We’re leaving for Boston this evening. I want to leave at night—at a time Em is normally sleeping—so he doesn’t realize he’s uncomfortable. I really don’t like driving at night. But I dislike traffic even more. And I loathe driving in traffic with Em in the car. One time, it took us over two hours to get from Maplewood, New Jersey to our apartment in Brooklyn. The actual distance is 27 miles, give or take a few. It was an awful trip, especially for Tobyjoe who sits in back with Em because he faces the rear of the car.

Incidentally, when can I turn the car seat around? I know that they say a child must be at least a year old, 30 inches long, and weight 20 pounds. He’s met all of those requirements except for the year old part. Why a year? Why does one have to wait a year to turn the car seat around? Traveling would feel much easier if I could see the little guy. We have one of those mirrors, but it doesn’t work in our car. It’s main function is to dangle from the window so that Em can occasionally flirt with himself.

I’m looking forward to taking him to Boston. I’m not sure what we’ll do there. I have read it’s a much more family friendly city, so perhaps I’ll find some family things to do. The funny thing about that statement is, I don’t know what “family things” are. Pizza parlors? Zoos? Bowling alleys? He’s far too young to appreciate all that. Puppet shows seem to appeal to him. And he loves other babies. Perhaps we’ll crash a daycare.

It’ll be wicked cool.

I am writing this post fueled with excitement. My Kitchenaid ice cream making attachment arrives via UPS today. (Along with 50 bucks worth of agar agar, obviously a massive mistake made on my part that Tobyjoe will probably NEVER let me live down. At this rate, we’ll have vegan ice cream until we’re peeing in our own britches.) I took an ice cream making class on Monday over at The Brooklyn Kitchen where I learned how to make scrumptious ice cream from scratch. The chef taught us how to make milks, ice cream, frozen yogurt, and vegan ice cream.

And I ate her ice cream. I ate it right up.

Last night I cooked up some vanilla ice cream batter. It’s been in the fridge (soon to be the freezer) ever since. It’s ridiculous how excited I am about making ice cream. And if it turns out well, Em will have his first taste of the creamy goodness today.

I made another deal with myself, one I know I can’t keep. If our evenings and windows continue to be pierced by the sound of a warped ice cream truck jingle, instead of buying Em a popsicle, I’ll offer him fresh ice cream instead. I’ll have batter ready to go. And If he still wants ice cream from the Good Humor guy, I’ll give the kid a buck or two and eat the rest myself.

I’ll eat it right up.

Leave it to self-defeating me to make a deal and try and keep up with Brooklyn ice cream trucks.

I anticipate failure.

Em walked last night, like actually walked. He thought about it, realized he could do it, and then freaking walked. And both his parents shrieked like monkeys. Any droppers of eaves would have surely guessed a lottery had been won. But no cash prizes were attained. Instead, our son walked, over and over again, stumbling gleefully.

He’ll take about four steps each time. I imagine he’d go further, but our apartment is only so wide. He plops down the moment he reaches our bait, his goal (which was a plastic spatula last night and this morning but will hopefully be ice cream in few hours).

We tried to get a video. It’s difficult taking video of Em because he much prefers playing with the iFlip than any other object we use to entice him. Of course, it doesn’t help that the makers of iFlip put a groovy red light on its front letting everyone know, “HEY! I’M RECORDING!” whenever it’s on. He loves the red light. He loves bashing my iFlip onto the floor. He loves making movies with it, which consist of 90% blackness and can easily make a person sick within the first minute or two.

Anyway, this is the best I could do this morning.

In no time at all, he’ll be chasing ice cream trucks all over Brooklyn.

I woke up this morning and discovered Toby couldn’t move. His back had given out. He spent the better half of the morning hunched over the table, pale as a corpse, groaning into his bowl of uneaten cereal. He spent the hour before that fighting nausea while perched over a toilet bowl.

I had to hit the ground running. I made Em breakfast while he played in his closed, safe quarters. When I turned around to put him into his highchair, I discovered he had been playing in cat vomit.

“It’s organic.” I thought and washed his hands.

I left the apartment at 8:30 first making sure my husband wasn’t going to die. I left him lying flat on his back, still pale and unmoved, groaning. I told him to cancel work and our reservations for tonight. He was in no position to move. Of course, he refused.

I headed to McCarren Park to meet the other mothers for a weekly workout. This was my fourth session. I had missed it all last week. I wasn’t going to miss it again. Plus, I want Em to hang out with other kids. He must get tired of looking at me all the time. I know that I do.

Five of us showed up today, plus our trainer. It was hot but that didn’t stop us. We did push-ups, pull-ups, lunges, and tummy work. We jogged and talked, all the while exchanging stories about motherhood.

