The Star

Growing up in my parents house, we always had fake trees. The idea was that we should let a tree live a long happy life in the woods where it belonged. I'm pretty sure that was just a cover-up, the excuse used so that my neat-freak Mum wouldn't have to obsess over pine needles. Jeffrey and I spent our first Christmas together in Florida. We didn't have a Christmas tree, but we did have a fake stereotypical Dr.'s office tree with some lights hung on it. Our second Christmas was spent in our little apartment in Vairo, and we purchased a nice fake evergreen from Walmart, mostly because that's what we both grew up with. This year, I kind of wanted a real tree. I figured that since there's a baby in the house, a fake six-footer just would not do. Jeffrey reasoned with me, why kill a tree? I reasoned with myself, would I rather this baby pull a three pound piece of plastic on her head, or crush herself under a fifty pound log?

Fake tree it is.

Jeffrey put the tree together because I'm not very good at "fluffing" it, I put on lights and ornaments while Mads chewed on the boxes. When the tree was done except for the star that goes on top, Daddy lifted up Baby and they finished the tree together. I held the camera and sniffled. Our first Christmas tradition:

Too early? It's not even December yet. Happy Holidays.

The Pony I Promised

Holy Crapola

Since this video, Mads has pulled herself up on the coffee table and her rocking horse. I scream 'holy crap' every time. I'll post the horse after she goes to bed.

Holy crap.

Harsh

This is what the morning after two glasses of wine looks like.

I lied. This is afternoon. How sad.

Go Elf Yourself!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Post-Turkey

Part one of our very first Thanksgiving (as a family of three) was spent with Jeffrey's family in Florida. Granted the party took place over the webcam, but it was still the perfect start for Mads' first major holiday. Mads showed off for Jeffrey's parents and brother, crawling a half foot, climbing up our legs, smiling and shrieking her own version of Happy Thanksgiving. After our goodbyes, we packed up the car with all of our baby/turkey-day gear and headed for part two. We went early so that Mads could get used to the new atmosphere before all those loud people showed up (she's such a total home-body, just won't nap anywhere else). Mads and Pappy rolled around on the floor while I acted like I was helping Mum, and Jeffrey slept in front of the T.V.

Now let's talk mushrooms since I've been unnaturally obsessed with them for the last three days (I obviously don't have a lot going on, huh?). Since I had such a tough time finding the stupid cayenne pepper, I just could not bear using only a quarter tablespoon of it, so I put a whole one in the bowl. Those were the best damn stuffed shrooms I've ever had, and they sure packed a hell of a punch. That red pepper stuff is spicy! I was so proud of my kick ass hors' dourve success that I took pictures.

So dinner. Mum made ham. On Thanksgiving. Where's the fracking turkey? I don't even eat pig! Luckily, Tammy walked in with the most fabulous turkey that I have ever eaten, so Mum was off the hook. I know Mads is a little too young to experience the euphoric effects of a huge turkey dinner, but I figured she was just old enough to have a little taste of the goodness. One scoop of mashed potatoes and one mangled noodle excited that baby like nothing ever has. She grabbed baby fistful after baby fistful of mashed potatoes and shoved them right in her mouth, "chewed" and smiled. It was insane. My baby is so freaking big.

And then my cousin showed up with her nine day old baby boy. My baby is so freaking big. Ethan weighs two pounds more than Mads did at birth, yet I was too afraid to even hold him for fear that I would break him. Was Mads really that small? When I finally sucked it up and cuddled that baby, I almost burst into tears because I really can't remember Mads being so little like that, all scrunched up and soft and new. Do you know how sad that makes me? I've been sniffling about it since we got home.

Finally, with dinner done, Mady grumpy, and me teary eyed, we packed all of our gear back up and got ready to leave. Mum sent me home with half a bottle of Sutter Home and I'm on my second glass as I type this. My big baby is sleeping off the thrills of her first Thanksgiving, and I'm hoping to get a little buzz to finish off this long day and forget the heartache I feel about babies growing up.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Mushrooms Stuffed with Broken Dreams (Pre-bake)

Thanksgiving is tomorrow, just in case you didn't know.

