I am looking for information about Weight Watchers. I know I could probably get a very thorough description of how it works on the Web site, but I’m not looking for a sale’s pitch. So, have you ever done Weight Watchers? Did it work? What were the pros and cons? Is it worth the money?

I am considering an online trial. I want/need to lose 20 pounds of weight. I simply have to. I’m tired of saying I’ll do it and then failing miserably. Also, if anyone cares to join me, I’ll be your online dieting buddy!

Any or all help welcome. If you tend to shy away from comments, feel free to email me.

PRELUDE

I had a great deal of trouble putting aside a post I’ve been writing for weeks in order to keep with Tuesday’s theme. The post in question is about how I plan on ending this Web site. It includes reasons why as well as ideas for what I could do with it. I’m still very much unsure about its future. I know only one thing for sure: mihow.com the “mommy blog” part will cease to exist.

And so I battled with this. I contemplated taking the day off.

But it’s TUESDAY! I thought. It’s Murray’s day. You have to write about Murray!

TUESDAYS WITH MURRAY

I receive a lot of email about Tuesdays With Murray. Even email not specifically about Murray usually includes a mention of how much the person loves him or how much they enjoy reading stories about him. Several people have told me Tuesdays With Murray is their favorite part about mihow.com. I’ve had people write letting me know how much their cat has in common with Murray. I had one person ask if Murray could be her lady cat’s baby daddy (a suggestion I may have entertained had he not been fixed). I guess the email boasting love for Murray shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. My stats alone speak volumes. For a year now, Tuesday has been my busiest day. I receive thousands more individual visits on Tuesday than any other day of the week.

Murray is loved. How can you not love something so much that loves so much for nothing?

I also get a lot of email asking me why I seem to like Murray more than the other cats. Some folks aren’t even aware of the fact that we have two other cats. I guess I do kind of give off that we-keep-two-red-headed-step-cats-chained-up-in-the-basement sort of vibe. But I assure you all, we love all three of our cats, and yours as well.

But this has me thinking about why Murray is kind of special to me. It’s not that I don’t love my other two cats—I do, I love them very much. But I think I take Murray love to Nicole Kidman, stalkerish levels. And I think I finally know why.

Let’s talk about the book this series was inspired by.

TIME TRAVEL

(This is part of the story where if it were a motion picture the image before you would fade a bit, a sepia-like tone would envelope the screen. There might even be some Wayne’s World “doodly doodly” music to stress that we’re going back in time.)

When I was 23-years-old I was doing an internship with Lifetime Television. I stayed in South Brooklyn with a friend from college. He and his girlfriend let me sleep in a small storage room off their bedroom for the duration of my stay.

My boyfriend remained in State College. We talked late at night and on weekends over the telephone. I paid for our chats whenever the bill came. There were no cell phones boasting rollover or unlimited nighttime and weekend minutes. There were no consumer Macintosh laptops to purchase (at least not that I knew of) which meant there was no email. He was studying to be a chef. His hands were too busy stirring pots of Hollandaise sauce to type an email, anyway. I was too busy commuting to and from a temporary job, all the while lining my shoes with Band-Aids and toilet paper to pad the blisters I grew during grueling lunchtime job searches.

I got turned away from so many different design firms. So many Art Directors shrugged and said, “We just don’t do many logos here.” I was so perplexed as to why good logo work meant I couldn’t do direct mail, brochures and annual reports but these folks were wiser than I.

“Get some experience first!” They’d say. “We’ll hire you after you get some experience.”

How does one get experience if everyone wants it first?

I was in New York. I was 23. I was in search of my own professional identity. I was full of hope, pipe-dreams, and excitement. I was naive but happy.

And I didn’t find a job.

My internship came to an end on a Friday. I took the F Train uptown one last time that morning, put in a full day’s work, and then took it back into South Brooklyn later that day. The following morning, I packed my bags and headed for Midtown. Along the way, I grabbed something to read, hopped on a bus and headed for central Pennsylvania.

It was during that bus ride I read “Tuesdays With Morrie”.

