Rubber Ducky, You're the One

For the most part bath time has always been a fun time for Alex and me.  That's not to say that in the beginning she was a big fan but, then again, she wasn't really a big fan of anything in those first few weeks.  When we first brought Alex home she still had her umbilical cord stump which prevented us from immersing her in water and she was so skinny, tiny, and non-body-temperature-regulating that it was probably freezing for her as Marcus and I fumbled around trying to wash her as best we could, one of us holding the slippery, squirmy, and screaming baby while the other desperately tried to finish as quickly as possible.  Over time, and after the stump fell off, we graduated to a cloth bather in the bathtub and I would sing and coo and try my best to make her as happy as possible.  For a few days she resisted and bath time was no bueno but over time she grew to sitting there quietly, staring at me with her big, blue eyes with a tiny smirk on her face probably thinking to herself what a nut job the lady singing to her is.  (So, what, I like to act out "The Wheels on the Bus?")

Over time I began to realize my mistake in wanting to use a cloth bather.  After months agonizing over just the right bather (seriously, it was months which tells you one thing:  there are to many damn choices out there) I determined that cloth was the way to go because other, more experienced mothers said that the baby wouldn't be shocked by the cold, hard plastic when giving them a bath.  In retrospect that's one of the more idiotic statements I've heard.  Do they put their naked, screaming baby in the tub first and then fill it with water?  If so I think they're doing it wrong.  I digress.  After months of use the cloth bather eventually grew so saturated with water it started to mold and mildew and no matter what I did to try and clean it I felt dirty using it not to mention how Alex must have felt.  So, eventually the cloth bather was discarded for a plastic tub and I can't believe I didn't do it sooner.

While Alex is starting to sit-up better and better every day the cloth bather didn't give her much support so she'd be reclined most of the time.  Plus, it didn't retain water and she couldn't reach the water around her which I realized only after buying the plastic tub that it denied her one of the more pleasurable moments of a baby's life:  Splashing!  How could I be so thoughtless?!  She actually discovered splashing accidentally when I put a floating toy in her tub.  While trying to grasp her toy, which is like watching an adult bob for apples by the way, she discovered the act of splashing water.  Now she gets a little frustrated with me when I lie her down to wash her belly and strains those little baby abs and tries as hard as she can to sit back up.  I'm surprised she doesn't have a baby 6-pack.  Would that be a 3-pack?  Anyway.

She also discovered the ability to put her feet in her mouth while in the tub which was a little disconcerting mostly because she was practically face-down in the water.  I don't know why she chose that point in time to try out this amazing feat (of feet! ha!) but who am I to question the mind of a 6.5 month old?  I constantly have one hand on her at all times when she's sitting up but I did grow a little concerned when after a while she was still bent over her legs, face dangling inches from the water.  I peered down to see her toes inserted in her mouth while the water lapped around her face.  So, while I wanted to keep her there for a photo opp I decided I'd just be prepared for next time.  Hopefully, I'll be able to add a picture of the little toe eater (something tells me there's a sexual connotation lurking in there somewhere) to this post.

So, that's pretty much it.  Oh, there is one more thing.  What the heck are the words to "Rubber Ducky?"  All I've got are "Rubber ducky, you're the one, you make bath time lots of fun.  Rubber ducky you're the one for meeee!!!" and I'm 99% sure that is totally incorrect.

Yard Sailing. It's A Verb

As I mentioned in a previous post Marcus and I enjoy a lazy Saturday morning spent yard sailing which, in the dictionary of Lauren, is "the physical act of going to another person's home and perusing the shit they over-value."  I'm not sure how this past time came to be other than it probably had something to do with the merger of Marcus's cheapness (as evidenced here) and my fondness of spending money.  It's a win for both of us!  Every Saturday morning Marcus checks his phone for yard sales nearby using an app our friend developed (check it out: Yard Sale Treasure Map) and, assuming Alex is cooperating, we make our way out the door, coffee cups in hand to look for that elusive "good deal."

