Five Months Old, Five Trillion Photos

Good Lord, but that took a long time. I was taking pictures on Dexter's five month birthday, trying to get a good shot for the monthly picture frame that Grandma got for him. I did get a decent shot, but I had to wade through a bunch of crap to get it. Shots like this:

Maybe you should try centering the subject in the shot...

Or this:
Although you DO look exactly like Grandma in the morning in this shot...

Or this:
With the crazy googly eyes...

Or this:
WOW. Nuff said...

I should have stopped right about when I started, because here was the very first shot I took:
Slight tilt to the head, looking very dapper.

And this one was pretty cute, too:
I'm cute when I giggle...

Here's some other stuff we've been up to these days:
Watching cars, our favorite pastime. When we buy a new house we'll have to look for one with a back deck overlooking a road...

Coming pretty close to sitting up by himself at volleyball

While Dad tries to hit the ball real hard

Sitting up with assistance, and playing with our cool fish table
Looking generally cute
Sitting up with pillow assistance
Although sometimes that turns in to lounging a bit. Hey, what are pillows for?
Little help here, please, Mom...
Standing up tall in his exersaucer
And chewing on everything in sight
Also, somehow looking like he's about 27 years old
Trying his damnedest to get out of this silly Bumbo seat
Getting lots of kisses from Mom

That's what we've been up to! Happy holiday weekend! We're off to New York to swim in Grandma and Grandpa's pool.

High Five

Well, Dexter, you reached the five month mark. Time flies! It seems like just a few months ago you were this cute, useless little blob who couldn't do much beyond flail an arm around feebly and cry a bit... Look at you now!
Here's what you're up to these days:

You're sitting up by yourself, kind of. For some reason you sit up better when sitting on a blanket in the grass. Don't ask me why, I don't know. I just roll with it. You can sit up by yourself (look, Ma, no hands!) for a good half a second before you flop backwards, tilt sideways, or slowly lean forward til your nose is smashed on to the ground. It's really all kinds of good fun watching you and trying to decide which way you'll fall next.

You're tossing toys around with a vengeance. Just today I had to kind of giggle at you as you shook the living tar out of your giraffe rattle and smacked yourself in the forehead with it. And then cried.

You are working REALLY hard on Bumbo chair escaping. It's quite impressive to watch you arch your back and throw your head back, trying to escape. Soon you shall, and when that happens I am waiting for the backwards tumble out of the bumbo, the head cracking on the floor, and the ensuing tears.

You've discovered, in the past two days, how to use your pooping muscles. Like more often than every three days. And wow, have you been practicing. Now, granted, I kind of like this new twice (or five times) daily pooping thing you've been doing. It's better than the every three day OMG poop explosion. But it's a little random. Why the sudden regularity? Where are you getting extra fiber from? WHAT ARE YOU EATING? Is it the toes? Damn those toes for making you a poop machine!

You are drooling like a mad man, not nursing worth a damn, and running just a tiny bit of a fever. So, of course, I expect to see five hundred teeth in your mouth tomorrow morning. Or at least some sign that there might be a tooth coming. Instead, I am sure, all symptoms will subside and you'll be fine for a few days, and then you'll start this fun thing all over again. Why do I think that? Because this is the THIRD TIME I've been certain that a tooth is going to pop out any second now.

You have begun to shriek, just kind of randomly. Sometimes it's because you are laughing. Sometimes it's because you see something cool. But most of the time I think it's just because you want to hear yourself. And man, how could you NOT hear yourself with the god-awful noise that is coming out of your mouth. Your new nickname could easily become Screech if you keep this up.

You are, when playing on your back, starting to roll over to your side and just maybe starting to think about rolling all the way over to your belly. But once you get there, what would you do? Besides squawk in indignation at the plight of the tummy time.

You are, at last check (which was five days ago), 16 pounds, 1.7 oz. Which puts you just shy of doubling your birth weight. Which is the benchmark we apparently want to meet by your six month birthday. I am guessing we'll meet that no problem.