Have I ever said that I hate Walmart? Once or twice, right? Well I would like to reiterate my previous statement by saying, Walmart sucks big time. I waited until today to get all the ingredients that make up the best stuffed mushrooms in the world. Why are they the best? Because I'm making them, that's why. The recipe said that I needed cayenne pepper. Which is a spice, right? So it would make sense for it to be in the spice aisle at Walmart. Or would it?

I stood in that aisle for over twenty minutes trying to decode the wack ass system that Walmart employs to keep things in order. Alphabetical would make sense. Black pepper, chili pepper, lemon pepper... Now wait, we obviously skipped one. Forget alphabetical order, let's go with brands. Each brand must have cayenne pepper. I'd also like to say that every person and their mother chose this same day to fill up their spice rack at home, and I was totally in their way. I didn't care. Where's the red colored pepper? Cayenne pepper! Five bucks? Fuck off. I could buy pre-made stuffed mushrooms for five fucking dollars. Crushed red peppers? That's gotta be the same thing, right? I figured I could throw it in the blender or something to make it powdery like that five dollar bullshit. I grabbed the cheapest one and went to hunt down that stupid ball of cheese that I promised.

Mommy! Mum was standing right next to the cheese balls, probably planning to buy one in case I forgot, which wouldn't be unlike me. After our hellos, (Cute pants, Thanks!, You just look so cute, Did you get new shoes?, They're super cute), I told her about my pepper problem. Do you know where it is?

It's with the pepper. The regular 'ole pepper. Ya know, the stuff that you put on eggs, comes in a shaker? Where's the regular pepper? Two feet past the spices.

I went back there to see for myself, and lo and behold, less than two feet past the spices is a whole plethora of pepper that I had never heard of or imagined that anyone would need. Would it have killed Walmart to integrate the cayenne version of pepper into the spice section as well?

So anyways, the first catastrophe has been avoided, but we're still in the pre-bake stage. I'll keep you updated.

Since we're discussing food, here's Mads covered in maple teething bisquit.

Disgusting, right? I don't know why pictures of babies covered in mystery puree makes me want to gag onetwothree times. Poop I can handle, but baby food? No so much.

Just Call Me "The Complainer"

When I was driving home from work today, I was thinking about my Mum, and about how I've never seen that woman stressed out. Whether she was doing a late night extra load of laundry so I could have my favorite red sweater for school the next morning, or canceling her plans so she could help me make a leaf project (that I had three months to work on, but didn't start until the day before it was due), she always made it look so easy. She whipped up healthy meals in minutes, never had so much as a dirty spoon in the pristine sink, cleaned up after everyone in the house, and always had time to help with homework or go shopping. Mads isn't even old enough to have a favorite shirt that she "needs" to wear, yet I feel like the rug has been pulled out from under me.

From trying to keep up with laundry, dinner, dishes, and a clean apartment, to paying bills with money I don't have and worrying about how I'm going to buy Christmas presents for our families, I'm starting to feel a bit of a crunch. Amazingly, Jeffrey doesn't feel a thing. I think I could probably handle keeping house if that were all I had to do, but when you add Mads' neediness to the mix, it's all a tad overwhelming. It's hard to get anything done with a baby strapped to your hip all day. It's hard to get anything done when you feel like you should be sitting on the floor with said baby, trying to constantly engage her so she can learn and grow. It's hard to pay bills when Jeffrey has an ATM card, and thinks that there's a never ending flood of money in the bank. It's hard not to cry when you go to work and come home to find the place in shambles, Jeffrey playing video games, the wipes container empty and the last diaper from the pack already on your baby's bottom. And what the hell is that smell? I walk around all day saying, "God, do I have to do everything?" in my head and I hate that I feel that way, but I hate even more that I can't just do it all.

My Mum could.

Being Mommy isn't so bad, it's being Mommy and everything else I have to be that throws me off. At least I finished the laundry.

Haha Sippy Cup

I was at work this morning and Josh walks up and says, "Jeff's on line one. He wants to know what goes in a sippy cup."

