No Place Like Home

We are officially moved in to the new house.  Right now, it kind of looks like a trailer park on the other side of a tornado, but even in the midst of the unpacking chaos, there are moments of peace.  Here's my two guys, catching a nap.

Grade Grubbing

As many of you know, last year I was involved in a year long Novel Incubator course at Boston's Grub Street, a non-profit creative writing center that offers classes for beginners and professional writers alike.  The idea was that ten students started with drafts of their novels, and under the leadership of our two teachers (the wildly outstanding Lisa Borders and Michelle Hoover), and over the course of a year we revised and reworked, resulting a new full draft.  I wrote a blogpost about my experience for the Grub Street's blog,  The Grub Daily.  Go ahead and give it a look-see, and then read the rest of the Novel Inc. post from the other writers in my class.

First, a quick spoiler: no, my novel's not done.  It's on it's third draft, and I work on it most days, but no, it's not done yet.  But, as Oscar Wilde says "Books are never finished.  They are merely abandoned."  I take that to mean that the book will probably never be as good as I want it to be, but eventually I will just run out of ideas of what do with it.  At that point, I'll pour myself a stiff drink and toss it into the world of literary agents, thinking  "Screw it.  Just screw it all.  What happens, happens.  I don't care.  I can't look at it for one more minute." ::glug glug glug::

Which is not to say I don't enjoy it, because I do.  Writing a book is one of those life things that I've always wanted to do.  In my parents' hope chest, there's a picture book that I "wrote" as a very young kid, maybe five or six.  Hilariously, I was a recognition whore even then; the front cover is littered with "awards" for best book, best pictures, etc.  If I'd known what a Pulitzer was, I would have given myself that too (the first picture book ever to receive a Pulitzer!!!).  But here's the thing: writing can't be about recognition.  Recognition is too sparse and too fickle to sustain anyone through the hours and hours and years of work it takes to make a book work.  So, I've had to learn how to love the work of writing for itself, regardless of whether anything ever comes of it.  It's still a struggle, but I'm getting better.

I'm hoping to "abandon" my novel by May, and then pitch the book at Grub's Muse and Marketplace conference.  We'll see.  And in the meantime, I'll keep working

3 Lessons for 3 Months

Is it hard to believe our little boo is 3 months old?  Yes and yes--two different kinds of yeses.  

Yes, it's hard to believe he's already gotten so big.  As we were packing up our things to move to the new house, I decided it was as good a time as any to put away Leo's three month clothes.  As I did, I held each one up and marveled at how unbelievably small they were, and how equally unbelievable it was that he used to be that small, and how especially unbelievable it was that he would never be that small again.  The whole thing defies all belief.  I can't imagine how stunned I'll be when he starts talking or playing sports or (god forbid) dating.

But also, yes, it's hard to believe that he's only 3 months old.  Our lives have been so completely transformed by his existence that pre-Leo time feels like a very long time ago.  I remember in the same way I remember law school or even college: fondly but fuzzily, with a pleasing veneer of nostalgia.  

I think this time distortion is caused by the tremendous learning curve of bringing home a baby.  Within a few weeks, I went from carrying our tiny baby like he's made of glass to slinging him over my shoulder mountain-bride style while hopscotching over the toys on our living room floor.  And that's just the beginning. Here are three other things I've learned in the last three months.

1) Sixteen pounds is really heavy.  It doesn't sound like that much, but lifting that little bugger a few dozen times a day is giving me some serious no-foolin' guns.  By the time he's two, I'll be able to arm wrestle Michelle Obama.  

2) Trying to get around with a stroller is a little like having a disability.  Suddenly, I have to plan where I can and can't go based on the layout of the store, whether there's a ramp to get inside, the size of the bathroom, etc.  And, I've had to make some substitutions.  For example, I have a new coffeehouse of choice.  Old coffeehouse:  I'm sorry.  We had some good times, but your tables are too close together.  Put a changing table in your bathroom and we'll talk. 