You are, according to my oh-so-scientific measurements and your dad's tape measure, 27 inches long.

You are, still, ridiculously cute.

PS - related to nothing, but entertaining. Your sister just puked up her dinner, which she ate for breakfast this morning. And then proceeded to eat the puke. I guess dinner tastes better the second time around? It certainly makes for easier puke clean-up.

PPS - Everyone in Wal-Mart thought you were hella cute today, what with your kicky legs, smiley face, and "Hunk" bib.

PPPS - Apparently putting you in the crib after you've napped for 20 minutes in the car simply means "kick legs and suck my thumb" as opposed to "go back to sleep."

It's the Little Things

I love you, always, because you're my boy. But it's the little things you do that make me smile and love you all the more.

I love how you'll be busy playing with something, then will look up, see me smiling at you, and break in to your big old gummy grin.

I love how, when you're nursing, every other part of your body can be still but you still have at least one leg moving. You're like your mom - your leg must always be in action. Always.

I love how you are so delighted when you get to stand up, and I love your little Frankenstein walk. I know I'll be regretting loving your walk when that walk turns in to an actual, unassisted walk, and eventually in to a full-out gallop. But for now - hella cute.

I love that one little little quacking duck toy makes you giggle. Right before you shove the duck's bill in to your mouth.

I love that you reach up with one arm while nursing to feel my nose, and my hair, and my chin, and my mouth. I am not a big fan of you exploring my eye sockets, however.

I love it when you grab my finger, or your dad's finger, and look at it for a second, as if saying "huh, what should I do with this?" And then you vehemently shove the finger in to your mouth, almost as if it's a piece of steak and you haven't eaten in years.

I love your little feet. Ridiculous. I love your little curling toes. And I love how you shove those toes right in to your mouth.

I love your endless fascination with the dog. No matter what you're doing, the dog walking by makes you happy.

I love that you continue to humor your dad by laughing at his "dancing pants" routine.

I love your little pterodactyl-like screeches when you are happily singing to yourself. You shall be the next Adam Lambert if you keep that up.

I love it when you're out watching cars and a particularly loud car, or a car playing loud music goes by, and your arms go out to the side and get all flaily and your face gets this big shocked "what the F was THAT?" look on it.

I love that you giggle every time I put you down for a nap and sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to you. Is my singing really so terrible that you have to laugh at it?

I love that your new sleeping position so closely resembles mine - one arm under your body, one arm up by your mouth, one leg straight, one leg bent to keep you from going all the way over on your belly. Every time I see you like that I just think "Yep, that's my boy."

I love the new sucking of the bottom lip thing that you're doing these days, that kind of makes you look like an old guy who has lost his dentures. Although I hope you don't do it forever. It's all cute now, but in a couple years it'll just look weird.

I love how you smile every time we step in front of my full-length mirror. As if you can recognize how damn cute you really are.

I love the Texas Longhorn finger suck thing that you do sometimes. Too bad you are destined to be a Hokie.

Dads

Hooray for Dads! Happy Fathers Day.

A poem I stole from online somewhere:

Life Lessons

You may have thought I didn't see,
Or that I hadn't heard,
Life lessons that you taught to me,
But I got every word.Perhaps you thought I missed it all,
And that we'd grow apart,
But Dad, I picked up everything,
It's written on my heart.Without you, Dad, I wouldn't be
The woman I am today;
You built a strong foundation
No one can take away.I've grown up with your values,
And I'm very glad I did;
So here's to you, dear father,
From your forever grateful kid.By Joanna Fuchs

Things I wrote down. Like with a PEN. And PAPER...

I didn't take my laptop to San Francisco, so I had to rely on old technology to capture a few random things that were running through my head. You didn't think I still knew how to use a pen, did you?

