Things that are on my shirt right now (and other updates)

I am wearing a plain white t-shirt. The following items are Jackson Pollock-ed all over it:

• Liquid Baby Tylenol
• Leaked Breastmilk
• Baby poop (just a smidge)
• Baby cereal tainted with prunes
• Drool
• Snot
• Baby food prunes
• Baby food green beans
• My dinner (a mix of spinach, white beans, stewed tomatoes, and feta)
• Propel
• Iced Tea
• Baby bath water

Oh balls. I need to get out some Oxyclean. Or some gasoline and a match. Hidden in the list, of course, are clues to the day had by Phook and Big W. Perhaps, if you are a mom, the tylenol tipped you off. It was a well baby visit day, which means vaccinations, which means medicating your nugget if you know what's good for you. Yeah, El Phookerino had her 4-month check-up today, which resulted in the following performance metrics:

• 15 pounds (50th percentile...clearly the aliens planted a rogue "normal" egg to be dropped from my ovaries when I was taken into their spacecraft...no other possible explanation)
• 26 inches (75th percentile...still slackin', but a bit more what I had in mind)
• Development: advanced
• Health: excellent
• Shots: still shitty, although less traumatizing for everyone than at the 2-month visit

Also stemming from this visit was the go-ahead to start introducing additional foods to the little herbivore. Firstly, it was recommended that we add some baby food prunes to the child's rice cereal as a result of my report that mustard butt had recently turned into green softened butter turd butt. Secondly, it was recommended that we start introducing vegetables one at a time, starting with green beans, because they are one of the grosser foods, and you don't want to go getting your kid crazed on peaches only to refuse the wonderful world of strained green yuck.

So, we came home from the doctor and had some cereal with prunes. This went quite well. After an initial face of confusion, an entire bowl was consumed. Then Poopapalooza '07 began. Yeah, she sharted 3 times today, each time moving steadily back towards the familiar mustard butt. She blew out her onesie at one point, and this was the point at which the "smidge" mentioned in the bulleted list above made it to my shirt. A long nap followed, during which time I leaked the breastmilk and cooked the dinner which also made it to my shirt, since I'm "not very good at being careful," per my husband.

After the Biggies ate, it was time to try the green beans. Oh, hilarity. I tried these things. They were rank. The child accepted about 4 spoon fulls with a disgusted, confused look on her face. She then began to fuss and try to get out of her chair. At this point, I mixed up another killer bowl of cereal a la prune, and started giving her that. Then the goat brain decided to warm up the beans, and what do you know, the little shit ate them! Half a freaking baby food jar full. She also ate most of the cereal. I know that the introduction of foods to the wee ones is the subject of much debate, and there are peeps out there who think that what I did today was akin to having her drink snake's blood, but oh well. So, yeah, according to the doctor, we are to introduce a new veggie every couple days over the next couple weeks, and then we can start adding an additional meal with fruit. Oh, adventures in grime! When your kid insists on shoving her hands in her mouth regardless of what is covering her face, her sleeves get rather ridiculously fouled. Oh, Oxyclean. Oh, Shout spray. Oh, shit. I need a laundress.

So, that was our day. I thought I was an unkempt nightmare before. Baby food has opened up a whole new world of personal filth for me. Just when things were getting boring...

And I almost forgot. After she assaulted her onesie with foulness, I determined not to fully redress her for the rest of the day. So she was wearing just her (originally) white undershit and her track pants that I got from Old Navy. I also was wearing an (originally) white t-shirt and track pants. I found this highly amusing. I really hope no one comes over to my house unexpectedly for the next several years, because it would be really embarassing for my social worker husband to get a referral on his wife...

RIP Barbaro

Shit. I really, really, really was rooting for this guy. He was a tough horse. I hope he's eating lots of carrots in animal heaven, and all my childhood cats are rubbing up on his four good legs.

Yes, I am talking to you, makers of children's clothing

I hate you. Oh, yes, you do have that pesky redeeming quality of being the source of the unbelievably cute garments that help make wee Phook look so edibly cute, but I hate you nonetheless. I really hate you. Why, you ask? Why? I'll tell you why. Your sizing is so unbelievably inconsistent that my child is currently wearing clothing in sizes 0-3 months (just one particular brand of t-shirt, but still), 3-6 months (quite a bit of stuff), 6-9 months (many items), and even 12 months (a swimsuit she'll be needing when I dunk her in a pool in a couple weeks). That's right. At this very moment, she can wear items designed to take her through her entire first year of life. What a crock. Now I know that adult clothing can also run differently, but I am, somewhat sadly, not able to fit in sizes 0-18. No, friends, no. All my clothing includes the numeral "1" on the tag, and then another number that just might be in excess of a "5" on the other side. And I'm smart enough to buy elastic-waisted shit most of the time, anyhow. But this isn't about my flirtation with plus size, no it is not. This is about me wanting to beat the ever-living hell out of everyone who has ever designed a garment with a ruffle on the ass.