RIGHT NOW

I, like many people who spend a lot of time online, wrestle with it constantly. When my 23-year-old self looks at the me now, there’s a part of her who wants to slap me a few a times, knock some sense into my head. On the one hand, I am happier now than I’ve ever been. On the other hand, somewhere along the way I become a person living in fear, indecision, anxiety, cowardice, and (during my weakest hours) jealousy.

I’m in neutral. I’ve been in neutral for long time.

I have known for a while that once Emory got to be a certain age I’d shut this site down, at least in terms of how much and what I write about him. And the meat of this paragraph really demands much more attention and care than I am giving it now. I will go into it soon. I promise. But I will say this much: Emory shouldn’t be exposed the way he has, sans consent. I just don’t feel right about it.

THE REALIZATION

And so that brings me back to Murray, the book this series is based on, my life and me when I read it, and all three of my cats.

Tucker is The Orange One. He’s a bit skittish, paranoid and at times vindictive. A lot of the decisions he makes are fueled by jealousy. I still love him and he’s still very needy, but he can be a real bastard. Tucker is sneaky. Tucker is not to be trusted. This is how he got the name “Orangemani Terrorist”.

I’m a little bit like Tucker whenever I spend too much time away from doing the things that I love. I act like Tucker whenever I’m having a “nobody-likes-me!” kind of day. I may come off as unapproachable, mean and bitchy, but all I really want is a great big hug and some lovin’ behind the ears. I act like Tucker right before I act like Pookum.

Pookum is old and grumpy and at some point she kind of lost her ability to laugh. She’s overweight and lives in fear of the other cats. She thinks they’re out to get her even if they’re playing. Unless we break inertia for her, she just sleeps, eats, and poops. And I reckon that if we were to let her she’d probably give up on all the things that make her happy; she’d give up on life entirely.

I’ve been Pookum before. (Hold on, I have to go pet her.)

And then there’s Murray.

Murray is the hand stirring a pot of Hollandaise sauce, the smile that moves across a person’s face when no one else is looking. Murray is New York City before 9/11, the sound of the teenagers skateboarding out back. Murray is laughter among friends, that first sip of white wine, lightning bugs at dusk.

Murray is me before I exchanged my naivety and hope for experience and cynicism.

Murray is youth.

Murray is a fixed number of minutes and a computer you leave at home.

Murray is joy.

Murray is the you you thought you would be, and the you you still can.

I discovered this article today.

“Parents may be buying it because they believe that organic is healthier, but babies may have a reason of their own for preferring Similac Organic: it is significantly sweeter than other formulas. It is the only major brand of organic formula that is sweetened with cane sugar, or sucrose, which is much sweeter than sugars used in other formulas.”

I’ve been feeding Em Similac Organic since he was 4 and half months old. Naturally, when I read this, my first reaction was to freak out, throw everything I have left away, and then run out and find Earth’s Best Organic to replace it. (Earth’s Best uses sweetener found in lactose instead of cane sugar.) But then something really peculiar happened; I stopped myself.

My guess is this: parenting is going to come with many moments like the one I had this morning. And so after enjoying a good freak out, I began to settle down. I can’t protect Em from everything. I can try—I will try—but stuff is going to happen no matter how much research I do or don’t do.

In short, there are going to be hundreds of instances where I make what I feel is an educated, sound decision only to find out later it may not have been the very best one.

We have two months left of formula-feeding and then it’s on to cow’s milk. I know that I could change his formula now, or I could mark this one as a lesson learned in anxiety management, continue feeding him Similac Organic and couple that with feeding him home-cooked veggies everyday as I have been.

We’ll see how it goes. I’m hoping for the best but I will settle on better.

It’s probably pretty obvious by now that I’m what some may call a “cat person”. I love cats. I love all animals. But I love cats. They hold a special place in my heart, even the troubled ones. And so I am biased. I’ll admit that straight up.

