out of Kadesh

I read this on the calendar yesterday and I was all, right, ok. Because the last sweltering weeks of “spring” have just been so lovely. I’m pretty sure it was smack-dab in the middle of summer the entire time I was hauling my 20 pound kid and a 10 pound diaper bag all around DC last week. Oh, did I say DC? Because I meant Arlington, a train-ride away from actual DC. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this or not, but I’m kind of an unadventurous homebody. I was freaked enough not being within walking distance of my house, so once we got to the hotel, I stayed within a mile of it the whole time we were there.

It’s not that I wouldn’t have gone further, it’s just that my awesome friends all offered to come to Ballston, where we were staying, to see Noah and me. And in 90-degree humidity, with a butterball baby in a Bjorn, who’s going to say no to that? Also, I wasn’t willing to take Noah anywhere without metro access because we didn’t have his car seat and I kept replaying a crashing bus scene in my head, one where a baby, who is sitting loose in his negligent mother’s lap, goes flying through the air. So we stayed in Ballston.

It was an interesting experience, being out on my own all day with Noah. I realized I’ve never actually done that before. Isn’t that pathetic? He’s six months old and I’ve never had to be a full-time-on-my-own-Mommy. It was a little scary, but not too bad. I did have to pee once with him on my lap, always had to wash my hands one at a time while the other arm was holding him, and I changed his diaper on my lap three times. Because Ballston doesn’t think changing stations are important. Also I angrily stared down four or five men in the mall one day who were unabashedly looking at me with disbelief and revulsion as I breastfed Noah. There you go; it’s a city filled with young single guys whose entire existence is their career and who could not fathom that a woman would use her breasts to FEED HER CHILD. IN PUBLIC. THERE YOU GO.

Reality check: I do not miss DC (or Arlington). AT ALL.

But I do miss some of the people, painfully bad. (Interestingly enough, they’re all theatre people who don’t panic at the sight of a woman nursing…) It was so great to introduce Noah to them. These were the first people to see me knocked up, and I was all like, “Noah you’ve met before even though you might not remember because at the time you were the size of a blueberry and you were busy floating around in uterine goo.”

(I only got pics from the second half of the trip because post-pregnancy brain + lack of sleep from confused infant, in squeaky metal hotel-crib, who wakes up 20 times at night = COO-COO! Sara and Allison, Noah’s still talking about how hot Hannah and Jade are. He’s looking into flying out to see them without his mom.)

By far his fussiest night was the last one, when he decided he’d been charming enough for one week, THANK YOU VERY MUCH AND GOODNIGHT. Earlier that day he’d given all his smiles to Spencer (again, no camera for those cute pics…). So Auntie Rachel got this face:

And Auntie Jacks got this face:

So we gave him a spoon to chew on, which distracted him for a few minutes.

He was so unhappy, in fact, that after drinks we went back to the hotel and put him in bed. But then we were like, “Now what do we do? We haven’t had dinner…” So Lance went across the street to the gas station.

Yes, I’m telling you that of all the delicious eats in the nation’s capitol, we ate gas station food for dinner on our last night in DC. As quietly as we could, with a single soft light on. And I’d do it again, too. I’d rather eat Ritz crackers and peanuts in silence for dinner every night for the rest of my life than wake up my grumpy Bubbs and make him ride the metro so I can eat at some fancy place where men in business suits disgustedly stare at my boobs while I feed my son.

The next day we went to the zoo, which was really smart since it was a beautiful THOUSAND DEGREES outside.

(Bonus points if you can find the panda in the background.)

Noah’s a TAD too young to care about any of the animals of course. For instance, here are the lions, which were awesome:

And here’s Noah at the lions:

But he did enjoy the meer cats for about 20 seconds…

…and he made a new friend (and I got to see Lauren K.!), and together Noah and Whitaker dealt with the horrendous heat.

He did great on the flights too, if you want to know. I was terrified his ears would hurt from the pressure on the plane, so I basically force-fed him breast milk, then jarred baby food, then water on take-off the first flight. He really loved that. And, not surprisingly, he barfed halfway through the flight. So then I just handed him something to gnaw on for the descent and he was perfectly fine. He was too busy flirting with the flight attendant to even notice.

I was thinking, maybe my Bubbs has a little bit of my homebody-ness in him after all. When we got home, he was all smiles and giggles again. Maybe he’ll be a mixture of Lance and me: loves adventure for just a little while, but is relieved to be in his own bed again.

The other day I was talking to my neighbor, who has a baby a few months older than Noah. We somehow got on the subject of baby sign language, and she rolled her eyes and said, “I don’t get into any of that signing stuff, do you?” And I go, “Heh, no, not really.”

Except that I totally do. I sign to Noah all the time!