Dear CoCo: I know. I know you're old and the bladder just ain't what it used to be. But seriously. 4:45 AM is NOT a cool time to get up, flap your ears around the room, and stand panting by Dad's side of the bed, begging to be let out RIGHTNOW so that you can come back in and get down to the business of an early morning nap. And then when someone does get up to let you out, it's still NOT cool to come back up an hour later panting and ear flapping AGAIN so you can go outside for the first poop of the day, and can subsequently be all set for your morning activity, which consists of a nap and maybe a little begging a bagel off Mom. How about you combine those two going outside events in to one, that is at a more reasonable time of oh, say, 6AM?

Note to Self: Lots of layers = pouffy hair. And you don't do pouffy hair...

I put the pump on the security belt at BWI. It goes in to the little x-ray machine. The security guys stops the belt, looks closely at my pump. Looks again. Puzzled look on his face. I can see the pump in the x-ray picture, a tangled mess of tubes, containers, and electric cords. I tell the puzzled man the bag is mine. He says "Is it a clock or something?" No, I say, it's a breast pump. Ahhh, he says, with a look of understanding and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. And sends it right through.

My text to John, upon arrival in Houston to change planes: Welcome to planet Houston.
John's reply, with a tell-all photo: Houston, we have a problem
A few seconds later, with another tell-all photo: Nevermind all is well
The boy really doesn't like tummy time...

There's a baby two rows in front of me on the plane. Maybe 6 months older than Dexter. He's standing on his mom's lap, looking around and giggling hysterically. It makes me cry. I miss my boy.

I tear myself away from watching a craptastic movie on the plane (with no sound because headphones are a DOLLAR) to look out the window. Astounding. The setting sun lights up the west faces of rock outcroppings. The plane rolls over the hills and valleys. It's like my own personal relief topo map (you know, the raised up maps you can run your fingers over to feel the mountains) rolling out underneath me. Except that the rivers are not blue.

At the Golden Gate Bridge overlook on Friday night. I was here seven years ago with John, when we drove across the country. It makes me miss him to be here again. It's pretty much the same place, although this time I am here at night. And I don't remember such a strong urine smell the last time I was here.

Muir Woods. There is no way to capture this place on film. No way to capture the grace, the silent beauty, the size, the soaring height. I tried. But it's impossible.

Laughing kids. Laughing friends. Loving family. Loving vows. Happy tears shed. Music with meaning. I am privileged to watch two beautiful women profess their love in front of friends, family, and God. An amazing wedding.

Ladies and Gentlemen, We Have a Weiner

Yesterday Dex and I tried on dresses - ALL of the dresses in my closet. I modeled them all for the baby, and he giggled at each and every one of them. Somehow, for some reason, the ceiling fan in my bedroom is WAY more entertaining than the one in his room. Lord knows why. It's the same damn fan.

Anyway, this one seems to be the best bet, so long as I don't really want to breathe too much.
The dress, unfortunately, doesn't come with its own built-in Dave Telesco fun dance partner. Although I wish it did because dancing with Dave is an experience like no other.

It does, however, seem to have enough room for my ample chest, gives the appearance that I have a waist, and then A-lines out wide enough to go over my plenty large ass. Oh, and also can be worn with a bra. Which is key, because going without a bra these days is SO NOT AN OPTION. Plus, the pink color seemed a little more appropriate for an outdoor wedding in California. More appropriate than black, which seems to be the color of, oh, about every other dress I own.

And also? The weather forecast for the next TEN DAYS in Cali (just north of San Fran) is partly sunny, highs around 70, lows in the 50's. No joke, for the next TEN DAYS. I'd move there if I weren't afraid that one day the whole state will just fall off in to the ocean. Oh, and there's also the whole ridiculously expensive cost of living thing.

