the pieces of my life

Even though we don’t celebrate Christmas (although when the Doodlebug gets older, I’m looking forward to starting our own tradtion of Chinese food and a movie on Christmas day. Even though I don’t like Chinese food, I can make an exception one day of the year. Yes, that’s right, I’m the only Jew in America who doesn’t like Chinese food, except for the occasional dim sum), I like Christmas day. The weather is generally just right for hanging out, watching DVDs, eating good food. I’m always sad when Christmas is over because that means the holiday season is winding down. I know many people despise the season, but starting in September (for me the season of holidays starts with the High Holidays, which segues into Halloween and then Thanksgiving and then it’s Hanukkah and Christamas; New Year’s, surprisingly, has never really done it for me. It always seems like such a sad end to happy season), I’m suckered into the holiday spirit. I love the smell of pine (which in our house comes in candle form), the Christmas carols (93.7 played them twenty-four hours a day, which drove Adam a bit crazy, but I listened anyway), the crass commercialization (hey, it’s not my holiday! Okay, so my holiday is becoming commercialized too, but I won’t go there). I dig egg nog lattes, mall Santa Claus, and the good mood everyone puts on. In Seattle, we got to end the holidays in style with a Football and Facials all-day brunch at Andy’s house, but now, we have no real closer to the season. Perhaps we’ll have to start our own.

Christmas morning in Boston had almost perfect Seattle weather: light rain, slight fog, cool (upper 40s, lower 50s). I’ve taken up running again, and I want to make it an absolute habit now while Adam is on winter break so that when he’s back in school, I make the effort to keep it up. Once you start exercising, it’s so hard to stop. In fact, the only thing that got me to stop exercising in the first place was my first trimester nausea (I still like to look at the Doodlebug and say, “Do you know why Mommy is so sore after her short run? Because she gave up running for over nine months because of you!”). So, I went for a Christmas morning run. I brought my MP3 player with me (speaking of which, I’m desperate for new running music. If you have a favorite pump-you-up song, let me know what it is so I can buy it off of I-Tunes or the like!) but it was so nice and quiet out that I didn’t bother to turn it on. With so few cars out, I was able to run in the street (which is good because despite the warmish weather and all the rain there are still sidewalks that haven’t been cleared of snow). The run was beautiful because the fog perfectly enmeshed all the light-filled trees and I could see into people’s houses and in a few, they were gathered near their tree. The few folks out–a couple of joggers, a few dog walkers, a couple of kids on scooters and bikes that looked like they may have been Christmas gifts–were especially friendly. The main commercial area on Mass. Ave. was nearly empty, with just a few cars outside the small grocery that was open. I’ve never seen the street so empty. Of course, there were a few folks at Starbucks as well. Probably mostly tired parents who were up late assembling gifts. If every run could be like my Christmas morning run, I’d have no problems staying in shape.

Of course, just because we don’t celebrate Christmas ourselves, doesn’t mean we didn’t get a lovely Christmas delivery of our own. The Doodlebug presented it to us in his diaper… and on his pajamas… and all up his back. I have a great picture of it but I won’t post it because I realize that not all my readers are parents and therefore they may not take kindly to the photo, especially if they’re in the middle of lunch (if you’re a parent, then it’s nothing that would gross you out).

As a reward, we decided to give him his “big” present early, mostly because 1) he doesn’t do well with the 4 p.m. Hanukah exchange (which is when it’s sundown here) and 2) Adam and I needed a break. I’m happy to report that one of our presents was finally a hit: the exersaucer. Oh, the Doodlebug didn’t know where to go first on it and it allowed him to do his favorite thing: stand up. The bouncing, the toys, the noises! What a happy Doodlebug! And what a lovely opportunity for his parents to actually sit down. On their butts. For a whole eight minutes! All hail the glory and power of the exersaucer.

Adam, the Doodlebug, and I went to visit Adam’s grandmother this week. On the drive there, we pass by lots of pawn shops. My favorite one (no, I haven’t actually ever been in it) has a sign that reads, “Divorced? Separated? Sell your bad memories here.”