Every day (weather permitting) Emory and I take a walk through Mcgolrick Park. There’s a dog park right by the Driggs street entrance. We usually enter there, loop around, hit the playground for a bit and then loop back around and exit through the Driggs street entrance. We always walk by the dog park and I’ll stop for a couple of minutes to show Em the dogs. He’s so used to being around cats, I figured it’s best to introduce him to a couple of the other 5,000 plus species of mammals. I’ve introduced him to Penn State bunnies, Mcgolrick Park squirrels, and several Brooklyn dogs. He’s also met a few birds, which he speaks to by grunting.

Yesterday was not unlike every other day except that the sky threatened us with dark clouds. The ground was wet as were the swings so we were unable to hang out in the playground. I spent a few extra minutes watching the dogs instead.

I don’t know a lot about dogs or dog parks because I haven’t ever owned a dog. I do spectate, however. When I worked in the city and Tobyjoe and I rode our bikes to work, we’d meet every single day at the Union Square dog park where I’d watch the dogs interact with one another. I can’t tell you what breed of dog believes in which law of butt-sniffing, or whom agrees with whom, but I get the feeling that a dog park holds more political heat than all the goings on on Capitol Hill.

There are the big dogs, the little dogs, the older dogs, the dogs that hump, the dogs that run from humping dogs. There are the dogs that avoid all other dogs. There are the dogs that want to hang out with all other dogs. There are friendly dogs, mean-looking dogs, dumb looking dogs and there are smelly dogs. There are dogs that cower, dogs that bark a lot, dogs that do nothing but run. There are dogs that want to just go home already! And there always seems to be one or two dogs that make all other dogs (and me) nervous, like, you just never know what they’ll do if you look at them the wrong way.

And so yesterday whenever the medium-sized white dog attacked the brown dog by going right for its throat, I very nearly threw up from the stomach acid that bubbled up from my belly. And Emory had no idea what was going on. Suddenly, angry barks filled the playground and all hell broke lose. Little dogs ran in the opposite direction from the fight. The owners (two hipster couples) tried desperately to pry their dogs apart with very little luck. It took an uncomfortably long time for the man from one couple to pull his white dog from the brown dog. And all the while the male owner of the brown dog screamed, “NO!!! NOO!!!! NOOO!!!!” at the top of his lungs. And they weren’t commands, he was pleading with whomever would listen. He was begging into thin air, trying to reason with angry dogs.

With humans, unless there’s a weapon involved, a fight doesn’t usually end in death. The way these dogs instantly went for the jugular, meant business and their business was with death.

I was stuck there, in space, watching. I couldn’t close my mouth, look away; I couldn’t move. It was terrifying, a truly horrific experience, one that brought tears to my eyes, one that will continue to haunt me for days.

Does this happen often at dog parks? Do owners constantly have to look out for the potentially troubled animal? Does the owner of the potentially troubled dog know that they’re dog could very well freak out at any given moment? Do owners of small dogs worry whenever a larger dog comes around? Are there people who avoid the dog park altogether because they worry about fighting? Are these things dog owners know instinctively or do they learn over time?

Yesterday’s incident was the second dog park dogfight I have seen in two weeks. The first one was less horrific because the owner of the dog being attacked was able to scoop his pup up before the other dog got a firm hold. That owner then promptly turned to the other couple and said, “Get your dog out of this park right now!”

Three weeks ago, I was out for a jog and I saw a dog suddenly stand up from a blanket and tackle a toddler who was running around with his mother in the park. The toddler was knocked down hard enough to warrant one of those silent screams. And the couple just yelled for the dog to return to their blanket. I would never hurt any animal, but if that had been my son, I am not sure what I would have done to that couple.

Either way, Em and I are going to have to find some other way to learn about dogs. Their unpredictable nature scares me too much.

And I’m reminded of why I don’t think I want one right now.

Edited to add: I am not anti-dog. I don’t have a huge amount of time to reread and edit my thoughts today sadly. I realize that’s irresponsible of me. Sorry, folks! I have tried to clear up any possible miscommunication in the comments section.

I shot two videos today. The second one is an outtake. I simply had to include it because it’s damn funny.