My plan for Saturday is to do a little driving on Route 1, then go to a wedding. And Sunday I am hanging out with my cute friend's enormous, fun (read, crazy) family, doing whatever they have planned for the day. Catch an 11pm flight home, and I'll be back home Monday morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! :-)

Bullet Points

* At one point, I do believe, I wished for a baby who didn't poop every single day. Twice a day. I do not, I believe, know what I was wishing for. Because I am pretty sure I would take the two small poops a day thing over the "Hold it all in for two or three days then let it all out in one HUGE stinky WHOOSH that fills up the diaper, plus the entire back of the onesie, OMG, and thereby requiring HAZMAT cleanup and a desperate plea for help on the part of Mom." I'm pretty sure. Yesterday's poop required a fire-hose cleaning of both child, baby clothing, and changing table.

* Walking down to the bottom of the hill and back up with a 15 pound baby strapped to your chest is freaking HARD. Really really HARD. Somehow it was easier when I was pregnant.

* My inner thigh muscles have not been the same since I pushed an eight pound bowling ball out of my body. Also, my hips. Also, my knees. Although I'm not sure I can blame the knees on childbirth. Perhaps more on the way too much extra weight I am carrying these days, plus the constant need to get up off the floor with a 15 pound child in my arms.

* I leave for California in THREE DAYS. Three!! Crap! I need to, in those three days, get John to get out the ladder and rummage around in the attic for me for a suitcase and also some shirts that might fit me. And also I need to find a dress that will fit over the big old rack I am sporting. As I've never had a big old rack before, none of my old dresses are really cutting it. But the thought of going dress shopping, and especially the thought of dress shopping with a baby in a stroller, is just making me a little depressed. Man, I hate shopping.

* I haven't bitched much about the baby not sleeping recently because, knock wood, he's pretty much been a sleeping superstar for the past week or more. Long enough that I am expecting couple two hour naps a day from him. Which is a little bit insane. Lovely, but insane.

* Christie's doing a "Biggest Loser" challenge with her husband, and I get to be the big old benefactor from this one. Because Christie wants to walk every evening and it's WAY more fun to walk with company. So I get to walk every night, which gets me out of the house, and also completely justifies the bowl of ice cream I eat after I get done walking.

* Bomboys is doing a $2 Tuesday special this summer. A scoop of delicious ice cream for TWO BUCKS! Guess where we're going every Tuesday, Dex? That's right, baby!

* Also, I leave for California in THREE DAYS! I am excited to be going away, to get a little break, and to leave John here with Dex so they can do a little male bonding. But... I am a little sad to be leaving my boys home alone. Hopefully they will both still like me when I get back.

* I played volleyball tonight for the first time since, oh, August. I didn't suck all that much more than I usually do, so that was a good thing. Sure, I set my fair share of balls over the net to the other team (you're welcome, other team. Good thing I like you). And my best play may have been the one where the ball ricocheted off my eyebrow and right to the waiting arms of a very competent player who hit it over the net. But, hey. At least my face played well... Two games, though, and I was wiped out. So Dex and I called it a night. Not really fair that he got to nap on the way home, and I had to drive. How come it always works out that way?

* There's a good little restaurant in North East called Woody's, which has the best fried oysters I've ever had. Better, I think, than the Briar Patch in Sweet Briar, VA. So, Dad, when you come down in a couple weeks maybe we'll take you there for dinner, ok? We'll call it "Operation Let's Take the Baby Out to Dinner and See if We Survive." I'm sure it'll be fine. I mean, the place is called Woody's. How bad could it get?

* Did I mention the whole California thing? And the fact that I need to pack? And buy food for John? And pick out some good books to read? And worry some more about where I am going to pump on an airplane? And pack? And clean my house because my parents are coming to stay the night on the day I return? And print out my flight info and car rental info and hotel info and put addresses in to the GPS? And decide if I should bring some Playboys on the plane, because last time I brought them on a plane I got yelled at and forced to put them away? And also, pack?

Ready for our morning walk. Also, baby feet = ridiculously cute.
All strapped in. I need a cute hat like Dexter's...