It's amazing what A. People are trying to sell and, B. At what price they are trying to sell it.

A.  Naturally, we find ourselves drawn to the yard sales that boast baby clothes.  However, they forget to mention the fact they're trying to sell the clothes their kids vomited all over and never bothered to clean.  If they'd be more honest in their wording like "worn-out, dirty baby clothes" then I'd at least be prepared.  Another favorite is how loosely the word "designer" is thrown around.  "Designer" to me means Versace, Gucci, and Chanel.  It does not mean Talbots, Chico's, or Coldwater Creek.  Call me uppity but I'm pretty sure those duds do not a designer brand make.  Designer purses are another item people often boast.  After seeing said "designer purses" I'm always curious whether they thought the street vendor in Times Square was a legitimate, authorized proprietor of Fendi or if they're just hoping someone else will be none the wiser.  No matter, they aren't fooling this fool.

B.  People are insane when it comes to pricing their beloved, it-goes-without-saying-but-I'll-reiterate-it-anyway, used items.  We went to a children's consignment sale a few weekends ago where I picked out a number of winter outfits for Alexandra.  When I met back up with Marcus he looked through them and pointed out that someone had priced an Old Navy dress for $12.  Twelve.  Dollars.  It probably cost them $5 not to mention the fact I was holding a genuine Burberry dress and sweater in my hands priced at $6.  So, what I'm trying to say is yes, I know you paid a certain amount of money to keep your little sweetie looking cute.  Trust me.  I get it.  But over-valuing your stuff isn't impressing anybody unless you're targeting people like me who simply see something they like and buy it, price be damned (this is where Marcus must intervene).

So far the only truly good deals we've come across are pieces of furniture or various other household items.  Truthfully, the only reason they've been a steal is because Marcus likes to haggle while I awkwardly stand there wishing he would just pay the man already.  It makes me feel like I'm a teenager again, embarassed by everything and wishing I could crawl in a hole.  Ha!  Alex is in for a real treat when she gets older because at this rate we're going to be prime candidates for embarassing parents.

Where Are My Dentures?

Last night Marcus and I came to the conclusion that we are 32 and 30 (respectively) going on 80 as we played Scrabble and complained about the neighborhood kids.  Our specific complaints are generally about the adolescents in the area who walk on our lawn (gasp!), put things in our mailbox (egad!), or play the music so loud in their mother's minivans that it rattles the windows (whipper snappers!).   The sad thing is, it wasn't that long ago that we were both behaving in the same manner and possibly even worse.  For the sake of our parents, who raised two saints, I'll refrain from detailing how we possibly could have behaved worse so we'll just leave it at that.

We have a huge problem with the kids (a young couple) that live in the apartment behind our house for no reason other than they exist.  Whenever something goes amiss I typically blame them.  A beer can in the front yard?  The neighbor assholes.  The mailbox tampered with?  Those jerks.  A leaf out of place?  Definitely the neighbors.  The baby waking-up?  The f***ing neighbors and now I'm out for blood.

I don't know if they can tell we don't like them.  Other than Marcus asking them three times to stop using our lawn to cut across to their apartment (Hey, you kids! Stop walking on my lawn or I'll get my cane and whip ya's!) we haven't made any contact with them.  On the few occasions I've found myself face to face with the male neighbor I barely nod in his direction.  It wouldn't appear that he and I would have much in common anyway other than the fact I used to smoke and drink shitty beer, too.  In regards to the female who lives there, I don't think I would know her if I saw her but part of me wishes I did because she's dating a total loser and should be told as much (Update 12/9/2011:  They're married!  I think they got married because they weren't allowed to have premarital sex is how I'm going to call it).  Looking back, years from now, she'd probably appreciate what I had to say about her choice of mate because I was there once (as evidenced here).