I have long been harboring some angst about infant clothing sizing, but two things happened this weekend that really brought home the point for me something fierce. Exhibit A is the fact that I went shopping yesterday, and I wanted to buy the kid some gear (because it feeds my shopping jones in a less guilt-inducing manner than buying myself stuff, but I digress...). She has plenty of clothing to grow into in the immediate future, and this combined with what is currently available on store shelves led me into the territory of predicting her size in a time of drastically different temperatures. What if those shorts fit when it's still cold out? What if that sundress is still hanging off her in October? My head almost exploded on 17 different occasions. I mean, maybe she's gonna start eating meatball subs and be in a 2T by the Fourth of July. Maybe she's gonna get so fed up with Dubya that she goes on a hunger strike. Who knows? Add to this the fact that every brand carried at the (mommy crack that is) Target runs differently. Those cute Classic Pooh garments? Yeah, she outgrew the 3-6 month size of that stuff in utero. Circo? Cherokee? Shit, I don't know. I also went to Old Navy. I like their baby crap an awful lot, I hate to say. But garment-to-garment in that place, the very same size seems like it could accommodate 9 different children. I don't know, maybe I'm just buying the cheap stuff and that's my problem. I once walked into a Gymboree and immediately clutched my chest and fell to the ground screaming upon glancing at a price tag on a 4-inch wide sweater vest. I'm sure it's good quality and all that, but at about $13.50 per wear, I just can't go there. Anyhow, the Exhibit B that occurred was that I went to put away the items I did buy, and I decided I'd better get out some lawn care tools and use them to mow/rake/till through the heaps of items already in the closet and see what I have in there for the kid. Head exploded again. There are things for all seasons in all sizes and there is no way in hell I am going to have the right items in the clothing rotation at the right time. Sweatsuits in size 12 months that look like they'd fit a newborn. Jeans in size 6/9 months that look like she won't be able to wear them until '09. The mayhem gets worse from there, but let's just say I ended up throwing a bunch of crap on the floor and leaving the room in disgust. She needs one of those computer programs to organize her wardrobe, taking into account the nuances of every criminal manufacturer's sorry excuse for a size chart. I need pop-up reminders: "Onesie adorned with cat wearing earmuffs is about to expire!" "3-piece dress/sweater/bloomers ensemble that reeked of smoke from the gifter needs to be power-washed and incorporated into churchgoing rotation!" "Onesie with the words 'Tax Deduction' on it is about to become seasonally appropriate!" Alas, this will not happen for me, or for you, unless you are a psycho. I don't know man, this is really chapping my ass. On top of the fact that I'm considering becoming one of those people who pulls out their hair and eats it as a viable outlet for dealing with the internal battle I am having with myself over co-sleeping, I can't organize the little shit's closet. Talk about salt on a wound.

So you, Mr. Maker of Children's Clothing, I'd like you to know that you have made my life just a little bit more of a clusterfark. You. Butthole.

To make us all feel better, let's look at these:

There, that's better. Lord only knows what size she's wearing.

Bert vs. Ernie

Who knew that Pampers Swaddlers diapers could cause such a firestorm? In the House of K, anything is possible. You see, these here dipes are festooned with Sesame Street characters, including Cookie Monster, Big Bird, Elmo, that weird Zoe thing, and of course, Bert and Ernie. They are all diapered baby versions of themselves and are in cute poses, holding bottles, etc. I feel good about Sesame Street characters in general and I'm comfortable with the fact that the device into which my child toilets bears the visage of these dudes. But here's the part where things get a little kooky. I've taken the opportunity to educate Phookie on the kind of attributes I'd like her to have as she grows up via a narrative on Bert and Ernie. I don't know if you've picked up on this, dear readers, but I'm kind of a Bert. My side of the bedroom is the neat and clean half, and I get really frustrated with Ernie for being such a pig. Guess who Ernie is, here in the House of K? Yes, you guessed it. Big K is a bigass Ernie. The man consistently leaves a snail trail of various goods, including empty food wrappers, batteries, and defunct hard drives, in his wake. I've discovered a near-full gallon of milk under an end table in my home on more than one occasion as a result of Big K's mindless cereal-bonging and inability to remember that the milk is quite fond of refrigeration. He has some crazy version of rose-colored glasses (trash colored, perhaps?) that make it impossible for him to see messes. Where I enter the kitchen and see a floor full of sticky unidentifiable spills, counters drenched in junkmail, and his underoos hanging off of something, he simply sees the land of milk and honey. This fundamental difference in our view of filth and disarray is honestly the largest point of contention in our relationship, the one fight we just keep having. We've each come a long way in not murdering each other over the years in regards to this issue, but I honestly believe I'll be asking him to take his filthy socks off the coffee table as we head off to our Golden Anniversary celebration. Furthermore, our view of work vs. play is somewhat different. I generally can't relax until my work is done. I feel itchy if there are dishes in the sink (we have no dishwasher, which is not good). I am able to achieve a sense of peace and calm once the house is in order, the preparation work for dinner is handled, the laundry is done, my corporate business is under some sense of control, etc. What with an infant, this pretty much never happens, so I'm in some state of spazz at pretty much all times. Now Big K, on the other hand, cannot force himself to accomplish any household or work-related tasks until he has absorbed the appropriate amount of relaxation. A couple years ago, I took to calling him The Sultan of Leisure. He will dick off for an entire weekend playing video games and watching sports, all the while promising to mop the kitchen floor "in just a minute." Three Tuesdays and a threat of castration later, he begrudgingly mops the fucker. You get the idea.

So anyhow, back to Bert and Ernie. Whenever I pull a dipe from the stack, if I discover that I have chosen a Bert, I exclaim excitedly, "Look! It's Bert! He's responsible and tidy and when you grow up you should be just like Bert. Now don't poop on this guy!" If it's Ernie, I act all disappointed and tell Phookie, "Ernie is a reckless, filthy, SOB. You should unleash a fury of shart into this dipe like you have never unleashed before. If you are a naughty, dirty, unkempt little creature like Ernie, Momma's gonna put you in the kennel in the yard that came with this house. You don't want to be a dirty, dirty, pig like Daddy, do you? No, you wanna be just like Mommy...we'll alphabetize the bookshelves together once you learn your letters..." Okay, that's probably a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea. Now, Big K's balls may be in my purse when it comes to some things, but he's not taking this without a fight. He has launched a counterattack and whenever he changes Phook's dipe and draws a Bert or an Ernie, he tries to bring her over to the dark side. "You don't want to be a dork like Bert, do you? Ernie knows how to have fun. Take a big poop on Bert." Thankfully (or not), I change more dipes, but I'm still concerned that the message of Ernie's value could sneak in.