2a) I have a whole new respect for people with disabilities.

3)  If you'll just sit still and stop worrying about everything else you're supposed to be doing, letting a baby sleep on your chest is one of the finer things in life.

And now, for your viewing pleasure: Leo versus the Camera Cord, feat. Johnny Cash.

(Not Quite) Picture Perfect

'Tis the season to dress up your kid, pose him artfully, and drain your camera battery trying to get something that can pass for a smile.  Here are some of the out-takes from Leo's first Christmas photo session.

Smile for the what now?

Man, that flash is bright!

Muscles!

::blink::

And fist . . .

. . . goes . . .

in the mouth!

Again!

And again.

And again.

Home Sweet Home: A Q&A

The new digs

Q: So, you guys are moving to a new place?
A:  Yup.  We bought a house in Somerville, at 8 Fennell Street, near Magoun Square.
Q:  Congrats.  I didn't even know you were looking.
A: We weren't.   For a long time, we thought we could fit us and two kids in our current apartment.  I guess, technically, we could, because babies themselves are small.  But all the baby stuff?  That turns into kid stuff?  Forget it.  It became obvious pretty early on that we'd outgrown this place.  So, we started looking in early October, made an offer on October 22nd, closed on November 30th, and we'll move in December 15th.
Q: Yeesh, that was fast.
A: Tell me about it.
Q: So what are vitals on the place?
A: Three beds + study, two baths, almost 2,400 square feet of living space, front yard and back yard with covered patio, fireplace, eat-in kitchen, finished basement with a bonus kitchen.
Q: A bonus kitchen?  So you have two kitchens?
A:  Yeah.  I'm pretty excited about it.  It's common in old school Italian homes; the upstairs kitchen is for show, the downstairs kitchen is where the sausage gets made, so to speak.  I was positively frolicking through Home Depot, picking out my two gas ranges.
Q: Should we be expecting twice as many dinner parties?
A: Maybe not twice as many, but there will be some kind of multiplier effect.
Q:  How's the neighborhood?
A:  Great.  It's about a mile and a half from our current place, on a small dead end street.  It's across the street from a big park that has two baseball diamonds and two basketball courts and close to the best public elementary school in the district.  The closest T stop is Davis Square, which is about a twenty minute walk, but there are some smaller squares close by that have restaurants, shopping, and public transit.
Q:  Sounds a lot like your current neighborhood.
A:  Our current neighborhood has gentrified a lot in the past few years.  The new neighborhood is a little more "Old Somerville", families that have lived there for decades rather than yuppie transplants.  But the footprints of Davis Square and Tufts University are growing, and will probably include us soon.
Q: Tufts, huh?  So you're trading one brand of college kids for another.
A:  It's Boston.  College kids are pretty much unavoidable.
Q: So, how much did you guys end up paying, if you don't mind me asking.
A:  Not at all.  It's nothing that can't be looked on the city assessor's website.  We paid $473,000.
Q: Whoa!
A: I know.  It's more than I ever thought I'd ever pay for a house ever in a billion jillion years.  But for the area and for what we got, it's a bargain.  Similar single family homes are running at least a 100K more.  We actually ended up paying about 75K over asking price because there were eleven other bids on the property.
Q:  What are you most excited about in your new place?
A:  It's the little things.  A dishwasher.  Not having to go to the laundromat.  No ancient shag carpets.  Oven knobs that don't come off in your hand.  A bathroom wide enough for two adults to pass each other.
Q:  Is there air conditioning?
A:  Nope.  No air conditioning.
Q: Seriously?!?  Are you guys secretly Amish or something?  With the apple butter and everything?
A:  Sometimes it feels that way.
Q:  What are you going to miss most about your current place?
A:  The neighborhood.  My favorite coffee shop.  My little fancy grocery store.  My big not-so-fancy grocery store.  The little playground catercorner from our place.  The tree lined walk to Harvard Square. Our crazy neighbor with all the ducks in his yard.  For the past few weeks, I've had to remind myself daily that it's only a quick walk away.  Now it's almost hourly.  In my head, I know that I will find just as many things to love about the new neighborhood.  But my heart doesn't know that yet.
Q: And Mary?
A: And, of course, we'll miss our landlady "Grandma" Mary.  But we'll definitely be bringing Leo by for visits.
Q:  There's a rumor that you wrote a sappy letter to sellers to try to persuade them to take your bid.
A: Guilty.  It was on the advice of our realtor.  And it was high-octane sap. If I put in the whole thing, you might have to squeeze it out over your eggo waffles, but here's the last paragraph.

