Cael can now balance pretty well. He generally needs at least one hand on something to keep from toppling, but he can hang in there a long time. Without any support he can manage about five seconds before falling (on a good try).

Also, if you hold onto his hands he'll take big, prancing high-steps and lead you where he wants to go (usually to the room where Ryan is trying to study).

He's most enthralled with his new ability to stand with his face smooshed against the mirror or a window and slobber all over. I think he's in a competition with his own reflection over who can produce the most spit.

So far, it's a tie. I'll let you know who wins.

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Today Cael got to put his favorite skill to good use. After months of shoving things into his mouth (his hands, his toys, my face, Clio's ear), he finally stuffed something in there that was actually intended to be consumed.

I erroneously thought that he couldn't make a mess with a slice of bread. I didn't even put a bib on him. Rookie mistake. Turns out that if you combine bread with the quantity of drool he produces you get a very soggy mush that smears like butter.

You'd think after all his practice gumming everything within his wingspan he'd spend less time chewing himself and more time chewing the bread. Apparently he thinks he can get through the hand to the bread that's tightly clutched in his palm if he is persistent enough. Either that, or he's developed a taste for his own fingers.

I fear either explanation.

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On the day Obama was elected president, Cael's first tooth broke through.

In my house there was both cheering and screaming.

America, I almost forgive you for Bush. Almost.

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I've mentioned before that I have trouble falling asleep. In the past year, however, this has not been a problem.

Pregnancy was pretty effective at tuckering me out. When I wasn't up going to the bathroom, or being kicked awake by the fetus, I was solidly asleep.

The screaming infant in the next room did an even better job of ensuring that my head-on-pillow time was not wasted. If he quieted down long enough for me to close my eyes, I would sleep like the dead for nine and a half of the ten minutes before he started wailing again.

Now, though, Cael is starting to get the hang of sleeping through the night. He's not perfect at it, but he's getting there. (His daytime naps are a completely different story. *grumble, grumble*) He's in his crib at 7:30 at night and pretty much contents himself to be there until 4:30 or 5 the next morning. This allows for me to get in bed at 9:30 or 10:00 and lie awake until 1:30, contemplating such important issues as abortion, presidential infomercials, and whether or not I have to vacuum tomorrow.

As I lie awake wondering how it is possible for me to screw up every recipe I attempt and trying to decide which I should fail at tomorrow night, I hear a noise. It's an odd half-groan, half-moan that fades in and then out in a couple of seconds. What is this crazy noise? Where is it coming from?

Apparently, it's coming from me.

It appears that when I'm in bed I'm not fully in control of my vocal chords. For some reason, every once in a while I just make this noise. It's happened about a dozen times in the last few nights. It utterly perplexes me. Why am I doing this? How is it that I'm not in control? Am I delirious?

I asked Ryan if I groan/moaned at night and he said, "Yeah," in a way that said, "Duh. You didn't know that?"

I don't know whether to be more bothered by the fact that I actually make this weird noise or by the fact that I have to listen to it. That's like making people listen to their own snoring. Not the way it's supposed to work!

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"If I've told you once, I've told you a million times: I want the wipes WARM, dang it. How would you feel if someone put an ice cube in your diaper?!"

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"Well, the correct answer is, he is not a Muslim, he's a Christian. He's always been a Christian. But the really right answer is, what if he is? Is there something wrong with being a Muslim in this country? The answer's no, that's not America. Is there something wrong with some seven-year-old Muslim-American kid believing that he or she could be president? Yet, I have heard senior members of my own party drop the suggestion, 'He's a Muslim and he might be associated terrorists.' This is not the way we should be doing it in America."

Colin Powell, part of his endorsement of Senator Obama. October 19, 2008.

Because more disturbing than the fact that it's a lie is the fact that it's being used as an insult, an obscenity. Being Muslim isn't a crime, it isn't un-American. There's nothing, nothing wrong or negative about it. Muslim-Americans pay taxes just like you and me - they go to school, go to work, raise families. They fight for this country, die for this country, just the same as Christians, Catholics or Jews. By using Muslim as an insult, these people are not hurting Obama, they are hurting the country - a country that claims to celebrate freedom, diversity and equality but, in practice, appears to do none of these things.

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I figured out how to get Cael to eat cereal.

Simply put something - besides the spoon full of cereal - in front of his face. He will instinctively lean toward it with his mouth open. Intercept with spoon!

Voila!

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It's fascinating.

This little fella will put everything in his mouth. Unless he's sleeping, there's a 99% chance that there is something in there.

Usually, it's his hands. He jams those puppies so far into his gob he chokes himself. When he gets his diaper changed, he nibbles on his toes. He gnaws on my fingers, my arms. On more than one occasion, he's tried to eat Clio's ear. Every single toy he owns has been gummed, licked, and sucked - and has the battle scars to prove it. Ryan had to stop reading Goodnight Moon last night because Cael wanted to find out what that particular variety of cardboard tasted like.