All right. By now, I know that 99% of the people reading this are horrified. Bert is a bit uptight, I admit it. And Ernie is pretty funny. I really don't want Phookie resigned to a life of medication to control her blood pressure like her dear mother, but I also don't need a second snail trail in this house. So I've decided to declare a truce. Bert and Ernie, after all, have learned to relatively successfully coexist, haven't they? And maybe the best things come from them as a team. Perhaps our little Phook, then, can be a Bernie?

Tons of Fun

If you pick up just about any magazine, you're going to find tips for getting slim. Dippin' that paw into a bowl of M & M's? Watch out, those little bites add up!!! Instead of dousing your salad in thousand island dressing, just put the tip of your fork in the dressing, and then stab your stupid cherry tomato. Keep healthy snacks (like those convenient mini carrots) handy at all times, so you won't be tempted to go to the vending machine. Your morning coffee-esque beverage? Did you know it has 9 trillion calories in it? Newsflash, it does. Blah, blah, blah.

So the K's are hearty people. You might say that we collectively weigh a quarter ton, plus or minus a Phookie. Big K has determined he's a little too hearty for his own good. I'm resigned to my fatness and just happy that I technically lost the baby weight despite the eye-burning horror that is my midsection, but yeah, I could stand to lose a pound or thirty. But Big K is actually serious about trying to lose a couple pounds, what with having gained and lost 70 pounds a couple times in his life, and being on the up side these days after his most recent side-lining knee injury that sent half his broken, dislocated kneecap within a centimeter of his scrotum. So whatever, I'm playing along and I've been trying to come up with meals that are both healthy and budget-friendly. Last night, for example, we had this Mediterranean chicken dish with artichokes and roasted red peppers served over a lovely bed of wheat pasta. The night before that, we split a stupidass Cornish hen. (That's a small bird, people, but it was good.) You get the idea. This morning I bounded out of bed (er, crawled and creaked and cursed the day I was born until I was upright) and defrosted some (small, cheap) shrimp. I proceeded to put them in a lovely bath of Roasted Red Pepper Sesame marinade. I then chopped up some lettuce, tomatoes, cauliflower, and carrot. One thing led to another, and the day proceeded rather shittily in the sense that I had to ignore my smiling child to attend to my corporate business until she was no longer smiling. We then took a catnap together until a co-worker called and shook us out of our slumber. Goatass. Big K finally rolled in the door and I was going to start getting dinner together after finalizing my corporate business. But before any of these things could happen, Big K gets a work-related call and has to go back into work to deal with some dickweed of a juvenile delinquent instead of providing me with the 4 minutes of Phook-respite I had really been looking forward to for quite some time. For some reason, I was feeling stressed about this or some other unidentifiable problem I don't really have, so after some more ignoring of the child to finish corporate business, I put Phookie in her Bumbo seat and attacked the horrific spice cupboard I have referenced previously. I'm something of a stress cleaner/organizer/undiagnosed OCD-haver. But whatever, I actually took a picture of some of the spice carnage, which I may or may not post later. I don't know, maybe Phookie is going to be a great chef, because she sat rather happily in that Bumbo for at least 45 minutes while I described spice usage to her as I cleaned and organized that stupid cupboard. Man, I had some shit in there that you would not believe. Let me tell you something. If you have a disorganized spice hut, you will end up with multiples, because stuff gets lost in that kind of crapcave. I have 4 containers of whole cloves, and I basically hate cloves and generally omit them from recipes. But whatever, Big K came home and found me up to my elbows in Creole seasoning, so he recognized the signs of my psychological distress. It was then time to assemble the dinner started so many hours before. I got out my shitteous indoor grill and grilled up those marinated shrimp, and placed them lovingly on a bed of the aforementioned vegetables. I wanted to charf. The shrimp looked okay, but the rest of the shiznit could go straight into the composter. I mean, I like salads, but sometimes they just make me want to call Ralph on the big white phone. Today was one of those days. I told Big K I didn't want to eat it. He calls salads "rabbit food" and was none too enthused himself. He said, "We could put Saran wrap on these and go to McDonald's." Surely, he jested. So we hauled the salads out to the coffee table and attempted to gag them down, all the while joking about the McDonald's. Finally, as I finished my water intake for the day and declared myself ready for the pop we are no longer keeping in the house, I was just like, "Are you serious? Let's go." By this point, Big K had eaten his whole salad. I of course had to nurse the kid mid-cauliflower, so had only gotten about half way through the thing. So I covered up the remains, threw the kid in her car seat, and we sped off to the nearest Donalds, which is about 15 miles away in a neighboring near-Woods. I ordered the crispy chicken sandwich value meal, and Big K ordered a large vanilla shake. We then consumed this trashfood while cruising around The Woods, and I was very pleased.

So what is the moral of the story? I don't know. Diet tips are for people who are already skinny. If you have the dietary planning capabilities to start making a salad 10 hours in advance and STILL end up throwing it back in the fridge and going to McDonald's, you are screwed. Lack of an on-hand carrot is not the problem in this household.

Also, is this the most words ever used to say, "I went to McDonald's"? I think it is. What can I say, I have a gift.

Peyton Manning is going to the Super Bowl!!!

