Saturday, December 31, 2005

raisin's brother


What would a blog about Raisin be without giving props to his brother Norman?

Norman is the best dog ever. Ever. There's only one problem -- he's a bit of a sad sack. As our first child, he's been lavished with love and attention in the form of multiple daily walks, runs at the park, special treats, a comfortable bed, countless toys...the list goes on. How has his life changed since little e's arrival? It hasn't. Except for the fact that he now enjoys the plush comfort of the sofa too.

Before we had our son, everyone told us, "Just wait, after you have the baby, you won't care about that dog at all." We refused to believe it. And now that the boy's here, we still feel the same way. He's just as special as ever (not in a paste-eating way). We even made a pact that after little e came along, we weren't going to gyp Norman out of his walks and such. And I'm happy to report that we haven't, but you would never guess that by looking at him.

The looks this dog gives you can instill more guilt than the entire Catholic religion. If you're so much as 15 minutes late with his morning walk, he assumes the L&N position (short for long and narrow). He gets as thin and long as he can. This position is usually accompanied by the pouty lab face resting ever-so delicately on the front paws as his sad brown eyes bore a hole into your heart. Then there's the crying and the moaning that sounds much like everyone's favorite wookie, Chewbacca. "Someone call the ASPCA, nobody's pet, played ball with or walked Norman in like FIFTEEN MINUTES!!!!"

He may be a dog, but he is indeed Raisin's brother. Consider these things they have in common: Raisin spends about 75% of his time with a dog toy in his mouth. They're both obsessed about the ball. They both love to go for walks. They both charge after their mama or papa on command. And they both have us wrapped around their little finger -- er, and paw.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

we interrupt this blog for some morbid thoughts

I don't want to be a Debbie Downer or anything, but now that I have a baby, I catch myself thinking some really god-awful thoughts. Wanna hear them? You would.

Here's one. Sometimes I think this: Even though Raisin and I have spent so much time together -- really good quality time -- time that has meant so much to me and has made me feel all fuzzy inside. Even though he has been such an important part of my life (that's the setup, this is where it gets morbid), if I were to die tomorrow, he wouldn't remember me at all. There, I said it. Yucky to think that. Even yuckier to type.

Then there's this. I'm not usually one to live my life in fear. I wouldn't say that I was careless in the past, but I sort of had this nonchalant attitude that we all have our time to go and that there's nothing we can do about it. But now I have this little guy who depends on me. So now I feel like I owe it to him to do everything in my power to stay alive as long as possible. Lately I've been having this unexplained fear that the 3rd Street bridge is going to go out as I'm driving over it and because we now have the power windows in our car (I resisted getting them until now, specifically for this reason), I'm not going to be able to escape as it plunges down into the Mississippi River. I catch myself speeding up while driving over the bridge, so I can make it to the other side before the bridge goes out.

Did I mention the crazy dreams? Take this one for example: There's a big terrorist attack. There's a enormous cloud of brown poisonous gas making its way toward a huge crowd of people. Everyone's running for their lives. I'm carrying little e and covering him the best I can with my arms and pressing his face into my chest so that he doesn't have to breathe the poisonous gas. I've been having a lot of terrorist attack dreams panics lately -- usually having to do with explosions in cafes where I work. If you too would like to have some of your own, I suggest you rent, "the Battle of Algiers."

Sadly there are more. Yes, much more. But I'm creeping myself out right now so I've gotta stop.

Monday, December 19, 2005

teacher, teacher, teacher

Today (and every day) I read little e one of his favorite books: Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do You See?

At the end of the book, when it runs through all of the things the children see, I usually point at each thing with my finger and name what it is. Since then, he's started this new thing where he guides my hand, pointing my finger to the picture he wants named.

Today he had a serious case of the sillies. When we got to this section, he took my finger and repeatedly pointed at the teacher. Every time he pointed, I'd say, "teacher". Point, point, point. "Teacher, teacher, teacher." Point, point, point, point, point, point... "Teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher...." (repeat 1000 times at varying speeds). He thought this was hilarious (as did I) and we continued this game, laughing together for quite some time.

So you know how when you say a word over and over, it begins to sound weird and just not right? Yeah, teacher. Weird.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

ho, ho, holy #@#!*


Last night we brought the boy to meet the man -- the man who would be responsible for 99% of his future yule tide joy. I figured he should make a nice first impression, so I dressed him up in his cute, chunky sweater and off we went to Marshall Field's.