What!? Why did I say that? Why did I lie to her? I didn’t even mean to; it just sort of came out of nowhere. And then I couldn’t go back in the middle of her making fun of weirdos who sign to their babies, and be all like, “Oh, I said no, but I actually meant YES. I’m teaching him eat, nurse, Mommy, Daddy, sleep, change, more, please, thank you…”

I think it’s just that I’m completely confused as to how to be a mother and I always feel like other moms are doing it better than me, and I feel like they’re going to judge me for being crap at it. Which is ridiculous, because I don’t judge moms who do things differently than I do, but that knowledge clearly doesn’t keep me from totally lying to practical strangers about the way I’m choosing to parent my son.

Does anyone else do stuff like this?

The thing about arguing with your husband is that it’s not like you plan it. You don’t sit him down one sunny afternoon and say, “Hey babe, let’s get into a fight. I’d like us to be really nasty, calling each other unfair names and using gross generalities to describe what really gets under our skin about each other.” If it happened that way, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad because at least you’d be prepared for it, maybe even have a bottle of Vodka handy or have sex right before it to sort of soften the blow. Instead, it comes at you out of nowhere. You’re going along, everything seems fine, and then BOOM, someone says something really asinine and it pretty much explodes from there like a bomb full of shrapnel.

Lance and I suck at fighting. Seriously, it’s important to know how to constructively argue. I think learning how to fight better is what people pay marriage counselors for. They don’t encourage you not to have conflict, they just show you how to have conflict in a less destructive way. Which would be helpful for me in particular, because my fight with my husband last night brought our kitchen ceiling crashing down to the floor.

It might be my fault.

I tend to go sort of overboard when I fight, on which I will be blaming my highly volatile emotions. (That really doesn’t help me any, does it?) It’s like, by the time the argument is a couple of minutes in, I really have no idea why I’m so angry, or even what the heck started this mess, but everything is your fault so WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP AND ACCEPT THE BLAME! And Lance is like, apologizing for everything that has ever happened EVER in the history of marriages, but completely missing the point of the argument I’m trying to have with him RIGHT NOW, which I can’t even remember.

**Commence attacking each other’s character flaws.**

And our fights aren’t like the fights on movies, where they scream these amazing, quick-witted insults at each other and slam doors and then five minutes later they’re having hot make-up sex that causes the electricity to black out in the entire neighborhood. I don’t know if this is something that improves over time or what, but our fights are still really awkward. We’re like, “Ok, here’s why I’m angry.” (long silence) “Ok, it’s all my fault. But first, here’s why I think that’s weird.” (long silence) (shifty eyes) “Well, here’s why I think YOU’RE weird.” “Well, here’s why I think you’re an ass!” (long silence) (arm folding) “Um, I think that was uncalled for.” “What are we even fighting about?” “YOU’RE NEVER SEEING ME NAKED AGAIN, EVER!”

Then the recovery process is so hard for me. It’s like a migraine – the only cure is sleep. This makes Lance crazy. He’s all “Please talk to me,” and I’m all, “I’m through talking to you. It’s pointless,” as I’m scrunched over on my side of the bed so far if he so much as sneezes, I’ll fall right off. But I swear I’m better in the morning. It’s like some weird miracle happens overnight. I think he whispers subliminal messages in my ears all night long.

I hate being angry, I really do. A couple of years ago Lance and I had a truly rocky period where I wasn’t sure we were going to make it, and I remember in the middle of it I thought, I so badly want to pretend this isn’t happening. We actually ordered a pizza and watched a movie together one night. I don’t recommend this, because instead of dealing with our issues we ended up burying them in our rush to make things better, and they came up again a year later. But I swear I don’t think a slice of pizza ever tasted so good and Madagascar may or may not be my favorite movie. (Not really.) (But yeah, maybe.) All that is to say if I could shut off my emotions after a fight, I think we could constructively fight. But even when we’ve both apologized and everything has been resolved, I still feel like shit. The faucet of my anger and hurt isn’t gushing anymore but it’s still a trickle, and I can’t pretend it’s not there, which is totally unfair to Lance.

And it’s unfortunate, because if I could just let it go, we COULD have make-up sex, and I bet it would be phenomenal.

Does anyone else think Noah is really starting to look like a true combination of Lance and me? Lance’s eyes and, well my chubby cheeks, clearly.

(Thanks to our new friends Jeff and Lauren C. for the pic!)

Dear Noah,

Half. A. Year! Double this time and you’ll be a whole year old, and Mommy can’t think about that without tearing up so I won’t. This has probably been the best month so far, and that’s saying something. Not one person who has met you this month hasn’t commented on how happy you are, which makes Mommy and Daddy feel like a million bucks. I think that’s the magic of parenting, that we’re this proud of your charming personality even though we had nothing to do with it.

