It's here! The Carnival of Baby Humor! But before I rank the top three, I have to say this: WE NEED MORE ENTRIES!!! So submit your next entry before Christmas. I'll be hosting a special Christmas edition. So come on, dress your kids in their Christmas bests... or worsts... and send me an entry!
And now, on to this month's top three.
Cool Mom wins the number one spot with her story of the Worst Diaper Change Ever. Succinct. To the point. And very graphic. Cool mom, I'd like to hug you, but, you know... after that story... Hmm. I'll pass for now.
The number two spot goes to the Toddler Edition of the Bourne Ultimatum over at Actorlicious. Cute!
And the number three spot goes to Babylicious for A Story I Have to Tell. I can't wait for my baby to grow up and do this. Well, maybe not. But it's cute.
All right! I'm off! Please submit your best, funniest, babiest posts for the next one. I can't get enough of cute babies!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Baby on Board - Not me, the Car!
Exactly how does one travel with a baby? We haven't gotten to the traveling part yet, just the packing for baby part. And, seriously, I think Post-It has its market all wrong. They shouldn't be selling those cute little sticky things in office stores. Know where they should be selling them? In Babies R Us! I have never depended so much on the simple Post-It. There's even one stuck to my door, so we don't forget before we leave... um, diapers. Formula. Wipes. Oh yeah, Oatmeal. And yes, yes, the baby.
Her three night bag is almost full. And then we have more. At the end of it, I don't want to pack for myself. I'm just going to stay in the clothes I drove in. Kidding. After a twelve hour trip to Washington, I might be about as cranky as Bombie if I don't get a change of clothes. But I understand why moms look frumpy sometimes. Clothes just seem like too much work. Maybe moms invented nudism. I wouldn't doubt it for an instant.
I began packing this morning. Actually, I started planning the packing this morning. We leave early tomorrow morning. In the past everything could be packed and all we needed to remember were toothbrushes, toothpaste and my husband's razor. I even figured out a way around that by buying travel toothbrushes and razors. But most of what Bombie needs tonight (formula, oatmeal, food) she will also need on the trip. Thus the need for Post-Its.
Packing for travel with baby makes me feel like I'm building an emergency kit. Reminds me a little of the days when the anthrax scare was rampant and for a while us normal people stopped laughing at the crazy ones who stockpiled on rice, beans and masking tape and seriously, seriously considered doing the same.
I know who will survive a bio-chemical attack if something like that ever occurs. Moms. And those darn Post-Its.
Her three night bag is almost full. And then we have more. At the end of it, I don't want to pack for myself. I'm just going to stay in the clothes I drove in. Kidding. After a twelve hour trip to Washington, I might be about as cranky as Bombie if I don't get a change of clothes. But I understand why moms look frumpy sometimes. Clothes just seem like too much work. Maybe moms invented nudism. I wouldn't doubt it for an instant.
I began packing this morning. Actually, I started planning the packing this morning. We leave early tomorrow morning. In the past everything could be packed and all we needed to remember were toothbrushes, toothpaste and my husband's razor. I even figured out a way around that by buying travel toothbrushes and razors. But most of what Bombie needs tonight (formula, oatmeal, food) she will also need on the trip. Thus the need for Post-Its.
Packing for travel with baby makes me feel like I'm building an emergency kit. Reminds me a little of the days when the anthrax scare was rampant and for a while us normal people stopped laughing at the crazy ones who stockpiled on rice, beans and masking tape and seriously, seriously considered doing the same.
I know who will survive a bio-chemical attack if something like that ever occurs. Moms. And those darn Post-Its.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Mourning Mom
I mourned my mother last night. I've been mourning her for more than a year now, but I think it was different this time. This time, I missed her with no reservations. No judgment. No blame. This time, when I cried for her, I was in her arms. Surrounded by her smell, her soft arms I would rub in my hands and say felt like kneaded flour. Not hard like mine. And I would laugh. She would smile. Oh, the arrogance of youth.
I was twenty-nine when she died. I wasn't a mother.
I miss her now. And in missing her, I am inexorably drawn to miss my childhood, my teenage years, my youthful twenties. I miss knowing that my entire life is ahead of me. Possibilities are now crystallized into goals and everything is over thought and analyzed. Every decision has an end. Objectives have replaced dreams. There is a hard edge to imagination and there is never, ever enough time.
I want to relive that. I want to be able to ignore dishes in the sink and be perfectly, completely oblivious to laundry piling up. I want to surprise myself by stuffing something hot into my mouth without blowing on it first. I want to enjoy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without the worrying about gaining weight. I want to forget phrases like “glycemic index.”
And then I look at my three month old. I love how she sleeps with her hands by her side, a tiny perfect being on the seat of a couch and her defiant, confident cry that announces to whoever will listen that she is hungry. How she gives herself up wholly in her sleep, how she smiles with her entire body. I hate to think growing up is going to change that. I want to rescue her, but I cannot. I am on the other side of the river and I cannot carry her across. I can only throw out a mental bridge – soft as a cobweb – and hope she catches it. She has to bear her own weight, swim against her own tide.
I wish my mother was here to see me swim against mine.
Then again, there is a certain beauty in her not seeing me struggle through the ugly pupal stage of becoming an adult. Through her, in some small place in my heart, I can remain forever a child. I can waste time by sleeping in. I can burn my lips and never learn. I can get my clothes dirty in the rain and let my daughter do the same. It’s just as fine to throw a fit and cry over being bored in the summer. It’s all just fine. Because when you are a child in the world of mothers, everything is just all right.
It's a huge responsibility to be a mother to my daughter, this tiny being now nestled in my arms. But then again, it's the easiest thing in the world. I just have to be here. As long as I can. And I have to love her and hug her for a lifetime.
I am the bridge between my mother and my daughter. And I am here.
I was twenty-nine when she died. I wasn't a mother.
I miss her now. And in missing her, I am inexorably drawn to miss my childhood, my teenage years, my youthful twenties. I miss knowing that my entire life is ahead of me. Possibilities are now crystallized into goals and everything is over thought and analyzed. Every decision has an end. Objectives have replaced dreams. There is a hard edge to imagination and there is never, ever enough time.
I want to relive that. I want to be able to ignore dishes in the sink and be perfectly, completely oblivious to laundry piling up. I want to surprise myself by stuffing something hot into my mouth without blowing on it first. I want to enjoy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without the worrying about gaining weight. I want to forget phrases like “glycemic index.”
And then I look at my three month old. I love how she sleeps with her hands by her side, a tiny perfect being on the seat of a couch and her defiant, confident cry that announces to whoever will listen that she is hungry. How she gives herself up wholly in her sleep, how she smiles with her entire body. I hate to think growing up is going to change that. I want to rescue her, but I cannot. I am on the other side of the river and I cannot carry her across. I can only throw out a mental bridge – soft as a cobweb – and hope she catches it. She has to bear her own weight, swim against her own tide.
I wish my mother was here to see me swim against mine.
Then again, there is a certain beauty in her not seeing me struggle through the ugly pupal stage of becoming an adult. Through her, in some small place in my heart, I can remain forever a child. I can waste time by sleeping in. I can burn my lips and never learn. I can get my clothes dirty in the rain and let my daughter do the same. It’s just as fine to throw a fit and cry over being bored in the summer. It’s all just fine. Because when you are a child in the world of mothers, everything is just all right.
It's a huge responsibility to be a mother to my daughter, this tiny being now nestled in my arms. But then again, it's the easiest thing in the world. I just have to be here. As long as I can. And I have to love her and hug her for a lifetime.
I am the bridge between my mother and my daughter. And I am here.
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