The K Family is really, really excited right now. Big W because she loves Peyton Manning. Big K because he hates Tom Brady. Yes, we are so excited. I love Peyton Manning. It has nothing to do with football - I just love the guy. I think it's his ads. Like the one where he is in a fake mustache and wig and refers to "Peyton Manning's team" and discusses his "laser rocket arm." I don't know, I pick my sportsmen based on what I perceive to be their personality rather than their athletic capabilities, and I think Peyton is a good guy. He incidentally happens to be a football genius, but that is secondary to his goodness as a guy. I know he's off watching tape of the Bears right now, he's such a studious little footballhead. Therefore, I am really excited that Peyton has finally overcome the naysayers and beaten the she-bitch that is Tom Brady. And Tom Brady was a chokestar too! Ha! Interception, artfully eye blacked boy! Go cry yourself to sleep on Gisele's underwhelming bosom. And Belichick, why don't put that stupid sweatshirt up your butt? You look dumb.

Man, I love watching guys win the big game. Even completely pompous assholes who make 8 bazillion dollars a year look like cherubic little boys on Christmas morning when they realize they are going to the Super Bowl. I was even happy for the Bears, despite being in line to inherit Packers season tickets. I'm a good neighbor. I love this shit, what can I say?

P.S. to Familia de Sully: Sorry kids. You know I love you.

The apple of everyone's eye

The apple in question is Phookie. Now, this post may be perceived by some readers as the idiotic yammerings of a delusional new parent who thinks her kid is a genius despite the fact that everyone else secretly wonders if the child has special needs. But whatever, this is my blog, so I can fill it with my perception of reality if I so choose. There, I've disclaimed. Now I will brag.

Everyone loves my child. Who doesn't love a cute little baby, right? This is different. People flock to this child. People admire this child. People freak out about this child in ways I could not have imagined. People grab her from me and virtual strangers use possessive pronouns when referencing her (How's "my" baby?).

This happens all over the place, but nowhere so prominently as in church. Phookie is generally on her best behavior in the morning hours. She is also a very inquisitive creature already and is fascinated by any new or exciting scenery, including old ladies with hairy moles and that kind of shit. She somehow, miraculously, is able to tolerate 1+ hours of church without making much noise if she has a book or rattle to grab at and can stand on a lap and look around at people. The latter is her favorite thing to do. She has been able to support her weight in a standing position since about 6 or 7 weeks (not surprising given that her Dad's legs are tree trunks and her Mom's legs are not the sort of thing you see on females) and she loves, loves, loves to stand and look around (to the point I frequently wish she'd be happy sitting her arse down). We have always sat in about the 5th pew in a relatively large church, and although we considered moving to the back after we hatched a kid, haven't moved yet. So she basically stands on my lap and smiles and flirts with an entire church full of people for the entire service. This is where we get to the part about people freaking out about her.

Today, we had (are having?) an awesome snow storm. The K's live less than a block from our church, so we of course walk there. After the service, the pastor always says a few friendly words to the congregation from his lectern thingy, and today, he told everyone to drive home safe, and then said, to an entire church full of a couple hundred people, "Good thing Phookie [insert real name here] doesn't have far to go." Yes, this nugget gets a special mention out of the entire congregation. And then we have the process that is leaving the church. It takes 15 minutes. Everyone snags her. Literally, at least 4 people take her from me and snuggle her on the way out the door. People say things like, "She is the only reason I came to church today." "She is just so special." "Oh she is a good baby...I can't believe you can sit up front with her." "She's not even 4 months old? She's so strong..." Okay, okay, okay, I'm bragging. I'm sorry. I know no one would grab me and say, "Your kid's a little weird looking, don't you think?" But, hey, whatever, I'm not lying.

Then we proceed on to the local breakfast spot with the Grandparents J, and the fun continues. Grandma J literally walked her around the ENTIRE restaurant showing her off to acquaintances and strangers alike. She is universally admired in this context as well. Big K and I laughed as we watched her get toted around, and we agreed that this was why we moved back to The Woods. There may be a lot of people around here who have never left the county, and probably a few too many Bush/Cheney bumper stickers for my liking, but we live in a good place with good people, and we are a part of a community where people know our child's name and embrace her specifically as a special little nugget. It's not just strangers in the grocery store here. It is a community. And that is worth a lot to me, to us. If there was ever an emergency, I could probably open up the (6 page) phone book, throw a dart at it, and hit the name of someone I would trust to watch my child.

So here's the thing. Big K and I have discussed this, and we have determined that the best word to describe Phookie is "twinkly." There is something about her that just twinkles, and other people can see it too. I don't want to over sentimentalize here and claim she is an angel or anything like that, but I really feel like God sent us something special in our twinkly little baby. I feel like my precious cargo is especially precious. I know, there's probably not a parent in the world who doesn't feel that, but I just felt the need to note it. She's a twinkly one, that Phook.

Behold a very cute child

Well, we finally got our camera back from its long vacation at Big K's mom's house, and were able to capture some photographic evidence of the cereal eating in question (as per the request of some readers):


Phookie has also developed an interest lately in consuming literature:

We also recently put together what Grandma J calls the "jazzerciser," and boy was that a good idea (although the child is in fact yawning in this shot, she loves this thing):

She gets real serious about it, in fact, and makes her "concentration" face as she attacks the sonofabitch:

She views her mother with suspicion during the relatively hated "tummytime":


But is ultimately overwhelmed by her charms:

So there, feast your eyes on that for awhile, doggies.

Over the line?

I am compelled to hold forth on a subject that is highly lame. Yes, friends, I'd like to discuss last night's season premiere of American Idol. Now, I'm not a crazy ass fan of this show. I had actually never seen it until last year, when I was sick, pregnant, and immobile. My status this year, although technically different, renders me essentially the same. So, whatever, I semi-enthusiastically watched last year, and heard on the radio yesterday that the season premiere was occurring, and I decided to watch last night.

So they of course start with the auditions of all the horrible people who don't make it into the real competition. Obviously, there is some real entertainment value in watching people who can't sing attempt that very feat, especially when they really think they are good. I mean, that William Hung dude from a few years ago achieved some measure of fame by virtue of his crappiness.