               "We read in the listing that this home has been occupied by the same family for the past sixty three years, since 1949.  Know that if you let us buy this home, it will stay a family home as long as we own it.  We will take care of it and take pride in it, hopefully for the rest of our lives.  This home has clearly seen some good years, and we hope to add many more good years of our own."

Q: Oh, lord.  You were laying it on thick.

A:  It gets worse.  We included a family photo.

Q:  Did it make a difference?

A:  We'll never know for sure, but Aaron went by the house today, and there was a bottle of champagne in the fridge and a note from the sellers, congratulating us on our new home.

Aftermath of a Fall Outing: The Apple Butter Saga

Like many seductive things, the early days of a New England fall are very dangerous.  The leaves begin to turn, and when a breeze catches them, they flutter down like gold tipped confetti.  It’s cool enough for a turtleneck but warm enough for bare ankles, a combination that feels vaguely Kennedy-esque.  And on some particularly buoyant, blue day, while sipping warm cider on the deck of your favorite café, you remember that in an orchard just outside the city, rosy Winesaps and succulent Honeycrisps are reaching their peak ripeness.

And you lean over to your companion and say “We should go apple picking next weekend.  Remember how much fun it was last year?”

Now, if your companion is of the practical, kill-joying bent, he would remind you of what happened last year, with the apple butter.  But my companion is not like that.  In fact, I’m pretty convinced that my companion was a farmer in a previous life, so apple picking is right up his alley.

So, we went again this year, this time with Leo, Grandma, and Gido, and when I came out with just one bushel bag, Aaron gave me the puppy dog eyes until I went in and got another.  And we picked apples and had a jolly good time.  And when we got home, we marveled, “Look at all these apples!”

Then, over the following weeks, after we’d eaten enough apples to repel the medical profession for a decade, the marvel turned to despair.  ::sigh::  “Look at all these apples.”  It was like having one of those weird paintings with eyes that follow you across the room, as if to ask “Are you just going to leave us here to rot on the kitchen floor?”

We're watching you

No, I think to myself.  No, I guess not.  I guess it’s time for apple butter.

Making apple butter is not hard.  Any monkey could make apple butter.  Scratch that—monkeys have too much intellect and curiosity.  You need something a little duller, a little dead behind the eyes.  A cow.  Any cow (who could be trained to wield a vegetable peeler) could make apple butter.

Step one is peeling, coring, and chopping a whole hell of a lot of apples.  This is by far the worst part.  It’s simultaneously slippery and sticky work.  Or, more accurately, it’s slippery at first, when your hands get covered in apple juice, and then sticky as the juice dries into an industrial strength adhesive.  And it just takes so long.  I couldn’t tell you how many apples I actually go through.  Counting would just be too depressing.  Basically, I take the biggest pot in my kitchen and start filling it with apples.  When it gets up to the handles, I stop.  Here’s a good rule of thumb: when you find yourself losing the will to live, you only need about four or five more apples.

See this thing?

Fill it with these things.

Next is the revenge stage of apple butter.  Take your big pot of apples, add 2 cups of cider and 4 cups of water, put it on high heat, cover it, and boil the ever-loving crap out of it.  The only thing that would make it more perfect is if the apples screamed for mercy like lobsters.

