Apple, tree

Are you ready for this?  I am about to take my bad mothering to a whole new level.  A possibly negligent level.  A level that could get some people’s panties in a giant wad and get me reported to child protective services. 

But…

but…

but…

…it’s funny.

You see…

Well, lately…

The Buddha has a new habit…

Oh, never mind.  This is one of those occasions where a picture truly is better than words.

That’s my daughter (can’t you tell by the cheeks?).  That’s me she’s strapped onto (can’t you tell by the fact that you can only see about two inches of my hair and yet you already know it looks like hell?).  That’s us at the bowling alley about a month ago.

And that’s my beer bottle she’s sucking on.

(As an aside: yes, it is totally possible to bowl with a baby in a Moby.  In fact, it improved my score.)

(Another aside: nobody I was with saw fit to tell me that the Moby had gotten hitched up and my baby was riding around in a Moby thong.  I noticed shortly after this point and fixed it.)

(Yet another aside: I don’t usually drink Budweiser but people, I was bowling.  When in Rome and all.)

(Have all these asides sufficiently distracted you from the fact that my baby is drinking a beer?*)

I don’t know what to tell you.  The girl has a thing for beer.  She repeated this grab-and-suck maneuver at home a few days later with a Guinness.

And then there was the Cinco de Mayo party:

Look at the face.  She isn’t even remorseful!  She’s all, “Whatcha gonna do about it, huh?  HUH?”  Such a bad attitude so early.  Where could she have gotten it from?

(And yet one more aside: do you think I should branch out from the black shirt + cardigan fashion statement, just maybe?)

I think we may have a problem developing.  Or should I say brewing?  Ahahaha.

Ahem.

Now, I know that some of you are all, “Well, the easiest solution would be to stop drinking beer around the baby, you dumbass.”

And to them I say:

You really don’t know me at all, do you?

*Okay, really, don’t get upset.  I wiped off the bottle each time.  She wasn’t getting any alcohol.  Really.

I knew it was a bad idea

Him: Would you hurry up already?

Me: Quit harassing me.  You are such a pain in the ass.

Him: Oh, no.  You already told the internet that I was the best husband and father ever.  You can’t take that back!

Me: I CAN HIT DELETE.

Mother’s Day: like Valentine’s Day, only with even less caring

I’m supposed to care about Mother’s Day, aren’t I?  At the end of the day on Friday, all of my co-workers kept wishing me a happy first Mother’s Day.  Random friends have been asking how we are celebrating.  Even the Alias Father is beating himself up because he didn’t get me anything.

But I don’t care.  I’m not one for Hallmark holidays, or even my birthday.  I’m just not into the self-celebratory holidays.  It’s not my thing.

The day care sent home a little bookmark with the Buddha Baby’s painted thumbprints and the saying, “Thumbody Loves You!” (Boy, am I sorry I missed that craft project.)  I’m getting french toast for breakfast.  We might have a family hike later in the day.  And that’s about it.  And that’s plenty.

Maybe I’ll care later in life.  Maybe I’ll care when the Buddha is older and more difficult.  Maybe I’ll care when I feel more taken for granted every other day of the year.

But right now, every morning I walk into the nursery and get greeted by a big, drooly grin.  She clasps her fat little hands together and looks up at me with blue-eyed adoration and I feel sunshine fill my tired, uncaffeinated soul.

And that’s enough for me, every day of the year.

Coming clean

The Alias Father is a great dad.

I mean, I always knew that he would be a good dad. But I didn’t know that he would be this good.

The first day that he stayed home with the Buddha Baby when I went back to work, I could sense his panic. He only made it to 10:30 before he called me, pretending like nothing was wrong but really needing some reassurance.

The next week he made it until lunchtime.

The week after that he made it to late afternoon.

And then he stopped calling all together. Because he had it down.

Their days together are full of adventures. He takes her shopping, on walks around town, to visit friends. He sets up playdates, people. Playdates.

The Buddha Baby can’t keep her adoring eyes off him. If she’s nursing when he walks by, she pulls off to watch him go across the room. Tickle games are funnier when he’s the one tickling. When he carries her around, she sits up proud like a queen on his arm, one pudgy little hand resting on his neck.

Being a parent has made him…not a better husband, exactly, because he’s always been grand, but more of a team player. It has made us both team players. We fight less, split chores more, and don’t keep score as often. When I come home from work late to an almost-ready dinner instead of a “Hey, what are we going to have?” I’m so happy I could cry.

He is, in short, a champ.

Why am I telling you this? You know there must be a reason. The Alias Mother does not dole out praise easily and without purpose.

It’s because he doesn’t know about this blog. I’ve never mentioned it. He doesn’t know that for over a year I’ve been posting somewhat intimate details about our life, our pregnancy, our child to the world at large. He doesn’t know that he’s been nicknamed the Alias Father, or that his kid is the Buddha Baby, or that I talk about my boobs this much. I didn’t not tell him to be sneaky; I just needed a little place of my own in the world. A place where I didn’t have to censor anything. Our marriage is one of separate hobbies and activities. We have our own interests. He goes off and does sporty things and I write ridiculous diatribes on the the internet. It’s what we do.

