Dog!

Matt sees a dog.

Matt: Edgar!
Me: No, Matt. Thats not an Edgar. It's a dog.

Which makes me wonder, maybe this ghost friend of his IS a dog?

Me: Matt, say DOG!
Matt: Hahahaaaaaaaaa

Which is his happy sounds to when he sees a dog.

Me: No, Matt. DOG
Matt: Dahahaaaaaaa
Me: Yes! Almost there! DOG! DOG! DOOOOOOOGGGG!
Matt: Dahahaaaaaaaaawg
Me: That's it! DOG!

Matt smiles.

We look at the dog.

Me: See? It's a DOG!
Matt: EDGAR!!

Dear Matt

I write letters to Matt since before he was born and place them in his baby book.

Dear Matt, 

Today is June 5th, 2013. You are 16 months old. 

We just got back from the park, where you had a lot of fun trying to bury mommy's legs on the sand and throwing your sand toys up on the playground slide to watch them tumble down. You laugh out loud at it and your contagious laugh makes people walking their dogs on the street stop and watch. You are that charismatic. At the park you also like bringing mommy small gifts, like snails, cigarette butts and rocks. Mommy has to say thank you and look excited, otherwise you frown at her. 

You have a great sense of humor and think anything is funny. You're so silly. And a little weird. You're so weird sometimes.

You enjoy covering your face with your sleep sack and move about the house like a ghost. Sometimes you run into walls and hurt your nose and cry. Sometimes you walk with your arms extended in front of you, as to avoid hitting said nose, and when you touch anything, you laugh out of control under the sheet. Sometimes you carry your toy cell phone under the sheet and make phone calls. 

You like moving furniture and tipping chairs over. Your specialty is getting on your hands and knees and pushing the heavy ottoman with your head across the living room. You are extremely strong for a baby. 

Mommy is trying to break your pacifier habit, but every time she turns around, you have one in your mouth. She found a stack of them inside one of your toys. You also like to bury them in the mulch out in the yard. Then you can't find them and come crying, or you find one and put it in your mouth and cry because you just swallowed a bunch of dirt.

When mommy is pissed because you drive her nuts sometimes, you clap your hands because you know you're cute when you do that, and you try to shove a pacifier in her mouth, as if to say, "there there, fussy mommy, take a paci and chill out."

You love sprinklers. They make you so happy when they come out that you scream.

You love nuggets. You can eat six in a roll.

You talk on your sleep. Sometimes you laugh. Mommy wonders whats so funny in the dream.

Your daddy is in Afghanistan fighting bad guys. He says it's really hot over there, they don't have beer and the bad guys don't let him sleep, so it doesn't sound like a fun place. You miss him a lot because you say, "Daddyyyyyyy!" when he appears on Skype and you try to touch his face, and also look for him behind the iPad.

You say "Daddyyyyy" sometimes in the morning, as soon as you wake up. When mommy goes to get you, you shake your head no, as if to say, "Not you, mommy. You suck. Where's dad?"

You like stuffing your face inside a bucket and make funny noises, just to hear your voice echo, like a microphone. You learned that from grandma because she is a not right in the head either.

Mommy lets you hang out naked at the end of the day because it's fun, and also because you need to get potty trained soon. You have discovered your wee wee and have been sort of obsessed with it. You squeeze it, pull it, flop it, and giggle at it. You're such a guy.

You are also obsessed with mommy's belly button. You lift her shirt and press her outie. Then mommy laughs, because it's ticklish, and you laugh too, then you press it again and you both laugh. 

Mommy is five months pregnant with your brother. That's why she has an outie. Your brother doesn't have a name yet, but since you keep saying Edgar, we are calling him that for now. Edgar seems to like donuts, grilled cheese sandwiches and anything with mayo.

Your hair is dirty blond and very curly. It's a hot mess. Nothing mommy does tames it. You have your daddy's large back and cannot fit in 18 month clothes anymore. When mommy tries, it's like stuffing a sausage in a casing. You're very wide.

Your feet stink after you wear shoes for as little as an hour. We don't know why. Doctor says some boys just have stinky feet because they sweat more. Yay me.

You are always filthy. You DIVE on dirt and sand as soon as you see it.

You chewed so much on your crib that it looks like a rodent got to it. Last week you fell asleep with your mouth wrapped around the railing. 

Your idea of fun is throwing your toys really hard on the floor to see what kind of noise they will make when they break and you really really really like to RUN while screaming with happiness; sometimes with your arms up in the air. When mommy takes you out to the beach, she needs to chase after you for more than a mile, and ends up spilling her coffee all over herself. She may get you one of those kid leashes.