But here's the thing. I think they have crossed the line from showing you auditions of bad singers that are amusing and are now venturing into the territory of mocking the mentally ill. Some of the people shown last night really and truly seemed to have problems that were not all that funny. We're not talking about the drunk guy who thinks he's hot while singing karaoke. We are talking about people who need meds. Like the girl who was the self-proclaimed Idol "superfan." She was obviously just unwell. I mean, I stared at the TV in a state of slack-jawed mild amusement, but I actually felt kinda guilty about it. It seems like somehow Idol is preying on a vulnerable population here.

And did you see the previews for next week? They appear to include a little person or two... There was one guy on the preview who appeared to have some unusual medical condition...I don't even want to speculate what's going on there. All I know is that it seems like bad form.

Big K uttered the following two statements during our viewing to really sum it up:

"Leave it to Fox to recruit contestants from Shady Acres Group Home..."

and

"This isn't American Idol. This is Twin Peaks. That gum you like is going to come back in style." (Editor's Note: You have to have been a real Twin Peaks fan to get this last one.)

So, yeah, am I alone here, or might this be uncool?

Dangerous animal escapes from zoo

Dudes, Big K and Big W went on a date on Saturday night. A double date with some friends, to be exact. This is most definitely the first bonafide adult outing the K's have participated in since Phookie was born on 9/27/06. And now that I think of it, it was a lot longer than that, given the weeks of bed rest preceding said birth. We are losers, yes. But anyhow, we went on the date, and it was good.

We didn't know where we wanted to go out to eat...what with 2 "supper clubs" and 186 seedy bars in the metro Woods area, there are just so many places to choose from, it can make your head spin. Or not. So we broadened our horizons a bit, and expanded our dinner search parameters a bit further, to an area that includes Wisconsin Dells, a shitty touristy water park mecca that largely closes for the winter, but which does have a few dining establishments open year round. Now, here's where I really shed the spotlight on my lameness. I was trying to think of where we could go to eat, and my mind kept returning to one sad, sad thought. Yes, friends, Famous Dave's Legendary Pit Bar-B-Que. I wanted to eat barbequed meat. I really, really, really like pulled pork (I guess technically, Dave is serving "chopped pork," but whatever.) I don't even know what pulled pork or chopped pork is, actually, but I presume it to be slow cooked meat smothered in meat accoutrement and then removed from the bone in happy little tender meat bits. I just don't know if it is a specific pig part or what. (Alton, can you please chime in here?) Sometime this past summer, Big K and I made some bet about something...probably a sporting event during which I insisted that a certain team would be victorious solely based on my enjoyment of their mascot, and Big K insisted that the opposite team would be victorious solely based on his savant-like knowledge of all things sports (except soccer...but I won't get into that right now). I won. The wager was going out to dinner, and at the time I was pregnant, so I couldn't really lose, but for some reason I said we would go to Famous Dave's if I won, because I wanted some freaking barbequed meat. One thing led to another, and I was on bed rest, and it never happened. Boo hoo. So anyhow, back to the present. We had the opportunity to select a dinner site, and I recalled that my meat craving from 6 months ago had never been appropriately addressed, so I suggested this place in lieu of your standard steak and potato hooey. It was met with modest enthusiasm, and became a plan.

So, one set of in-laws (when your husband's family is divorced, you actually get two sets of in-laws...I'm a lucky girl, what can I say...) came over to babysit El Phookerino, and after some modest inner panic, we left the child in a state of relative fussiness with the in-laws. I had determined, however, that I was not going to spend the evening fretting about Phookie, because I knew that ultimately she would survive, and clearing my mind of her semi-annually is key to my ultimate survival. I felt like a convict out on the lam. A pig in the mud. A dangerous animal, escaped from the zoo, if you will. I actually managed to suppress Phook thoughts for awhile and talk and think about other things. Honestly, I would best describe the sensation as akin to sucking the helium out of about 4 balloons. Light-headed, loopy, louder than is socially acceptable.

We eventually arrived in the Dells, and were greeted with an obnoxious-fonted menu full of meat products. Excitement abounded in my goat brain. I ordered a beer! I drank it! We ordered an appetizer sampler thing that was full of goodness of the meaty, unhealthy variety. For my entree, I ordered the two-meat combo, and chose Georgia Chopped Pork and Texas Beef Brisket (maybe barbeque is barbequer if you add southern states to the titles of your dishes). For my sides, I went with the Creamy Coleslaw and Famous Fries. The meal eventually came on a platter the size of a garbage can lid. I felt good about it. I housed the meal, in its entirety, with the exception of the toast that the meat rests on when it is delivered to soak up meat spillage. But I ate the rest. In addition to what I listed above, that includes a corn bread muffin and one of those mini corn on the cobs. Probably 7,000 calories or so, in total. It rocked my house. I am just so unbelievably HUNGRY all the time what with my little piglet parasiting off of me 9 or 50 times a day. (Strangely, I never got an increased appetite when I was pregnant, really. But now, oh man, I should find Kobayashi and have a throwdown with his skinny ass.) So yeah, I did some serious eating. The neat thing was how I used a knife and fork, rather than the fingers of my left hand. Eating without a human on your lap is a fucking trip, man.

We caught up with our friends and it was good. I did not make Phook-centric conversation. I did however ask our friends about 657 questions about cows and milk production and various other weird farm-related questions, since they are dairy farmers. But I was honestly interested in how long you can milk a cow for after it has a calf...independent of my current milk-centric life's work, I swear. It was just a fun time, what can I say.

We returned home to find Phookie in a pretty jovial mood. Apparently she had been fussy for some of the time, but it didn't run electric shocks through my body while I was gone, so I figured she must have been okay. At this point, it was after 9 p.m. though, so the yawns had set in and the helium had dissipated from my skull, and all that good stuff. Everyone went home, and the K's retired for the evening. Phook slept like a good little soldier, and all was well. Man, it did Momma W a load of good.