So, the Doodlebug is a little smarter than I had given him credit for. I would like the Doodlebug to take a pacifier. It would make mine and Adam’s life infinitely easier if we could just plug that little guy up and have him drift off with a binky in his mouth. One of my mom friends suggested that, at night, since the Doodlebug likes to fall asleep as he nurses, that when he begins to drift off, I slowly pull his mouth off of me and quickly insert a pacifier, keeping him pressed up against me so he doesn’t realize a switch was made. It would get him used to the pacifier. I tried it. I thought he was fully asleep, so I quickly gave him his pacifier. He continued to suck. And suck. But the sucking slowed a little. And then there was a pause. And another slow suck. And a pause. Another hesitant suck. His little brow furrowed. He took another suck. A loud one. And he slowly, ever so slowly, turned his head, and as he took another suck, I could see the tiny wheel in his head turning, as he thought, “Hey, I’m still sucking on something. But I know the breast doesn’t move with me. My head moves, then I have nothing to suck on. Yet, I moved my head and there’s still something in my mouth…”–even deeper furrows, wrinkling of eyes, scrunching of nose as the truth hits–“HEY, THAT’S NOT MY MOM’S BREAST!” And there go the screams and the wide-open eyes. And it’s back to the beginning. But with no pacifier this time. I’m not training the Doodlebug; he’s training me.

Hanukkah, this year, hasn’t been a huge hit with the Doodlebug. He has the present market cornered–I think every gift in a fifty-mile radius went to him (and, no, it wasn’t just me and Adam; in fact, for the most part, we were fairly low-key on the whole thing)–and yet, he hasn’t been really moved. Oh, sure, he’s mouthed most of his gifts (a new Doodlebug trick: anything that can be grabbed is brought to the mouth and gummed with gusto until he loses his grasp and then he looks for something else to grab and drool on), but every night when we go to light the candles, he gets this “So what” look on his face, and he seems to want the whole thing over with. I think the only thing that would make him happy with a present is if I gift-wrapped my breasts (oy, that’s two references to breasts in today’s entry; what kind of hits is that going to generate in my referrals log?). Tonight his present was for more for me than him: Baby Mozart. I figure if he likes TV so much, might as well give him something that won’t harm him and that will give me fifteen minutes of peace (call me a bad mom. See what I care). We’ll see if he likes the next two nights of gifts any better. I think he will because–don’t tell him!–he’s getting an exersaucer on the last night.

In previous years, Adam and I have had a large Hanukkah gathering where we invite pretty much everyone we know in town and made a butt-load of latkes. This year, it just wasn’t going to happen, so instead, I just invited over four babies and their parents. It turned out to be a great gathering and all the babies were in a good mood. The food was good: Adam picked up sufganiyot and I made the latkes. The recipe I use comes from The Second Avenue Deli Cookbook, which makes amazing latkes. However, I think the book has a warped idea of how bad these potato pancakes really are because the recipe reads, add “3/4 cup corn oil (most of it cooks out)” as if each latke wasn’t cooked in half a cup of oil. Our house still reeks of oil after three days.

Anyway, enjoy the last two nights of Hanukkah for those of you who celebrate it and the rest of you have a great Christmas, Solstice, or whatever else your holiday of choice is.

We live in a two-story house. The baby monitor is upstairs in our bedroom (since that’s usually where the Doodlebug sleeps) and the receiver is downstairs in the living room. Our formerly softly mewling child is now so loud that we had him in the living room while we were trying to quiet his screams, and his cries still registered on the monitor as if he were in the upstairs bedroom. That’s loud.

Thank goodness the Doodlebug is the cutest baby ever. Because he certainly isn’t the smartest. He fell asleep on my lap, as he’s wont to do, and at one point while I was reading my book, I felt this odd sensation. I looked down and saw that the Doodlebug was trying to latch onto my stomach in his sleep. He’s also still furiously trying to insert his entire fist into his mouth. Sometimes, when that doesn’t work, he’ll try to insert both fists into his mouth simultaneously. I’ve told him that if he can put his entire fist in his mouth, I’ll give him twenty bucks. If he can get both of them in there, then I’ll up it to fifty bucks. He’s taken the challenge seriously but has yet to succeed. I would also like to point out that as your typical overindulgent parent, I have bought the Doodlebug more than his fair share of “developmental toys” (they claim to help your child improve his skills; I think all they do is “develop” parents into major consumers) but what does he like to play with best? His burp clothes. Strip that baby naked on his changing table and give him a burp cloth to grab and gnaw on and he’s the happiest person ever. I’m just relieved he has those good looks to trade on.

