Houdini

In the mornings, Chubbs usually wakes up around 7:15, yells until he wakes me up, and then I bring him into our bedroom where he runs around finding books and demanding to be read to. This buys me an extra 15 minutes in bed, and even though I'm not sleeping, any little bit helps. This morning was no different. We read The Mitten, Alexander And The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, and The Velveteen Rabbit before I dragged myself out of bed.

I was hunting for my slippers when Chubbs went running by and I noticed something weird about his left ankle. It seemed padded. And for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why or how he had stuffed some sort of cloth, or maybe a sock, into his pajamas. As he turned to run the other direction, I noticed his butt looked decidedly less padded (read: he no longer had a butt, for which he has his father to thank). Do you understand what happened?

The kid had somehow managed to take off his diaper INSIDE HIS ZIP-UP PAJAMAS, and it was hanging out around his left ankle. After brief visions of a high school graduation streaking debacle, I scooped him up and remedied the situation. At least he didn't pee everywhere while he was free as a bird. However, for full disclosure, I feel I ought to mention that it was a poopy one.

Busybodies

So it's been awhile. Not because things have been terribly busy, but because I've just been doing other things. I've started a few knitting projects (and bought enough yarn for several).

I'm half way through a really good book (Let The Great World Spin by Colum McCann), and I've been trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to keep the house clean. Not so much the whole house, because that would be overly ambitious, as the floors and the kitchen. These are the two things that have to be clean in order for me to not feel totally crazy-stressed-out. I don't know why this is. Anything and everything else in the house can be messy, but as long as the floors are clean and the kitchen is tidy, I'm OK.

But even keeping those two things clean is a serious challenge while also trying to keep track of a busybusybusy Chubbs. He is quite practiced at opening doors and will be around the corner and through the laundry room door before you can say wheredoyouthinkyou'regoing?! Plus, after he goes in the laundry room he closes the door behind him, so unless you're practicing good listening skills you sometimes have no idea where he's gone. And this wouldn't be so much of a problem if the access to the basement weren't through the laundry room, and if Cormac didn't keep trying to climb into the washing machine. So we've ordered a gate to keep him in the living room/dining room/kitchen. Because it's too cold right now to stick him on a bungee cord on the porch.

The cold has not stopped us from going to the park, though. If this kid doesn't get his outside time everyday, there is inevitably a meltdown. We were actually in the process of getting ready to go to the park today, and he cried big, fat crocodile tears until we got outside. Like, "My life is totally ruined because we aren't outside, and if we don't go outside this instant I am going to dissolve into a boneless baby mass of tears!" But once we were outside everything was right with the world once again. Even though the wind was blowing at about 25 mph.

In fact, we were the only people at the park, because everyone else had sense enough to stay inside. I think looking out the window to see street lights shaking like jello may have encouraged others to scramble for paper, glue, and glitter. But they weren't facing the possibility of spending an afternoon with Mr. Crabbypants. So we stayed at the park until I was freezing, and then we went back inside like normal people.

So, yeah. In the midst of all this running around and trying to appease the master of the house, I've been trying to do things I like to do. But I've found that I can only choose two of my things per day; I do one while Cormac is napping in the morning, and then I do one after he has gone to bed. If I try to do more than one thing during either time, it all just seems very frantic, and that totally defeats the purpose of doing something I like. And so my blog has been neglected, because I've been having fun knitting.

Ooh, ooh! And guess what? Cormac is sleeping through the night!!!!! But now that I've said that the sky is going to come crashing down and we are all going to suffer mightily. Sweet.

Merry Christmas!

As expected, Cormac got a lot of gifts. We actually haven't even opened all of them. It just got to a point when I was getting a little overwhelmed by all the toys and Cormac was more interested in the dog's toys. Santa did bring a pretty cool wagon, though, and Cormac really enjoyed being pulled around the house in it (There's too much snow outside right now). This morning, in fact, Cormac threw a fit when we took him out of his wagon, where he had been sitting happily, throwing blocks over the sides.

I know people always say that kids like the boxes better than the presents, but on Christmas, this was Cormac's favorite gift:

Merry Christmas!

I'm too tired to even think of a title...

Wow. I am exhausted. Chubbs really took it to me today.

We started out the day at 6:10 am when Chubbs popped up in bed, stuck his finger up my nose, and attempted to dive headfirst off the bed. No sooner had I caught him around the ankle and lowered him to the ground a little slower than he would've gone by himself, when he popped up again (Chubbs doesn't understand yet that popping isn't really acceptable until at least 9 am) and ran out of our room and down the hall. Which meant that I had to jump out of bed and run after him lest he decide to also go headfirst down the stairs. And in my not-so-awake state I ran into the door jamb on my way out of the room. Hypothesis: running anywhere when you have just woken up is hazardous to your health. (Did you hear that, Chubbs? Wait, where'd you go?)