For a second, I thought he was kidding, but I could see the little line one light flashing. The next second, I thought maybe Jeffrey just wanted to say 'hi' and was using the sippy cup as an excuse. Sadly, I was wrong. He was serious.

Jeffrey: What goes in a sippy cup?
Me: A tiny bit of juice and some water.
Jeffrey: Well duh, I know that. Where's the juice?
Me: Uhh, it's in the fridge, Jeffrey.
**Over my shoulder**
Farrah: He's kidding right? Is he serious? No, he's kidding. He's kidding? Oh my God, is he serious? What goes in a sippy cup? Tell me he's kidding.
**...**
Jeffrey: But what does it look like?
Me: Jeffrey. Seriously. It's the jug of juice in the refrigerator.
Jeffrey: The stuff in the jug?

By the time I left at 1:30, many jokes had been cracked about teaching Jeffrey how to pump milk from his man-boobs, or going home to find Mads passed out with a sippy cup full of vodka.

It was kinda funny.

I Need Stanley Steamer, Stat!

I'd like to slap the genius who made organic maple teething biscuits. I'd also like to slap the guy who designed their packaging for not putting a warning label stating, "Not for use with infants wearing white pants, or those dwelling in apartments with beige carpet."

Also, the Nuby sippy cup factory for saying that their sippies are leak proof. Let's ask my carpet if those sippy cups are leak proof shall we?

"So carpet, what do you think about those Nuby sippy cups and their claim of being absolutely leak proof?"

The carpet is having a hard time coming up with a reply, as it's sputtering in a big puddle of watered down baby juice. If it weren't drowning, I'm sure it would simply say, "Shananigans!!"

At least all that juice is covering up the brown biscuit stains. I think I need to buy a rug.

A Girl and Her Basket

There are just so many uses for a basket. Sure, it's a great way to hide all the baby toys in your living room, but that basket also has the potential to be so much more.

You can sit in your basket.

You can chew on your basket.


You can hide in your basket.


You can put your best friend in your basket, and pull her hair.


You can peek at your Mommy over your basket.


And of course when you run out of ideas, you can cry with your basket.

Every baby needs a basket.

I Can't Get Up, Ralphie!

Mads can't sit in that stupid little snow suit. She starts to tip, tries to fight all the puff that surrounds her, and falls flat on her back without even the ability to wiggle. It was hilarious. She's a good sport though.

Turkey Day on the Way

Jeffrey, Mads, and I will be spending Thanksgiving at my parents house. Last year, I really wanted to make something to contribute to the meal, but I had a small dilemma. I couldn't cook. I searched for some easy recipes online and decided on a zucchini casserole. Hey, I like zucchini. It was supposed to come out all nice and creamy, with a beautiful layer of soft stuffing on the top. I don't know what I did wrong, but that stuffing could have cracked your teeth. Everyone tried it, my picky cousin included, and I got a lot of "MMmm, this is real good, Aimee, just real good". It was awful and I knew it. Jeffrey thought it was funny. After dinner, I vowed that I would become a master chef by the time Thanksgiving came around this year. I would show my whole family that I'm not totally incompetent in a kitchen, that I can make a tasty, wholesome, side dish that's also pleasing to the eye. I have one week left. Aside from turning produce into baby food, I haven't learned shit all year.

My Mum came over yesterday to watch Mads for an hour, and she casually reminded me that Thanksgiving is just around the corner.

Me: Oooh! What can I bring?? Do you need anything?
Mum: Uhhh, there's already going to be lots of food. Why don't you just pick up one of those cheese ball things at Walmart?
Me: I could make one.
Mum: No! Oh no, you don't have to do that, they're real cheap at Walmart.

I'll pick up her stupid cheese ball from Walmart, but dammit I'm going to make something too. I've spent the whole morning looking up Thanksgiving recipes. I figured I would bring some kind of hors d'oeuvre to compliment my Walmart ball of cheese, since themes make me happy. Spinach dip had too many ingredients, pumpkin dip was too easy, and antipasto platters just don't involve enough cooking for me. I've settled on stuffed mushrooms because I really like mushrooms, and hell, how can you screw up a mushroom stuffed with random junk? We'll see how it goes.

