Thursday, April 26, 2007

Have I Mentioned the Woe?

Alas, Wendy has entered into the first phase of teething, which shall henceforth be known as the Time of Woe.

The Woe seems to have decended upon us early, though our pediatrician assures us that many babies begin their Woe at four-and-a-half months; that we might not see an actual fang from the Woeful One for another two or three months; that despite her dramatic proclimations, we should not be alarmed.

I would like at this time to point out that our pediatrician is a man, and unless he has a kinky mistress who is much older than him, he has no idea how it feels to have his nipples clamped in the gnawing vice grip of a cranky infant with itchy gums.

Aside from my very alarmed nipples, there is the whining. Have I mentioned yet that my baby is a very vocal baby? I have no doubt that every squeal and moan describes exactly how she is feeling at the moment, and though it is literally migraine-inducing, I feel horrible for her. I am constantly presenting her with things to chew on that might ease the Woe...a warm gel-filled teether shaped like a foot, a piece of ice wrapped in a washcloth, a carrot, etc. Nothing seems to help that much, and often, her frustration at the unhelpfulness of the object actually increases her Woe, sending her usual litany of cranky whines into furious shrieks of...fury. The only time she ceases her proclimations on the unfortunate state of cutting teeth is when she's in some kind of swing. She really likes the swing.

Well, swinging seems to sooth her troubled soul, anyway. As you can see, a hint of Woe shadows even the Most Fun Activity Ever.
I guess I'll be scouting out some more local parks. Parks with many swings, and in a perfect world, a snack bar that serves booze.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Wholesome Entertainment

In bed this morning with man and baby, watching Big Comfy Couch:

Major Bedhead: I can't believe I lost my bag! (frownie face)
Mo: Heh. Hate it when you lose your bag.
Mollie the Dollie: Maybe it will help if you retrace your steps, Major!
Major Bedhead: Well, I was delivering the mail as usual....
Carl: Ohhh. Mail bag.
Mollie the Dollie: Gosh, Major! What happened next?
Carl: You know the Major is so tagging that.
Mo: I bet he leaves his helmet on.

Sunday, April 15, 2007


While Steph was home a few weeks ago, we had a wedding shower for her. It turned out pretty pleasant, especially given that the kind of parties Becki and I are used to hosting usually involve several pizzas and some beer; boxed wine if we're feeling fancy. The whole thing got me thinking that I might want to get married someday, if only for the opportunity to register for really random items like coasters shaped like mushrooms or glow in the dark body paint.

This past week, I finally got around to ordering my dress for Steph's wedding. I told the lady on the phone the date of the wedding (May 26), and after punching in the order, she gave me this little "Whooo!" and chuckle-snorted at me.

"Well, it says if you order the dress today, it should be ready on May 24th."

Did you know they call me Mo the Punctual? Also, Mo the Expedient and Mo-On-Time. Stuff like this is why Becki has dubbed the two of us the "Maids of Dishonor." Other examples include our extrememly serious demeanor at David's Bridal during the Choosing Of The Dress:

(A very flattering pic of both of us, I know. Still, we were really pulling for tiara-cowboy hats and pink feather boas.) Then there is the traditional Shower Bonnet of Humiliation, carefully constructed to reflect the solemnity with which we regard the proceedings at hand:

Becki has promised Steph opportunity for revenge should she ever decide to have a wedding. I would like to second that sentiment. Steph, please feel free to take it all out on Becki.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

One More Step Toward Crazy

I'm becoming one of those women who walk around the house muttering little complaints to herself constantly.

"What the hell is so hard about throwing the tissue box away when you've used the last tissue?"

"Why can't we just throw the afghan back over the back of the couch when we're done with it? Why does it get crammed between the couch cushions and left there?"

"Who made toast and left jelly and crumbs on the counter? Jelly and Crumbs!"

"Who in God's name left a banana peel on top of the trash can lid? WHO would do something like that???"

"I did."

"You know, it was more of a rhetorical question. I know it was me."

"Well, then why'd you ask, you weirdo?"

"I was on a roll. I'm feeling irate. By the way, who ate my Triscuits and left only two in the box? I'm the only one in this house who even likes Triscuits."

"Don't look at me."

"I mean, if you aren't even going to like them, why eat them? I like them!"

"Um...I'm gonna go watch TiVo. You're getting kind of manic."

"Ok. I'll come with."

"Does the remote go here? IN the sofa cushions? Does it??"

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

I'm Having A Day.

"You look like a time bomb that someone pulled the pin on."

That kind of day. The kind of day where everyone would be better off if I could just curl up in bed and sleep through the whole thing. Since I have a baby now and I can't get away with ignoring the day via unconsciousness, it would be nice to lose myself in any number of unfinished projects or household chores that need to be done. Or maybe if I could go run any of the errands that need running or make the phone calls that need making, or even return the emails that need returning.

But it seems the baby is having a day as well. The kind where someone has definitely pulled her pin and no single moment can go by without her letting me know about it. The kind of day where entertaining herself for more than four minutes is definitely out of the question.

So the only logical thing to do, it seems, is to put her in her Bumbo seat on the counter next to me and let her chew on the bottle brush

while I construct the gingerbread-cookie-Christmas-tree-in-a-box kit that Steph gave me back in November.

As you can see, it came out exactly like the picture. And let me tell you, friends. It is twice as delicious in April as it would ever have been in December.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

M is for Missing You

Jaimie and Steph have both been here and gone again.

I only saw Steph for an evening, and most of her attention was diverted elsewhere (it was her wedding shower, after all) but it was a good visit, regardless. There was nice wine and a rediculous party hat and good cake. Becki and I (her maids of dishonor) even went with her to momentarily crash Ryan's bachelor party. We totally busted up their wild night of Nintendo Wii and accoustic guitar, and I have yet to come up with an adequate comeback for "Ugly Baby!" I miss my friends. They remind me what it's like to have a sense of humor.

Jaimie left yesterday morning. I definitely weasled out of the long drive to the airport and the weepy drive home. Having a baby and the sleep deprivation that comes with has made me more emotional than I ever have been, and I just didn't have the energy for it. Two and a half weeks probably seems like a long time to her husband when she is away from him. He should try being without someone he loves for the balance of the year. It is stupid that she does not live next door to me or down the street like she should. It is stupid that she lives many states away.


It was a nice visit, too though. There was park-strolling and good dinners and much baby kissing. She's been a mom for two and a half years now, which means she gives extremely useful advice. For example, she helped me develop my use of the "C is for Cookie" song beyond "C is for Cookie" and "B is for Baby." I now rattle around the house singing "B is for Booger," "T is for Titty," and "Oh, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo starts with DEEE!"

It is also good to have another mom to go to the playground with. It's much more fun to mock the herd-moms who hog the swings and talk of potty-training seminars when there's someone around to agree that they have stupid haircuts and probably have boring sex with their boring husbands.

Behold! Wendy's first published writing:

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