Doggone It

I've got a happy baby. Perpetually cheerful, he's always willing to lend a smile to friends and strangers alike.

But it's hard to get this kid to laugh. And you never know what will strike his fancy [which is especially frustrating when you've been standing on your head in a clown suit for half an hour, and he decides that his father simply walking into the room is utterly hilarious].

We've got two cats, and Tom smiles at and 'talks' to them all day, and is even learning to gently pet them [instead of making a mad grab for their fur, causing them to hide under any available furniture].

But my parents' dog? Apparently, is the funniest. thing. ever.

It would be cute if anything I, his long-suffering mother, did could provoke even a chuckle.

Mommy Vice

I've got a Mommy Vice.

I don't much care about what brand of clothing the little one sports (I gravitate to the clearance rack of our local Carter's outlet), what kind of shoe he'll wear (look for a post on SIL's shoe meltdown sometime soon), the brand of his crib (he's quite happy and comfortable in this little number), toys (unless they try to maim him, also a post for another day), my diaper bag, or the like.

But, Heavens to Moses [is that the right phrase?], I love my stroller. From its hi-tech rubber-coated chrome-finish wheels to its cushioned, telescoping handle and all its parts in between, I can't use it enough.

I don't know exactly when I morphed from regular person into stroller-psycho, but the crazy's taken over. Even now, post-stroller purchase and utterly content with our one and only baby-mobile, I still check out stroller message boards to hear about the latest and greatest innovations in child carts. And, I confess, I cannot help but glance at nearly every single stroller I pass, though, at this point, I've checked out so many strollers that one has to be either (a.) incredibly rare or (b.) really, truly awful to warrant a second look.

Also? I get a little thrill when other moms check out Tom's ride. Not because I'm vain about it [OK, not only because I'm a little vain], but because every now and then, in the briefest moment at a Barnes and Noble/Target/TJ Maxx/whathaveyou, it happens. Just by the look in her eye, I'll know it. I've found a fellow stroller-phile. Then the baby will punt a toy across the room and we'll both move on with our day.

So, what's your Mommy Vice?

And for the record, I push the UppaBaby Vista, whose line is so awesome that it's not long until it takes over the world. Or, you know, the [reserving my commentary] Bugaboo.

Unless They Make "Cars 2"

So, I waged our first battle with baby toy branding.

Mike wanted to get a sofa for the little guy, so I hit up that Babies R Us sale yesterday on the hunt for a flip-open sofa at ten dollars off of the regular price. Of course, they didn't have any at Babies R Us, but there were a few at the Toys R Us next door.

There were three sofas available: Elmo, Diego, and Cars.

Because it is my hope that Tom won't be exposed to child-targeted television, I'd rather not have too many things in the house screaming at him that TV IS SO MUCH FUN MAKE YOUR MOTHER TURN IT ON ZOMG!!!1!!!1! [Full disclosure: He does occasionally watch Jeopardy with us, and the television is generally on after about 9 PM so one of us can relax/zone out while the other plays with the baby and puts him to bed.]

Thus, my rationale was simple: choose the sofa whose branding will be outdated by the time Tom realizes that it is 'branded' at all.

Welcome home, Cars sofa.

He Might As Well Call Me A Liar

Ideally, my little guy would take a little nap around noon, another around three, and a nice slumber around five or six until Dad gets home.

In the real world, he'll sleep for twenty minutes sometime in the afternoon after being boobed into it, then pass out around 6 or 7 or 8, just in time to be asleep when Mike walks in, making a fool out of the mother who called her husband begging for just fifteen minutes of peace, for the love of all that is holy.

Infant Manicure FAIL

I Miss TJ Maxx

Ever since I stopped working, I've been plagued by the question "What do you DO all day?"

It happened again today, when Rosie stopped by to invite me to her next party. [Incidentally, OMG APPARENTLY WE DIDN'T MAKE THAT BAD OF A FIRST IMPRESSION!]

I was able to blow past Rosie's inquisition with a simple "Today we just hung out at the house," but it's not always that easy.

People don't mean to belittle me with the question. Probably. Right? Or maybe the do. But when they say those words, I hear "You lazy lout, do you just sit around all day hoping your ass gets bigger? Because, if so, it's working."

The thing is, I'm insecure about what I do all day. I don't feel like I do very much but by the end of the day you'd better believe I'm exhausted. Between sponge bathing, changing and re-outfitting the baby after his tenth 'blowout' of the day, nursing him repeatedly [and then some], trying to entertain him so his little brain doesn't go to mush [OK, also because I feel like he's totally bored staring at my ugly mug all day], and wrangling the cats, I don't get any housework done, let alone any homemaking. Martha would be so disappointed.

Truth be told, many days we don't even get out of the house, except for a stroll around the neighborhood in the evening. When the baby decides he'd like to eat every two hours, and eating takes him 45 minutes, I've got about an hour and fifteen minutes to get somewhere and do something before he's demanding a meal. And I'm not the type to whip out a boob and let him go at it in public. So I limit my outings to places a) within 15 – 20 minutes of home in case of a complete infant meltdown, and b) with parking lots large enough for me to park in a relatively secluded area so I can feed the beast in the backseat. This is tough for me, because even though I'm pretty much a loner, I like to be out and about [perusing the clearance sections of every available establishment].

Anyway, back to those question-askers. Next time one confronts me, what should I say? That I contemplate world peace? Solve previously un-solvable mathematic equations? Write SCOTUS-quality legal briefs? [Alright, sometimes their analytical integrity is questionable, but these briefs? Airtight.]