The only thing he won't open his mouth for? Rice cereal.

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Before:

After:

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I read this terrible, terrible series of books that posited that if you are skilled at something in life, should you be turned into a vampire that skill would become a superpower.

If I were a vampire? My power would be Baby Hearing. Of course, I would have all eternity to come up with a better name than that for it, but you get the general idea.

I will wake from a dead sleep if Cael loses his pacifier in the night, but Ryan's alarm doesn't stir me.

I can hear Cael whimper from across the house with the television on and the dishwasher running, but I can't hear my cell phone ring in my bag.

Today I heard Cael whine when I was vacuuming three rooms away.

I imagine this will come into play later in the poor boy's life. I foresee a lot of me yelling, "I heard that!" across the house.

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Cael had poop coming out his sleeves.

And these are the "leak free" diapers. A likely story.

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Okay, Giuliani. If you want to look at the candidates' resumes, you have to look at the entire thing. After all, who would hire someone for such an important job without looking at educational background?

--

Obama:
Occidental College - Two years.
Columbia University - B.A. political science with a specialization in international relations.
Harvard - Juris Doctor (J.D.) Magna Cum Laude

& Biden:
University of Delaware - B.A. in history and B.A. in political science.
Syracuse University College of Law - Juris Doctor (J.D.)

vs.

McCain:
United States Naval Academy - Class rank 894 of 899

& Palin:
Hawaii Pacific University - 1 semester
North Idaho College - 2 semesters - general study
University of Idaho - 2 semesters - journalism
Matanuska-Susitna College - 1 semester
University of Idaho - 3 semesters - B.A. in journalism

--

The crowd laughed at "community organizer." I imagine they would have absolutely bust a gut at 894/899. Now that's comedy.

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We have this neighbor - let us call him Spike.

Apparently an expert in all things garden and house maintenance, Spike takes it upon himself to teach Ryan how to better take care of our home. Or, perhaps "teach" is the wrong word. It's more like he leans over the fence and verbally bashes Ryan's gardening approach, criticizing every little thing Ryan does in our yard. From raking leaves to removing the ivy to cleaning the gutters, Ryan has got it all wrong. Spike once even went so far as to say that if Ryan were his employee, Spike would have him fired.

Needless to say, Ryan tries to avoid going outside when Spike is milling about. It's best to sidestep a situation that would involve Ryan showing Spike how he can properly use a pitchfork.

The most priceless part of this whole thing? I was google mapping today and found that there is now a street view of our house. You can't see much of anything other than our driveway, but there is a beautiful shot of Spike's behind as he leans over our fence to survey Ryan's handwork.

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Rumor has it some of you play the other video on a loop. He doesn't do too much more in this one, but I'm sure I can find some footage of him drooling if you're looking for variety.



Notice the shirt? Today he moved on to his 6 month clothes. He has grown from his "Mommy Loves Me" onesie to a new and more possessive "Property of Mom FOREVER." His 9 month shirt reads, "I LOVE MY MOM AND NO ONE ELSE. DON'T BOTHER TRYING TO TAKE ME FROM HER." Yes, all in capslock. It makes it more threatening that way, no?

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My hopes have been shattered. Instead of the fist sucking turning into thumb sucking, it has turned into dual fist-sucking. I'm wondering if he's going to be able to stick his whole arm in there at some point.

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Cael had his 4-month appointment this week.

Here's the percentile breakdown:

Height: 50%
Weight: 60%
Head: 75%

So next time someone tells me how uncommonly chubby my baby is (which, if history is any indication, will be the next time he is seen by anyone on the planet) I will respond with:

"Yeah, he's a little thick around the thighs, but if you want to see big - check out his noggin. Talk about colossal!"

I'd go on to say how it must be housing an unnaturally large brain, but I'm afraid it's more of a storage facility for drool at this point.

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I never thought I'd see the day when I'd miss Workout-Video-Tony telling me, "Suck it up. This is 3-4!" Woe, that day has come.

The Wii Fit is a bully.

Our unhealthy relationship began when the Wii labeled me as a 40-year-old with, according to my avatar, an aching back. All you over forty can be offended by it calling 40-year-olds decrepit and I can be offended because I'm only 26 OMG! (Yeah, okay, so my back does kinda ache. Shut up.)

Too bad the yoga and strength exercises are led by boring "trainers" that don't move their mouths but still manage to give you shit you for sucking. If they were the cartoon version of me and set to music I'd be more inclined to do the pushups, but at this point? I spend all my Wii minutes trying to hoola hoop. And yes, "trying," because though Ryan can get 300 rotations in, I drop the damn hoop before I can hit 30.