When you’ve satisfied yourself that the apples are sufficiently dead (35-45 minutes), turn off the heat and let it cool a bit.  Then, if you have one, get out your immersion blender.  This may be my favorite weapon in the kitchen arsenal.   It’s commercial grade (interestingly enough, made by the same company that makes Aaron’s hair trimmer), more like a power tool than an appliance.  It rarely comes out more than once a month, but ohh, when it does.  The whole pot is pureed in about a minute.  Those apples didn’t stand a chance!

Say 'allo to my leetle friend!

Then the whole thing gets moved to the slow cooker, where I stir in the following: 1 cup white sugar, 3/4 cup brown sugar, a generous capful of vanilla extract, 2 teaspoons cinnamon, 1 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoon allspice, 1/2 teaspoon cloves, a healthy pinch of salt, and a dash of cayenne pepper.  The point is to reduce this down to a dark brown, which in my slow cooker, uncovered on high heat, takes about nine hours.  So turn it on, and go get on with your life.

Like buttah.

As much work as it is, I will say that the finished product is pretty terrific.  Sweet, spicy, with just a tang of heat.  It’s good over ice cream.  It makes a nice glaze for roast pork.  It even makes oatmeal downright palatable.  But, for my money, the best use of apple butter is in what I like to call a Butter-Butter Sandwich.  Imagine, if you will, that the grilled cheese and the PB&J had a torrid New Year’s love affair.  The Butter-Butter would be their autumn lovechild: peanut butter and apple butter, grilled between two pieces of buttered challah bread.  So good.

A New Use for Maternity Jeans

Patent pending!

My Dear Dog Friend

Living in a semi-urban neighborhood has a lot of good news / bad news situations.  Quaint, walkable streets mean that parking is always an issue.  All the things that make the area desirable also make it expensive.  The  proximity of excellent restaurants, cafes, and other foodie havens pose an existential threat to one's dress size.

But one of the almost completely positive (and somewhat unexpected) attributes of city living is dog friends.  For those of us who don't or can't have dogs of our own, a wet nose and friendly set of scratchable ears is can be a bright spot in an otherwise incorrigibly bad day. 

My best dog friend, Coco, was a chocolate lab with a little too much belly who lived at a house at the end of the street.  Sadly, she passed away earlier this week.  It was sudden, and she was much too young.  Knowing how much she was beloved by the neighborhood, her family put out this poster to let us all know what had happened. 

Rather than focusing on how much I will miss her (which is really an inordinate amount given that she wasn't actually my dog), I want to tell a little story about Coco.  

When I was pregnant, it suddenly seemed like everyone else was too--friends, celebrities, even the girl at the coffeeshop.  One day, I walked by Coco's house and saw two roly-poly little brown puppies.  Rather stupidly, my first thought was "Oh look, they got two new dogs."  Yeah, two new dogs that look exactly like their other dog.  What a coincidence! 

It was only after I saw Coco's chewed out nipples (lord, if I'd only known then . . .), that I realized that those were her babies.  One of the puppies found a home quickly, but the other one, whom I nicknamed Baby Boo, stuck around a while, growing into his rambunctious adolescence.  As I grew to house-like proportions, I'd stop by to say hello to the two of them.  After I'd managed to toss away a toy to distract Baby Boo, Coco would climb to the top of the fence, and we'd commune nose to nose, telling mama secrets. 

RIP Coco.  I hope you find a well trafficked street corner in Dog Heaven.

2 Month Update

On November 6, Leo turned two months old.  We celebrated by getting up at o‘ dark-thirty in the a.m. for a family trip down to our local polling place.

You got me up for what now?

And so did everyone else in town.  Apparently, it’s been imprinted in our collective consciousness that all truly fine, upright citizens vote early in the day, because there were lines out the door . . .

Down the block . . .

And around the corner.

To make matters worse, it was cold.  The first legitimate, no-foolin’ cold day of the season.  You may not be able to tell from the picture above, but the guy ahead of us was wearing a fleece vest over a t-shirt, and I could pretty much count the goosebumps.  But he must have been a marine or something because he was definitely not doing the little back-and-forth, pissy-pants, keeping-warm dance that I was.