After meeting up with the husband, we stood in line for what seemed like a good three hours. It was actually only 20 minutes. Later, we deduced that there may in fact be two Santas working the downtown Marshall Field's circuit -- hidden from unsuspecting children by a labyrinth of makeshift wooden walls, velvet curtains and secret doors. We grew suspicious when the family just in front of us was no longer the family in front of us once ushered behind the velvet curtain by Santa's little helper.

Once placed on Santa's lap, our normally happy-to-strike-a-cheesy-smile-for-any-photo boy, turned into terribly-apprehensive-and-nervous-to-be-sitting-in-the-lap-of-a-head-to-toe-red-clad-stranger boy. The photo was snapped just moments before the nervous smile turned into panic and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. This, from a boy who has yet to experience stranger danger. So what is it about this Jolly Ol' Elf that strikes fear in the hearts of children who perch on his lap in department stores everywhere? I mean, the guy delivers presents for pete's sake! PRESENTS!!!!!!

I just hope this behavior does not reflect badly on his mother. I mean, this is Santa we're talking about.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

so long swanky dyson®

Vacuuming a couple times a week, I still can't seem to stay on top of the crap that accumulates on the floor. Tracked in dirt, the ubiquitous cheerio, and tiny tumbleweeds formed out of dog hair. They're everywhere. So what's a little boy to do when he's motoring around at top speed?

I'll tell you what he's to do: He's to pick up every little piece of floor matter he finds and present it to his mama like it's some sort of prize. These floor finds range in edibility and size -- usually unidentifiable foodstuffs the dog managed to miss. But sometimes what he holds up proudly to show me is so microscoptic, it's not visible to the human eye. Is that a dust mite between his pincers??

I plan to prolong this behavior with every ounce of enthusiasm and positive reinforcement I can convey -- after all, don't want a replay of the Great Heartworm-Pill Incident of 2005, do I? Besides, if he keeps this up, I won't have to vacuum.

Looks like somebody got mama's OCD genes. Poor kid.

Friday, December 09, 2005

paging dr. freud


In the last few weeks, little e discovered his boy parts. Since then, he's spent a great deal of time fiddling with them while mama changes his diaper. While I'm certainly not going to stop him, how much fiddling time should a mom allow before completing the diaper change and cutting the fun short?

Let this serve as further proof that the kid is ALL BOY. He is, in fact, every little-boy cliche rolled into one:

His favorite toy is the ball. We could play ball for hours -- just tossing it back and forth -- and sometimes we do. This, in itself, is a bit peculiar, because his parents are not what you'd call sports enthusiasts. So, it's not like we encourage it. Yet, if this keeps up, our future will no doubt be filled with football games and the like. You rah, rah, Raisin!!!!

Then there's the lip-motor noise as he drives his cars and trains across the floor. Where did that come from? A few weeks ago, they had a "Little Tykes" tugboat at ECFE class. I put him in the seat and he immediate grabbed the steering wheel, shifted the gears and made motor noises like he had been driving for years. And that was the first time he'd ever even been behind a steering wheel (unless he's been taking the car for a spin after we fall asleep).

And how about the rough-and-tumble way he attempts to dive off the bed or sofa -- nevermind if we're holding on to him. And the chucking of the toys across the room. What would that be without the impending crash-landing on the hardwood floors?

It's only a matter of time before dinosaurs enter the picture.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

zzzzz

A wise man once said:
She who sleeps two hours should not attempt to edit a 46-page bulletin on financial advice policies and compliance requirements.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

a christmas freakout


Last night we got our Christmas tree. We decided to put it upstairs in our bedroom this year, thinking it might hinder Raisin's consumption of pine needles and ornament hooks. We decorated it while he was fast asleep (dreaming of sugarplums, no doubt).

When he woke up, we brought him to our bed per usual. Then, when we were certain he was looking in the direction of the tree, I plugged in the lights. If he could talk, I imagine he would've said something like, "What the %$#@!" But instead, he just sat there staring in disbelief, saying "Ohhhhhh." We really freaked his freak.

Once the husband figures out the timer, we will have Christmas magic aglow by our bed until 11 p.m. Then, again in the morning at 6: 15 a.m.

It truly is beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Friday, December 02, 2005

heart wormy goodness

"Hello, Poison Control? I just wiped remnants from a heart-worm pill out of my son's mouth -- is this okay?"

Talk about a near fatal heart attack. According to the way-too-calm woman at Poison Control, he should be okay -- at the very worst a little vomiting. This after what seemed like an eternity on hold listening to a cheerful Musak rendition of "Frosty the Snowman."

Silly Norman, faking your medicine taking.