Which leads me to another complaint: WHY is Ryan so much better than me in the games? I'll give him the strength and stamina sections. I'm a sloth and he's not. But the games? They're about balance! I was a dancer for 12 years and the Wii is asking me if I trip when I walk. Rude. (And more than a little embarassing.) He's not supposed to beat me at this! It's bad enough the Wii gives me shit for being sub-par, but does it have to show me Ryan's name at the top of all the records every single time? I get it. He's a champ. Give him a medal and get me a cane, 'cause I think I pulled my hamstring.

Oh, Wii? Guess what? I'm eating chips and salsa while I ski. Can't shit talk me for that, 'cause you don't have eyes!

...Though, it'll rib me for the weight I'll gain from it, won't it?

ETA: OMG. THE DAMN THING JUST TOLD ME TO BRUSH MY TEETH. IT KNOWS!

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I knew the terminator would come while I was working out. Knew it. (And yes, I refuse to stop calling him the terminator. Terminix + exterminator = terminator. If they didn't want that nickname they should have had the foresight to name themselves Flernimix or something. Flerminator wouldn't be so tempting.)

Once a month the guy comes and sprays around the house to keep away the spiders (ew! spiders!) and ants (ew! ants!) and, apparently, peep through our floor-to-ceiling windows. This wouldn't be so bad if I didn't work-out in a sports bra and little shorts that I would DIE DEAD OF DEADNESS to be seen in. Figures.

I spot him in the yard, press pause on the DVD and run into the bedroom to hide. Maybe he didn't see me?

Except then he decides to knock on the door (not protocol!) and he keeps knocking and knocking and knocking. So I go to answer (after throwing on a shirt) and he tells me he saw me exercising so he knew I was home. FANTASTIC.

I knew exercising was bad for me. Not only does it make me tired, cranky, sweaty and pained - it makes me answer the door!

Good thing he wasn't a solicitor, or I'd be the proud new owner of a set of encyclopedias just to get him to GO AWAY OMG.

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That was short-lived.

Cael is no longer my workout buddy. Why?

His Upward Dog is way better than mine is and he doesn't even break a sweat. Bastage!

Also? He doesn't cheer me on anymore. Doesn't even bother to look at me. Now he spends the whole cardio section watching the dvd. Sure, they're all muscly and pretty, but they're two-dimensional! Your giggling won't encourage them (nor will cursing discourage them - I've tried that before).

Plus, I totally copped-out during the high impact portion of the program and he didn't call me on it.

So fired.

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Cael wanted to say "hello" to everyone. How could I deny him such a simple request?



(He's a little bashful.)

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Today I let Cael do his tummy time during my workout. I figure if I'm working on mine, he may as well work on his.

I think this should be a regular occurrence.

It turns out the two are not that different. During Power Yoga he and I were actually doing the same exact thing: flopping around on our stomachs like beached whales while grunting and trying desperately not to cry. It's nice to have someone to sympathize with.

He's also good motivation during the cardio section. He likes to watch me do the exercises. It makes him giggle. When I stop, he starts to cry. Usually, I'd take offense to someone finding my bouncing and flailing humorous, but he also laughs at flashing lights. I think he's just got an easily tickled funny bone. At least it keeps me from sitting out the bonus round (which is so not cheating! It's a BONUS round).

Working out with Cael is *almost* as motivating as working out with BCB. Almost.

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Today at the grocery store -

Checkout Guy: [Holds up nursing pads.] So, you've got a new baby, huh?
Me: [Points to baby in cart.] Yup.
CG: [Looks.] How old is he?
Me: Three months.
CG: Really?
Me: No.
CG: [Blinks.]
Me: Yes.
CG: Whoa. He's huge!
Me: Yeah, he's growing up fast.
CG: No, I mean he's big. Like he's going to have to play football.
Me: I hope not. That's how his father died.
CG: Really?
Me: Yes.
CG: [Blinks.]
Me: No.
CG: Cool.

I am now on a quest to find other three month old babies and see if Cael is really bigger than them.

In other news, Cael loves the laundry song from Dr. Horrible. I'm hoping this means he's got an innate fondness for laundry and continue to sing it to him. Hopefully, once he realizes those things at the end of his arms are his hands, I can start having him do the folding. He does the most of the dirtying anyway - he may as well do the clean up, right?

This is going to be awesome.

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This is when I get to be validated and say to Ryan, "SEE! Now you can't give me shit for not going to the doctor. EVAR."

I have this thing about actually seeking medical attention. It's hereditary. Mom and Lauren have it as well, which has actually lead to (what the medical professional she was eventually forced to visit called) being three days away from death. Whatever. She lived.

Every time I go to the doctor, no matter how long I waited or how much the symptoms have multiplied? They tell me there's nothing wrong. Or to take Advil. Or sleep. Or, I kid you not, "blink more." DUDE.

Obviously, I now refuse to go - ever. It just makes me feel like a hypochondriac ass and costs me a $10 co-pay.