Dirty and pathetic

Today was a rough one. I had a busy day at work. Now, there is a difference between having a busy day at work when you are AT WORK versus a busy day at work when you are working from home while simultaneously caring for the needs of an infant. I had about 2 hours to go on my 20 for the week when I logged on this morning, but somehow ended up working about 6 hours (4 for free, yeah!) I've read a lot of mom blogs, and they almost always reference the annoyance of blogging with one hand while caring for your spawn with the other. Oh yes, one-handed blogging is annoying. But one-handed editing of the legal portions of business proposals is, I can attest, way fucking worse. That's how I spent most of my day.

Now, I've also made reference to Phookie's regression in the sleep department. My 7-8 hour stretches are largely a memory, as little suckler has been proving to be quite hospitable if she remains in a coma for 2-3 hours of late. Momma ain't gettin' no sleep. As we all know, sleep deficits build up over time, until you're eventually near death. I'm kind of at that point.

So today, Big K came home from work for his lunch break around noon, and I had spent the entire morning one-handedly working and one-handedly Phook caring and dual-tittedly Phook feeding. I was still wearing what I wore yesterday, which is what I also happened to sleep in, since there isn't much of a difference these days between my daytime gear and pajamas, and days and nights are really one and the same anyhow. My hair was unbrushed, as were my teeth, and my shirt of course bore the marks of nighttime milking errors and drool. Now, I may be casual bordering on sloppy, but I am a big supporter of hygiene. I pride myself on keeping my hygienes up. (Phrase stolen from developmentally disabled individual who was on Big K's caseload at his former job and who worked quite hard at improving her personal care, and would excitedly report to Big K, "I'm keeping my hygienes up!" whenever he saw her. (Please don't flame me, I am not mocking a disabled individual here. I relate this story in the spirit of love and goodwill.)) Anyhow, I also completely abandoned my good health today and had eaten 6 peanut butter cups and drank a soda before noon, and nothing else. (After a consecutive month of no soda until 64 oz. of water had been consumed, no less.) Furthermore, I had been feeling strange chest pain all day and was theorizing that I was dying of a heart attack, so I was kinda edgy on account of that. (I've mysteriously developed hypochondria recently - on New Year's Day, I thought I had a cancerous jaw tumor, but it went away this past weekend.) In short, I was a sight.

So I was feeling kinda sorry for myself as Big K had the balls to get within a 6-foot radius of me to kiss me goodbye to go back to work, and I said, "I'm so dirty and pathetic." Now, we all know the value of good white lies in a relationship. This is where the loving spouse says, "Oh, honey, you're not dirty and pathetic. You're beautiful." Not today, friends. Big K just said, "I'm sorry you're dirty and pathetic." He couldn't even pretend! I of course appeared crestfallen, and he said, "Well, you've got a lot going on." Now all you fools who know Big K know him to be a truly kind and gentle giant, who wouldn't hurt a fly. So you know how dire a situation Big W must have been in to garner this kind of response. Yowza.

I did shower around 3 p.m., so that was nice. I'm still wearing a robe though, which Phook decided to christen with spit-up, because I was looking too damn clean.

Staring at a car wreck

I am, in this instance, the car wreck. Allrighty, so it's a balmy 44 degrees here in The Woods, and I had a hankering to go for a walk. So did Phook - she told me. Rather than putting her in her swell travel system, I decided to put the child in her sling. More specifically, her Maya wrap, in fabric #39. She's very inquisitive these days, and I thought she might enjoy a better look at her marvelous surroundings (er, the number of bars in our "downtown"). So whatever, I was wearing my standard track pants/sweatshirt/ponytail uniform, and I put Ol' Phook in her pink be-eared Classic Pooh snowsuit (courtesy of Auntie Hode), and out we went, with her facing me and the sling making a little baby butt chair for her. She was looking around, taking in the scenery, and I was pleased with my decision. And then, about 12 paces from my house, I noticed it. The occupants of every single car that passed us were staring. I live on one of the two major roads in The Woods, and my walk route takes me down the other, which is our downtown. I had inadvertently chosen the end of the school day as my walk time, so there was a lot of "traffic." So, whatever, staring. Now, when I say staring, I don't just mean people were taking a peek at Big W and her pink-suited cling-on with a hint of curiosity on their faces. No, I mean Red Bull out the noses of teenagers, truckers coming up with new lingo to describe the sight that we were, the Driver's Ed car nearly plowing us over on a curb, old ladies spitting out their dentures, people quickly looking away once I'd busted them as if they'd just walked into a bathroom only to find me doing lines of blow off the toilet seat staring. That kind of staring. I am not kidding about the Driver's Ed car, either. Fucker almost mowed us over. The instructor, my former high school math teacher, gestured wildly to the driver as he over corrected and thankfully spared us. Holy shit. Perhaps all these kind folks were just aghast that I had the audacity to haul a baby outdoors in January, but I kind of doubt it. Perhaps they thought I was performing feats of magic by virtue of the sling's simple construction and ability to anchor the child to me with a mere piece of cloth, but I kind of doubt it. I don't know, but I tell you what, it was crazy. One lady was out on her porch and hollered, "Quite a load you've got there." She then chastised her ancient dog (who may have been named either Verna or Tuna...I couldn't tell which (but one of those might coincidentally be the name of one of my rogue aunts, which made it all the weirder)) for coming out towards the sidewalk to check us out, saying, "Every time I talk to someone, you always gotta go sniff 'em out. Get back here Tuna/Verna." So, yeah, I guess you could say that the "babywearing" craze has not yet hit The Woods. I honestly believe that I would have received fewer alarmed stares if I had hitched a team of capybara to an oversized pink plastic flamingo on wheels and ridden it through the streets. Everyone would have just chalked that up to the official local state of being, which is drunkenness. There's just no explaining a baby in a sling.