I’m not one for all-gal groups or groups for that matter. I haven’t ever been one for all-gal groups. (Except for soccer!) There’s a reason we gave up two R.E.M. tickets in order to have a quiet dinner out instead. That’s why I don’t go to BlogHer; I know I’ll clam up, expose a less than attractive side of myself, a side I have grown to despise but am forced to live with.

But this all-gal group feels different. I’m feel comfortable with the women who attend these weekly workouts. I enjoy hearing them talk. I can’t put my finger on why they’re different from, say, the women I met in the park a few weeks ago. But they are. They’re very different. Perhaps coupling group meetings with physical activity allows for more easygoing conversations?

I don’t know.

But I feel positively wonderful right now. Sure, I’m lightheaded from having only consumed one of my 21 allotted WeightWatchers points for the day. (Did I just write that?) But I feel great.

(Why?)

I had not one, but three adult conversations and all of them took place before 10 AM. I had them with other mothers. And I let myself relax while doing so.

(Maybe I’m different?)

I know I probably don’t say this enough, especially on here, but I have a really great life. I have a caring husband whom I trust and love with all my heart. I have a son who makes my heart ache and whose smile and eyes I discover for the first time every day of my life. I have a family that is hilarious and weird and I feel very close to them even if some of them moved all the way to China.

I’m a mother. And sometimes it’s not easy. Sometimes it’s downright lonely. Sometimes I want to sob into my hands and feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I leave the house, both shoulders draped in baby vomit but I wear both stains like war medallions—motherhood medallions of war.

All I know is this: today, I feel happy and hopeful. I love that I found at least five other mothers willing to laugh out loud—in public—because someone else just nonchalantly admitted that they caught their daughter digging through (and sampling!) their rabbit’s litter box.

Humility and motherhood go hand-in-hand. And I think we’d be a whole hell of a lot happier, mothers of the world, if we’d just admit it.

I wandered around Manhattan (for the first time since Em was born) with my dear friend Nico on Saturday. We had lunch outside at a café near Union Square and shopped until near exhaustion. (It was damn hot.) I got home just in time to watch the sky attack Brooklyn for several hours; the thunderstorms were awesome.

Unfortunately, due to uncertainty about where we’ll be living come December, I came home with only a ten dollar pair of sunglasses from Feline’s Basement and a small Father’s Day gift for Toby. (He enjoys making us both jam and cheese plates. I thought the nerd in him might find it funny as he sometimes writes code on graph paper.) I wanted to buy a whole lot more.

We had lunch with Brad and Laura yesterday. They are expecting a baby in July. She looks amazing, far better than I whenever I was that far along. Even her ankles looked great! Being with a pregnant woman made me realize how much I miss being pregnant. (Did I just write that out loud?)

I think I’m feeling this way lately because I’m nearing the time Em was born and will therefore fully exit a year of no longer being pregnant. I’m not sure if that makes any sense at all. I call this “The Overlap”. And usually, it’s a good thing. It usually helps me to get over something. For example, say a certain song reminds you of someone whom is no longer in your life making it difficult to hear. “The Overlap” requires listening to that song under new circumstances, with new people so that new memories are created.

I do this with food, smells, songs, periods of time, breakups, vacations, friendships, loyalties, bars, cities, towns, and now apparently pregnancies.

In this instance, however, it makes me a little sad. I’m really going to miss not being able to say, “Last year at this time, I was fully of happy hormones” or “Ndugu was kicking the shit out of me last year at this time!”

I’m not sure if that makes any sense. Maybe I’m a little nuts.

(Note to self: Must bookmark this post so that if I ever do become pregnant again I can go back at 8 months and read it and make fun of myself.)

This week should prove pretty pleasant. On Thursday we have dinner reservations at Gramercy Tavern. My mother is going to come for the day and watch Em. Toby and I are both looking forward to the night out, so much so, we passed on two R.E.M. tickets because the show conflicted with our dinner plans. A younger me would have kicked my ass for this. I simply adore R.E.M. I can’t even begin to tell you how much they mean/meant to me. But I think perhaps my older brother is the only person who will realize how crazy the choice I made really is.

I know this doesn’t make me very popular, but right now, I’d much prefer a quiet night out with my husband at a fine restaurant over standing in Madison Square Garden surrounded by thousands of other people who may or may not really give a damn about the band before them.

The times? They have a-changed, whether I agreed or not.

Right now, I am dying my hair brown, making toast, and desperately hoping Em decides to sleep for 45 minutes so I can rinse the hair dye out before he wakes up. It’s the all natural variety, but still. And I actually am only dying one hair brown, since I have lost almost all of it. I look like a coconut.