Mommy took you to a far away petting zoo recently, but you could care less about the llamas and bunnies. You were more interested in throwing hay up in the air and running around.

All in all, you are mommy's best company for those lonely times while daddy is not here. You know mommy's ticklish spots and we you get the giggles together a lot. It's never a dull moment.

Love,

Your mommy

Bubbles

I brought out soap to make bubbles for a hyper, and perennially filthy boy (why didn't I think of this before?) and watching him chasing after the bubbles and just marveled by them is one of the sweetest, most innocent things I've ever seen (which seconds his playing with his wee wee and giggling at it, but that's pg).

I also love the way he looks at me, amazed, while the bubbles form. I like to imagine that in his baby mind he is thinking, "wow! Momma is not only awesome, she also makes bubbles!"

Positive aspects of deployment

Deployment sucks and I spend a lot of my scant free time feeling sorry for myself (and some of my busy time too), so I decided to make a list of a few positive aspects of it. Here they are:

1) control of remote control 

2) not shaving

3) control of remote control

4) watching something dumb instead of serious political stuff (see numbers 1 and 3)

5) control of remote control

6) sleeping in the middle of the bed

7) control of remote control

8) not having to straighten up the place by 4pm, because he comes home around 6pm and needs to think the house looked like that all day

9) control of remote control

10) go a day (ok, a few days) without picking up toys or doing any cleaning 

11) control of remote control

12) hanging out in mismatched flannel pjs that make your ass look big while doing a facial 

13) control of remote control

14) drinking juice straight out of the carton. Who needs cups?

15) control of remote control

16) let the kid go to nap with sand on his head (and inside his pants)

17) control of remote control

18) not have to go to Lowes every weekend

19) control of remote control

20) eat lunch at 9am and an ice cream at noon, and no one looks at you funny 

21) control of remote control

22) reading books late at night with all the lights on and not under the covers with an iPad 

23) control of remote control

24) looking like shit and not worrying about it

25) control of remote control

26) expanding comfort zone as a pregnant mommy alone with kid (e.g. Hitting the highway sans destiny, just because it's pretty out) 

27) control of remote control

28) gaining self confidence and growing some balls by managing to do manly things around the house (e.g. Jump starting his idle car so you can move other heavy machinery from the garage to work on the yard)

29) control of remote control

30) Being able to laugh at how overwhelming it can get (e.g. Projectile vomiting, exorcist style, in the middle of the living room from morning sickness -- that lasts all day -- while whiny, teething kid smacks your pregnant belly for attention)

31) did I mention I get to watch what I want on tv? K

Baby talk

Pediatrician: so how many words can Matthew say now?
Me: well, if you count Edgar as a word, he can say two.
Pediatrician: who is Edgar?
Me: I don't know. No one knows. We think it's a ghost. The other word is "dada" but dada is away so he doesn't say that much either.
Pediatrician: so he is not a man of many words...
Me: no, he keeps to himself. He grunts a lot, eats a lot, and likes to either build things or tear them apart.
Pediatrician: that's a guy for you.

I guess it doesn't help that I speak two languages with him and sometimes in the same sentence. I think even my brain does a knot. It also doesn't help that I create words, such as, "Tchoopootchoo, do you want a loogabooga?" and the baby looks at me with an expression that says, "What the hell is a loogabooga and who is tchoopootchoo? As far as I am concerned, people call me Matt and what you're holding is a banana."

Round 2

First pregnancy (while husband is in town):

"Oh, I'm so tired and feeling so sorry for myself... Maybe I should just lay down here for five hours and take a nap... maybe I will feel better. I feel like throwing up but at the same time I want that Brazilian snack that they only sell at the other side of town. Maybe I should get my husband to leave work early and go get it for me? He put me in this predicament. It's all his fault. He should get me that snack even though I will just puke it out. I'm such a fragile human specimen. I need special care. Oh, I feel so sorry for myself. Life is so hard. Uuuuuuuughhhhhhh...."

Pregnancy with a toddler (while husband is deployed):

"Oh, I'm so ti... GET THAT FREAKIN ROCK OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!!!"

Edgar

Me: who wants to go on a stroll?
Matt: Edgar!

Me: who wants a banana?
Matt: Edgar!

And sometimes he just passes by, running with his walker and saying, "Edgaredgaredgaredgar!"

Who the hell is Edgar?

That's what he said

Me: Do they stop whining so much when they can actually talk? Like, if they can say what's bothering them, do they make less noise?
Husband: Nope. It gets louder and more frequent.