I completely agree with the Academy of American Pediatrics that children under the age of two should not watch television. However, it’s a well known fact that parents over the age of thirty tend to be exhausted by the day’s end, and they are advised to consume copious amounts of television (preferably in the form of reality TV) to numb their pain. These two things are in conflict, though, when you have a child who won’t let himself be put down in the evenings and who is downright fascinated by the TV and who will wriggle his way around to watch Sunday afternoon football and The O.C.

That said, on Monday I was tired. Just tired. The Doodlebug is very hands on when he’s awake, requiring constant attention. He wants to be played with. Or he’ll scream. And I just didn’t have it in me for the sixth “Wheels on the Bus” or the twenty-seventh face game (this is where I point out all the parts of his face over and over and over–it’s his favorite because when I get to the nose, I wave my fingers around and make a long “nnnnnn” sound before poking him in the nose, which always gets a gleeful smile). So I did it. I sat down (normally a big no-no with the Doodlebug) and I turned on The Teletubbies. Those of you who know me, know I’m actually a big fan of the ‘Tubbies (those who don’t know me can read my article on why I love them). Now, don’t get me wrong: I had no intention of allowing television to babysit my child. This was a fully interactive experience with my commenting on everything we saw (“How many Pos do you see on the screen? There are five Pos. What color is Po? Why, he’s red!”). Maybe the Doodlebug is a big fan of Dennis Miller, who says when describing what men want, “Don’t talk to us while the television is on, all right? Very simple: Television is off, we talk. Television is on, we don’t talk.” But, more likely, it’s a simple matter of my son having better taste than I do and he just doesn’t like the Teletubbies. Every time that sun came on, the Doodlebug would start to cry. He got antsy at the bunnies. He found no joy in Tinky Winky’s handbag. I should be proud and happy, but instead I’m depressed. Just one more thing I can cross off the list of “Ways to Soothe My Child.” I bet the Doodlebug would love Jerry Springer. Could I…? Nah.

When I was eleven, my mother got the family a cat (something my father is still gleeful about: my mother got the cat even though my father is a determined non-animal person; a couple years later, my mother developed a severe allergy to cats. It’s the only thing that’s ever happened that’s made my father say, “Maybe there could be a God.”). We named the cat Biskets (yes, spelled that way. Remember, I was eleven). When Biskets was a kitten, he’d nibble at my and the Tweedle Twirp’s fingers. It felt so good, that little kitten gumming on my finger! My mother always said, “Don’t let him learn to do that! You’re training him that it’s okay to bite you and soon, when he gets bigger, it’ll hurt when he bites you.” Of course, Tweeds and I didn’t listen and, sure enough, Biskets got big, and his bites hurt! I think of this story now every time my son bites me. It’s so cute and sweet the way he gums me to soothe himself, but soon those teeth will be coming in and I’ll have to start smacking him with a newspaper.

You just haven’t lived untill you’ve taken a pointy rubber bulb and tried to stick it up the nose of a very squirmy baby in order to suck out all the elusive snot that you can hear up there but that doesn’t want to make its exit on its own. Personally, it’s just too much fun for me, so Adam has been designated the official Snot Sucker of the family.

Judith is collecting everyone’s favorite book of 2003, which seems like a swell idea. If you’ve got a favorite book, go tell her.

I, however, am not that literary minded (I wish I were, but there’s so little time to read these days). However, many of my evenings are now spent watching movies. Before the Doodlebug came and I was actually able to move around in the evenings, Adam and I rented maybe two movies a month. Now that evenings mean a sleeping Doodlebug on my lap, we’re up to about three rentals a week. So, it finally made sense to join Netflix. Of course, that means I now have to have a whole list of movies I need to keep updated so I can make sure movies are always flowing in. To that end, I’d like to ask all of you what the best movie you saw in 2003 was (not necessarily a movie that was released in 2003–just the movie [rental or theatrical] that you liked best). If you have a favorite, stick in the comments, and I’ll add it to my Netflix queue.