Today was a good day

It started with a super-sneaky Auntie Hode rescue mission. You see, Auntie Hode has been wicked sick with some kind of plague, enduring some uncomfortable drama in her social circle, and generally feeling crappy, to the tune of calling all members of our immediate family and saying, "Why don't you come up here?" (a 3+ hour drive each way) at like 9 p.m. on Thursday nights. So, the Grandparents J, being great HoseParents, determined to go on a surprise Hode rescue mission. They called us at about 8 p.m. last night and said that they would be springing a surprise visit on Auntie Hode today, and eventually there was some discussion about whether we would like to accompany them. After some gut-twisting within the K home related to having to reschedule some plans we'd already had with friends, it was determined that the Hode rescue mission was indeed mandatory.

Cut to this morning, when the alarm rang at 5 a.m. (gross) and I began scurrying around to ready the K Family for a day away from home including about 7 hours in the car with an infant. We put Phookie in her bunny slippers (yes, she has a pair), chucked her in her carseat, and the family shoved off at 6:15 this morning headed for Hodeville. Phookie slept the entire way, given that the entire journey was within the general range of her normal sleep time in the morning. The only drama was my ill-conceived decision to purchase a sugar-free french vanilla cappuccino from a convenience store, which I erroneously assumed meant Splenda or something, but certainly still sweetened. I was incorrect and highly displeased, and a second pit stop yielded something a little more palatable. So anyhow, we were rolling into Hodeville around 9:30, and we called Old Hode from the cell and woke her up. Grandpa J innocently said that he was out to get some breakfast. Hode asked where he was going. He stated that he'd be having it in Hodeville. At this point we were parked in front of her apartment window, and he told her to look out her window. She did, and we revealed ourselves! Joy! Happiness! Surprises! Christmas Morning Plus! We were allowed passage into the Hode Abode, and after she prepared herself, we went to this Swedish something or other restaurant where goats prance on the roof (except in the off season, which it of course is). We housed a lot of foodstuffs, and Phook, although tired, behaved pretty nicely. Now that she is interested in grabbing at toys, it is easier to keep her occupied/happy without having to be on the move constantly.

We then took a lovely Sunday drive, during which Big K and Phookie napped, and I enjoyed being somewhere other than my living room. (It's amazing how badly even a homebody needs to get out of the house when it's just Momma and Baby all day.) We then returned to the Hode Abode, where Phook began to put on a show of fantastic proportions. First, she gave us her first bonafide chuckle. She has been shrieking and making happy laugh-ish sounds for quite awhile now, but this was the first thing you could argue was a jolly chuckle. Man, am I looking forward to more of those. Then, Auntie Hode was playing with her, and stuck her tongue out at her, and Phook returned the gesture. We all loved this of course and soon Phook realized it was a game, and she not only returned other people's stuck out tongues, but started the game herself by looking at someone and sticking out her tongue at them. And then she'd reach up and kind of feel her own tongue. Hilarity ensued. It seems my baby is a person. This realization has me so excited, there just aren't words. I know that every day she is going to be adding more and more interactive stuff to her person repertoire, and it's gonna be a fun time for Big W and Big K to watch it happen.

Soon it was time to roll home, and this also was a successful journey, except for some carseat-annoyance with about an hour to go. We worked through it and got home safe and sound, where Phook continued to stick her tongue out at her parents and then be all proud of herself for it. And then she topped it off by rolling over for the 5th time in her life (who's counting?). Oh, and did I mention that Grandpa J's corporate-sponsored vehicle has a DVD player, so we got to watch 2 movies on top of it all? We watched The Black Dahlia, which I was super-excited to see because I am obsessed with true crime and have read about 7 books on this case. I thought that it would be more of a real look into who actually killed the girl, but as everyone else on the planet probably already knew, it was more just a regular movie about some chodes that happened to be loosely based around the case. So I don't know, it was decent-ish, but I wanted to see a convincing theory about the real case. Then we watched You, Me, and Dupree which I believe critics widely panned, but which I basically enjoyed. It was a stupid ass romantic-ish comedy with a few dirty parts with Owen Wilson playing Owen Wilson, which is to say I laughed a lot. No one cares what I think about movies I'm sure, so don't worry, I won't make a habit of this. (But have you seen Ocean's 11 lately? If not, you should, because it's the best movie ever. Best ensemble cast ever.)

Anyhow, yeah, it was a great day. Hode has been restored to her jovial state and Phook turned into a person. Two scoops on my cone.

My bologna has a first name, it's c-e-r-e-a-l

You may have surmised, from the copious and possibly offensive breastfeeding-related posts on this here blog, that my kid spends a shitload of time eating/sucking, and that nursing is what I have spent the majority of the last 3 months doing. Lots of folks have now witnessed this behavior and said things like, "Wow, I didn't know breastfed babies had to eat EVERY HOUR!" Theories abound as to why Phookie eats so often, of course. Do I not produce enough milk? Is she growing a ton? Is she harmfully addicted to boob because I actually let her nurse when she acts like she wants to, even though not much time has passed since her last hit? Who knows. What I do know is that when I went to TSO with my pops last week, Big K gave her a big bedtime bottle and she passed right the hell out afterwards, without a mom in sight. Which leads me to believe that hunger, and not so much boob addiction, is the crux of the matter. You see, when Big W is providing the sustenance, she's pretty well tapped out by Phookie's bedtime, and therefore Phookie nurses for a long ass time before getting full and consenting to sleep.