While I was doing my easy food search, I came across a post on Babycenter for Vagina Candies. I thought it was a typo, until I saw the picture.

They're right! It does look like a candy snatch! I'm totally making those things, too.

---

Vagina Candies

Preheat your oven to 350

1. Upwrap your Rolos. Place pretzels on baking sheet. Top with a Rolo.

2. Bake in oven for 3-5 minutes, until the chocolate just begins to melt. The Rolo should be soft but not completely melted.

3. Remove from oven, place on cooling rack and immediately squish the chocolate with a nut. Watch the caramel oooze out. YUM!

The Gimme's

Gimme, gimme, gimme.

Sleepy Time Silliness

P-p-p-ffffffft. That's the sound that Mads makes on my arm before she goes to sleep. I guess the appreciation of fart sounds starts at an early age and never gets old. She's been doing this for a couple weeks, but all of a sudden, she's really good at it.

Now that's something a Mama can be proud of.

The Drool is Winning

In the battle between a bunch of baby spit and me, we can now mark down yet another win for drool. I don't put a bib on Mads when she goes to sleep, I imagine it would be some kind of strangling hazard, but she doesn't really seem to drool that much in her sleep anyways. Or at least I didn't think so. When we woke up this morning, her neck, chin, and a little part of her cheek was covered in little red bumps. My kid has a drool rash. I can't help but look at that rash and blame myself for it's appearance. Maybe twelve bibs a day just isn't enough, maybe dabbing instead of wiping wasn't the best route to take, maybe I should have slathered her with Vaseline after every dab, or wrapped her face up mummy-style with a bunch of gauze or something. Whatever I did, or didn't do, has turned into an angry red mess all over my baby's otherwise perfect face.

I patted a little baby powder on it first thing in the morning, then slapped some Vaseline all over her, and it appears to be completely gone already. But drool is tricky. I'm going to have to watch my back.

Don't worry though, Mommy will prevail.

I Would Like to Retract My Previous Statement

Target sucks. I received an email today informing me that they do not have to honor their pricing error, but if I'd like to still purchase the Britax, they'll give it to me for $279.99. They could have at least given me a discount or something! Terrible customer service. Bitches.

It's been a long day, and this car seat loss has just ruined my whole week. Looks like Mads won't be riding around in style after all. I'm so disappointed. :(

I Hate Walmart, but I ADORE Target

I try to do the grocery shopping on days when Jeffrey has off. That way he can come along and entertain the babe while I throw things in the cart. He hates shopping, but usually if I starve him for a couple hours, he's more than ready to spend a little time in the produce aisle. Well today, he just kept putting me off and putting me off until finally it was almost bath time and I got this genius idea. I'll go alone. By myself! No clingy baby, no Jeffrey grunting about the price of string cheese, all alone with just me and my cart. I started to get really excited. I threw the babe in the tub; scrub, splash, dry. I fed her impatiently and then realized that Walmart doesn't close. When she was finished, I kissed her on the forehead, plopped her on Jeffrey's lap, and grabbed my keys. I was off on a grand adventure.

When we go shopping as a family, I always feel rushed. I swear it's like I have to sprint around the store trying to get everything we need before Mads (or Jeffrey) has a meltdown. This time though, I did it all at a leisurely pace. I actually squeezed the fruit before I threw it in a bag, I went down every aisle, and I even looked for the best prices instead of just grabbing things haphazardly. By the time I was finished, my cart was pretty much overflowing. I was in a spectacular mood. So I get to the check-out line, and all these smiling cashiers are just waiting to scan my goods. No lines! What a good shopping trip! I throw all my junk on the conveyor thingy and start putting the full bags back in the cart. When it gets to the point where all that's left is a couple loaves of bread, I start digging around in my purse for my wallet. Diapers, baby clothes, receipts, goodness there's a lot of shit in this purse. Lip gloss, change, ummm. Where's my wallet? Start panic attack. Where's my wallet? Maybe I dropped it? It's probably just in the car. No, I know it's not in the car. Jeffrey! Jeffrey always knows where my missing shit is! Where's my wallet?? Holy shit, was I mugged? The smiling cashier tells me the total, and I ignore her to dial Jeffrey's number with a shaky hand.