I don’t know why, but the first cold day of the year always comes as a horrible surprise to me.  There’s really no excuse for this.  Seasons are not exactly new inventions.  And, after (dear god, has it really been?) 20 years, I can’t claim the ignorance of a southern transplant.  Still, once a year, I step out the front door in my lightweight trench coat and my more-style-than-substance scarf, only to get kicked in the teeth by a burst of cold air.  I then scramble back into the house and hide under the thickest blanket I can find, feeling terribly betrayed by the whole thing.   

People around here like to claim that you get used to the cold (which is only slightly less obnoxious than claiming to love “the seasons.”  Please.)  No, I have never gotten used to it.  Over time, I may have come to realize the futility of complaining about it.  I may have bought myself some boots I don’t hate.   I may have even resigned myself to a life of chapped lips and long underwear.  

Not to mention hat hair.

Which is all to say that I may tolerate winter, but I will never get used to it.  NEVER!!!

But I digress.

Anyway, after about an hour, we voted.  Yay democracy.  And, more importantly, yay stickers.

What else did Leo get for his birthday?  A visit to the doctor’s office. 

Here are the all important vital stats:  our “big galoot” (a direct quote from the pediatrician) now clocks in at a whopping 16 pounds 2 ounces and measures 25 inches.  As a point of comparison, the 50th percentile 2 month old boy weighs 11 pounds and measures 23 inches.  The 50th percentile 4 month old boy weighs just over 15 pounds. 

Other than his jaw-dropping size, he’s a pretty healthy boy.  One thing you may have noticed in the photos is what I like to call his “super outie.”  It’s actually an umbilical hernia, which occurs when part of the intestine protrudes through an opening in the abdominal muscles, making the bellybutton blow up like a balloon.  Don’t worry, it’s a) pretty common, b) totally harmless, and c) usually resolved on its own by age 1.  That doesn’t stop it from sounding totally horrific and seeming like it should hurt a lot.  Thus the cutesie euphemism.  On the plus side, it works a handy dandy baby fullness meter.  Like that little plastic thing that comes in a turkey, it pops out when he’s done.  So that’s something.

He doesn't seem to mind.

He also got his first big set of shots, two in one thigh and one in the other.  This resulted in a lot of screaming.  First was the standard red-faced, eyes squeezed shut, “ouch!” screaming.  But then came a more expressive screaming, a wide-eyed, accusatory “how could you do this to me?” sort of screaming, which was both heartbreaking and more than a little funny.  Conveniently, all it took to restore his faith in humanity was a quick walk in the stroller.  We should all be so lucky.

Battle scars

Streeeetch!

It's a full body event.

A Budding Republican

When Leo was born, my Uncle Fred (a.k.a. Pappaw) remarked that he looked like a Republican.  For those of you who don't have the privilege of knowing Uncle Fred, trust me--that was deepest, sincerest compliment possible.

I can see where he's coming from.  As a child born in the People's Republic of Cambridge, Leo very well may go through a Republican phase at some point.  How else does a blue-state kid adequately rebel against their NPR-contributing, worm-composting, locavore liberal parents?

Look!  He's already having it out with the old man!

This isn't fair or balanced!

With a number of strong conservative influences in his life, I will not be remotely surprised if teenage Leo starts carrying around a copy of Atlas Shrugged and asking his barber for "The Reagan."  So, in honor of Election Day Eve and all the wonderful conservatives in our life, here's a collection of Leo's best gassy old man faces.

::grumble::  socialism . . .

. . . hippies . . .

OBAMA!

Small Fry

This photo was taken at a weekend brunch a few weeks ago.  The crazy thing is, I can already see a difference between then and now.  What everyone says is true; they do grow up so fast!

nomnomnomnom!

Happy Halloween

With all the costumes we got from family, yesterday just seemed like one long photo session, complete with wardrobe changes.  But I'm happy with the results.

