the pieces of my life

I can’t help it. That Six Flags old guy just makes me giddy! I’d play the ad on a loop all day if I could.

Once upon a time, I worked in an office that required my looking professional. It wasn’t a job that lasted for very long. I’ve mostly worked in jobs that required little more than jeans and a flannel shirt. But for this one job I actually wore skirts and I occasionally wore shoes that had a smidgen of heel (and before you think, “Hey! She said she wasn’t a shoe person!” I didn’t pick them out myself; before Adam left his job at Nordstrom.com, I met with a personal shopper and took advantage of Adam’s employee discount). My recollection is I did just fine both in the job and in my heels.

One week ago, Adam and I celebrated our two-year wedding anniversary by going to Chez Henri. For the occasion (which included a yummy martini), I put on some of those previously mentioned work clothes, including a cute pair of heels.

Now, when Doodles is feeling feisty, he likes me to hold his hands so he can stand. Standing for him is a precarious act, and he wobbles this way, he wobbles that way. Doodles is just like a Weeble except he does fall down.

Me, in those heels? I made Doodles look like Baryshnikov. I think we can officially consider all my heels “retired.”

Ba ba ba ba ba. Five is the only prime that is provably a member of two pairs of twin primes. Ba ba ba ba ba.

The television remote? Oh, it’s so tasty! The bar on a dirty shopping cart? The perfect teething tool! The pole on the bus! Just…lean…a…little…closer…Mom! My tongue almost reaches! Keys, the umbrella handle, Dad’s watch, the string on Mom’s hoodie–all fabulous things to put in my mouth. But this past week, Mom has been trying to put in these, these… these unholy objects! She offered me this strange cold yellow-orange thing in a weird mesh bag. She kept saying something like, “It’ll feel so good on your gums; just try it! You’ll like it. C’mon, just stick it in your mouth a little bit” although really all I heard was “ba ba ba ba ba.” Then she offered me these strange o-shaped pieces. I put a couple of pieces in my mouth but I made that scrunchy face that clearly indicates that I will accept no more of that! And then she tried to put these slivers of orange gunk in my mouth. Ewwwww! Luckily, a few minutes of red-faced screaming brought on my favorite food. I think Mom learned her lesson. Now can we go back on the bus? I never did get to lick that pretty, shiny pole.

I always said I’d never sink to the lows of putting words into my child’s mouth. Well, I lied. Introducing my first guest blogger (I’m pretty sure this is crossing a line, but that’s just where I am this week):

The problem with posting just once a week on Wednesdays is that I know folks check up on me on Thursdays. I can imagine the panicked phone call from my father making sure everything is okay if he went to work on Thursday and there was no post. But a few times we’ve had Web problems and it’s been questionable whether or not I’d be able to publish. My first thought is always, “Well, that’s okay. I’ll just publish that there are Web problems and I’ll publish later.” And then it always hits me, “Oh, wait, duh, if I could publish that, I could just publish my blog.” I’ve thought of publishing more than once a week because I certainly write more than once a week. But then there are the weeks (like this one) where I’m struggling on Wednesday night, with The Bachelor playing in the background, to figure out what the heck of interest I have to say (and you may be saying, “Hey, you have nothing of interest to say.” But it’s my blog and if I want to say nothing of interest, I will! The benefits of blog ownership). If I didn’t have the self-imposed Wednesday deadline, it would be too easy to let the blog slip away. So once a week shall continue. And if I ever miss a Wednesday, know that it’s probably a Web site malfunction.

Speaking of Web sites that go away, every now and then a blog I follow stops. Abruptly. One day it’s “blah blah blah,” and the next day, it’s silence. At first you figure they’re taking a little break, but then the break drags on, and you start to wonder what’s happened to them. It’s odd, because you get to know people a bit through their blogs, but they’re blog friends, they’re not actually friends in the traditional sense. I mean, I correspond with a few other bloggers that I would consider myself friendly with, but let’s face it, if we were standing next to each other in a bar (oh, okay, at a playgroup), I’d never recognize them enough to say, “Oh, it’s you!”

But my point is, when the blogging stops, my mind goes wild. Should I e-mail them and find out what’s up? But what if something bad has happened in their lives that makes them stop blogging? Do they really want a stranger e-mailing them and prying into things? Or is it rude to not inquire? I tend to take the easy way out and just let them go on their way in silence.

Don’t worry. I’ll never just go away. I’ve never done anything in silence in my life.

When Doodles was a wee lad (as opposed to his big honking self now), I rode in the back seat of the car with him, because his little head would loll about in the great big car seat. That and I was just plain nervous about him back there all by himself. He hated riding in the car and he would scream and scream and the only thing that would pacify him was a pinky in the mouth. At about two months (okay, three months), I developed the confidence to ride in the front seat once again and Doodles did fine on his own in the back. At first, he’d fall asleep as soon as the car started moving, but eventually he’d remain awake and quiet, checking out the passing world.

Last week we went to the Cambridge Police as they very kindly install car seats. Since, as I mentioned, we have a big honking child, we got ourselves a big honking car seat, the Britax Marathon. The consensus on the Britax Marathon is that it may be super expensive, but it’s one fine car seat and it will hold our child for many, many years. For the next four months (I explain, for the non-parents out there or for those parents who are old enough that they weren’t required to use a car seat for their child), the car seat needs to be rear facing. When Doodles is both twenty pounds (which will be any moment now) and one year old, the car seat can be turned around to forward facing. (Before one year, a baby’s neck muscles aren’t strong enough to withstand an impact in the forward position).

