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.