Category Archives: snapshot
Getting a reasonable picture of RR in the wild (i.e. not staged within an inch of her life) is damn near impossible. Getting a picture of us both is even more rare, and is more akin to taking a picture of a unicorn in the wild (are there other kinds?).
Anyhow – this past weekend, we were with friends at a local orchard (in case you were wondering, apple cider donuts are not paleo), and I swear there must have been a unicorn passing behind us for this shot to be taken.
Hello from us to you, and thank you, as always, for reading through our batshit crazy adventures.
You know when your toddler is sick when she falls asleep on your wife for three hours on a Saturday afternoon. But at least it’s a good excuse to snap adorable pictures of her.
It seems to be that this point in time between months seven and eight has revealed the baby I’ve been hoping for all this time. Well, yes, from birth until now, she’s been downright delightful, but this baby we have on our hands now really feels like the big pay-off from the suffering through sleepless nights, Grandma visits, and our adventures in traveling.
She’s not having milestones, as much as she’s developing her own little personality. We’re also developing our own parenting personality, which is almost as much fun. Sure, you can sit on the kitchen floor while we make pancakes. No, you can’t just sit in your jumper and watch whatever is on the television. Yes, you can play with my cell phone. Yes, you can pet the kitty. No, you can’t pull her fur/ear/whisker. Yes, that pacifier on the floor is clean enough to put back in your mouth. Well, let me blow on it first.
She still is her own self – she sleeps well, eats well, and hates strangers. Some things might never change.
But this baby sits on the living room floor and plays peek-a-boo with herself with the help of some newspaper on her head. She also sits in her high chair in the kitchen and watches her mom make a lemon meringue pie. She rides in the cart at Sam’s Club. She doesn’t seem to mind wearing boy’s clothes, although she still looks better in pinks and yellows. She coos and sings and growls and screeches like a velociraptor. She smiles at you when you walk into a room (well, if she knows you). One day here, she’ll get teeth, and an attitude. But in the meantime, I’m going to soak this baby up.
In other news, this is RR’s new white coat. As you can see, she is a big fan. And we’re a big fan of her, so it all works out.
Yesterday I received a letter from my mother. No, not an email. Not a card, either. An actual letter. With an actual stamp. And actual somewhat illegible handwriting. With underlines. You know, underlines? I LOVE and MISS you ALL so MUCH. Substitute the caps with three (THREE) underlines under each one. She does this on Hallmark cards, too, you know. She’ll write a little something inside the card, but then will proceed to underline the stock poem/message written on the inside. But only every few words, you know: “I MISS the TIMES we used TO spend TOGETHER.” For example.
I digress. So she’s written me a letter, largely in response to our conversation on Sunday that I cut short, I’m sure, although she didn’t say as much. You know, the conversation I cut short there at 30 minutes. I was talking to her out on the back deck while my wife had things under control with RR in the living room. Under control as in, not complaining in screams or demanding a refill or a massage. I had put off calling her for two whole weeks, and in the last conversation we had, I complained that her telling me how long it had been since our last conversation wasn’t really the best way to encourage me to keep calling. It was sort of like being in a confessional: Forgive me, Mother, for I have not called for two weeks. I also had told her (gently) that long gone are the days of hour-long conversations with her, since I could maybe manage 10 minutes at best here and there. She could understand, right? She used to be a mother to an infant once upon a time.
In those precious 30 minutes, she proceeded to tell me about such fascinating day-to-day details such as her other grandchildren’s bus schedule. You know, somewhere in between interrupting the part where I was telling her about RR smiling, and grabbing, and starting to smoke. So at 30 minutes, RR started to have a bit of a vocal whine, and I took it upon myself as a sign to go. She reluctantly let me get off the phone that very instant (perhaps thinking I was lying, since she couldn’t actually hear RR fussing herself), which was the first time she didn’t actively try to keep me talking when I tell her I have to go.
So then I get a short two-page letter that, honestly, I can’t remember of what the content was. All I can recall is the underlines. I think the point was, she loves and misses me. Oh, and that she would have loved to hear RR cry, which sounds really odd, but I guess make sense for a woman who refuses to learn how to use the internet and see all of the beautiful pictures and videos we have posted of RR smiling, grabbing, and making me a sandwich. This is all despite the fact that she has a beautiful new laptop, has bought an internet subscription through her cable provider, but unfortunately for her, the internet does not come with instructions, and my free time and patience are all used up.
My response today was a typed-out letter in Word that I’ve printed out and plan to stick a stamp on and send her way with a couple of pictures. Welcome to 2010, Mom. I’m sure I’ll get another letter subtly complaining about the lack of using my own handwriting. Maybe I can reprint it in a handwriting font. Do you think she’d know? But seriously, with gems like this picture posted by my wife sitting out there on the internet waiting for consumption, it seems unfair to complain that we’re keeping the goody from anyone.
She only knows how to be an in-town Grandma. The kind of Grandma you drop your kids off with so that you can go out to dinner, or go Christmas shopping, or play their XBOX. I don’t think she has any idea how to be a Grandma to a kid she won’t see or talk to on a daily basis, and in return, probably won’t know them as well as she does her other grandkids. And that it’s really OK that she doesn’t immediately know RR’s shoe size and favorite color of the week when she’s eight. Well, and whereas I think that’s OK, she might consider it devastating since she can only show love through giving gifts of clothing. It’s a learning curve, mostly, but one that might come at the expense of sending letters via horse or pigeon.
Anyhow, seriously, have you seen this picture? I would underline it three times if I could.
I came into work yesterday morning and was greeted by my One-A-Day calendar, which was left on June 21. My At-A-Glance calendars on my wall still say March, April, May, June. My mailbox was overflowing (not email box, but actual mail mailbox). I’m breaking in my new polo shirts and delightfully wearing my pre-pregnancy work pants, and slip-on brown shoes (which are, in fact, pretty snug). Yesterday, I spent nearly half the day catching up with everyone on my floor and re-telling my birth story over and over again, which may have been more exhausting than the initial 36 hours of labor.
After 10 weeks of almost complete social isolation, I feel like a NASA astronaut touching down on Earth. I don’t think socializing with mothers, in-laws, and less than a handful of friends really prepared me to be thrown into the workforce, but I imagine if we kept everyone away, it would be worse. Maybe. We’re all getting into a new routine of getting up, showering, feeding the dog, washing bottles, washing/feeding/clothing RR, packing lunches, packing school supplies, and getting everyone to work/school relatively on time. Sometimes I feel like I’ve accomplished so much by the time I get to my office, sit down, and turn on my computer, only to then be smacked in the face by the task of communicating with people. A lot of people. At a rapid and detail-oriented pace. For the next eight hours. Blink blink.
There are little things, though, that help. Football talk with the guy in the office next door. Lunch and coffee dates with my wife. Seeing what looks like myself in the bathroom mirror. Oh, and this picture on my desk. That definitely helps.
While I try to keep the RR picture spamming to Facebook and our family photo site, this one seems too good not to share with you all. Seriously, I love this kid.
35 weeks and three days later, here I am in my most favorite pre-pregnancy cammo shorts, that, to everyone’s surprise, still fit. Of course if by fitting you mean, putting them on, getting them buttoned without strangling Vegas, and then not sitting down, then yes – they still fit. We have one month to go, as of today, until our due date, and only a mere week and a half until we arrive at full term-land. Holy shit.