Though I will not haul my own ailing behind to the doctor, I feel that might be cruel and unusual punishment for someone who is yet to reach the tender young age of three months. Especially when he's got what looks like a clear gummy bear (sans limbs and ears) under his tiny little tongue.

Cael was born with a fluidy mass cysty thing in his mouth. It didn't appear to hurt him and every doctor/nurse he ran across while at the hospital said, "it'll go away."

Well, it hasn't - it's just grown with him. Pediatrician finally advises us to go to an ENT specialist. So we did.

I'll skip over the hour and a half waiting period and the fact that ENT doc was a royal jerk of unparalleled proportions and get to the part where he jams a tongue depressor in Cael's mouth and says, "What am I supposed to be looking for? I don't see anything." Or, at least, I think that's what he said. It was hard to hear over Cael's uncontrollable screaming.

I stick my finger in Cael's mouth and damned if Dr. Jerko was right. The paraplegic gummy bear was gone.

Doc looks at me like I'm one of those freaky mothers who flips out about the tiniest things and I just know he's convinced I saw a spit bubble and went ape-shit. He snaps off his gloves, says, "There's nothing there. If you think you see it again, Google it," and leaves.

Google it? I know I should be most affected by the fact that the huge clear thing has disappeared and most likely was violently and painfully ruptured with a wooden poker, but Google it?

You know that at some point in the future I'm going to be sitting at home with a severed finger going, "Cael, get the sewing kit and log on to WebMD. We've got some stitching to do."

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Let me preface this with a fun fact: Cael has reached the stage in his development when he only poos once a week. The quantity of poo per week has not decreased with the frequency, if you get my drift.

Picture this:

Ryan and I parked in the Costco lot. Miles of blacktop make the already 90+ degree day even hotter. The car is literally filled to capacity. We cannot see out the back window and could not have held another passanger, another suitcase or Tinkerbell's left slipper if our lives depended on it.

Cael has not eaten for four hours and is understandably ravenous. Once he finishes, I'm sitting in the passanger side with one very full baby. He poos for the first time in four days. There's no flat surface (besides aforementioned blacktop) so I have to change him on my lap.

This is precarious. I don't have a tiny car, but he's become a kicker/stretcher, and the way he was wiggling, his feet spent most of the time jammed in my ribs while his head kept bopping the glove compartment.

It started with spitting. A lot of spitting. He got the gearshift, Ryan over in the driver's seat and filled the cupholder. It was a mess. This was before we opened the diaper.

I'll spare you the gorey details (too late for that?) but let me just say, and I kid you not, this little ball of juices actually pees, poos and urps at the same time in such massive quanitites that I'm still trying to figure out where it all came from - and it's all over me, myself and my heretofore unspoiled auto.

Obviously, Cael was confused. He thought that because we bought Costo bulk packs of wipes and diapers he actually had to use them ALL AT ONCE.

Silly rabbit. I figured that one out after my run in with the Costo bulk box of 100 Grand candy bars.

Talk about urping...

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Cael can now spin around on his back.

I haven't caught him in the act, but I assume he looks much like Donald O'Connor did in Singing in the Rain. I put him down in his playpen and come back to find him all cockeyed, a trail of drool marking his path like breadcrumbs, should he choose to return to his original spot. (I can't imagine why he'd need to go back, but I suppose when you have such large volumes of urp, you may as well use them for a grander purpose.)



In this photo, Cael realizes he's turned himself in such a way that he can no longer see his animal cards and instead is forced to read the Tolstoy-long playpen warning in three different languages - all of which tell him that playing in this pen could "result in serious injury or death."

Partly because of this and partly because of this, we've moved him from his cradle by our bed into his crib in the nursery at night. He did pretty well the first night - actually made it through one whole three hour period in there by himself. (I didn't do nearly as well. It's hard to sleep when you're clutching the monitor receiver in a death grip and holding it to your ear.)

Of course, Ryan checked on him once due to "separation anxiety" and I checked on him twice because I couldn't hear him breathing - but other than that he was all alone.

He's all growed up. =(

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I was given the most loveliest gift ever: the crack!star.

The crack!star is a magical toy that plays music, flashes bright colors and, apparently, sends super-stealth mind waves straight to the brain of my baby boy that say: GIGGLE, DAMNIT.

The crack!star looks like a happy face that's been rolling back prices in the Halloween aisle of Walmart, but don't let its clownish appearance fool you. This is a sophisticated, incredibly intelligent device that was finely crafted by the greatest minds of our time.

When placed beneath the crack!star, Cael cannot look away. Literally. It's actually sort of frightening the pull this thing has over him. If he's screaming and the star comes into view, 90% of the time he will instantly stop crying and start laughing. Tongue sticking out, eyes bright, hands waving, full out hysterical laughter. I've tried lying underneath the crack!star, and I've gotta say, I don't see what's so appealing about it. I have no trouble playing with the other toys that hang from the play mat - in particular I'm fond of the sun with beads - but Cael couldn't tear his eyes away from the star if his young life depended on it. Even when the novelty has worn off or the diaper sogginess has reached critical levels and the giggles have turned to sobs - he still won't look away. His little head will be turning from side to side in distress, but his eyes are GLUED to the lights. It's amazing.