It’s been a really busy month. You were dedicated at church, you had lots of friends come and visit you, you’ve made some new baby friends, Uncle Jeremy came to visit you twice, you went to visit your great-grandparents/great-aunts, you went swimming for the first time, and you have exploded with milestones. You can now roll from your back to your front (and do so at inopportune times), you are eating lots of solid food (which actually means lots of mashed up food… go figure), you smile and laugh all the time now, you can almost sit up on your own, you’re only waking up TWICE most nights, and you are HUGE. One day like last week I stood you up on your changing table and you reached your hand up and touched your bird mobile, and the next time I stood you up and you could touch the mobile without reaching up! I’m scared to stand you up anymore for fear you might bump your head on the ceiling.

And a word about the eating: DANG, KID. You’re obviously from my side because you love everything you have tried, even (gasp) peas! No one else in our family likes peas except Mommy. Keep it up, k?

This month has definitely been the most fun I’ve ever had. Daddy and I celebrated our 5-year anniversary on May 21, and we took you with us out to wine country. You had a great time charming the socks off the employees, walking around the vineyard, and drinking your first case of wine. I used to be scared you’d cry if we were out in public, but, unlike Mommy who is the biggest homebody ever, you LOVE being out! We can take you anywhere, and we do! You seem to really love every new experience, and you love every new face that you meet. In fact, you’ve been challenging me with your complete lack of bias. You’re always happy to see everyone, whether young, old, Christian, Atheist, poor, rich, black, white, gay, straight, man, woman. You’re happy to see people Mommy doesn’t even like very much, which makes me really check my motives. I hope you always see the world as you do right now, with total acceptance and excitement.

You cannot stop smiling, especially at strangers. I’m honestly not sure if any of the new parent friends we’ve made are interested in Daddy and me at all, or if they just can’t get enough of your dimples. I’ve had people say you are the happiest baby they’ve ever seen, and I’ve had people say they’ve never seen a baby who is so interactive. When my college pastors came to visit, they said it was a pleasure just being around you. You even wake up happy most of the time. You used to fuss from your crib, but now you just start making happy little talking noises, which pretty much makes the world go ’round. No, I take it back. You have started REACHING FOR ME. That’s what makes the world go ’round, for sure. You are smart, funny, bright, and just plain awesome.

And CUTE. Ok I know I’m your mom and all, but I swear you’re the cutest baby I’ve ever seen in my life. You’ve got big brown eyes, a huge dimple, a pink little nose, pouty little lips, enormous, edible cheeks, equally edible fat rolls all over, and good lord you’re getting your HAIR BACK! I’ve missed it.

I’ve been so proud of you this month, watching you grow and play and love life. I love you so much, and my love only grows as you do. I’m never tired of holding you, feeding you, playing with you. I never want a break from you, and I still miss you like crazy when you’re not with me. Each month is better than the last, and as amazing as this month has been, I can’t wait to see you at the end of month 6.

Love,

Mommy

Before I got pregnant, I used to think I’d be the coolest mom someday. I’d be skinny and hot, carrying my baby around in a sling. I’d be so put together, so relaxed.

And then I had a baby who showed us within the first week of his life that he possesses the ability to shoot shit clear across the room, and all hope of ever being “cool” was immediately and absolutely eradicated.

Yesterday, my whole family went to Red Robin for my cousin’s birthday. Yes I said Red Robin, a chain restaurant famous for its loud “family friendly” ambiance, its onion-ring tower appetizer, and its greasy chicken burgers. It was my first mistake of the day: taking my baby to a restaurant with mediocre food and a migraine-inducing atmosphere. A Rookie mistake, y’all. Usually I try not to go anywhere further than walking distance in case I need to scoop up the Bubbs and run back to the safety of my house, where there are the comforts of A) Noah’s crib, B) my bed, C) toys, glorious distracting toys, D) our own diaper changing table, and E) NO OTHER PEOPLE.

Yes. I am this person. When did I become this person? I do not know how or when it happened. I’m mildly disappointed.

So we’re on our way to Red Robin and as usual, I’m doing my best to keep my anxiety below the surface. I’ve gotten pretty good at it, actually. I kept hoping the Bubbs would fall asleep, as it was his nap time and there was a lovely 20-minute drive to the restaurant, but instead he donned his Poop Face, started grunting, and the inevitable Poo-plosion happened shortly thereafter. Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I could sleep with poop in my pants, so I can’t blame him too much for not sleeping.

The bad thing about pooping while we’re not within walking distance of our house is it means changing a diaper FULL OF POOP out in public somewhere. On a nasty, germ-infested changing table in a fluorescent-lit bathroom. I don’t know if this is normal kid-behavior or what, but Noah HATES being changed on one of those Koala Kid changing deals. He usually looks around in horror for a few seconds before bursting into tears. It’s gotten so bad that I usually try to change him in the car if I have to change him. But when you cloth diaper and there’s a Poop Blowout, car-changes get really complicated. Especially when, as I’ve discovered fairly recently, that diaper is a Solid Food Poop Diaper.