The Final Video

The Outtake

I have to admit, recording these videos makes me feel entirely too self conscious. And if they’re difficult for me to watch, I can’t imagine how hard it is for the people I know (or don’t know). Or maybe this is just one of those examples where you’re overly critical of everything—like hearing your own voice on tape? Nevertheless, because of that weird feeling, they are really difficult for me to shoot knowing that I’ll put them online. I keep wondering how different and/or better or worse they’d be if I didn’t have the public part in mind. You see my dilemma?

Anyway, we’ll see. This project is still new and therefore being sculpted.

We went out of town for a few days and had Lisa (cat-comber, petter, nail-clipper extraordinaire) watch Murray, Pookum and Tucker while we were gone.

Every time we go away, Murray decides to let us know exactly how uncool it is by destroying something we own. Last time, it was the lamp in our bedroom. This time around he turned his message up a bit.

The good news is, all pieces have been accounted for making heavy poop-policing unnecessary.

I’m nine months postpartum. One would assume I’d have all the kinks worked out by now. But I don’t. My mood still changes daily—sometimes drastically so. My weight still fluctuates a little too much and I still don’t have my hormone levels regulated. And up until last night I was still trying to convince myself that it might all be in my head. I wrote off the dizzy spells, the hair loss, the crying spells, the shortness of breath as “all in my head”.

Last night we were sitting around watching ER jump the shark for the billionth time. Emory had fallen asleep in my lap, his head against my chest. Tobyjoe sat to my right. We were still. My family sat still. Whenever the show ended, I got up and laid Emory down. That’s when I noticed a wet spot on my chest. I figured it was drool. (Emory has been drooling a lot lately due to teething. I hope.) I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. That’s when I realized that the wet spot was a perfect circle.

And I hate that I’m about to be graphic. As of late even I find myself turning away from posts holding too much information. But it appears that I’m 9 months late on the whole lactating thing. It appears my body has only now figured out that when baby is put to chest, chest makes milk.

I was told by the specialist that my thyroid levels would even themselves out by 6 months. Well, that hasn’t happened. At the time, I was admittedly frustrated by the way he seemed to write me off as some crazy postpartum girl, one who should just wait it out. And if I were a more organized and defiant woman, I might start a crusade in hopes of being taken seriously. Instead, I become bitter and resentful and it’s entirely my fault!

I am not one to ask a doctor for help. If it’s not a visible wound, like, if I’m not bleeding from the head, I don’t seek medical advice. (Gynecologist, aside. You just don’t ignore the lady stuff.) But this time? This time I knew something had to be wrong. I was entirely too emotionally unstable for it to be anything other than chemistry. And it was.

But the doctor didn’t really offer me much help. He gave me Atenolol to stop the flight or fight response and then told me to stop taking it once my levels began to change a bit. He then told me to come back in three months to get more blood work done. I haven’t done that. I haven’t done that in part because I am a coward. And I haven’t done that because my doctor wasn’t taking my pleas seriously.

On top of all of that, Em just will not nap anymore. He just cries and becomes more and more agitated and insane and every time it happens I feel that I’m more and more of a failure for not being able to figure out how to get him to nap. I’m also not strong enough to let him cry. I simply do not have what it takes to block out the sound of him crying. I go from feeling rage, to sorrow, to self-pity, to anger, to love all within the blink of an eye. It’s kind of like opening every single program and every font you have on your Apple computer while running OS 9.

I have great days. Most of my days lately have been great. Sadly, I don’t really write about those. But today? Today is a very, very bad day. I need help. I need to call a doctor. Something needs to change. I need someone to help me with my hormones, chemistry, all of it. I need to stop worrying that doctors won’t be taken seriously and instead demand they do so.

I’m nine months postpartum. Shouldn’t I be better at this by now?

One last thing, I wrote the first half of this post early this morning. I wrote the second half directly after giving Em a bath in hopes of getting him to nap.

Guess what? He’s still awake and losing it.

Things will be better tomorrow.

Today has been the longest day of my life. Maybe.

I realize I say “I haven’t been able to record a video today” and I’m saying as much on a video. I don’t have much of a rational mind left today. What more can I say. No excuse. Simple truth.