Even if it's not sending the subliminal messages I'm convinced it is, I worry that setting him down and subjecting him to the crack!star is like plopping a ten year old in front of the tv. I feel like I just might be corroding his mind and turning him into a prematurely addicted child of the video game generation, where nothing but rapidly flashing graphics will hold his interest and there will be no way of tearing him from them without actually severing a limb.

...But then I remember that it was made by Baby Einstein, that the music is classical, and that it's really nice to be able to take a shower without having to jump out with shampoo in my hair because Cael finally realized he wasn't being held.

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Cael spends a good portion of his "happy time" licking and sucking his knuckles. Will this develop into thumb sucking once the digit in question becomes more opposable? Or am I doomed to have one of those boys that walks around asking, "Want to see me stick my whole fist in my mouth?"

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Living life in two hour chunks has got to go... especially when the in-laws live an hour an forty-five minute drive away.

I have now nursed in three different cars, in a variety of parking lots (mostly fast food, but I also do gas stations and abandoned strip malls), on bleachers, on a picnic table and in six different towns off the I-5 corridor.

As an eatery, I am more ubiquitous than McDonalds.

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Cael is two months old!

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Cael is in his very fussy phase (please be a phase, please be a phase...), which leads to a lot of immobility on my part.

When I finally manage to calm his hysterics, the last thing I want to do is move him. I handle him much like I would a live bomb - I use extreme caution so that I don't jostle him and trigger an explosion of life-threatening proportions. (Seriously. You should hear this kid wail.) So, no matter what awkward position I end up in, if his eyes close I immediately freeze.

As I sit here, pinned to the couch and typing one handed, it occurs to me that I could use a little help from Clio in times like these. She's just lying there, curled up and cozy on the end of the couch and not pulling her weight. I mean, I put food in her dish every morning and I sneak her tiny pieces of meat from dinner - would it kill her to nuke me a hot pocket? Or at least hand me the Tivo remote that is woefully out of my reach?

Lately I've been thinking I should train her not to bark at small children and large dogs, but I think I should skip that and go straight to an instructional on how to make a margarita.

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The books say that it's great to have your newborn room-in with you. For the first few months, instead of putting him in his own (snazzily painted and decorated and only kinda smells like dirty diapers) room, let the kiddo bunk in the master bedroom. It's great for connection, familial bonding, eternal love and avoiding that messy "teenage" phase. (Okay, those last two might just be wishful thinking on my part.)

But, the experts warn, rooming-in is not for everyone. Certain parents are not suited to sleep two feet from their baby. What type of parent? The type who "feels the need to pick up the baby when it cries." Oh, okay. Those parents.

IS THERE ANY OTHER KIND OF PARENT? Seriously? There are parents who don't feel the need? I mean, I understand that certain schools of thought (read: old ones) recommend letting the crying go on indefinitely without acting on it, but was there ever a parent who didn't want to pick up the child? A parent who didn't have the inclination? Really?

Anyway, horror aside, I am one of "those" parents, and thus not the ideal roommate for Cael.

The problem? Infants make noises when they're falling asleep. Not just yawns and sighs, but full on whines, whimpers, gurgles, grunts and squeals. He is a one man band of sound. Apparently, this is normal. Good, even. He's working himself to sleep.

And working me into an early grave.

I don't wake up when Clio whines and Ryan has to get out of bed and take her outside. I don't wake up when Ryan spends thirty minutes vomiting in the adjacent bathroom. But if Cael so much as squeaks, I'm jolted awake. And I'm not supposed to do anything about it. I'm supposed to let him fuss for a few minutes and see if he falls back asleep.

That's like sitting me in front of a bowl of chocolate ice cream and telling me to just watch it melt for its own good. I have a limited amount of willpower and I really don't want allot any to seeing Cael squirm and ignoring it. This is using up all the willpower I was going to use to get back into my pre-pregnancy jeans.

With Cael as my roommate, I spend my nights clinging to the edge of my bed. I lie there listening to him whimper and moan while watching the clock and waiting impatiently for five minutes to pass so I can go comfort him. Granted, it doesn't usually get to that point because he does actually fall back asleep, but that isn't helping me. I can't fall back asleep (no matter how much I whimper and moan). I spend my nights feeding him and watching him go in and out of sleep. I don't spend my nights sleeping.

But, as necessity is the mother of invention and motherhood necessitates inventing things, I have developed a cure! I've found that when I sleep with a pillow over my head it filters out all Cael's noises except the all-out cry. The only thing I hear is the only thing I can act on! And, as a bonus, it also muffles the white-noise animals he's so insistent on sleeping with.