I should mention that Adam originally installed the seat. I said, “Are you sure it’s right?” Adam said, “We have LATCH. It’s a cinch. You can have it checked if you want, but this baby’s in great.” Any guesses on what happened? Five cops swarm our car to put in the car seat. The first thing they say is, “This thing is anchored in here in reverse! This car can’t have the seat in the middle.” They pull the seat out and reinstall it on the rear passenger side. They did quite a number including pulling out some floor molding (which they promised to replace when they switch the car to forward facing in four months) in order to bolt the seat to the ground (anything for the safety of my Doodles). Of course, in the process, they had to move the front passenger seat up so far that it is unusable. “You’ll need to sit in the back with your baby, which is what you should be doing anyway. But if you sit in the front seat and get into a crash, you’ll be so close to the air bag that it’ll kill you when it deploys.” Never mind the cramped leg room. So, once again, I’m back to the back and Adam is our chauffeur. I feel kind of dumb sitting back there, but come August (which is really not so far away) when we turn the seat around, I’ll have my front seat back again. Funny thing is, we bought the station wagon because it seemed like such a bigger car! I know now why folks with two or more kids end up with a minivan! Any of you with kids and carseats, I highly recommend calling your local police department and seeing if they’ll inspect your seat. Especially if you’re absolutely sure you got the seat in right.

So presented with a blank slate to start again with e-mail, how can I refuse? I’ve gotten a gmail account. I know there’s some controversy about Google “looking” at my e-mail, but I think it’s been overhyped and not a big deal. (Read why it’s not a big deal here.) It’s cutting edge, it’s cool, it’s, it’s–oh, hell, who are we kidding? When am I ever going to have the chance again to have “jennybrown” as my e-mail address? How easy is that to remember? jennybrown at gmail.com. So go ahead. Help me test out gmail. Send me an e-mail.

Let’s count how many things are wrong with the following sentence that Adam uttered on Monday night (I’m not making this up, I swear): “When I was looking at the book What Not to Wear [that’s one], it said that a person shaped liked you [that’s two] shouldn’t wear a shirt like that [that’s three]. Because you have, you know, bigger arms [four]. Not that your arms are big. They aren’t. They’re just bigger [and that would be five].”

Before we moved to Boston, Adam tried to explain Patriot’s Day to me. “It’s this day off and they run the Boston Marathon and the Red Sox always play. And there’s copious amounts of beer! It’s awesome!” It didn’t make any sense to me. But now that we live out here, I’m hooked. It was a Patriot-packed weekend.

Saturday: On my long run today I headed up to Lexington Center, where the reenactors were practicing their techniques for Monday. The weather was gorgeous, the run was smooth, and the Redcoats were blooming.

Sunday: Adam had papers to write, so Doodles and I went on a long walk with a couple of other moms in the ‘hood. On the way to Carberry’s, we just so happened to run into the bloodiest battle of the beginning of the Revolution. We stopped to watch and the babies seemed undisturbed, but us moms were freaked at how loud the muskets sounded (I could picture my poor Doodles little ear drums popping, although if I had thought about it, I would have realized that all that lovely wax in there makes a nice buffer for him) and we made a hasty retreat. But Doodles witnessed his first battle. What a true Bostonian.

Monday: Last year Adam and I went to the Lexington reenactment of the Battle on the Green. This year, we decided to do something different (read: something that doesn’t start at 5:45 a.m.). Our friend Kevin and his son came over for a waffle breakfast (Kevin was our cohort in battle last year, as well) and then we headed out to Concord to see the re-enactment of the Battle of the Old North Bridge. Doodles loved it. The Redcoats fascinated him (yes, our son is a traitor; he didn’t give the Minutemen a second glance).

From Concord we headed straight to Brookline for a barbecue at a friend of Adam’s house and to watch the Boston Marathon. First we went outside to see the wheelchair, men’s, and women’s winners (we were at about mile 23). Then we went in for some yummy ribs, chickens, mashed potatoes, and greens. Back out again to watch “the everyman and woman” (as the oh-so-brilliant newsperson said). Definitely the highlight of the day, although I was with a bunch of downers who didn’t understand the concept of cheering. Runners wear their names on their shirts and their arms just so you will cheer them on by name (and they really seemed to appreciate it). Not so you’d stand around saying, “How crazy do you have to be to run twenty-six miles?” (ahem, Adam).

From there we met a bunch of Adam’s sectionmates (those with kids or those who are about to have kids) at Full Moon for dinner. I really didn’t think Doodles was going to survive a whole day out (from 7:45 a.m. to about 7:45 p.m.) and that we’d have to beat a hasty retreat home at some point, but the kid was a champ. He happily ate on the run (well, watching the run; I had him in the Baby Bjorn at the marathon and I fed him peas as we watched) and napped a couple of times in his stroller. He was smiley and happy and social and overall was a delight. What a change it is from just a few months ago. We need to enjoy this while we can, because I hear once he hits toddlerhood, our social activities will be significantly more difficult.

Unfortunately this may be the last year we enjoy Patriot’s Day as a family, as I’ve just learned that Adam’s new company does not have the day off (how unpatriotic!). Perhaps, though, Adam will use one of his floating holidays for it. As Adam said, “Rosh Hashanah or Patriot’s Day? Patriot’s Day or Rosh Hashanah?” A guy’s got to have his priorities, right?