Me: Baby! Do you know where my wallet is??
*Cashier is no longer smiling*
Jeffrey: Oh yeah, it's on the table.

Jeffrey says this so nonchalantly that I am almost positive that he knew it was there the whole time, but was just too consumed with his dumb video game to tell me.

The cashier gets on her fancy pants walky-talky to report the situation, ('this chick ain't got no cash'), and someone from customer service hurries over. By now, there's a HUGE line behind me, which I just don't understand because I swear that Walmart was empty, but there was definitely at least 25 people that heard, "What? She can't pay for it?" Uhh. Omigosh. "This lady forgot her wallet!" I tell the wonderful customer service lady that my wallet will be here in ten minutes, no need to turn this into some kind of freak show. She grabs her walky-talky and screams that she needs someone to put the 'lady without a wallet's cart behind the customer service desk. Heaven forbid she discreetly push it there herself.

I'm sitting on the little bench waiting for Jeffrey to get there, my cart is hanging out behind the service desk, and every once in a while one of the cashiers will walk up and ask "Did that lady get her cart?". God these people suck. I just wanted to melt into the bench, puddle underneath, and then trickle into some drain. Haven't any of these people experienced Mommy brain?

So that was Walmart. I was still salty about the whole thing when I got home, but when I clicked on Babycenter, I saw a post titled "Britax Marathon Car Seat for $42.99!!". I freaked out. My car seat! The number one TWO must-have car seat in the country! (I would have to give number one to the Britax Boulevard. That thing definitely has some bells and whistles.) The three hundred dollar car seat that I've been swooning over for three months! I bought one from Target for $45.39, and even got free shipping. I feel sorry for the underpaid associate that made that pricing error! Original price? $279.99. All things considered, it's been a good day.

Here's your daily dose of drool covered baby:

Head Dress-Up

Jeffrey had to work today from seven this morning until eleven tonight. Now I'm no mathlete, but I'm pretty sure that comes out to about sixteen hours. Shitty right? Shitty. I'm used to being home with Mads all day long, but usually there are either a couple hours in the morning, or a couple hours in the evening where I can pass her off to Jeffrey. Today though, I had the girl attached to my hip for twelve hours straight. Literally. I couldn't get anything done unless I had her on my hip in the hotsling so she could participate in every activity. That kid didn't nap for shit today. By five o'clock, we had played with every toy, rolled around in every room, and chewed on at least five thousand different things. I had made two different "toys", one with a parmesan cheese container and beads, the other with a cardboard box and ribbon. It was 5:30 and I had used up every ounce of creativity that I had to keep her entertained, but we still had an hour before bath time. I used to love to play dress-up when I was little, but since Mads throws a baby hissy fit every time a shirt goes over her head, I knew dress-up was going to have to wait a couple years. So I invented 'Head Dress-Up'. Well maybe I didn't invent it, I'm sure original thought has been dead for years, but I'm claiming it anyways. This is it:

Super fun, right? Mads alternated between giving me a confused smile and trying to ignore me so I'd go away. I pretty much giggled like an idiot the whole time. Poor Jeffrey, he's going to be so bummed he missed out on such a fantabulous time. So that's head dress-up. Go play, you know you want to.

BTW, my kid has some major rock star hair, right?

Got Spit?

That bib says "Got Milk?" on it, which would be very fitting if that huge, dark, wet mark were in fact milk. It's not. It's drool. That spit soak only took about eight minutes. Gross.