I'm thinking of marketing it. Sure, it's just a pillow, but if they can do it, so can I. The only question is, do I shape it like an ear or a sheep?

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Ryan's paternity leave has ended and he's back to work. Cael and I are now officially on our own during the day. We've been awake for seven hours now.

Things I have accomplished:

Shower
A load of laundry

Things Cael has accomplished:

2 meals
2 naps
Soiling half a dozen diapers
Soiling 2 onesies
Soiling my shirt
Soiling my sheets
Crying
Staring into space
Dancing
"Running from bad guys"

He let me set him down in the swing long enough to shower (but not dry my hair or put on makeup) and let me set him on my bed long enough to urp all over my sheets. Other than that, he has decided my arms are cozy and he doesn't want to leave them. Apparently, days without Dad are going to be a lot like nights - full of singing, rocking and holding.

How do daycares do it? This kid is high maintenance. (No, he doesn't get that from me! Shush!)

Still on my list of things I'd like to accomplish today:

Eat breakfast and/or lunch
More laundry
Go to Target
Start Cael's scrapbook

Too ambitious?

Keep in mind that I've typed this entire post one-handed while giving him his third meal. I'm a multitasker!

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You know that joke about breakfast? A day's work for the chicken and a lifetime commitment for the pig? It's supposed to make you feel bad for the pig - but I'm really starting to empathize with the chicken.

Or, more appropriately, the dairy cow.

I am a milk machine. Cael, at the ripe old age of 12 days, decided to go through a growth spurt. Instead of the already tedious hour long feedings every three to four hours, he now demands to be fed every two. For those of you who struggle with math, that's an hour on, an hour off for 24 hours a day. I feel like the espresso machine at the Starbucks at Pike's Place (I bet it smells like sour milk too).

You'd think that with all this practice at least we'd be getting more efficient - that we'd be a well oiled machine by now. When really? We are backtracking. Rapidly. Somehow he's lost all nipple-sense that he'd gained in the first few days. He used to latch on in a minute or two. Now he couldn't locate the dang thing in under 15 minutes with both hands, a flashlight and a map. It's like he's bobbing for apples with a blindfold on and when he finds one he spits it out before sinking his gums in.

Also contributing to the unnecessarily long feeding session is his uncanny ability to fall asleep right when the getting is good. He finally makes contact and it must release some chemical trigger in his brain that sends him straight off to the land of nod. He will not be woken by bouncing, singing, ice bath, or fog horn. The only way to wake him up is to put him in his bed. Then he starts wailing. I am painfully aware of the irony, yes.

He's going to have to get a little more finesse with the boobies before I let him date. We wouldn't want him to embarrass himself by blindly groping or falling asleep.

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It's official. I've reached the point in sleep deprivation where I've actually started hallucinating.

For some reason, my body knows that I need to wake up throughout the night to feed him - so, like clockwork, I startle awake every three hours even if Cael is snoozing peacefully. For the past two nights, each time I have woken up I've been convinced that I fell asleep mid-feeding. I see the little baby in my arms smothered by the comforter and struggling to breathe. I actually see it. Every. Single. Time. It's scary as hell and takes me a good 30 seconds to figure out that it's not actually reality. This is worse than the nightmare that I keep having where everyone tells me I'm a bad mother and takes him away from me.

According to the books, Cael could be continuing with nighttime feedings for a few months yet. This means that I am going to have to be awake for an hour every three hours for months. DUDE. I am not built this way. I am the girl that can sleep until three in the afternoon if there is no alarm set to wake me. I need twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep to function coherently. I am going to be some sort of undead horror film creature by the end of next week, yos. Fear me!

I think that if I'm going to have to suffer through hallucinations they should at least be good ones. Like maybe I wake up and think I'm on a tropical beach drinking a margarita. Or I'm in a cabin at the mountains in front of a fire with a cup of hot chocolate. Or, hell, I don't know - I'm in the future, three months from now and I can actually go back to sleep. Any one will do.

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*yawns*

I do not remember what sleep is. I'm pretty sure I used to enjoy it. It's all a blur now.

Ryan and Cael, however, find time to indulge.



I really wish the little one wouldn't sleep all day and scream all night. Somehow I think that I should be doing something besides letting him snooze during daylight, the little vampire. I can't bring myself to wake him now, however, since a) they're really cute and b) Ryan is still mid finals and deserves all the breaks he can get. Plus he lets me wake him up in the middle of the night to change diapers so I don't have to get out of bed (Hey! Don't give me that look! I'm recovering!). It only takes two or three repetitions of his name, a few scratches on the back of the head and a couple of "just give me one minute"s to actually rouse him. That, my friends, is a good man.