I guess what it boils down to is that Marcus and I are growing older no matter how hard we try and hold-on to our youth.  While both of us have a hard time accepting that in our own way (Marcus thinks I should still rock Daisy Dukes and I don't for the mere fact that I'm 30 and a mother) we have transitioned into our new lives pretty well.  To us, what now constitutes as "cool" are things like going yard sailing or to the Farmer's Market.  While we may look like a bunch of losers to the younger crowd we're still totally hip and with-it, assuming you ask the older crowd.  Plus, we know the two of us could out-party the neighbors.  Even if it means going back a few years.

*Side note:  Marcus, on trying to decide what we should do this weekend, go to a wine festival or celebrate Oktoberfest in town:  "another event that should be cool, which wont be, which I am not excited about..... I really am getting old I guess"  This came in as I was finishing up this blog and was begging to be shared.

Over the Shoulder Boulder Holder

I now know where the term "over the shoulder boulder holder" comes from and it's not as much fun as it sounds.  The "boulders" I find myself carrying around are causing me neck pain, back pain, and my already horrible posture has gone from bad to worse.  I really can't fathom why women would pay to increase their breast size and endure this for the rest of their lives.  Then again, I'm not the one being paid millions to do so.  I digress. 

Before Alex was even born I knew I wanted to breast feed for at least 6 months.  Now, 6 months later, I've achieved that goal plus I've managed to stock-up over 100 bags in the freezer in the hopes she'll be well supplied into 7 months.  Since my goal has been reached I've slowly been trying to teach my body not to produce any more milk which, as it turns out, is a slow and sometimes painful process.

I have to be honest about one thing, though, which is I don't breast feed in the traditional sense and rather I pump 100% of the time.  When Alex was born she weighed 5 pounds 2 ounces which, considering she was 5 weeks early, was pretty healthy but still small.  Combine her small size with my, how shall I say, gazongas (yes, that's the technical term and, if I may, quoting the hospital lactation consultant, "I have no doubt those puppies will be producing milk soon.") we had problems learning how to work together and properly breast feed.  After a few unsuccessful sessions in the hospital with the lactation consultants we found ourselves at home to figure it out on our own.  Side note: Someone once remarked that they felt violated by these women who come in and grab your breast in one hand and the baby in the other to which I responded "you did give birth, right?"  Anyway, at home we persevered trying to figure it out all while pumping so that Alex could at least get breast milk from the bottle.  Eventually, each attempted breast feeding session would end with a hungry, screaming, particularly pissed-off baby, and an equally frustrated mother.  One thing led to another and I found myself pumping all of the time.  While a small part of me regrets missing out on the bonding that comes with breastfeeding in the end it doesn't bother me too much because I know I gave her exactly what she needed without taking the easy route by giving her formula.

So, here we are, and I really do feel like I'm carrying two, hard boulders strapped to my chest.  I'm completely over having to wear a bra 24/7 and I'm completely over not being able to wear most of my tops (I went from a 34B to a 38E).  And, Lord, when the bra does come off I have to be sure and check to see if Lasagna is underfoot because I don't want to have to explain her untimely demise to PETA:  "I know what you're thinking and I swear it's not what it looks like.  All I did was take my bra off and my boobs fell down and struck the cat on the head killing her immediately."  The press would have a field day with that one:  "Over the Shoulder Boulder Holder Murder!"  "Killer Knockers Kill Kitty!"  "Feline Found Dead, Flopping Breasts to Blame."

With any luck you won't be hearing about me in the paper anytime soon.  Unless Pam Anderson wants to have a boob off.

Solids = Solid Waste = Mommy's Gonna Need More Wine

About 6 weeks ago we started Alex on "solids."  And by "solids" I mean oatmeal cereal mixed with breast milk to the consistency of soup.  The doctor had suggested we start her eating solids at 4 months but we decided to wait until she was 5 months for no other reason than we felt more comfortable with that age.  So, at 5 months we set her in her bouncy chair and set about trying to teach a 5 month old how to eat food.  It was less of a challenge than I expected and by the time we finished her first meal she seemed to have a grasp on what was expected of her.

