the pieces of my life

I was just getting into bed when I remembered with a startle, “It’s Wednesday!” I completely spaced that it was blogging night. My parents came in Tuesday night and my sister this afternoon and with all the activity, I forgot it wasn’t a weekend. The Tweedle Twirp and I have already been busy with our baking as my mother watched over the Doodlebug. The stuffing, the apple pie, the pecan pumpkin pie, the glazed pecans (for the salad), and two kinds of cranberry sauces are already made. Tomorrow, Adam’s clan comes over and the feasting begins. We’re sticking with last year’s turkey recipe, because it was such a success. Say what you like about Martha but the fact is she can cook. Of course, I invited everyone over for four, not realizing that’s when the Dolphins game is on.

My family is always a hoot. My mother was upset last year because my father came up for a visit and came home addicted to The Bachelor (but only the one season). Tonight, in my quest for ever more reality TV, I had my family watching Trista and Ryan’s wedding planning. Now my father says he’ll watch the rest of it over the next two weeks. If my mom is unhappy about this, wait until after tomorrow night, when I introduce my father to The Newlyweds, which is playing back to back on MTV. Isn’t that what family is for? Helping each other sink to ever lower levels?

Before the Doodlebug was born, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be one of those mothers who says, “I know everyone says this about their child, but really my child is just the cutest thing out there.” I was going to be this totally cool objective mother who said things like, “Well, my baby is beautiful to me.” But then reality set in. Because the fact is, I do have the cutest baby ever. What’s an objective mom to do?

You know how when your car makes a funny noise, it bugs you and bugs you, so you finally take it into the shop? But then in the shop, you can’t replicate the noise so you stand there sounding like an idiot as you try to imitate the sound? That’s what the Doodlebug did to me. He screamed all day Monday. He screamed all Tuesday morning. He refused to nap and would only scream. So I called the doctor. And while I was on the phone, he did scream. I admit, I felt dumb calling the doctor to say, “Hey, my baby is crying;” after all, that’s what babies do: they cry. But they seemed to think it was odd as well and told me to come right on in. You know where this is going, right? On the way to the doctor’s office, he stopped screaming. And, I might add, started smiling. The doctor examined my grinning, gurgling child as I tried to explain how bad the crying was. I felt like a complete idiot as the doc proclaimed my child healthy. Oh, and what do you think happened the second we arrived back home? He started screaming again. Sigh. Happily, he has since stopped yelling (the major suspect was constipation so I gave him some water and told him if he didn’t move his bowels, we were resorting to prune juice, and the threat worked) and today I wisely got him out of the house first thing in the morning, which always puts him to sleep. After all, a sleeping Doodlebug is an ecstatic mommy.

Monday, heading home after a walk to Starbucks, I actually offered my child up to a stranger on the street. The Doodlebug was screaming–and not just his normal screams, but his blood-curdling someone-is-trying-to-do-me-grave-harm screams–and was nowhere near stopping. He’d been screaming off and on all day, and at this point, I’m walking home, trying to pretend like I don’t know the baby in the Baby Bjorn on my chest who appears to be in the most severe pain of his life. Now, I’m not a mean mom. I had already tried to soothing sounds, the singing, the rubbing. But nothing was working. So I’m just staring everywhere else, like I can’t hear his wails. A nice looking woman was walking down the street with a matching Baby Bjorn to mine, and in hers was an infant about the Doodlebug’s age. Only this one was silent. Nary a peep. While mine is going on and on and on and on. As we passed, I asked the woman if she wanted to trade. That was a mistake because the Doodlebug apparently heard and wailed that much louder as punishment, even though I kept assuring him for the rest of the walk home that I was only kidding and that I’d keep him no matter what. Adam, on the other hand, had enough of the screaming that he might be willing to part with the Doodlebug if the price is right.

Ending a scream fest by using those new “grabbing powers” to pull out Mom’s shirt, lean over, and puke into her bra. Let’s just say, I smelled gooooood!

Last weekend, the Doodlebug had many more firsts. His first road trip. His first time on a ferry. It was even going to be his first time at a wedding, however, during his first time in a church for the wedding rehearsal, he didn’t do so well. I think he had a flashback to his last religious ceremony and was afraid something was going to be cut off his body. I explained to him that this was a Catholic church and that not only did they not cut things off, but they gave out crackers and juice, but he just wasn’t buying it. So the Doodlebug and I decided to bail on the Long Island wedding and instead, he had his first train ride into the city where we met Tweeds and the Claire Bear for lunch. The Doodlebug wasn’t on his best behavior, but it wasn’t a complete disaster. I put him in the Baby Bjorn as we all walked from Penn Station to Chelsea Market. The Claire Bear wheeled around the stroller empty and she was just a step ahead of me and Tweeds. It was terribly amusing watching folks peer into the stroller and then look confused at the crazy lady pushing it.

