the pieces of my life

Adam and I have been together for about three and a half years now. And I thought I knew him pretty well. But apparently, there are still things to learn:

• Adam can pee on demand. How did I not know this? We had a physical for our insurance (yes, we’re old: we have life insurance now) and when I reminded him that he’d need to pee for the nurse, he said, “No problem, I can pee on demand.” Is this something all boys can do? Or is my husband special?
  
• He has no faith in my personal hygiene. After giving my sample (which, for the record, I cannot do on demand and needed to down copious amounts of water to produce), I came out of the bathroom to take the Doodlebug so Adam could be tested, and Adam asked me, “Did you wash your hands?” Thanks for your confidence. And, duh, yes.
  
• He thinks he’s hip. Stop, laughing, I’m serious! He was showing the Doodlebug pictures of the Tweedle Twirp and her boyfriend, the Tweedle Twin. He told the Doodlebug, “When you’re older and we’re no longer hip, the Tweedle Twins will be your link to hipness.” Um, “no longer” said the man who sits home with me on Saturday nights watching The O.C. on Replay?
  

Monday was Adam’s birthday. Originally, we thought about going out, but between our screaming Doodlebug and all the snow, we decided to stay in. I cooked a lovely dinner for us… and we took turns eating it. The Doodlebug demanded to be held so Adam ate while I held and then Adam held while I ate. It wasn’t high in the rankings of romantic dinners, but it’s our new life, and it’s worth it, even if I only get to eat my meal while it’s hot half the time now.

Everyone wants to be loved. Especially by the cutest baby ever. But it can be frustrating when you’re the only one the cutest baby loves. Don’t get me wrong, he still coos and smiles and flirts with Adam. But the Doodlebug has a clear preference for me. When Adam’s holding him, the Doodlebug’s looking for me. When the Doodlebug starts his regular evening scream (and it is regular now, o joy of joys), Adam can try for over an hour to quiet him. He rocks, he gives him a finger to suck on, he paces, he rubs. Nada. Then, within one minute of transferring the Doodlebug to my arms, silence. As long as I’m holding the Doodlebug, all is quiet (I can’t, of course, put him down; that would never work. In fact, even now, once again, I’m bloggin’ with the Doodlebug asleep on my lap). I’m torn between feeling happy that my Doodlebug wants me and miserable because no one is able to regularly put him to sleep, which means I’ll be more reluctant to leave him. Naps are bad, too: He’ll only sleep if we’re out of the house (there are only so many errands I can do) or if I lay down with him. You know, in the beginning, I swore I’d never let my child cry it out. Now, I swear, six months to the day, we’re Ferberizing. Here’s to hoping he gets with the sleeping program on his own by then.

We’ve seen the last of our lawn till April. Our first snow storm of the year–and it’s still fall, mind you–and we got about twenty-eight inches. Luckily, I had thought to go to the video store, so we had a cozy weekend in.

The other day, running an errand at Walgreens with the Doodlebug, what do we spot in the parking lot? As if we could miss it. A Hummer. It took up half the parking lot (which Walgreens shares with Trader Joes, which just screams “Hummer,” doesn’t it?). Behind the wheel was just another suburban woman. We live in Arlington, for goodness’ sake. There isn’t a dirt road, never mind desert or wilderness, to drive upon for miles and miles and miles. Why do you need a Hummer to pick up your vitamins and hair color? Please. These people should just wear signs that read, “I’m tough. And rich, too. And I have a tiny dick.” It’s much more to the point.

WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY? I’M SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER… Oh, wait, that’s better. Ah, silence. Oops, I spoke too soon. Because when the vacuum cleaner goes off, the Doodlebug goes on. The Doodlebug loves his white noise. And the fastest silencer is our vacuum cleaner (and here I thought we had bought it for our new carpet. Turns out we bought it for our new baby). But our vacuum cleaner is a loud mutha and it annoys me to no end to have it on. And since I can only vacuum the upstairs so many times (downstairs is hardwood floors), I end up just turning the vacuum cleaner on its side and letting it go. Adam plans on recording it, but I have little hope that a CD recording will perform the magic of the real live Hoover. (And hey, added bonus, it picks up dirt, too.)

There’s more to Seattle than Starbucks and Nirvana. Yet anytime Seattle is shown on television, there’s a flash of Starbucks beneath the sounds of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” People, Seattle’s moved on. Can you?

I know that the point of catalogs (and advertising in general) is to make you long for a different lifestyle. But it doesn’t normally work for me. Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware offer sumptuous homes that can be yours for just a gazillion dollars. (Remember that episode of Friends when Rachel decorated Phoebe’s apartment in all Pottery Barn furniture but has to lie about it because Phoebe hates the yuppified store; Phoebe of course ends up loving the stuff.) But those lives don’t appeal to me. However, there is one catalog whose life I covet: Levengers. Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing in that catalog I actually want. I just want to be the kind of person who would use the things in its catalog. I want to have the kind of life where I dip my pen in an inkwell as I write in my leather journal, lounging in my reading chair. As I write about my worldly adventures, I’d consult my globe, and then, when I was done, I’d play my leather Scrabble set with my family. Perhaps, someday, that’s the kind of life we’ll lead. But for now, I’ve got to go help Adam clean the poop out of the sofa (and, oh, I wish I were kidding about that, but I’m not).

Shannon is part of a knitblogging group that has decided to pool their resources for donations to Heifer. So go ahead! Help the knitbloggers buy some sheep and llamas for folks who can use them!

It’s always dangerous to write about people who are going to read your blog, but how could I not comment on my family’s trip up to see us for Thanksgiving. As always, Tweeds was a great sport, and she, without complaint, slept on an Aerobed on the nursery floor as my parents got the guest room (at what point does the room switch from a nursery to a bedroom? Is it totally literal–when the Doodlebug switches to a bed? Or can it be a bedroom before that?). My father was his usual self: high maintenance in denial (he thinks he’s easy going) with lots of wit. And then there was my mom. I’d like to quote all family members equally, but it’s so hard when my mom is visiting. My mom is the Gracie Allen of our family and everyone else is her straight man. I mean what else can you say about woman who can give you the exact vintage of a Diet Coke (and she can detect the subtle variation in a Diet Coke that’s past its prime, a distinction no mere mortal palette could tell). A woman who says, “Mmm, I’d love a Dunkin Donut to go with my Diet Coke.” (Blech!) A woman who, while playing a family game of Trivial Pursuit, answers “Teddy Roosevelt” because she forgot she was playing with the ’60s version. However, I can’t mention any of these things because then my mom might think I was picking on her. So let’s just say it was quiet, uneventful trip. No need to disrupt the family peace.