After about 2 weeks of nothing but oatmeal cereal we decided she was ready to make the next big jump and introduce her to real people food.  We started with carrots.  Our decision was based on reading that babies tend to like root vegetables better because they're naturally inclined to like sweet tasting foods.  So, we set out to the farmer's market, purchased a bunch of carrots and headed home to begin our adventure in making baby food.  (By the way, making baby food takes about as much time as it does to go to a store and purchase it.  In other words, it's totally worth it.)  Right away Alex loved carrots and she ate them with unbridled abandon.  Maybe it was more like reckless abandon but you get my point.  She really, really liked carrots and we were pleased that A) She liked our cooking and, B) She didn't turn her nose up to her first real solid.

That is where the fun ended.  Without going into much detail it turns out breastfed babies who start solids can sometimes have trouble in the digestion department and a week after eating her first carrots we had to do the unthinkable.  Actually, Marcus did the unthinkable while I happily cleaned up the aftermath of the unthinkable.  Now here we are about 3 weeks into Alex's people food adventure and things are starting to look better.  She's had carrots, sweet potatoes, and peas, all of which she's enjoyed, and her digestive tract is starting to get back to normal.

Which leads me to my next thought.  Why can't I just breast feed her until she is potty trained?  I mean, it wouldn't be that weird to breast feed a 3 year old, would it?  Other than it not being socially acceptable in the United States and potentially psychologically devastating I don't really see the issue.  Because, to be honest, for the sake of my nose and gag reflexes I think it's the only right thing to do.

Marcus's New Black Eye

So, we were having a perfectly innocent conversation regarding who was going to pay for the cleaning service today.

Me:  I guess I should write a check for Tomasina.
Marcus (who had already written a check):  Whatever, it doesn't matter. She probably already picked up my check anyway.  But you owe me $120.
Me:  I gave birth.
Marcus:  That was six months ago.

I had no idea that the fact I gave birth, and he didn't, had an expiration date.

Mr. Fashionista

I love my husband. I really, really do. But (there’s always a “but”) sometimes I just have to shake my head at his actions. Before I get started I have to give him credit because while I go to work 5 days a week, kicking and screaming, he stays home with the kiddo 3 days a week. Add that to my inability to wake-up on time and he is the sole dresser of the babe in the mornings (not to mention we have a serious case of daddy’s girl on our hands). Now, we all know most* men have little to no sense of fashion, especially when it comes to little girls, so it is my belief that baby clothing is designed in just such a way that it’s hard to mess up, i.e. everything generally matches unless you throw in the odd salmon or lavender color. In short, Alex is typically matching if nothing else. Where Marcus gets it wrong is in the sizing.

Now, we all know where Marcus falls on the cheapness scale, (where your husband is cheap mine is infinitely more cheap) and I know that having to purchase new clothes for a baby every 3 months wears on the wallet, but stuffing a  bratwurst into a Vienna sausage casing simply does not work. In case you missed the imagery there what I’m trying to say is, putting a 6 month old baby in a 3 month size onesie isn't happening. Luckily, I was home during the most recent episode of “Alex stuffing” and was able to prevent her suffering from chaffed thighs and nip slips and quickly got her into a more appropriately sized outfit. When I asked Marcus why he dressed her in such an obviously small outfit his reply was that since it’s in the drawer it’s still wearable regardless of size. A few rolls of the eyes (mine) later I promptly set about putting away her 0-3 month clothing so as to avoid any more Janet Jackson-esque exposures. Reflecting back what I find most ironic is that in roughly 15 years (God, please let her stay an innocent, beautiful child for at least 15 more years) he’ll be begging her to put on less form fitting clothing as he goes about cleaning the shotgun.

*I say most because I do realize some of the gents are very nice dressers and they do it all by themselves wearing their big boy pants.