Just…. wow.

Pause: see me stereotyping myself right now? I’m TALKING ABOUT MY KID’S POOP. I’d just like to remind myself that I do have a college degree. Ok, now I feel better. BUT DUDE, HIS POOP WAS TOTALLY GREEN.

As soon as we get inside, I take him to the women’s restroom and reach in the diaper bag for my changing pad, which I like using to lay on top of the public changing stations so I don’t have to lay my son down in effectively some other kid’s freakin’ poo leftovers. And as I’m digging around my mind flashes to the load of laundry that is sitting in the dryer with that very changing pad right inside it. Damn. I decide to paper towel it. Next I reach in my bag for my cloth wipes, which I need to wet before I lay Noah down on the paper towelled changing station. See, I’ve learned. The first twenty or so times I did this, I didn’t think to wet the wipes until I’d stripped him down, and then I had to pick him up, naked, and walk over to the sink so I could wet my wipes. And as I’m digging around I realize, with some disbelief at my incredible stupidity and bad luck, I have run out of wipes and neglected to put any more in the bag. DOUBLE DAMN. I decide to paper towel it.

Oh, yeah. In case you aren’t visualizing this, I’m the mom in the public restroom who has placed randomly-sized pieces of paper towels on the open Koala Kids Changing table. I am juggling a baby on my hip and I have an overflowing diaper bag on my arm, and I’m wetting wads of paper towels, which I’m simultaneously trying to keep my baby from grabbing and ripping to shreds.

And I think ahead, so I’m all, “I’ll wet four paper towels, JUST IN CASE.”

Another thing I’ve learned is that Noah is easily distractible. If I sing to him and smile real big, he’ll tolerate the changing station for a couple of minutes. But on this particular occasion, when I took off his pants and discovered poop all over his legs and my hand, my eyes wide as dinner plates, I’ve forgotten to sing and I’m definitely not smiling, Noah starts crying. And where he used to only cry for 30 seconds worst-case-scenario, he has now discovered the art of rolling from his back to his front and in this case, OFF THE CHANGING TABLE. So I lunge to catch him, hands covered in poo mind you, the paper towels all bunched up, useless, on the side so he is face down on the changing table WITH NO CLOTHES ON.

And that is when my mother, like a beam of radiant light from Heaven itself, comes in to see if she can help. I nearly cried with relief. We ended up having to stand Noah up to clean him off. I had to go back for more wet towels like three times. And then, as much as I love cloth diapering, I questioned it all as we had to put poo-covered clothes AND THE POO-FILLED DIAPER in a Red Robin to-go bag. I was sorely tempted to toss the bag in the garbage can on the way out of the restroom because, who wants to open a to-go bag of POOP later?

If this was the end of the story, it would be a funny one someday. But the end of the story doesn’t come until we’re safely back in our car on the way back home, because between the bathroom and when we left Noah got pureed peas all over himself, my shirt, and the booth, cried because he hadn’t napped, cried when I tried to nurse him (which attracts a lot of unwanted attention, I must say), finally nursed and fell asleep only to be immediately awakened by a team of Red Robin servers who gathered around our table, clapping and shouting HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my cousin. And I was all, “is this my new life?!”

All that is to say that I’m contemplating not leaving the house again until Noah is potty trained.

Oh, and that mom that you saw while you were out and swore you would never be? THAT WAS ME.

Last weekend we drove four hours to Mississippi to visit my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. And I think Noah is still recovering because he’s been sleeping. Yes, that’s right, Reader. My son, the SLEEP KILLER, has been snoozing like a fool all week. Lance and I are all like, “who is this kid and what did he do with our son? Wait, never mind, who cares? This kid sleeps, let’s keep him!” Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Get him around a bunch of family and he’ll be worn out for a week. IT’S BRILLIANT, I SAY, BRILLIANT!

In fact, we’re all still recovering. It was a big weekend, y’all.

Noah played with Mammaw…

…Aunt Renee introduced him to the best toys he’s ever known: plastic red measuring cups…

…he heard some funny jokes…

…talked golf with Pappaw…

…chilled out in the Mississippi heat while looking badass in his shades…

…laughed his pants off…

…got kissed, a LOT, and was all ICK, ENOUGH OF THESE LADIES…

…almost fell asleep (once)…

…played with his cousin (and promised to play hide-and-seek as soon as he learns to walk)…

…and finally got held again by Mommy, who missed holding him very much.

It was surreal, having four generations all together. I grew up with this family, and here they are holding my son. It was pretty amazing. It’s the CIRCLE OF LIFE! (Ok, sorry, just kidding.)

Bonus: everyone said Noah looks like me. I dunno why, but it makes me really happy.