Our new game

We are playing a new game called, "What is Matthew chewing on this time?"

The rules of the game:

1) find quiet or gagging child (a quiet child is never a good sign, and a gagging one also)
2) hold wiggly child down as he pulls your hair and kicks your groin
3) stick finger in child's mouth and get slobber all over yourself
4) look for foreign object by rubbinb all corners of slobbery mouth
5) get bitten by new teeth you didn't know baby had
6) you may have to retrieve something half way down his or her throat (that usually triggers vomiting, so have clean clothes for you and baby ready, and also a mop)

The mystery of what you can find keeps this game interesting and all participants involved.

The Elmo project (never again)

The party pooper

Our baby get together to celebrate baby's coming of age only involved tiny ones, even though mommie's original list included over fifty people. Daddy decided this wasn't such a good idea, and mommy realized all the cleaning  she'd have to do after, so only small people of one year old and younger were invited.

All babies (and all boys) were having a swell baby time of screaming and banging cabinets, until mommy found the birthday boy playing with dirt. His socks and pants had dirt and he touched it with his hands. Mommy wondered, puzzled, "where did he find dirt?" and then she smelled him.

The acorn

My son watches TV. Sue me if that makes me a bad mother. Before baby I had those grand plans to never leave the television on and play instead some educational games. I also thought my hands would be manicured while playing those perfect games.

Well, screw that. After baby, there's just so much playing educational crap one can do. Plus, he is a lot more interested in throwing stuff around really hard to see how noisy it can be. Mommy also needs to get other important stuff done, like drink her coffee.

When the characters he likes come in, with their catchy, annoying songs, he opens a smile really big and babbles to the tube. I like to imagine that in his baby head, he thinks the characters are talking with him.

But then night comes. Maybe because mommy drank too much coffee, she is awake at three am, looking at the ceiling, and all the thoughts in her head are masked by,

"We found the acorn,
we found it over here
we found the acorn..."

Then what? What happens after they found the acorn?

Try thinking about something else. Think about the book you just read.

We found the acorn...

Think about Benghazi. Think about what you want to cook tomorrow.

We found it over here...

Think about sex.

We found the acorn...

What is the rest of that stupid song?

So the next day I sit on the floor with baby when the cartoon comes in. I wait until the damn squirrels find the flippin acorn so the stupid song can come in. I will know how the song goes now!

"We found the acorn
We found it over here
We found the acorn
After looking everywhere
We found it
We found it
So let's all clap and cheer
Wahoo!"

But then the night comes.

It's three am and the song comes back, expect this time I know the lyrics.

"We found the acorn

We found it over here

We found the acorn

After looking everywhere

We found it

We found it

So let's all clap and cheer

Wahoo!"

To do list for road trip

- pack and play
- sheets for pack and play
- towels
- box fan
- bottle warmer
- bottles
- bottle cleaner and brush
- inflatable tub
- baby soap
- baby shampoo
- baby lotion
- diapers
- wipes
- diaper bag
- a butt load of baby food (must go by the store AGAIN)
- spoon
- formula
- toys (a gazillion)
- baby clothes
- baby sleep sack
- baby pjs
- blanket
- a million pacifiers
- stroller
- weather shield for stroller
- baby socks
- portable baby seat
- DVD player
- DVD cartoons
- baby tylenol
- filtered water bottles
- hylands
- baby tooth paste
- baby tooth brush
- duck tape (you never know)
- wine for mommy
- husband (not sure if he will fit in the car)

Just do it, says Nike

Now that we are starting to walk and all, I decided it's time for shoes. Baby has a closet full of them and we need to start looking more civilized.

As I attempted to put shoes on the wiggly creature, you would have thought I was trying to murder him. He screamed and kicked. The helpless screaming tears remained even while standing, where he stayed, paralyzed, staring down at his evil, awful Nike baby shoes.

I took them off and said, "Fine, Matthew! Be barefoot! You're a California baby anyway. We may just wear flip flops forever."

That's what she said

Me (to mom, on Skype): ...all he does is follow me around, pulling at my leg an whining for attention. I can't eat, go to the bathroom, have a conversation, get a good workout, have a thought process... When does this end?

Mom: When they are eighteen years old and off to college.

One thing I know for sure

As Matt's one year old birthday approaches, it's safe to say I know a thing or two about babies. Hey,  we are both alive and husband is unharmed, so we've done pretty good so far.

I know one thing for sure: I'm going straight to heaven. I paid for all of my sins and some other people's too, especially on teething days.