So after I had managed to wrestle him into some clothes while he scanned The Very Hungry Caterpillar and threw Crinkly-Fish into the bathtub, we went downstairs to have some breakfast. Chubbs lasted about 7 minutes in his high chair, during which time I was able to get some yogurt and Cheerios down his throat, before he twisted himself around entirely and demanded to be let loose.

Chubbs ran around the living room/kitchen/dining room arranging furniture and throwing blocks, while I sort of wandered about foggily and tried to drink my coffee as fast as possible. Through a combination of sheer luck and Yo Gabba Gabba, we managed to make it to nap time without serious injury to the dog or the Christmas tree. I gladly lay the sleeping Chubbs down in his crib (vaguely wondering how he manages to look so peaceful when he's asleep) and chose to shower instead of having another cup of coffee. In retrospect, this was my downfall.

It was fabulously hot shower, and I even managed to shave, although I cut myself twice while doing so, reminding me why I don't shave as a general rule. I took a pretty good chunk out of my ankle... Anyway, I was barely able to get dressed before Chubbs woke up early from his nap and would only continue to sleep if I was holding him. This was rather inconvenient as I was starving and had to pee. The third time trying to put Chubbs back in his crib seemed to be the last straw for him, and he dissolved into tears and screams of anger. The tantrum lasted a few minutes, and then he suddenly stopped crying, grinned at me, gave me a big, wet kiss, and slid off my lap to go play. It was 10:30 am.

Through some merciful act of who-knows-what, Chris came home early, arriving right after we had finished lunch and just in time to take the crazy dog for a walk. (Where do these dependents get their energy?) About halfway through the walk Chubbs decided he was no longer content in his stroller (imagine that), and he yelled and squirmed until we reached the playground and let him out. He ran around, climbed the cool purple hills made out of recycled tires, spun the spinny things, went down the slide and then did it all again. Keep in mind that the kid is 13 months old, so I had to run around behind him making sure he didn't tumble down the cool purple hills made out of recycled tires. Yeesh.

Chris put Chubbs down for his afternoon nap so that I could actually sit down for one second, and thankfully he ended up sleeping for a good hour and a half. He certainly needed it. But when he woke up he was ready to go again. The afternoon passed in much the same way as the morning did, with a few more measuring cups and pot holders amid the chaos. The highlight was Chris spending 20 minutes making a block tower, which Chubbs then destroyed in less than 2 minutes.

Dinner was sort of the Grande Finale to the day. Chubbs ate about 5 bites of dinner before once again protesting at the confinement of his highchair. In order to get him to eat any dinner, I literally had to chase him around the room with a spoon full of vegetable-beef pilaf and quickly shove bites into his mouth in between the blocks. He was happy to eat, but only as long as he was running while doing so. After the obstacle course dinner, Chubbs immersed himself in the baking cabinet; and when I tried to get him to come help me put away his blocks, he waved me off. The kid waved me off with a little flip of his hand and a glance over his shoulder, like, "Mom, can't you see I'm busy?"

Given the day, I thought an early bedtime was justified, and I put Chubbs down a full half-hour early. But I really hope that course of action doesn't come back to bite me tomorrow morning.

And people wonder how I lost the baby weight so fast.

Liars!

I just made some "beet chips." But the people in the magazine said they would crisp up as they cooled off. Well, they're cool and decidedly floppy. Rather un-chip-like. I'm gonna try the broiler.

And tomorrow, I'm gonna make some kale chips. I have a feeling those will work out better. But you never know.

I really need to use up these veggies.

Cormac's Birth Story

Cormac was a week late. It was the longest week of my life. I wanted to stab forks in my eyes. Seriously. I stopped working a couple days before my due date, and so there was a week in there where I had nothing to do. If nursing weren't so freaking physically demanding, I probably would've asked if I could keep working until I went into labor, but I was way too tired. So I had nothing to do other than sit around the house and be angry. The only thing I could watch on TV without getting annoyed was sports, which wasn't a huge problem because the World Series was on. All my friends were trying to be supportive, but I only wanted to talk to and be around people who had kids, because if you haven't experienced pregnancy (and being ready to have that baby), then you just don't get it, no matter how empathetic you are.

So when I woke up with contractions that Sunday morning at 3:30 am, I was mostly annoyed. I figured there was no way I was in labor, and so I was mad that I wasn't sleeping. I think I managed to doze on and off until about 8:00 am when I finally just got out of bed. (And had I known that staying in bed until 8 am would never happen again, I might have tried to enjoy it a little more). I kept having contractions every 10-15 minutes throughout the morning, but didn't want to say anything because, again, why would I be in labor? At that point I was hoping this kid would come sometime before Thanksgiving.