Always seeing the glass half-full, the husband points out the good news: The boy won't get heartworm anytime soon. And before hanging up says, "Please don't kill the baby."

the wrath that is little e

Somewhere between 5-6 a.m. is when we can count on Raisin waking up. If we're lucky, I can nurse him in bed and we can sneak him back to his crib before he knows what hit him. But then there are those times when he wants nothing to do with sleep after his morning snack. That's when you gotta watch your back.

This usual abuse we suffer from this 10-month-old includes, but is not limited to, the following:
Eye gouging, hair pulling, biting, pinching, face scratching, nose picking (of ours, not his), head butting and rib crunching.

The husband and I try to ward him off ourselves by siccing him on each other:
ME: "Go buzz your papa's nose."
HUSBAND: "Where's your mama?? Where is she??"

This defense tactic in its effective, albeit temporary way, reminds me of a similar method we used with Alfie, our family dog years ago. See, Alfie was relentless with the ball. You threw it once, and you were at his mercy for at least another 20 minutes of ball throwing. He was always in your face with that damn ball. And he would carry on with this crazy begging on his hind legs with his front paws spastically moving up and down until you threw it. When you had enough of said ball-in-face, you would yell "Someone call Alfie!" This statement alone, would make him run away looking for another sucker who might want to play ball with him. Sad, I know, but effective nonetheless.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

repeat as necessary

As a copywriter, I'm always looking at ads, junk mail, packaging and product labels, wondering how I'd write the copy differently.

This morning in my long, luxurious shower (complete with shaving), I looked at the copy on my fancy new Biolage shampoo. There they were -- the shampooing directions: "Apply to wet hair and lather with gentle massaging motion..." That's when I decided if I ever get an assignment to write copy for a shampoo bottle, this is what I'll write.

Directions: If you don't know how to wash your hair yet loser, you don't deserve clean hair.

duh

Man, I had something really good I wanted to blog about, now I forgot.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

is it so wrong?

Today I practically kissed the babysitter when she walked through the door. The past two nights, Ed has worked until the wee hours which has also wreaked havoc on our morning routine -- the routine where mama gets to take a shower.

Don't get me wrong, I love spending time with Raisin like nobody's business. But I'd need a break from the most delicious chocolate in the world if I gorged on it for 12 hours straight. So why the guilt?

It's not like we're parents who crave time away from our child. Ed and I very rarely go out without the boy. I think it's just the consecutive hours of one-on-one time that do me in. I can only pull him away from the peril that is the Herman Miller Aeron chair so many times in a day. Then there are the expressions of displeasure brought on by any pause in the three-ring mama circus.

But now I've been away from him for a little over two hours. Apparently that's all I needed. Because now I miss him like mad.

Monday, November 28, 2005

save the drama for your mama


This Thanksgiving I have so much to be thankful for: My family -- that's obvious. Our home. The fact that I'm able to spend so much time with my son and have a nice balance of work too. All the amazing people in our lives. The list goes on.

It was Raisin's first Thanksgiving (and if they made a onesie for that, he'd have it). He had an awesome time with all his cousins. Sure, there were a few breakdowns when the stimulation got to be too much -- proving once again that he is indeed our child. Grandma Johnson taught him "so big" which he performs with such enthusiasm. We ate a lot of turkey. Saw Harry Potter. And there were a few glorious extra hours of sleep thanks to Shannon and Grandma Johnson. And what would the holidays be without a little family drama? There was some of that, too.

Which gets me thinking: What kind of disciplinarians will we be? And what kind of kid will Raisin turn into? I don't want to be the type of parent who deprives my child of everything. But there has to be a happy medium between deprivation and indulgence. I think certain privileges like expensive video games, cars, ski trips, cell phones, etc. should be earned, not handed out to kids who aren't interested in proving they are capable of some sort of responsibility. Call me crazy.

Oh, I know I won't be the perfect parent. God knows I'll make mistakes. But man, I hope I learn from them before it's too late.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

for the love of god, would you please stop pooping?

Yesterday, I changed five, count 'em, five poopy diapers and I'm sure Ed changed a couple, too. Oh, I know, with baby comes poopy diapers. But c'mon. I thought by 9 mos., the poop was less frequent -- yes, I think I remember reading that somewhere. Didn't you get that book, Raisin?

And, just so you know, when you're stomach-down and crawling away, changing your diaper? Not so easy. I won't even get into the time I let you play with your used, wrapped diaper just to keep you face up during the wipe and re-diapering -- and you managed TO OPEN IT. I spent a good 45 seconds searching for the missing fecal contents. You're just lucky you're so cute.

some of the best. things. ever.