I figured I’d multitask while my toast is in the oven and write a quick post. I haven’t had much time to write lately because Tobyjoe is in Boston and I’ve been away. It’s just me and the little dude.

Speaking of the little dude, Em has decided in the past week that for whatever reason 1:45 AM seems like a perfect time to wake up from a deep sleep and sob until I feed him. This started about a week ago and hasn’t let up. And I have no idea where it’s coming from. Nevertheless, each and every night Tobyjoe and I have given in because, well, we like to sleep. But Tobyjoe is out of town, and so last night I decided to have a go at the “battle of the wills” and he flattened me. I caved after ten minutes.

I realize we’re creating a terrible habit—knowing he can’t soothe himself back to sleep and instead looks to midnight (or later) milk to help, that can’t be a good thing. And I know the answer probably involves “crying-it-out”, but what’s with the sudden change? And why does it happen at almost exactly 1:30 AM every night? Babies are strange.

I’m beat. But otherwise, things are going pretty well. Nico is coming into town tonight and I’m going to be a brunette for the summer. Also, I’m losing weight, albeit at a snail’s pace. But I hear that’s the better way in the long run? I hope so. I really want to get down to a healthy weight so I can get knocked up again and put it all back on by ingesting cupcakes and perogies. (Is that how you spell perogies? Or is it “a pocket of heaven”?).

And, yes, you read that correctly.

OK, I can smell my toast permeating over the smell of hair dye. Must eat, then rinse.

Holy crap! I forgot to mention the most important thing! Em took two steps. He was pissed off at the time, so I am not sure if he even realized it. But he took two steps!

(Please note: I can’t be held accountable for grammatical errors or spelling issues because I seriously wrote this in less than three minutes. I ask that you forgive me. Haste is to blame. And sleep deprivation, 10 months out.)

Edited to add: Pictures! Also, I am going to continue posting a few pictures of Em until he starts to become less baby and more boy. I am thinking at around 14 months? Anyway, more on that later when I write up the changes that will take place here eventually. Soon. Whenever.

Em is almost ten months old. He’s eating pretty much everything we put in front of him. Sometimes he moves so fast we’re forced to disperse food across the surface of his highchair. He’s a gulper, just like every other creature living under our roof.

I get such a kick out of giving him new foods, though. And I’m blown away about what this kid will eat. We have yet to see him spit anything out. It’s pretty awesome, having a baby who’ll eat anything.

Right now, he’s drinking formula (which we refer to as “milk”). Every morning he wakes up and almost immediately starts giving us the American Sign Language sign for “milk”. I love that he’s starting to understand ASL, but I do have a bone to pick with whomever created the sign for “milk”. On several occasions, he’s given me a very puzzled look.

“Why is Mama sticking a bottle in my mouth instead of waving hello?”

How does one explain to a baby, “No, honey, that’s not a wave. It’s sideways. Duh.”

To avoid confusion, we now practice by giving Em BIG GAY WAVES whenever saying hello.

While I’m on the whole milk/formula topic, what happens whenever he turns one? Do I just start giving him regular, extra-strength cow’s milk? is this something I need to test out before the year mark? Will he completely freak out? Obviously, I need to read up on this milestone.

I remember a mother on here (forgive me, I can’t remember who mentioned it) writing that it really freaked her out whenever she had to stop giving her baby formula. She said she spent weeks wondering if her little one was receiving enough water and/or vitamins. This comment has crept into my head a lot lately. What does one do at that magical point? How does one deal with this? Is it a direct change up? Do you just substitute formula for milk and water and/or juice?

While I feel as though my brain is somewhat mush-full and I complain that there are parts of it that I’m not currently using (for example, adult conversations are at a minimum), I learn something new every day about how to care for someone. And I get the feeling that whenever I look back on this year, I’ll have a greater appreciation for everything I’ve learned and how much I’ve grown as a person and (more importantly) a mother.

Are you a stay-at-home mother or father? Does your husband or wife work while you stay home and care for the babies? Does he or she have to commute in order to get to a job, a job that your entire family’s livelihood depends on? How do you both fit in your own time? When does that happen? Does it?

Toby and I are finding it difficult to work in a daily workout or time for ourselves. We recently priced buying a treadmill for home and discovered that it’s impossible to have one in an apartment. There’s a track nearby that I could use—I should use—but I’m not really into running outside. (I know, that sounds absurd, but I much prefer zoning out and working out on a treadmill.)

But today, putting my petty, personal problems aside, I’d like to instead pose the question: how you manage your schedule in relation to your spouse’s.