Dorks Unite

Jeffrey is out at some Call of Duty contest thing at Gamestop. It's like Dorkfest '08 and he's been excited about it all day. So I've been trying to find some way to entertain myself while I have all this baby-free, Jeffrey-free, me time. Of course I find myself on Babycenter, my one true vice, perusing threads in all the groups I'm a member of. My birth board has a post up titled, "The Cleaning Challenge" and I got totally sucked in. The idea of the game is to take 'before' pictures of your messy hole of a house, clean it up, and then post the 'after' pictures so you can feel all this fabulous pride, and prove that you really are competent in the art of homemaking. I had a lot of fun walking around taking my 'before' pictures, but then I realized I would actually have to clean something. This sucks. But, since I knew that there would be proof of my shower scrubbing abilities, I used more elbow grease than ever before and cleaned this apartment like I was expecting a visit from the health inspector. So now I have a really clean apartment, and this overwhelming feeling that I'm a total loser. Has my life really become so boring that I get excited about cleaning? It's Friday night, and I'm taking before and after pictures of my apartment so I can post them on the internet for strangers to observe.

I guess I'm just a big dork, too.

ETA: Jeffrey won the first round and will play again in January. He received two t-shirts that will never fit him, a ridiculous WWF lunchbox, and a fancy pants certificate stating, "Good Job Soldier". It is now hanging right above his gaming station. If Jeffrey and I were competing for the title of 'Super Dork Extreme', he would win every time. I guess I feel a little better now.

I Like Mine Without the Crust

I was eating some toast this morning and Mads was being all grabby as usual. I googled babies and toast and couldn't find anything that said absolutely not, so I toasted her a peice and cut it in half. I figured it may be a little messy, so I put a blanket down, plopped the kid on the floor, and handed her some breakfast. Ew. The grossest thing ever in the whole world is little sticky peices of toast soaked with drool and stuck to a blanket. I had to keep taking the peices away from her that got too small, so I'm pretty sure she only ate about 1/16 of that half peice of toast, but damn she loved every second of it.

Parenting Conflicts

*It's almost midnight. Jeffrey and I are sitting in the living room taking pictures of random things, when Mads wakes up for the upteenth time since eight.*

Me: Did you hear that? She made a noise.
Jeffrey: We just put her back to sleep.
Me: *Running to grab baby, so I can give hugs and cuddles and loves until she drifts back off*
Jeffrey: You're spoiling her. She's going to be such a brat.
Me: What??
Jeffrey: We can't rock her to sleep forever.
Me: What??

This is the first time I realized that Jeffrey and I don't share the same parenting style. I guess he's just always gone along with whatever I wanted, but now he's decided to speak up.

I never really thought about what kind of Mommy I would be. Things happened so fast, I just figured I would wing it when Mads got here. Which is exactly what I've done. I've been winging it every day. I guess I'm in the attachment parent category. My instincts tell me to never let her cry. I co-sleep because she sleeps better when we cuddle. I nurse her, not just for food, but to comfort her. I give hugs when she screams, and I babywear to keep her happy. Self-soothe? She's just a baby, that's what I'm here for. I'm willing to let her decide when she's ready to sleep alone, to let her decide when she's ready to wean some day. It may not be "The Right Way", but it's my way. I just kind of fell into it. If you asked the AP community if I was turning my child into a big 'ole brat, they'd say hell no. But if you talked to the 'Ferberizers' of the world, I'm just being selfish and lazy. I'm setting my child up for failure because she doesn't sleep in her own bed, and because she gets her way at the ripe old age of six months. I don't know who's right, I don't think anyone does.

I don't believe that there's really a 'right way' or a 'wrong way' to parent, I'm pretty sure it's just 'my right way' and 'your right way'. I guess it's just a tad bit selfish of me to assume that Jeffrey's 'right way' involves having Mads in our bed, or to think that he's on board with my child-led theory. I never really asked him how he felt about it all. I guess we'll either have to find some kind of middle ground, or I'll have to find enough research to bring Jeffrey over to the dark side.

It amazes me that I never considered any of this though. I didn't think the parenting debates would come up until Mads was much older. Sorry, Daddy.

The Face of an Angel

I took away her bink to take pictures, and this is what I was rewarded with. She's going to be a lovely two year old, I'm sure of it.

Picture Overload

I lost my camera for almost two whole days. I searched high and low, in both bathrooms and even in the washing machine. I found it in the little basket on the changing table that houses lotions, various diaper changing gear, and toys. I was so happy to have found it, I took about a million pictures.