So, this first one isn't a costume exactly.  I mean it says "Mommy's Little Pumpkin", but he's not really dressed as a pumpkin, so, I don't know.  I guess this is the thinking person's baby costume.

Ceci n'est pas un pumkpin.

I thought the orange hat would make him look a little more pumpkin-y, but he just looks like he's about to rob the 7-11.  But the butt pumpkin is hellaciously cute

Awww.

 The next costume was, fittingly enough, a lion costume, provided by honorary Cool Aunt Camellia.  (We're pretty fast and loose with the honorifics.  You wanna be auntie, tio, nana, second cousin twice removed?  No problem.  The more the merrier!)  Unfortunately, fitting was exactly issue.

But when you're named Leo, lion costumes are appropriate for every occasion.

Which brings me to my personal favorite: a skunk costume my mom got us.  The little paws just kill me!

Our little stinker

So we took our show on the road, trick-or-treating with my cousin Melanie's family in Framingham.   Little did I know that all the neighborhood kids go trick or treating together, so we got to see a whole herd of little beasties.

Darren is to the left in the very awesome Boba Fett which he and his dad MADE THEMSELVES!  Paige is the pink-haired  rock star just to his right.

Sydney went as Sleeping Beauty, and even though I didn't manage to get a front shot, I had to show off those perfect natural princess curls.  Is it wrong to be jealous of a four-year-old?  Maybe a little.

But, seriously, look at that hair!

And, surprise surprise, this is how Leo spent his first trick-or-treat.

The best part about trick-or-treating with a baby?  When the chocolate starts disappearing, you have a perfect fall guy.

I was framed!

Holy Life Changes, Batman!

It's been a while.  Sorry.  Things have been a little nutty for all the following reasons:

1)  We are living with a land shark

Leo had his last check up at 4 weeks, where he clocked in at 11 pounds 3 oz.  At his lowest, at his one week appointment, he was at 7 pounds 12 oz.  That's almost three and a half pounds.    More than forty percent of his body weight.  In 3 weeks.  I don't remember how long he was, but I remember he was in 90-95th percentile in both height and weight.  Or, in layman's terms:  Dayyyyumn, that's a big baby!

That was about two weeks ago.  With the help of his carseat carrier ( "the bucket"), a bathroom scale, and my old nemesis subtraction, we estimate his current weight at about 13 and a half pounds.  Holy hell.

Needless to say, our life is just one long blur of feedings.  And, when I feel like I've sucked down to sawdust, I look into his eyes and demand, "Where does it all go?  Where?"

Then he fills another diaper as if to say, "Duh."

2) That land shark has attitude

Around six weeks, many babies go through a phase of fussiness.  No one is entirely sure why, but I think of it as a kind of adolescence.  Suddenly, they can see past the tips of their noses and realize that the world is much larger and more complex than they've been led to believe.  Then they all turn into a bunch of Holden Caulfields and decide that the people who love them most are A BUNCH OF PHONIES!!!  So they do the infant version of locking themselves in their rooms and writing bad poetry--they cry and fuss for no apparent reason.

When Leo gets in one of these moods, I try to take him for a walk outside.  One particularly trying night, I needed to get something for dinner, so I loaded him into the stroller, and we went to Market Basket.  Now, for those of you outside the Boston area, the Somerville Market Basket isn't your average grocery store.  It is a microcosm of the city thrown into a blender.  It is the American melting pot left on high until it boils over.  It is, in every sense, overwhelming.  So, as Leo continued to fuss on the walk over, I thought, "I taking an already overstimulated kid into a swirling mass of chaos.  Nothing good will come of this."  I fully expected him to scream the whole time.  But then, once we got inside, he immediately went quiet and proceeded to stare in bug-eyed silence the entire time.  And, as we left, I leaned down to whisper, "Did I just BLOW YOUR MIND?"  He spent the rest of the evening in deep contemplation, trying to swallow his whole fist.