My first real "only a mother would do that" moment has now happened. In retrospect, I can't believe I did it. Cael was on the changing table as the Cartys arrived. They stepped into the nursery just as the diaper was coming off and BAM! Cael took that opportunity to let loose. Poo squirted out of his bottom and I threw my hand in the line of fire to block Martin and Kathy from the spray. I used myself as a projectile poo-shield without a moment's hesitation. I can still feel the ghost of the warmth and see the utter shock on their faces. And I still have to clean the carpet. =)

These are the kind of stories I'm going to have now. Aren't you all terribly afraid?

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In my continued effort to tell you things they don't tell you about pregnancy:

When to go to the hospital:

MYTH: When your contractions are five minutes apart, last for one minute each, and continue for an hour.

FACT: When you cannot walk or speak through your contractions.

Um, yeah. I had contractions for over 24 hours. They started about 7 minutes apart and were getting progressively more painful (but not incredibly painful). By yesterday at 1pm they were 3 minutes apart. So I end up calling my doctor (mostly because all the men at work were
flipping out and threatening to throw me over their shoulders and take me themselves) and she says go to the hospital. I go to the hospital, get all strapped up and monitored and my contractions are 2 minutes apart.

They keep me there for 4 hours with their frowny "hmm" faces on and then say, "You can walk and talk through your contractions. You probably have a day or so left."

DUDE. TELL ME THIS BEFORE I COME TO THE HOSPITAL. Wth? If that's a rule? It should be listed in the rules! What is this 5 minutes apart crap? Why doest thou lie to me and make me feel like a reject?

Also, I'd like to point out that on the discharge papers they gave me that tell you when to return it says, "When your contractions are five minutes apart, last for one minute and continue for an hour." Um, yes... been there done that and got sent home. Thanks for playing.

Anyway, poor Ryan. I've hit the cranky/weepy portion of our program and I just want this thing OUT. Gah.

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The last two weekends I have been a productive little birdy. Some would say that suggests I've reached the (mythical) "nesting" phase of my pregnancy. Really? I think Ryan has reached his and I'm just ambivalent enough to trail reluctantly along behind him.

During this fruitful window of Ryan's transition into fatherhood, I have accomplished a great deal of yard work. When I tell people this, I'm universally met with, "WTH! You can't do yard work when you're almost 9 months pregnant and look like a boat!" Now it's even at the point where people see me doing yard work and report to other people who report to other people who end up scolding Ryan at school for something akin to spousal abuse.

As much as I wish I had a good excuse not to participate in the grimy hole digging that has comprised our weekend adventures, the fact of the matter is I don't. Usually he's the one with the shovel and I'm the one on my butt in the dirt pulling weeds within my wingspan. It's not labor intensive any more than it is entertaining.

I did, however, find a task this weekend that people should be appalled Ryan would let his wife do: Charades.

Never have I been worse at a game.

I'm the girl that always wins games. It's a kind of weird genius I have that I'm proud of. Some people (Lauren) think it's freakish. Example: While playing Trivial Pursuit, our team gets the question, "Which two countries' border was determined by the Treaty of Tartu in 1920?" My thought process would go something along the lines of: Hmm. Tartu sounds like Tartuffe which is a French play. French starts with f-r. So... Finland and Russia?

No joke people, I am freakish (and it has very little to do with intellect).

And charades? My B.A. major was theatre performance for goodness sake! But Sunday night? I lost BIG TIME. Monumentally.

I blame the belly.

In one of my non-scoring rounds (when the rest of the group was averaging 12 points a turn and I was lucky to get 4) the word was lion. Lion? For charades? Cakewalk. I hunched over, opened my mouth and roared. I even bared teeth and did an impression of wild hair. What did I get?

"Gorilla! Ape! Baboon!"

Yeah. Apparently, in order to fully imitate the king of the safari I have to convey that I'm not actually bipedal. Me? On all fours? No one would be guessing lion. I can see it now:

"Rodent climbing over a speed bump!"

"High-centered car that's really angry!"

"Kangaroo with vertigo!"

It's probably better that I left it at primates.

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They say that every woman comes to a point in pregnancy when she can't see her feet. Personally, I don't think seeing them is the problem.

I can see them just fine – I can crane my neck to a certain angle and contort my upper body… or I can just look in the mirror. I'd never put on two different shoes and walk out the door, or even don a pair of mismatched socks. Instead, I've found that the true difficulty of combining feet and pregnancy comes when you have to touch the damn things.

In order to actually reach my feet, I have to try and get my legs out of the way to make room for the belly. This is cumbersome, as my legs are pretty firmly set in their place between my upper body and my feet, and don't take well to attempts to move them aside. To get around them, I have to sit (usually on my couch, in front of my coffee table, which holds my laptop, Sylvester) and do a fancy combination of sprawling and bending.

Touching and looking cannot occur at the same time - and therein lies the problem.

This morning, after having wrenched on my shoes in the arduous fashion described above, I was summoned into the adjoining kitchen by Ryan. I stood up, turned and took a fateful step to the left. My leg met resistance, I tumbled forward, and Sylvester was drug loudly across the coffee table.