• When you stop what you're doing, we make eye contact, and you crawl across the room just to give me a kiss.
• Your old-man-with-emphysema laugh.
• Sharing my cereal with you in the morning. How you crawl over and brace yourself with your pudgy little hands on my leg. Even though you ate A MERE 15 MINUTES AGO, you pull my arm toward you because apparently, I'm not getting the spoon to your mouth fast enough. And you eat off the spoon like a baby bird with soy milk dripping down your chin.
• That rare moment when you fall asleep on your floor pillow, while drinking your morning bottle.
• The way you say "spoon."
• When you feed me Cheerios with the same hands that were, just moments before, in the dog's mouth.
• Watching Sesame Street with you. Okay, that's more for me than for you.
• When you put your forehead to mine and do your trademark squeal.
• Our private time together just before you go to bed.
• Hearing you say, "Mama."
• How, when you smile, you use every muscle in your face.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

random thought #1

Okay, so I have what some might call a monkey mind. When you have a monkey mind, your brain doesn't stop. And while that sounds like that might be a good thing, I'm here to tell you, it's not.

My husband likes to call me "Brian Fellows" as in the character on SNL who daydreams about monkeys getting married or some such nonsense when he's supposed to be listening to the person he's interviewing on his show "Safari Planet." That's totally me. When I ask for directions, it goes something like this:

DIRECTION GIVER: Take a right at this stop sign, go three miles down Acme Street, at the second stop light you'll see a Burger King, then, take a left....

I nod my head along in agreement as if I'm following everything Mr. Direction Giver is telling me. But here's what follows:

ME IN CAR: "Hmmm, okay, take a right at the stop sign... um, now what?"

I like to think of myself as an "idea person." Because when it comes to ideas, I have lots of 'em. But rarely do I anything about said ideas. Sometimes they're not really ideas, per se -- more like random thoughts, like this one. Ladies and gentlemen (or Ed), I present you Random Thought #1 (cue music, enter dancing girls stage left):

You know when you see gang graffitti on stuff? This is what I wonder: How do all gangsters learn the gang-style penmanship? It's always in the same gangy-style font. It doesn't look like an easy style to replicate freehand -- must take lots of practice. Is there some kind of gangsta-writing class members must attend to learn this style? Is learning it part of the initiation?

That's all. Stay tuned for Random Thought #2....

Monday, November 21, 2005

how can something smell so disgusting and so awesome at the same time?


Before he was born, we bought little e an Uglidoll named Target. We used to amuse ourselves by imagining that this would become his favorite thing -- the thing that he couldn't sleep without -- his lovey. As it turns out, we think that it has and we are in fact, amused. See, this doll is indeed ugly. It has one eye, fangy teeth, malformed limbs and hairs growing out of its chest -- not the kind of hairs you'd find on an actual hairy chest, mind you, but the kind you find growing out of a mole.

The boy took a shine to Target almost immediately. Maybe it was the fact that we rubbed him all over my body to get my scent on him or perhaps it's that his horn-like ears are conveniently sized approximately to that of a nipple. When he's ready to sleep, Little e simultaneously clutches Target in his arms and rolls over ear-in-mouth and begins to suck. Poor Target's ears have already become quite crusty from this nightly ritual, so I decided to buy another: Target II Redeye. Target II Redeye spends the nights in our bed. Target Originale spends the nights in little e's bed. Then, when he wakes up for his early morning feeding, he gets a little Target time in our bed too.

Now, both Targets have had their fair-share of mouth time. And after a good number of nights in mouth, you can just imagine what their little ears smell like. Not so good. In fact, pretty putrid. Yet, every night, I still find myself pulling Target II close to me, sniffing his ears. And while the smell would probably cause others to wince, I can't imagine a more perfect scent to send me most peacefully and happily off to sleep.

Friday, November 18, 2005

pointing out inconsistencies

A while back, it was brought to our attention that it is the job of a mother to point out her child's inconsistencies. "What? You don't like it?? I thought you LOVED taco pie..." "What are you doing wearing red? I thought GREEN was your favorite color?!?!?"

While it can be most annoying for the person whose inconsistencies are being pointed out, it is nonetheless, quite necessary for a mother to do. I know because our little boy has been nothing short of a string of inconsistencies lately. And it is now my job to point them out:

"Why are you crying? You LOVE taking baths!!"

"You used to sleep until 5 a.m. What are you doing waking up at 3 a.m.???"


And just to make matters more fun for the husband, not only do I point out the inconsistencies, I have to FIGURE them out. So far I've developed the following hypotheses regarding his erratic sleep:
1. It's the new cd
2. It's his lack of fresh air (given the crazy turn in weather, he hasn't gotten his normal walks in with the dog)
3. He's a) too hot b) too cold or c) too hungry
4. All of the above
5. None of the above

Guess you could say motherhood has really made me an over-achiever in the OCD department.

