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!