The other night, Grandma J suggested I check with the doctor to see if Phookie might be ready to start cereal, since she seems so earnestly hungry all the time, and since she has started waking up a lot at night again, when she'd pretty much been up to 7-8 hours of uninterrupted sleep for a couple weeks there. I was kind of shocked that such a thing could EVER happen...I had sort of resigned myself to the idea that constant breastfeeding was my new and permanent life's work. Plus, I have of course read from reputable sources that breastmilk should be sufficient for babies until 4-6 months of life. It had not crossed my mind that there are other sources of nutrition available for infants, and that I could possibly give the finger to the American Academy of Pediatrics. So yesterday, I happened to have a doctor appointment with the joint Phook/Mom doc, and described the situation. She said that I could indeed start my little marmot on some rice cereal in the evenings at the scandalous age of 3 months, 1 week.

So last night, Big K and I convened in the dining hall (2-person table in our kitchen), mixed some rice cereal with some breastmilk, and strapped a bib on Old Phook. At first, she consented to letting the spoon in her mouth, but the cereal just drooled out. Then she got a little frustrated and cried a bit. So I put in her my lap and settled her down, and Big K manned the spoon. A few bites later, she had gotten the hang of opening her mouth and swallowing a good deal of what was on the spoon. A few minutes after that, she was smiling at Big K with her hugest grin and grabbing the spoon herself and shoving it in her mouth. He was just as excited, saying, "Now I can feed her too!" and of course doing the patented dad move that is airplane/spoon shenanigans. (This warmed my Grinch heart.) Anyhow, she ate the whole bowl. You might say she was ready for cereal. After we hosed her off, I took her up to bed and she nursed for about 3 minutes before passing out without protest. She woke up a little while later and just quietly laid there before putting herself back to sleep (unprecedented), and sleeping until 4:30 this morning, which clocked her in at about 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Holy balls, my friends. I hesitate to declare victory, but it may be the dawn of a new era. There is a chance that some day, some how, I might be able to wear bras that don't have an insta-release boob exposure mechanism in them. Some day. A girl can dream.

A single note

Last night, in the middle of the night, I was lying there awake for some reason. And then the buttplanets I co-sleep with aligned, and Phookie and Big K farted in perfect unison in their sleep. Wow.

New Year's Eve pretty much blew goats

So I had enthusiastically posted earlier about how the K's were not going to leave the house on NYE, and that we were just going to hang out and enjoy each other's company. Sounds like a recipe for success, right? Well, some clowns managed to screw up our harmonious vibe. First, Big K had invited his good bud to come over to watch the Badger game today in about November. He was very excited about this and plans were made. A few others were invited too. I made some snacks. So yesterday, Big K leaves a voicemail for this person to confirm plans and gets a text back (first text ever from this person, I'll note) saying that his kid is sick and he doesn't think he'll be able to make it. Fair enough, albeit a bit suspicious. So I then decided to call up this other friend to invite her and her fam over too. I mention the sick kid family, and she tells me she was invited to a party at their house for that very evening. Let's just say that Big K was quite convinced he'd been lied to, since a sick kid and a NYE bacchanalia seem mutually exclusive. Funk was induced. Big K is an honest gent, and he just likes the same in return.

Then it came time to get us some nourishment. We had decided to order a pizza from basically the sole local establishment that serves food in the evenings. They weren't delivering last night, so we said we'd pick it up. Now, I had committed to remaining in my jammers all day, and I wasn't going to change my mind on account of this pizza. Big K was in his skivvies, so I agreed to go pick the thing up. I was wearing thermal pink pajama pants with purple polka dots, purple Crocs, and a gray sweatshirt. My hair was combed and in a ponytail. I thought I looked hyper-casual, but not really all that horrible. So I go into this bar/restaurant, and the usual crowd of chodes is there, which includes quite a few people I went to high school with, some old drunks, and a few people I've never seen before. I request the pizza, and then say hi to the owner's wife. This family lived on the street behind us the whole time I was growing up and I was/am-ish friends with her kids, so I know her cordially although not personally. She sees me and gets this very concerned look on her face and says, "Are you okay?" I really didn't know what she meant...I was just picking up a stupid pizza. I said I was fine and looked kind of confused. She then looks at my feet and very slowly brings her eyes up my entire body and has the mother fucking audacity to say, "Are you sure?" I was flabbergasted. I just said, "Um, yeah. I know I look like hell. New baby. No sleep..." but I wanted to bitchslap her, because you know what, I was okay. What did she mean? Was she implying that I actually looked ill? That I was suffering from depression or some other mental illness that people wear around? That I was inappropriately dressed for her high class (crappy) establishment? That I was having personal problems and it was obvious to her, and that she was reaching out to me as my savior? I really don't know exactly what she was theorizing about my lack of okay-ness, but it was obviously based on my appearance (rather than her infiltration of my psyche), and who the hell has the balls to say shit like that to someone, and then have the audacity to repeat the question? Now I know I should have just let this slide, but it did wound me. I brought the pizza home, and spent about an hour saying things like, "Can you hand me another slice of hate?" So I don't know. I sure as hell am not going to stop going about my business in my pajamas, but that sucked.

At this point, Big K and I were both funked out something fierce. Big K said he needed to leave the house. We were going to just cruise around for awhile, but it was foggy and we thought that NYE cruising in The Woods would be a bad idea if you prefer to share the road with people who are actually sober. So we of course went the mecca of warm and fuzzy love that is the Grandparents J house. We watched the Packer game there for a couple hours and returned home. We then put Phookie to bed and made a sleeping bag nest in front of the TV, where we watched a marathon of that show about the dudes climbing Mt. Everest until we passed out.

Shitass.

Okay, I have to take a shower, in the event that some clowns do actually show up to eat the food I made for them. I guess there is a reason I trend towards being a hermit...people suck.