We did make it back for the reception. This wedding reception was like nothing I’ve seen before. They had enough food that I wished I had starved myself for the preceding week. The Doodlebug came with us, as the bride and groom had considerately arranged for babysitters on the premises. Of course, the babysitters thought Adam and I were a bit overprotective. We’ve never left him with nonfamily members before, and it was a bit much for me. “You have Adam’s cell phone number? Call the instant the Doodlebug wakes up.” These women were quite nice and they were incredibly responsive to the kids. We picked up the Doodlebug when he woke up, but he was obviously overtired and the loud band music wasn’t helping him. Finally, we brought him back upstairs where he patiently sat in his car carrier as I tried to put him to sleep. The babysitters kept saying, “You know we can do that.” I eventually gave in, although I made Adam go back upstairs every twenty minutes to check on the baby. I would have gone myself but there was food to be eaten.

Did I mention the food? Instead of a sit-down dinner, there were many rooms of food stations. The first part of the evening was of course the appetizer stations. While Adam partook in many foods such as cheese, meats, veggies, and assorted hors d’ouevres, I parked myself in front of the oyster and clam bar, which was oh-so-conveniently located next to the caviar bar. I kept meaning to venture to other areas, but the lure of Beluga kept calling me back. The main course stations were also excellent–I did try the lamb, the pasta, and the salad, although I passed on the stir fry, the crepes, the tenderloin, the pork, and the fish–once again the majority of the time I was loading up at the sushi bar. But, of course, who cares about dinner? Who even cares about the cake, which was surprisingly yummy with a delish frosting. Who cares about the seven kinds of cake laid out, the piles of cookies, the coffee bar with liquors and port. Because really all that matters was the chocolate fountain. Yes, a whole fountain of chocolate. Three tiers of flowing chocolate just waiting for my skewers filled with strawberries and marshmallows (because I saw no point in wasting the chocolate on all the other kinds of fruit there). I was full. It was late. We had to go. But I needed just one more go at the chocolate fountain. I’m trying to convince Adam that when we get around to our kitchen remodel, we need to include a chocolate foutain in it.

The Doodlebug will be almost four months at the start of Hanukkah. What’s worse? The fact that he’ll have no memory of this holiday and yet I’m already buying presents for him (I’ve almost got all eight of them)? Or that I got upset with Adam because he nearly brought the Doodlebug into the room where I was wrapping his presents and I didn’t want the Doodlebug to see what I had bought him. Yes, I’m wrapping presents for a not-quite-four-month old. That way I’ll be surprised when I unwrap them for him.

Sleeping is now our least favorite thing. We’re trying to incorporate a “sleep ritual,” as all the books recommend. It’s a lovely ritual. It involves a massage (for the Doodlebug, although, really, I’m the one who needs it), a reading of Goodnight Moon, and two or three songs. And sure enough, the Doodlebug will drift off to sleep. For about one hour. And then he’s up. With a vengeance. For hours. Take Monday night, for instance. At about 6 p.m., the Doodlebug was getting extremely heavy eyed. Big yawns. Droopy eyes. So we begin our ritual. He’s pleased with the massage. Entertained by the book. And drifts right off to sleep during the songs (which I like to think is because he thinks my singing is soothing, although I have a hunch it’s more that he realizes if he’s asleep, it’ll stop me from singing any more). I tiptoe downstairs. Adam and I have an evening to ourselves. Yeah! I finish making dinner (chicken cumin with black beans. Yummy!). We curl up on the couch, pop About Schmidt into the DVD player, and start eating. We get fifteen minutes into the movie when little sounds begin squawking from the monitor. “Eh. Eh eh eh. Eh.” We freeze, waiting to see if it’s going to pass. Things get quiet, and we begin eating again. And then it comes. The full out “Waaaaa!” Pause goes the movie, and up I go. After another twenty minutes of heavy eyes, yawns, and droopiness with a heavy helping of pinky sucking and tummy rubbing, we’re back in movie/dinner business. Down I go. Finish eating. Get into the film. And there it is again. The tiny cry of an overtired Doodlebug. This time, I give up, and I go upstairs to pick him up. I bring him downstairs and within three minutes, he’s sprawled across my body fast asleep. As Adam says, the Doodlebug just hates sleeping on flat surfaces. When the movie’s over, I don’t even try to make it upstairs. I put him in the Pack N Play, and within moments… he’s awake (that was a surprise ending, wasn’t it?). Adam and I gave up on the whole bed idea and put him in the swing, in which, again, he was asleep in minutes. Of course, his other favorite sleeping position is in bed with us. When he was a newborn, it was adorable and sweet and I loved, well, probably every other second of it. Now, he flails and snorts and grunts with some strength behind it, which means no sleep for me. But he’s a happy Doodlebug. And I guess that’s what counts. For now, at least. (Just a week or so ago, I swore, “I’ll never let my son cry it out in order to sleep”–otherwise known as Ferberize. Now, I can see a point in the not so distance future where I invest in a pair of ear plugs and sweat it out.)

Christine had her boo, otherwise known as Zachary. And Grant now has a beautiful daughter and he gets to bypass the ’round the clock feedings. Congrats to both!

Adam has reached a new low. I was sitting in my office, updating this very blog, when I heard a strange noise in the living room. When I investigated, I discovered that Adam had fallen asleep in front of his computer, and I was hearing his semi-snoring deep sleep breathing! He’s always fallen asleep in front of the TV, but the computer? What has fatherhood done to him?