There is an upside to all of this.  Leo has finally learned to smile, and a darling little smile it is.  It usually starts on just one side of his face, but with some coaxing it takes over his whole face, then gets so big that he has to  wrinkle his nose just to make room for it.  It's elusive, so we haven't captured it on film yet.  But it's pretty spectacular.

3) The Big Three-O

A few days after Leo was born, I was in the bathroom when I heard the neighbors talking out on the deck.  One of them said "I mean, I'm already thirty, but when am I going to start feeling like an adult?"

Now, I was sitting there, bone tired, nursing my undercarriage back to health, and contemplating the wonders of disposable hospital underwear (hospital underwear doesn't give you that little squeeze to remind you how big you've gotten; hospital underwear accept you exactly as you are).  I was newly responsible for another person's life, and feeling more adult than ever before in my life.

It was all I could do not to yell out the window "If you have to ask that idiot question, then you aren't one!  And you probably never will be!"

On October 22, I turned 30.  I got to celebrate with both my friends and my family, which hasn't happened for a while.  It was the best birthday I've had in a while, and an excellent way to start a new decade.

4) Meet the Grandparents 2.0

My parents (a.k.a. Oma and Pa), came up for a quick visit,

but we did less adventuring around because . . .

5) We bought a house!

Damn straight we did!  Pics here.

More on that as it unfolds.

6) Cuteness continues unabated

It's not really fair to make you read such a stinkin' long entry without baby pics.  Enjoy!

That adorable hat was knitted by our friend, Nicole.

Awesome Stuff from Cool People: Fancy Aunt Nancy and Pappaw Fred

A couple weeks ago, I got a package from Sugarland, Texas, which could only mean one thing.  Spoiling is afoot.

As far as I'm concerned, my "Fancy" Aunt Nancy and Uncle Fred have made Sugarland the epicenter of spoiling.  For decades, my sister and I have been the beneficiaries of said spoiling, receiving everything our parents wouldn't dare buy us, from barbie dreamhouses to custom cowboy boots, single malt scotch to literally countless pairs of dangly earrings.  Now, Leo gets to enjoy this bounty, and I couldn't be happier for him.  Or more terrified for myself.

So, I opened the package and found a University of Texas onesie and matching Longhorn gym shorts.  Now, this may seem like an adorable little token of their love, and, in one sense, it is.  But in another sense, it is the opening salvo in what is likely to be an ongoing battle for Leo's loyalty.  See, my Grandpa Paul was a longhorn, and so is Aunt Nancy.  But, my Mom, ever the rebel, went to UT's sworn enemy, Texas A&M (as, I will proudly point out, part of the first class of women accepted to the institution).  I can't imagine the mix of  heartbreak and pride.  It'd be like watching Leo pitch for the Yankees.  What am I saying?  That would be all heartbreak.

Neither my sister nor I went to either school, but we were raised in A&M traditions and I consider myself a second generation Aggie.  Leo, on the other hand, is yet unaffiliated.  So, I figured putting him in the onesie would give us a clue to his future.  It would be like watching little Tibetan kids try to pick the possessions of the Dalai Lama.  At least, I hoped, I could send them some cute photos as a thank you.

So, I put him in the onesie, and we got this.
.

And a lot of this.

And then he spit up a little.  Then a lot.

This is the best we got.  Even here, he seems to be frowning a little.

Congratulations Mom.  Looks like the Gig 'Em is strong with this one.  Nancy and Fred: we will totally make him wear it for the first half of UT / A&M game.  After all, first come, first served

P.S.  Ever since I found out we were having a boy, I've wanted a blue sapphire band to wear on my left hand with my wedding band.  In classic spoiling fashion, Nancy and Fred hooked me up.  I put it on the day Leo was born, and I will be wearing it every day for rest of my life.  Many thanks and love to you both.

Fun With Video

Warning: these are only for the truly baby obsessed.  Nothing amazing.  No risk whatsoever of going viral.  Just me watching my kid flail and squirm through a screen.  The kind of stuff only a mother could love.