(See previous Stories For My Son here.)

Murray is getting fat—like really fat. It’s hard to believe that just a year ago he looked like this:

And now he looks like this:

Tobyjoe has accused me for years of making everyone I live with fat. Which is just absurd since he’s always been the one to cook. (I do bake, but Tobyjoe doesn’t really eat sweets; it ain’t me!) I’ve always brushed it off. But lately, as I look at Murray, I’ve been asking myself: did I make Murray fat?

Murray loves to eat. He loves to eat more than any other cat I’ve ever known. Murray even puts Schmitty’s eating habits to shame. Pancakes? Yup. Chips? Yes. Bread? Muffins? Cupcakes? Yes, yup and you betcha. But Murray eats vegetables, grains and eggs as well. The only item I’ve seen him turn his head away from and bury with his paw has been fish.

I feed our cats one can of wet cat food twice a day. They split one can twice a day. They also have some low cal hard stuff that I put out all the time, which they simply refuse to eat now that they know there’s good stuff on the way. Even Pookum, our eldest, eats the wet stuff now.

Two days ago, I woke up to my same morning ritual. I filled the kettle for the french press. I opened my computer on the way to the bathroom. I peed. I brushed my teeth, tied my hair back, and washed my face. I returned to the kitchen, made Em’s morning bottle and prepared his solid meal. I got a can of food out for the cats and fed the fatties in three different bowls. I moved one out of the circle a bit for Pookum (who gets harassed otherwise). I sat down to read email.

A few minutes later, Murray jumped up onto the sofa next to me. He was soaking wet. I checked to see where it was coming from, and to get a better idea of what this mysterious liquid was. I discovered that his entire underbelly is sopping wet.

“What have you done, Murray?” I asked. “Did you fall in the toilet again? Is this pee? Were you in the sink? What have you done?”

I followed the trail of water from the sofa to the food bowl in the kitchen. A giant puddle of water surrounded the now empty water bowl. You see, Murray had decided that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. So, instead of moving his body and positioning it around the water bowl in order to eat, he plopped his belly down right overtop of it. Because God forbid Murray have to walk a little out of his way in order to start eating. God forbid Murray should potentially arrive late for the morning buffet. God forbid someone else get to his bowl before he does. God forbid he get some exercise on his way to eat. God forbid all of that.

And so it brings me great pain to write what I’m about to write but Murray has to go on a diet. The problem is, I am not sure how to put a cat on a successful diet. The last time I tried this, I created the grumpiest cat in the world.

Is he going to stop loving me? And with that comment, perhaps Tobyjoe is right.

We took a drive today—a spontaneous outing. We headed north along the Hudson River and visited a number of different towns along the way. One of them was Cold Spring where we found some of the greenest, most plush grass I’ve seen in years. It was Emory’s first experience with real grass, (and by real grass I mean grass not covered in trash or drunk hobos).

I took this family portrait.

Click here to see a couple more.

(Note to self: You know what’s funny about this one? This is the first video you took telling that particular story and when you totally derailed yourself midway through you went on to take a few more. Yet, after watching them all, you settled on this one because it’s more you and Emory will most likely appreciate that part someday—mistakes, fudgepacks and all. “Mama? What’s fudgepack?”)

Tobyjoe gave me an early (first ever!) Mother’s Day present on Saturday. I now own The Flip. I am in love with it. I feel the same way about it that I felt about my Elph back in 2001 when I took pictures of everything and nothing.

Here are a few of my first, not so major motion pictures.

First I give you Emory’s new weird baby thing: Banging his head on his highchair! (Seriously? This would have worried me if it hadn’t been for an offhanded comment my mother made. She said, “Soon he’ll enter the head banging phase. I remember when you three did that.” And then he did.)

Babies are weird.

Here’s one I took while walking through McCarren Park on Sunday. Whenever it warms up, McCarren Park turns into a beer guzzling, hipsterfest on Sundays. I think it has to do with the kickball leagues. And if the breeze blows just right, you can smell the VD in the air. MmmmmmmMMMMmmm VeeeeeeDeeeeee.