Ryan looked down at my feet and almost fell to the floor himself in laughter.

Somehow, I'd managed to tie the mouse cord into the laces of my shoe.

The only good thing I can say about this morning is that I did manage untie the darn thing before Ryan could get photographic evidence.

Lucky me – and unlucky you, as I'm sure you all would have enjoyed the visual.

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So.

I am an idiot.

I (predictably) blame the fetus.

Yesterday, I was stung by a bee. This resulted two things: a very lopsided gait and frequently having to respond to the question, “How the hell did you manage to find a bee in 30 degree weather?”

Answer? Mad skillz. I was getting the nursery ready for painting and unrolled the giant drop cloth we keep in our garage, unleashing a ginormous yellow jacket. The lethargic, mid-hibernation, really-freaking-big bee proceeded to crawl across my floor.

What happened next is a matter of great debate.

I say the bastard stung me. Ryan says I inadvertently skewered myself with a semi-mobile (and probably sleep-walking) bee’s half-erect stinger. This is, apparently, the equivalent of impaling myself on a pencil and blaming the pencil. Po-tay-to, pot-ah-to. I think Ryan’s just trying to justify letting the six-legged devil’s minion live.

Act of aggression or merely the combo of my weight and his stinger, the damn thing still packed a punch. The bottom of my foot is all swollen and itchy and is driving me insane. I, being a child of the sprawling metropolis of Oregon’s great capital, remedy this by smothering the bite in Cortaid or some other OTC drug that comes in a tube. Ryan, a child of Hicksville, WA, solves my crisis by mixing together things from the cupboard like some witchdoctor-cum-Rachel Ray. Don’t tell the drug companies, but his was totally the better solution.

This is how I wound up at my parent’s house for weekly family feast, propped on a recliner and dousing my foot in a baking soda and vinegar mixture. All would have been well and good had I not needed to personally apply a fresh coat after dinner…. and had Mother not made carrot cake cupcakes for dessert.

Really, I shouldn’t be held responsible. They were in identical bowls and the color was exactly the same. I swear.

I was thinking, “Dang, the second coat is going on much more smoothly. Maybe I should always make it an hour before and let it sit?”

This was immediately followed by, “Why won’t the dogs leave me alone?”

So, in case you were wondering, cream cheese frosting does not ease the itch of a bee sting. Ganache has yet to be tested. (Though I’m sure some day I’ll get there. *facepalm*)

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By this point, you all know that I have the willpower of a tiny, willpowerless thing. The wee fetus, however, is very powerful motivation to step it up a notch. I want so much to be a good oven. So I flexed, took a deep breath, bought some healthy cook books and I was ready!

...I have not opened the cookbooks. I continue to eat ice cream, have on occasion avoided my required leafy greens, and (predictably) am woefully bad about my exercise regime (I'm telling you, the trapeze lady is CRAZY).

In spite of this, I tell myself I'm not a horrible person. I listen as my coworker informs me without the slightest remorse that she smoked throughout her three pregnancies and each of her young brood have only one head and all of their ten respective fingers and toes. A woman on the third floor reports that she drank Mountain Dew exclusively and liberally, and my grandma, when we discussed pregnancy cravings, stated dramatically, "I had to have rum and coke. Every day at least once a day. And I don't even like rum."

See? I'm so much better than that! I may have had pizza for dinner, but I don't shoot tequila while smoking a cigar. And, and I'm strictly adhering to the "consume nothing bad for the baby" rule. (Except the aforementioned ice cream, of course.) I don't drink caffeine, I will not inhale while walking by a smoker, I turn away alcohol, and I ignore all french cheeses.

Last week came the first true test of my will: the common cold.

During my sickness, I adamantly refused to take medication. I read every label religiously. I tell you, there is nothing you can take without consulting with a doctor. Dayquil? No. Vitamin C? No. You can't even inhale VapoRub without somebody's permission. (Come to think of it, I should check the label on my Chapstick.)

After hearing me whine watching me suffer, Lauren told me I was a loon and tried to sneakily rub me down with Vicks, but I resisted. There was even a covert call placed to the pharmacist to make sure there was nothing I could take. She confirmed. No meds for me!

Life without Dayquil? I... I don't even know how describe the misery (but Ryan could probably describe to you how miserable I was to live with - just a guess). I am now considering building a shrine to that little orange liquid cap just so it knows how much I worship it. (Though that crazy buzz that I usually have when I'm sick? Apparently not the meds. Perhaps its a mucus high?) And no Nyquil? *whimper*

I am adding this to my list of things they don't warn you about when pregnant. 1) The damn thing won't stop kicking. Ever. 2) Colds and flus feel similar to what I imagine it would feel like to suffer through a plague and die a slow and miserable death.

I totally should have kicked Ryan out of bed when he started sneezing.

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