Monday, November 14, 2005

grumpmaster funk

We're going on a week now that the little boy is uncharacteristically grumpy. What is it? A new tooth? Tight diapers? Something we said? What gives with all this crank? All I know is this. The Happiest Boy on Earth™ is now the not-so-happiest boy on earth and we're hoping it's not his new personality brought on by the fact that he's now crawling. Now he's got places to go, balls to throw and noses to buzz. And he can get little frustrated when he doesn't get there fast enough -- or HE'S NOT DELIVERED THERE fast enough.

Tonight, I'll share this at ECFE class. Maybe someone will have a suggestion to fix him and he'll be the happy boy we knew and loved. Bring him back. Please.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

life with a pointer


"What, you wanna go buzz Conan O'Brien's nose? Okay, here we go..."

"You wanna see the thermostat? Well, alright..."

"What's that? The Cookie Monster magnet for the 400th time? Sure, coming right up..."

DAH!

At nine months little e has developed quite a vocabulary. His favorite word? Dah.! Yes, it's true, our boy is one letter away from being Homer Simpson.

Dah can be a very expressive word, used in many contexts. He clenches his fist and belts out a big "dah" for emphasis. The other day he exclaimed, "Dah!" and then punctuated it with a fluffer for effect. We often engage in dah-offs that go something like this:

Big E: Dah!
Little e: Dah!

Big E: (in whisper) dah
Little e: (in whisper) dah

Big E: (long pause) DAH!
Little e: (long pause) DAH!


You get the idea. Some of his other "words" include:

"Word": Bhuuhhh
Translation: Blue

"Word": Spuooghhhhh
Translation: Spoon

"Word": tzzzzzzzz
Translation: Lights

"Word": tzzzzzzz
Translation: Star

"Word": Boughghb
Translation: Boob

Friday, November 11, 2005

jumping on the blogwagon

Okay, so it appears I've started a blog -- me and everyone else and their grandma. Why did I start one?
a. I don't expect to keep it going very long. (That's right, set those expectations low and you, too, can lead a life of pleasant surprises when things turn out okay.)
b. I don't expect anyone besides the husband to read it -- and he'll only read it when he's bored at work.
c. I don't have a very interesting life that makes for good writing fodder.
d. It's not like I have surplus of time to kill.

I guess I decided to do this because I always thought it would be cool to keep a little journal of little e's milestones and funny things that he does. Cause man, the kid does some funny shit. And with a memory like mine, I'll be lucky if I remember what he does past tomorrow. Then there's the fact that I'm not really the scrapbook-making, journal-keeping kind and this is a great work procrastination device (like I need one).

So here I go. Look at me, I'm a blogger. And these here are my blogging rules:

1. Don't talk about the blog. (You know, it's like the minute after you tell people you're on a diet when you find your face in a big-ass bag full of Doritos.)
2. Don't delve too deeply into private life. Sure there are bloggers out there who do that with finnesse -- and that's why they have lots of readers. I don't want to reveal too much about myself in the event that I ever have a reader. I'm a woman of mystery.
3. Don't stress too much about writing. I want this to be fun, not a writing assignment that invites critique.

That's all I have for now. Now back to work.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

l'air du hope

Last night as the family Hernandez made our way to the polls, there was something familiar in the air. Smell that? What is it? Maybe it's hope.

At about this same time last year, we were hoping to change the scary course of our country -- I don't know, when so many other countries hate you, don't you have to take a step back and ask yourself why? Alas, turns out there was a good number of people out there who were actually okay with our president's first-term performance -- so much okay with it they said to themselves, "Ah, hell, that wasn't so bad, let's give him another four years." Go figure.

This won't be a place for regular political commentary -- there are so many people who can do a better job of that than I ever could. But sometimes I can't stop myself. I'm crazy that way.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

rubber ball convulsions

Today at Target we picked up a four-pack of mini rubber playground balls. After spotting them, little e went into something resembling little convulsions of happiness. He clutched them in his pudgy paws for the remainder of the errand, staring at them in disbelief. Afterall, what's not to love about mini blue, orange, red and yellow playground balls? We truly hit the motherload.

next stop: mensa

Yesterday at little e's class, we wowed them with tales of pointing. According to the teacher, pointing is a milestone that doesn't usually happen until much later. Pointing at 9 months? Incredible. Apparently we have a boy genius on our hands. Somebody call Guiness.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Blog: Day 1

Nothing to say.

Do you have to have something to say to have a blog?