Pay attention and you’ll hear the hipster dude behind me say, “You’re going to upload that to MySpace for us, right?” To which I replied, “WRONG HIPSTER! HA! I’m going to upload it to FLICKR and my BLOG! Because I am a COOL BLOGGER!! I have a BLOG! MySpace is for LOSERS! and PEDOPHILES! DUH!! I AM SO COOL!”

Next up we have a video of Emory on the swing. I could not have come up with a better soundtrack. This pretty much sums up the sound of summer in Brooklyn. But for whatever reason, the ice cream trucks seem to come around at really weird hours, like 11 PM? What kid wants ice cream at 11 PM? I get the feeling that some of these ice cream trucks aren’t just selling ice cream.

But you didn’t hear it from me.

Last but not least, we have a video of Emory dancing on the table to New Order at Nita Nita while eating Kashi’s version of a Cheerios. Unfortunately, you can’t make out the music and so it just looks like Tobyjoe is shaking him by his arms. Also, he has no pants on. Normally, we have our kid in pants but it was a special occasion, one that didn’t require pants.

Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to become really annoying now that I have The Flip?

Today is a special day and I only just realized it halfway through writing this post. It’s special because we adopted Murray one year ago today. I know this because tomorrow marks the anniversary of when I announced it on mihow.com.

I haven’t ever admitted this before, but I kind of feel sorry for Murray. Sometimes he has to deal with an annoying amount of affection. You see, every time I get word of someone doing something horrific to an animal, or whenever I witness an animal in distress, I dig him out and hug him. Sometimes I hug him so tightly and for so long he very nearly passes out. (Only, not really). I fool myself into thinking that Murray is powerful, powerful enough to transfer all the affection we give him on to more needy creatures. I imagine that somehow, through powers unbeknownst to me, he’s able to pass love around—the almighty Murray, my creature extraordinaire.

I realize this borders on absurd, but love knows no logic.

Murray fetches. Did I ever tell you that? He fetches. I know that many cats fetch. For example, my cat, Pookum fetches tampons, but Murray will fetch until you give up. He doesn’t get distracted. It’s just him, you and whatever balled up piece of trash you can find. In fact, I have no idea how long he’ll fetch before giving up because I’m the one who always ends the game. He’s sporty. If there were a fetching league for cats, I’d let him enroll.

On Saturday, we watched the egotistical Kentucky Derby prematurely ejaculate all over our TV screen. The event deemed “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports!” made my heart stop for almost that long.

I used to love horses. I still like horses but when I was a kid, I loved them. I wish I could express to you just how much I loved them. Only my mother could do that. Like most little girls, I begged my parents for a horse. I even prayed for one. I once asked my mother that if one should wander into our backyard, could I then keep it? She said yes. And so I waited for that miracle. I’m still waiting.

But I digress.

Whenever Eight Belles fell to the ground, my childhood emotions bubbled up like vomit and sucker punched me right in the gut. I simply could not control myself. My hands covered my face and I began crying.

Tears fell into my soup and onto my salad and Emory looked over wondering where my smile had gone. I wanted to tell him that sometimes people do horrible things to animals for “fun”, but that overall we’re pretty good! I wanted to reassure him that we named him after Saint Francis, the patron saint of animals, and that his best friend right now is a cat.

“Turn this off!” I yelled, covering my eyes. “Turn it off! I can’t watch any more!”

Toby grabbed a hold of the remote control and turned the channel.

“Now, say something to make me forget.” I cried.

“Look at this.” He said. Murray had his belly up and his legs spread wide, a position he has grown very fond of lately.

Needless to say, I cracked up. And then I Pepe Lepewed my cat until he wriggled free. Unfortunately, eight thousand hugs and kisses couldn’t save Eight Bells.

So, in honor of sporty animals everywhere, I shot a video of Murray playing fetch. The director’s cut is over 4 minutes long but I shortened it because it’s just a video of him and me and a balled up napkin. Pretty boring, right?

