end and I am going to fight to the death to stay alive" kind of problem. Screaming, crying, alligator rolling craziness. Josh and I desperately sing every song in our repertoire, attempt all methods of distraction, and at best, we get to lotion before she really goes bananas.

As a result, Josh and I have managed to dry, lotion, q-tip, and pajama this kid in record time. I'm talking, if there were some type of parenting rodeo, we would be tri-state camps. I mean, really quick. As soon ad she's sitting up and pajama-ed, the post-bath demon has left her body and she smiles at us like nothing ever happened. Mean while, we are taking a deep breath and wiping the spit from our faces (blatant exaggeration).

So she doesn't act like a crazed cat getting into the water. This pleases me. But turns out, even Miss Tater isn't perfect (okay, yes she is, but I'm trying to make other parent's reading this feel better about there kid). So instead, She turns into the little girl from The Exorcist when you take her out of the water, and I can live with that. I happen to enjoy horror films.

(sitting in an empty tub postponing the inevitable)

This Is How We Do it...(To The Tune of Montell Jordan)

As a parent, you do anything within your means, and hell, sometimes out of them, to do whatever it takes to get your baby to stop crying, or to sleep, or to eat, or avoid killing themselves. This is why you hear about parents who drive around all night to get their kid to sleep, and how they run the vacuum in the babies room to keep them asleep. Other gems include the publicly humiliating situations of singing and dancing at the grocery store to buy some time for shopping (Josh is a master at this), and rolling the car windows up and down when you're stopped at a light to avoid a meltdown. I learned that one pretty quickly.

I think a parent's ability to come up with such creative solutions to such timeless problems is pretty impressive. Although I will say that the pressure for success is a bit greater. I mean, if your boss sat in your back seat and screamed until you solved his marketing dilemmas perhaps those would be solved quicker as well.

This need for creative parenting never seems to end. Just as one solution seems set, the game changes and you have to come up with a different plan. Our newest dinner situation is a testament to that.

Tegan's been sick. You already know this because I have flooded out social media outlets with complaints and frustrations about my sick bird. If those have bothered you, please revisit my first blog in which I address my problem with becoming "one of those parents" and in no way apologize for it.

So back to sick Tegan. A not eating well sick Tegan. She normally eats like a grown man, so when we were creeping up on 36 hours of no eating it was time for creative measures. Tried different food, different methods, different everything and nothing was doing the trick. Finally I decided a different ambiance might be in order. We moved to the patio, and some how decided to remove her clothes (when you're in the middle of figuring these things out, logic usually goes out the window, and ridiculously stupid ideas come into play). IT WORKED. Naked outdoor dinner worked and worked well. In fact, it even earned us a round of applause from T bird! She happily ate her food and later enjoyed a post-dinner semi nude romp through the yard while Josh and I reveled in our undeniably stellar parenting ability. Yay us!

(Full (naked) belly)

Caged Birds Don't Sing, They Cry.

Tegan's still sick, and probably sick of feeling horrible. I'm sick of her being sick. And undoubtedly, I'm sure Josh is sick of the mood I develop as a result of Tegan being sick. You get the point. It's a mess around here. A domestic war zone against stomach virus', tears, lost appetites, drop of a dime mood swings, and parents with wearing nerves.

The worst part? It's absolutely beautiful outside. Blue skies, calm breezes, and I may be wrong but I could've sworn I heard birds chirping "Kokomo". It might as well be the most beautiful fucking day all year and we're stuck indoors.  What shit luck that on the first weekend in three weeks that it hasn't poured down rain, we can't enjoy it. Instead we spend the day trying to force fluids and foods that fall into the ironically acronymed BRAT diet.

I love Tegan more than anything in the Universe (except maybe homemade tortillas. Kidding.) and it is my job, my duty, my honor, to clean up her barf and rub her back, but after three days, it gets to the point where you wonder who takes over once you're both on the floor kicking and crying. (It's Josh by the way. Who I might add is an amazing dad, and will soon be getting a walk on roll in the blog).