In a nutshell: Are you a single-income family? Do you have a weekly schedule? Are you ever frustrated whether you’re the stay-at-home or the person bringing home the bacon?

Does my question make sense at all? Eh?

Edited to add: Thanks to commenter Joey, I got over my fear of meeting new people and went to Mighty Mommies this morning at McCarren Park. It was perfect—just what I needed. Em was totally well-behaved, he even clapped for us when we were doing our squats. But now I have to figure out where Joey lives so she can come over and help me carry my baby upstairs—I can barely move my legs!

Also, thanks to everyone who wrote me and left a comment. Your words are always very helpful. I know more and more every day what I plan on doing with this Web site. Sure, Em might be off limits regarding images and videos, but I’m not ready to let go of the mommy stuff yet. So, thanks for showing me that.

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’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.)

(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?”)

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.

What if you woke up today and read the following expert from a blog based out of Brooklyn.

I saw a woman pull a baby out of the trunk of her car on Friday afternoon. It was horrifying.

You see, I was at the bodega on Meeker Avenue buying some lottery tickets. I rounded the corner and headed to the park. I noticed a woman rummaging through the trunk of her car. As I got closer, I saw her lift a baby out of the trunk!! We made eye contact. I gave her a look like, “You’re a sick person!” At first she was smiling and then she realized she was busted. Her happy expression turned into one that read, “Let me explain. I can explain.”

“That’s right you’ll explain, you sick bitch. But not to me. Save it for child services! THIS IS SO GOING ON MY BLOG!“

What kind of sick person puts a baby in the trunk of a car? You’d ask.

Let me explain. I can explain.

We live on the top floor of a three floor walk-up. Every day I take Emory out for a walk. We visit the park down the street, the one filled with shirtless Polish drunks, men and women so wrinkled and dehydrated, the whole of their body looks like the eye of an elbow.

I take him to the swings, an enclosed area protected by a sign that reads, “CHILDREN AND THEIR GUARDIANS ONLY.” Emory loves to people watch.

In order to avoid having to carry the stroller up three flights of stair each and every day, I store it on the first floor next to the front door. On Friday, however, I had to retrieve it from the trunk of our car where it had been left the day before.

I held Emory in one arm and opened the trunk with the other. As I bent down to get the stroller, I smelled urine. “Did you go pee pee?” I asked Emory.

I touched his diaper. It was puffy. “You went pee pee, didn’t you?”

I wouldn’t call myself a lazy person but I do try and avoid unnecessary exercise while toting a 20 pound baby. My thoughts were: why bother walking all the way back up three flights of stair if I don’t have to?

We’ve changed Emory in the car on many occasions. It’s not easy. The car is small. It’s even smaller now that the back seat is taken up by the car seat. Even when you do change Emory in the backseat, it’s impossible to lay him down flat.

I looked down at the flat, clean, carpeted trunk and had a brainstorm. I was so proud of the idea, I couldn’t wait to share it with TobyJoe. This idea was so grand, it begged the question, “Why hadn’t we thought of this before?”

I changed Emory in the trunk of the car as he laughed and giggled and looked up at the sky. Changing him lately has become quite the chore. If I don’t give him something interesting to look at, he screams the entire time. But this? This was one of the easiest changing sessions we’ve ever had together. The scenery and chorus of birds amused him greatly.

Just as I was applying the finishing touches to my baby’s bum, a woman rounded the corner. At first I didn’t think anything of it, I was, after all, just changing a baby diaper. But as I lifted Emory from the trunk of the car, I saw a look cast across her face, and let me tell you, words fail to describe that look.

I wanted to explain the situation to this woman, but she seemed entirely too freaked out. Plus, an explanation may come off as my making excuses as to why I’m driving around with my baby in the trunk of a car.

I chose to ignore it and go about my merry way. I put Emory in the stroller, draped the diaper bag across its handles and shut the trunk. She crossed the street gabbing away on her cell phone presumably telling some gasping third party about how she just witnessed some crazy woman lifting a baby out of the trunk of a car.

Motherhood is slowly shedding me of any decency or care I once had about what others think. This is something I am becoming unabashedly proud of.

Stories For My Son: Scene Two.

(Side note: I realized today that I have a lisp. I am not sure if it’s due to my excessive hearing loss or all the orthodontic work I had done as a kid. But it’s there, clear as day.)

I’m starting a new series called “Stories For My Son”. Well, that’s the working title. It may change. My plan is to record a story at least once a week. We’ll see how it goes. But for now expect a new video every Wednesday.

Edited to add: So, I think my video may have made some people uncomfortable. Perhaps giving a voice to a blog is uncomfortable for some? I can relate, I think. I’m sorry!