But after you watch the video I think that you’ll agree that the title “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports” no longer belongs to the Kentucky Derby. It belongs to Murray—the almighty Murray, my creature extraordinaire.

Now, run along and smooch on some animals.

I’ve written at least 10 posts about this and deleted every last one of them. If this one makes it up, I’ll be shocked. (Here’s to number 11.) The YouTube Video below is of a lecture given by Elizabeth Warren. It’s enlightening, terrifying, confusing, sad, informative, long but outstanding.

I have decided to post it anyway. It’s long but it’s worth it. The statistics alone offer so much food for thought, your head will be reeling. (Please note: you don’t actually have to watch it. You can get the gist just by listening to it, although the charts at times do help illustrate her points. Also, the lecture starts at 4:45.)

There are so many things I want to talk about, write about, discuss. This lecture illustrates and voices a great deal of the frustration my family has experienced as we try and find a safe and affordable place to raise our son. We are the family she speaks of in search of a decent education for our child, willing to buy something overpriced just to see our son grow up educated and safe. This is scary stuff, people.

I’m going to stop rambling. But please, if you have time, watch the lecture. Let’s start a revolution. We need to change course. America’s future depends on it. I truly believe that.

Emory is a week shy of nine months. Man, does time ever fly! He’s grown so much. Every part of him has grown, well, except for his hair. He’s still as bald as can be.

I really wish these little dudes came with instructions. Whenever I screw up putting Ikea furniture together, I always just disassemble and start again. But these babies come without instructions, diagrams or warranties. You can’t undo bad decisions. And you can’t blame your mistakes on them for being Swedish and printing cryptic literature. There are no Command Zs when designing a baby. They remember stuff, they create habit, routines. And the older he gets, the bigger the habits—both good and bad.

For example, ever since vacationing in March, he’s been sleeping with us. Whenever I reintroduce him to his crib, he wakes up crying within an hour or two. I’m usually so sleepy, instead of letting him cry it out, I bring him back to our bed where he sleeps soundly. (If he’s in our bed, he sleeps all night for at least 10 hours straight.) Believe me you, I’m well aware of the fact that some folks will find this completely crazy.

There’s the whole eating situation as well. I’ve not yet felt comfortable about what’s considered too little or too much. More and more, he has little to no interest in baby food. He wants what we’re eating. And he lets us know by smacking his lips together. I kid you not. My mother will attest to this as will my husband. He will smack his lips together until you give him a bite of whatever it is you’re eating. It’s absurd. It doesn’t matter if your meal is spicy. smack smack smack! He wants it. Meat? smack smack smack! He wants it. Noodles, soup, salad, pickles, sandwiches? smack smack smack! He wants it all. Baby food? Not so much.

This causes me great anxiety because during his 8 month doctor visit, she suggested we avoid letting him snack. She asked us if we’re snackers. We’re not.

But here’s our predicament.

A perfect scenario might be that I feed him and then feed myself because it’s nearly impossible for us to eat at the same time. But I run into problems because once he’s finished eating and it’s time to feed myself, he wants to nibble on whatever it is I’m eating. Doesn’t that count as snacking? I really, really don’t want to create bad eating habits this early on. Will my boy grow up eating around the clock?

During the day I try and hide from him while eating. I’ll cram a granola bar down my face while he’s babbling in The Baby Mobile. I’ll eat a quick sandwich when he’s not looking. And sometimes when he sleeps I’ll make something a little more substantial. If I can. Emory’s naps rarely last longer than 25 minutes. Try doing laundry, using the bathroom, cleaning up, paying bills and eating something decent in 25 minutes. It’s not easy.

The other night we made asparagus and mushroom couscous. He seemed more interested in the asparagus than the jarred sweet potatoes I held in front of him. So, instead of watching him throw his hands up and overturn each spoonful of orange goo, I ground up some asparagus using the mill I got from Jen and Mike and gave him some.

He ate it, reluctantly, but he ate it. He ate it because we were eating it.

That’s absurd, right? The way I see it, we’re going to have to start eating baby food or he’s going to continue to eat ours.