She looks so big with her hair up. :(

Chewing on her raspberry teether.

Chewing on a pear before I turned it into baby food.

She likes them better steamed and mashed.

Especially when Daddy is holding the spoon.

Sneeze!

Close-ups!

And just to feed my semi-artistic side, here is a black and white-messy-haired-butterfly, that deperately wants to chew on her wings.

I realize that this is the most random grouping of pictures ever, but hell, I missed my camera.

Morning Math

I signed up to be a guide with ChaCha.com so I could make a little extra money during nap times. ChaCha is an answer service where people send in a question via text message, I find the answer on the internet, and then send it back through the ChaCha toolbar. Totally easy. The rate is only ten cents a question, but I figured if I answered a lot of questions, it would be all good. So I'm doing this last night, and I'm averaging about eight minutes per question (hey, I'm new), but let's just pretend that I can answer all the questions in five minutes. Let's also pretend that the questions are back to back, bing, bang, boom (which they aren't). There are twelve, five minute segments, in one hour. Twelve times ten cents comes out to $1.20. If I work for two hours, I'll make just enough money to buy one gallon of gas, which should be just enough gas to get me home from the gas station.

What a crock.

Don't Touch My Kid

Summer and I are walking through the mall, Mads is in the hotsling watching all the action and chewing on her fingers. The first six people we pass turn to their shopping buddy and say, "Oh! Look at that baby!" which is totally acceptable, we are a very cute package. The seventh person we see, shopping alone, comes up and says "Oh! Look at that baby!". Who is she talking to? Me? Like I didn't notice there was a fifteen pounder hanging from my neck. I smile. Her hand reaches out, I take notice of her black teeth, her too tight pants and belly shirt, muffin top hanging out all white and bubbly, and decide that I do not want this person touching my baby. I know I shouldn't judge people based on their purple pleather pants and lack of personal hygiene, maybe she is a very nice person, but I zig when she zags and I make a swift exit, sweetly mumbling about the imaginary poop that is soaking into my shirt. Crisis averted. Shoppers 9-13 point and smile, I smile back and walk on my merry way. Shopper number 14? Insane asylum escapee? Chester the molester? There I go judging again, but this guy has a freaky smirk that makes me uncomfortable. I zig again, but shit, he zigs too. I try to turn my zig into some kind of professional football move and walk right into a pillar. Chester laughs at my folly and then pats my baby on the head with his greasy fingers. I can't imagine what my face looks like, horror poorly masked with a plastic smile so I don't look like a mean girl. I sani-wipe Mady's hair as soon as Chester ducks into Gap Kids. Called that one!

What's a girl got to do to get some effing personal space? Do I need to hang a sign around my neck stating, "LOOK! DON'T TOUCH!"? How about a big tattoo on Mady's forehead, "touch me and your penis will shrivel off"? I would never just walk up to someone I don't know and fondle their child. Why would anyone think that's OK? I appreciate the smiles, nods, and exclamations of "How cute!!" but that is where the line needs to be drawn. My kid is not public property!

Maybe I'm just overprotective. Or maybe I'm just a big 'ole bitch, but either way:

Don't touch my kid!!

I Want Them All

The fifty toys scattered all over the floor aren't enough for this baby. She needs to go straight to the source and chew on them all. My living room looks like a daycare.

Halfsies

It took well over six minutes to get the paper off the box (I have the video to prove it), she tried to eat every piece of paper that she could, and the cat attacked her hat while it was still on her head. It was the best half birthday ever.

Poor Oliver the Octopus, even with his eight legs of fun, Mads still liked the box he came in better.

And just to prove to us that the first six months were nothin' compared to the next six, Mads went and learned how to fall on her face from the sitting position, on purpose! Actually, the first time she did it, she made it the whole way to the crawling position. But the second time, ya know, the time when I'm actually holding a camera, she fell on her face. Isn't that how it works though?

I don't know about the munchkin but, I'm willing to wait until tomorrow to try again. I've had enough growing for the day.