But, if I was in fact in labor, I wanted to keep it going (dear god, please just keep having contractions!) so we went for a long walk. And when we got home, I was still having contractions! And they were closer together! So I did some laundry (I know, weird, huh?). As I was putting clothes away, it started getting hard to talk/concentrate/fold clothes during contractions, and I finally decided that I must be in labor. Finally.

But I had a long way to go. We gave our midwife a heads-up call (her biggest fear was that we wouldn't call her early enough), let my mom know that she should make her way over, and sat down to watch game 4 of the World Series. Well, I alternately sat and stood, as it was rather uncomfortable to have a contraction while sitting. Everyone got there at about 8 pm, and after some initial excitement/shock (wait, seriously? You're in labor?) we settled in for a long night.

The next several hours are a bit of a blur; I went from the tub, to the bed, back to the tub, to the birthing stool, all the while watching a chicken with its head cut off running around my head.

I look at the clock. It's 2 am. I decide not to look at the clock anymore.

I'm in the tub. I finish a contraction and start to relax into the warm water, when suddenly another one starts. "Oh for f*@$k's sake!" Everyone laughs. I'm not sure what was so funny.

I'm on the bed, feeling nauseous. "Grab that bowl," I say to Chris. He quickly picks it up off the floor and holds it up to my head. I yak. "That's another centimeter," says the midwife. Excellent.

I'm 9 centimeters dilated. And I really want an epidural. Which I realize is ridiculous because we're at home, getting into a car to go to the hospital at this point would feel terrible, I wouldn't be able to get an epidural even if we were at the hospital because I'm too far dilated, and I don't really want an epidural. But I want one a little bit.

I'm on the birthing stool with a towel around my shoulders. I'm almost ready to push, and I'm feeling totally overwhelmed. I pull hard on the towel to channel some of that anxiety. RIIIP! "Oh, geez. I ripped the towel." "You're a strong lady," the midwife says.

I'm almost done. I'm lying on the bed with Chris behind me. Cormac is halfway out and I reach down to grab him. "Just a second," says the midwife, "we've got a cord around the neck." "Oops," I say. She slips the cord over his head and I bring Cormac up on to my stomach. He looks around for half a second and starts to scream. He is pissed.

It's pretty amazing how quickly this year went by. I can't believe that the screaming, squirming, slimy little man I held on my stomach a year ago is now a laughing, babbling, toddling, little man. He is no longer slimy, but sometimes he does scream and squirm, mostly around nap time. And now I'm torn between wanting to see what he's going to do next and wanting him to stop growing immediately and stay my baby forever. However, the former is winning, as I would really like some freaking sleep.

Bacon Flu

It's all Chris's fault.

The man came home last Tuesday complaining of feeling "gross." By Saturday, the entire family was passed out on the couch, coughing up lungs left and right, and moaning to no one in particular. Actually, it wasn't technically the entire family; Morris spent all day Saturday prancing around the house with his toy trying to get someone, anyone, to play with him. His attempts ended in failure, so he channeled his energy into harrumphing around the house, every now and then joining us in a collective moan.

Saturday morning started off with a bang. Chris and I felt like death, and according to Cormac's wails, so did he. To try making one of us happy (I won't say who), we went downstairs to watch some visual baby-crack aka Noggin aka Nick jr. (as it's now called, apparently). No sooner had we come downstairs to begin our malingering, than Cormac vomited all over himself and me. You'll be happy to know, however, that nothing got on the couch, making cleanup immensely easier. As for the rest of the mess, I decided to multitask by filling up our big tub so that Cormac and I could wash off at the same time.

I guess for Cormac a bath is also a form of baby-crack because he was suddenly happy the second he got in. He even started to splash. The bath relaxed him so much, in fact, that he pooped. In the tub. With me in it. And it wasn't just a regular-size poop; it was a monstrous, ginormous, I-can't-believe-my-kid's-intestines-could-contain-that-much poop. So, yeah. How do you clean up massive amounts of poop from a tub, you may ask? With a sieve. Yes, you heard me. Chris fished around with a sieve to get all the big chunks out, we drained the rest of the water, and then the tub got a good, hard scrub. And so did Cormac and I.

There were no other fireworks that day, besides the occasional sound of barking seals coming from our living room (who let those in?). We just napped on the couch and watched a combination of football and Yo Gabba Gabba all day. Cormac actually perked up a little bit that afternoon, and in addition to his usual path of destruction, found great delight in the kleenex box and a tube of chapstick. So now it looks like a kleenex box with chapped lips and a penchant for baking spewed all over our main floor. And it's probably gonna stay that way for awhile because no one has any energy around here. Except Cormac. Curse you, child.

So the Guxton family has survived the swine flu of '09. We're not too much worse for the wear, which is more than I can say for our tub.

P.S. Any future dinner guests can rest assured that the sieve used to fish poop out of the tub now has a bright future in the garbage.