But lately I’ve been feeling, I don’t know, that this is starting to become A Thing. A Thing that is just hanging out there, becoming a bigger Thing by the moment. I keep thinking, “Should I tell him? Not tell him? Tell him later? Tell him now?” And once I started thinking I should tell, then, by default, I was now actively keeping it from him. Which didn’t feel right. I’m not a proponent of active secrecy in a marriage.

So I’m going to tell him this weekend. But before I do that, I wanted to let you know just what a tremendous man and father he is.

So that with a clear conscience I can say: Okay, yes, I told the internet that you had a big nose. And then there was that time I mentioned that you weren’t getting any. A couple of times I may have shown your tendency to say exactly the wrong thing. But, baby, I also told them that you are one of the greatest dads and husbands ever. And that’s got to count for something.

Honey? Welcome to the party.

Reviewed

I have my annual performance review in 23 minutes.

Does anyone else, despite all evidence to the contrary, always secretly suspect that they are going to get fired at these things?

No?  Just me?

I guess we can keep “Confidence in Job” under the Needs Improvement section.

The unraveling continues

Today was another krrraaaazzzy work day in a string of krraaazzzzyy work days and somewhere around 5 o’clock I realized that I had forgotten to pump this afternoon.  I thought about just waiting until I got home, but then I was worried that I wouldn’t have enough time and if I didn’t pump then I wouldn’t have any milk to send to day care tomorrow and then the Buddha Baby would starve.  Plus, my boobs were huge.

But there was the problem of it being 5 o’clock, which is when the majority of my co-workers clear out for the evening.  And I got very worried that while I was locked in the bathroom everyone else would leave and, not knowing I was still here, would set the building alarm.  Which I would then set off when I left the bathroom.  And can you imagine me having to explain to the nice cops that I really wasn’t breaking into the building but was instead locked in a smelly bathroom trying to pump milk out of my boobs?

So there I am, crouched on the toilet, double-pumping, leaning over and squeezing the hell out of my boobs in order to make them empty faster, adrenaline shooting through my system because I am convinced that I am totally going to get busted by the cops for pumping after hours when I once again I am totally shocked by the realization: they actually let me be in charge of another human being’s life.

This just ain’t right. 

This moment in bad mothering brought to you by “I need to get some work done, dammit”

Tuesdays are the day I work from home.  This can be challenging, especially since the Buddha Baby’s napping is terrifically unpredictable.  Sometimes she sleeps for two hours, sometimes she sleeps for 20 minutes.  This is my best time to get some work done, so as soon as those little eyes close I race to the phone or computer and work like crazy until she wakes up.

Which explains why, after my daughter drifted off while playing on the floor mat, I left her sprawled out in the middle of the floor and erected a half-hearted barricade of pillows so that the dogs wouldn’t step on her.  Moving her to the crib might wake her up.

And then when would I have time to update the blog?

My kid is broken. Can I have yours?

Seriously, the Buddha Baby has had a cold for about a month straight.

So much for the whole “breastfed babies are healthier” hooey.

Sigh.

Also: she has two teeth coming in.  At five months old!

Constant cold + teething = where’d my sweet baby go?

Answer: follow the trail of snot.

Plan my life: the results show!

As usual, you knew that when I said the results would be up Friday I meant Monday, right?  I mean, we’ve known each other a while now.  You know never to believe anything that I say regarding timelines, right?  Right?  Hello? 

Sigh.

You know those six word biographies that all the cool kids are doing?  Mine could be: Really good intentions; poor follow through.

Anyway!  On to the results.  (If you are just catching up, the original post is here.) (Also: where were you when I needed you?)

Life maintenance: It’s nearly unanimous.  You all want me to get off my butt and exercise more.  Which is a fabulous idea.  You come babysit.  HA!  I kid.  I’m going to try for a couple of short walks during the week (likely at lunch) and at least one long walk or hike with the Buddha on my work-from-home day or the weekend.  Also, I’ve noticed that my local yoga studio has a neat-o looking class on the weekends which may be worth my $10.  (Usually the good classes are, like, Wednesday at 10AM.  Who takes those?)

Creative: Photography wins it.  Cool.  This would be easier if we had a decent digital camera, but I am not one to be thwarted by minor details.  I’ll collect all our cameras and figure out what works and what doesn’t.

Writing: I realized after putting up this category that asking people who read my blog whether I should spend more time on said blog or instead work on a project that will likely never see the light of day might introduce a slight, shall we say, ”conflict of interest” into the deliberations.  And I was not disappointed as the majority of you think I should make this thing a little less half-hearted.  You got it.  I’ll do my best.

Entertainment:  You think I need to get out more.  And you are not wrong.  No, you are not wrong.

I’ll try to post semi-regular updates on my pursuit to becoming a buff blogging star and photographic genius with actual, real-life friends.  Wish me luck.

PS-  I’m still going to get a haircut because, people?  Have you seen my hair?  Well, no, you haven’t, but trust me.  It ain’t doing me any favors, especially since I now have bang bangs coming in. 

PPS- And some of the hair looks like it has decided to come back in GRAY which oh, by the way, thanks, hair follicles.  Like I didn’t have enough problems right now.

Your final chance to plan my life!

Any last votes?  Polling closes tomorrow at…um…whenever I get around to posting!