I just hope tomorrow is a better day. That we get to go outside and complain about how hot it is or something, because anything is better than watching a day go by from your window.

(tired eyes. Mommy has a matching set.)

I'm Right On Top of That, Rose!

I had it all figured out. My next blog that is. I had the clever title, the humorous one liners, and perfect picture all ready to go in my mind. And then the reality of being a parent set in. The reality that trying to plan something out ahead of time, let alone think you know your child's behavior enough to predict the outcome is about as impossible as trying to pull off a runway show in your mom's backyard after pretending to be a fashion guru to support your brothers and sisters because your summer babysitter bit the big one. That shit never works!

We had dinner plans with friends who also have a little girl. I should probably clarify. As a parent, when I say dinner plans, I'm not referring to a nice meal out with friends, where you enjoy a bottle of wine (or two) and a few hours of banter about work and politics and the latest Sheen shenanigans. I'm talking about going to a friends house for dinner where the four adults spend the evening trying to pretend they are having adult conversations while actually trying to figure out why all of the sudden their child won't eat the squash you brought for them. While this is not nearly as classy as a dinner out, when you've spent 10 months as parental shut-ins, an early dinner with friends feels like a weekend getaway. Oh, and just a heads up for you future parents out there, this is all happening at "dinner time" which is now 4:30.

So dinner plans. And blog plans. A well written blog about dinner with friends tied in with the relationships between babies, as Tegan was going to be having some quality time with one of her friends.

Nope. Life with a child is never what you prepare for or expect it to be. Instead of dinner, Miss Tegan got a fever, and there is nothing that will flip me into "paranoid mother" mode quicker than a fever. So instead of homemade tortillas and deliciousness, we had a sick little bird on our hands. And at that point tortillas are the last thing on my mind (okay, that's a lie, homemade tortillas were right up there) because seeing your kid sick really sucks.

So we have rescheduled dinner, and who knows how long it will be before two families with two unpredictable children actually enjoy a meal together. But it's all part of the unpredictable, not always sunny, changes we face as new parents.

And hey, it's no easy gig being a new baby either.

(sad face)

Learning The Hard Way.

We learn from our mistakes, and this has been true since we were walking around on all fours in the dirt.  I was actually referring to our evolutionary fore Fathers, but I can't ignore that statement's uncanny similarity to what my child does most of her day. I'll save the parallels between Tegan and apes for another post, as that list could get quite long.

So learning from our mistakes is how we've gotten where we are. We touch something hot, it hurts. We smile at someone, (hopefully) they smile back. We attempt to drink a gallon of milk in 5 minutes, we vomit.   I'm fine with this. I get it. She has to fall a lot to understand gravity, and learning to walk means learning to fall. And I let her fall, and maybe sometimes too hard.  Don't look at me like that, I'm just saying that I'm not hovering over my child and tossing a pillow under her ass to cushion her fall.

My problem with this process is that if I'm supposed to let her learn and explore things on her own, why can't she ever seem to cut my nerves a break and enjoy some child friendly activities. I mean really. "Oh neat, awesome new toys mom, and look, there's a kitty I could smother, but nah, I think I'll go try to scale the bookcase for the twenty-eighth time today. You know, the really wobbly one that could fall over at any moment.  And then I think I'll go learn how windows work and bang my head against the glass a few dozen times. And that glass candle thingy looks like it would shatter nicely on the tile floors."

All of this "learning" results in a remarkable number of bumps and bruises. Black eyes, goose eggs, scratches, cuts, the whole deal, and she's only 10 months old! The amazing thing is, she's fucking resilient. These injuries always freak Josh and I out. It scary as hell to see you kid get hurt, but the fearless Miss Tegan is never discouraged.  Not her, she'll fuss for a minute or two, but she always gets right back to concurring the bookcase.

(tip toes)