When I get to heaven, the angels will be all, "You can sit down now, Mariana. Here is a box of chocolate and a glass of wine." They serve wine in my heaven. "Why don't you go ahead and lay on that jacuzzi for a few years? Then we will give you a massage."

Baby steps!

The baby just took his first two steps... And then he pissed on me.

He was undressed for bath while the tub filled. Husband stood behind him in case the wiggly, naked body gave out and flopped on the floor. I offered baby his shampoo bottle as a bribe to get him to step forward. Baby looked suspiciously at me, because he knows the shampoo bottle is off limits as a chew toy. He probably thought his baby thoughs, "aw, who cares, give me that bottle," and took two wobbly steps to grab it from my hand.

Then he giggled and started peeing on mommy.

Those silly little details

We intend to go food shopping. Baby is placed on the changing table to get pjs off. He immediately arches his back and screams, tries to roll over and says he hates me. "It's just a diaper change and a change of clothes," I tell him, but he is frantically moving his little legs in baby tantrum. 

After much blood, sweat and tears, baby has a onesie shirt, socks, pants and hoodie jacket on. He is ready.

I place baby in front of the mirror, for the baby in the mirror is always in a good mood, and Matthew think he is funny. They laugh at each other and Matt decides he wants to smack the other baby, or hug him really hard, so I have to change fast before he breaks the mirror. 

I've got my pants on, my shirt, and a jacket. I put on some lipstick and even have my sunglasses on my head. I don't brush my hair. Who has time for that? 

By now the mirror is shaking and the baby is pissed at it. 

I fight we little arms to fit them in the car seat. The toys I give him to calm his little self are thrown over my head, on the garage floor. I don't have time to clean them, so the baby will have to chew on garage floor dirty toys. 

I have my wallet, my military card, my cell phone. I even brought a bottle of water. I pet myself on the back: I'm in control and I'm awesome. I'm ready to go to the store.

A jackass in a pick up truck follows me too close on the right lane. I slow down to piss him off and make him pass me. He doesn't. I slow down more. Why do I feel like I forgot something? Matthew laughs at the baby in the mirror that I place in front of him, so I can see him in my rear view mirror.

The driver passes me, follows another driver too close, and another one. What an ass.

We arrive at the military base at the same time and my line moves faster than his. When I enter the base before he does, I say to the guy in my head "A-HA-HA!" 

Once in the base he passes me. This is getting personal. I manage to pass him and I park right in front of the commissary. He is still looking for a place to park.  "I WIN!" I think, and then I look at my feet and notice the one little detail I forgot: my shoes. 

Dolly Parton no more (I think)

This is a girls' conversation, so if you're a man, I'm sorry, this doesn't pertain you because I'm going to talk about boobies. 

(ok, that was stupid, because if you're a man, now you're really going to stick around to see where this is going)

At ten years old I was a C cup. Kids followed me around and called me Dolly Parton. I went home crying. I cried to put on bathing suits. I didn't change in front of other little girls because they would point and laugh (see? I got bullied too, but you don't see me going around shooting people). My mom promised that if I'd still hated my breasts by fifteen years old, that she would schedule a breast reduction procedure.

At fifteen I was a D cup and loved every second of it. The rest of my body filled up too and I wore it proudly; maybe too proudly, because then my mom was trying to cover me up.

At twenty I moved to the US and I like to blame it on the hormones in the chicken (and not on donuts or McDonalds), for I became a size DD.

The minute I get pregnant, my bras felt snug and the lady at the store measuring my breasts says, "You are a 32E, but we don't carry those."

For those men hanging around reading this, the number 32 is the inches around the rib cage. In my case the ribs are petite but the rest of me is not. Do you know what kind of women have those measurements? Porn stars, and that's the kind of store I found online (slutty people stores) the concoction that could support this new and improved part of me. 

Leopard lace doesn't look particularly appropriate on a expecting woman, so I settled for sports bras. I never measured those things again, but I can only imagine the proportions they got when I was too engorged for even those sports bras.

Now that I am approaching golden boobies (one year of breast feeding, or breast pumping, in my case - yay, me!) I decided to finally give myself a gift of a new bra. 

The Victoria's Secrets lady measures me and says I am a 32DDD and that they don't carry my size. Off to the porn store we go.

I cannot WAIT not to be Dolly Parton any longer. On my son's birthday, when I will be done with using my boobs to make food, I may forgo all the balloons and bells and whistles and just celebrate with a big ol' bottle of wine. 

Cheers to smaller, normal boobies!