Additionally, I am speaking full on baby talk in these videos.  I didn't think I was at the time, but when I watched them, it was undeniable.  I am cooing away in total, unapologetic baby talk.  I really, really didn't want to be that person, but I'm not sure it's avoidable.  I'm starting to think talking like an idiot to a baby is a biological imperative on par with making the baby in the first place. 

Okay, enough with the disclaimers.  Here's my little cutie being cute.

"I'm not your monkey, Mama."

I don't know what I was expecting, but, yeah, babies don't do tricks.  Especially when you're trying to catch them doing tricks.

The internet says that babies don't usually start rolling over until about four months.  Apparently no one told Leo, because he seems to think he should be able to do it right now.

I think there has to be a special stage of the baby sleep cycle devoted to trying out new facial expressions.  Check out the killer smile at 1:03!

What Does Your Stroller Say About You?

Nothing.  The brand of stroller you push around says nothing whatsoever about you as a parent or a person. But does that stop me from judging people on the street on that basis?  Hell no!  If anything, it makes it more fun.

If you happen to use one or more of these conveyances to get your kid around, please don't be offended.  Seriously, I judge people based on their strollers.  What does that say about me?  Mostly, that deep down, I am a small, small person.

1.  The Bugaboo

Who's driving?: Striving yuppie mom, sculpted to perfection by years of power pilates.  Ha!  Just kidding.  It's the nanny
What's she carrying?: Kate Spade Diaper Bag, natch
What's the kid playing with?: Vulli, the $20 teething giraffe from France.  Did I mention it's from France?
What's in the cup?:  Grande Starbucks Skinny No Whip Mocha
What I say:  Nothing.  A reserved, business-like nod is more than sufficient.
What I'm thinking:  Please tell me you got that thing second hand.  If not, what's wrong with you? Who the hell drops $1,000 on a stroller?  That thing better come with . . . I can't think of anything a stroller could come with that would make that price reasonable.  Have fun interviewing baby Mandarin tutors and paying more for preschool than I paid for college.

2. The Twin Stroller

Who's driving?: Very tired woman in sweatpants who has aged ten years in the last six months
What's she carrying?:  Diaper bag big enough to double as luggage if she ever runs screaming into the night
What's the kid playing with?: The other kid.
What's in the cup?: Black coffee with a double shot.
What I say: Omigod,socute!Howold?Wow,that'sgreat.Goodforyou!!!
What I'm thinking: ::shudder::  No.  Dear God.  No.

3. The Sling

Who's driving slinging?:  Crunchy earth mama with a funky haircut who's forgotten more bands than I've ever heard of
What's she carrying?:  A tote bag she crocheted herself from yak hair, filled with raw milk yogurt and local kale . . . Organic!!!
What's the kid playing with?: Sustainable bamboo fiber rattle from a womyn's collective in Guatemala . . . Fair Trade!!!
What's in the cup?:  Locally roasted, shade grown soy latte . . . Buzzword!!!
What I say:  Do you know how long the farmer's market is open?
What I'm thinking:  This neighborhood is so god damn full of hipsters I can hardly stand it.  But, that looks like some tasty yogurt.  I wonder if the farmers market still has yogurt left.  And where she gets her hair done.  And if she'll make a playlist for me.

4.  Britax Travel System

Who's driving?:  A smart, successful lady with excellent taste, a fascinating life, and a particularly good looking baby.  She probably also smells nice and likes my shoes.
What's she carrying?:  A functional, unisex diaper bag that has room for the non-baby related books she's reading because she's totally maintained an identity outside of her role as mother
What's the kid playing with?  A classic teddy bear from a family member or close friend.  Because she has so many!
What's in the cup? Large green tea with lemon, just a little sweet.  Hot beverage of champions.
What I say:  Hey, nice looking stroller!  Hahahaha.  It's funny because I have the same one!  I guess we're best friends now, huh?  Hahahaha.  Yeah, just kidding,  Because that would be nuts, right?  Hahahaha.  Yeah, totally nuts.
What I'm thinking:  So . . . are we friends yet?