Tag Archives: 8 months

Things you only discover after you have kids

Today’s episode: The Staining Power of Carrots.

I mean, really. The Hatchling’s ENTIRE BUTT is yellow. Who knew?


Here’s the deal. I’m thirty-five years old. I haven’t been completely ache-free for a number of years. Gone are the days when I could spring lightly from my bed, fresh and reinvigorated from my slumbers, and trip gaily down the stairs to perform cartwheels and back bends. (Ok, that last part I maybe did one time when I was, like, eight.) These days, I get up and I’m a little creaky. Nothing too insane, but it takes a little stretching and ambling about to get fully mobile. You know, the whole aging process, my bones and joints are eager participants in it. Anyway, I’m not thrilled about my gradual loss of limberness, but I figure it comes with the territory and it’s a pretty minor complaint, all things considered. I mean, there are kids starving in China, so I should just shuddup already, right? Right. But. Lately? My back? Holy skeet-shooting Christ it hurts all the time. I’ve *never* been one to have back problems. Some people, that’s where their body gives out. Not me: I’m more likely to have a life threatening allergy attack or acute gastritis or something. My back can normally take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. Even when we first had the Hatchling, and she was attached to me most of the day like a small barnacle, I’d maybe get a little sore, but one good night’s sleep and I was right as rain again. And I figured, yeah, she’ll get bigger, but it will happen gradually enough that my muscles will get used to it; my body will compensate for the extra weight. Uh-huh. Only, the problem is that the way my body compensates for the extra weight, apparently, is by BREAKING MY BACK. The problem is that the Hatchling will only stay in a cart or stroller for so long, and then you have to carry her. Well, I exaggerate. You don’t have to carry her. It’s just that your other option is inflicting her increasingly violent wails on yourself and everyone around you. Which is not an option I enjoy so much.

As I may perhaps have mentioned at some point in the past, the Hatchling is not one of your tiny wee slips of a girl. No, the adjectives one might apply in her case are more like “strapping,” “robust,” or according to some, “husky.” She hasn’t been weighed recently (we have a checkup tomorrow), but I’m guessing she’s at least a good twenty pounds by now, and while that may not sound like much, when it’s squirming and kicking around in your arms as you make the rounds at Target or somewhere, it gets pretty heavy pretty damn fast. One outing’s worth of baby-carrying, and my back is all, LET UP, BITCH. WE ARE TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT.

And really, it feels like I am. I am soooo scheduling a massage for next week. Lawsy.

Adventures in parenting hilarity

A.k.a., my husband is a whore for baby laughs.

So lately, the Hatchling is waaaaay into naked time. It’s funny, because as a newborn she hated being naked; take off her sleeper and she acted like you were actually removing her skin, and why did you hate her so much? Now, though, it’s a whole ‘nother story. (Yeah, I said “whole ‘nother.” I’m from the south, dammit. We get to do that.) Now, when it gets to be her cranky time of the evening, all we have to do is strip her down and she’s all smiles and kicks and stretches and chubby little arms waving in the air. Naked = awesome. Part of the attraction may be how brief it is. We are, after all, living in an old, drafty house in Minnesota in the middle of winter. So it’s not like we can really let her be unclothed for hours at a time. But if you ask me, the REAL reason she loves it so much is that her father has developed some stunning moves around taking her clothes off. It started with a fairly simple zipping off of her socks while saying “zzzzzZZZZIP!” with each one and waving her sock in the air. She was a big fan of that, and now the undressing routine has escalated to truly Marxian (Groucho, not Karl) proportions. This evening’s performance culminated with Mr. Squab whipping off the Hatchling’s pants, then flagellating himself repeatedly with them, interspersing the flagellations with a resounding “BUUUUUUURP!” The Hatchling could hardly contain herself she was laughing so hard. Hell, I could hardly contain myself. Who thinks of stuff like that? More importantly, will I be able to capture it on video? Because that shit needs to be shared with the interwebs.

Milestones I’d be totally OK not reaching

The Hatchling is going a little berserk with the tooth eruptions. Not only did she pop her top two teeth just before Christmas, she now also showing the tip-top of one of her bottom canines. This morning, in a bout of nursing related peevishness, she bit me (not the first time by any means) and drew blood (the first time for that, god help me).

Perhaps we’ll be weaning a little earlier than I had previously planned. Oy.

I know, I Know!!!

I’m a baaaaaad blogger. B.A.D. Fucking holidays, man. There are all these presents to buy and relatives to visit and fun parties to go to and cocktails to drink – it’s HELL on one’s blogging schedule, I tell you what. I have all these substantive posts in my head that I never seem to be focused enough to sit down and write out. Erk. But I do still have this quite engaging child, who is currently in the process of sprouting two more teeth, and is babbling all kinds of new syllables and sounds and generally charming everyone she meets. Only I think it’s possible that the attention is going to her head, because she’s started affecting this new look:

People, please! No photos!

I mean, can you say attitude? She’s all, “No photos, please!” while simultaneously mugging like hell for the camera.

Oh, I HATE having my picture taken, really, I swear

What a diva.