Birthday Balloons

The punk had his first birthday last weekend. I never thought I'd be the type of mom to be emotional at the big life stages, but it was a bittersweet time for me. Having his birthday balloons by the Christmas tree brought me back to last year when he was 12 days old on Christmas, and we new parents were exhausted. I was still sore in several places (don't worry, I won't elaborate), and he and I were still working on getting the breastfeeding down to a science; I wasn't very good at feeding him in public so there was a lot of retreating to the back rooms while our family celebrated without us.

This year, his birthday was a very snowy day, just like on the day he was born. I remember that my parents had to turn around the first time they tried to make the 1-hour trek to the hospital to meet the little guy because the roads were too icy.

I think this Christmas will be a little less exhausting and a lot more fun. Maybe even as fun as playing with leftover birthday balloons with Uncle David...

No Title Necessary

Church

We attend church from 10:00-1:00. The punk usually takes his morning nap from 10:00-12:00. This is potentially problematic. But we have just had to figure out a way to make it work. This means that my man and I take turns sitting out of sacrament meeting every week. We arrive at church, and one of us takes a seat in the chapel while the other heads straight to the "mother's lounge" to give the little guy his bottle and let him sleep. There have been days when I resented this process because I wanted to enjoy the spiritual lesson along with everyone else.

But yesterday...

Yesterday I realized there was no where else I'd rather be than holding my baby, who will turn one year old in 6 days and quit being a baby, and smell his head and watch his eyelids flutter and feel him breathe. When else can I just sit for an hour with the punk in my arms, snuggled in his blanket? So for now, I am thanking my lucky stars that naptime coincides with church, and that I get to spend an hour holding my little guy while he sleeps. There's nothing better.

Christmas Greed

In order to kill an hour this afternoon, the punk and I ran some errands. We returned some shoes to Old Navy because he informed me he wouldn't be caught dead in them. And then we went to Target to search for an oval picture frame (which they didn't have; I bought a boring rectangle frame instead), and to peruse the toy aisle. He quickly found the toys that light up and make noise, and entertained the Friday crowds by dancing and bouncing in the aisle. He dances like Elaine from Seinfeld, except instead of sticking out his thumbs, he displays his pointer fingers and shakes his booty.

He chose the most expensive toy as his favorite, and we spent several minutes hanging out and shaking our stuff. Then, when it was time to go, this is how he felt about it.

Thank you, Target, for entertaining us this afternoon. And for housing a Starbucks.

Little Boys

Boogers and bruises and underwear heads...

That's what little boys are made of.

My Thanksgiving Story

Yesterday, as a tear trickled down my cheek while I watched Big Bird and the Sesame Street crew singing Sing A Song during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade (a song I used to sing with my youth singing group, Star Sounds, pictured below), I reminisced about my childhood Thanksgivings. It was always a holiday spent with family. Lots and lots of family. And I loved every minute of it. Bulging plates, piled high with the good stuff... and by the good stuff, I mean mounds of stuffing, piles of black olives, beets, and pickes, and maybe a small piece of turkey if it wasn't during the time right after my dad took me to visit the slaughter house filled with grotesque, hanging, skinless carcasses. I became a pseudo-vegetarian for a couple years after I realized meat was actually dead animals.

Anyway, Thanksgiving has always been a lovely, cheerful holiday... except for one year. I was young enough to still have baby teeth. My dad and I were watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV. When the Rockettes appeared, I was mesmerized. They kicked so high! Their legs pointed vertically to the heavens! Wow! So when Dad asked me if I thought I could kick as high as the Rockettes, I thought, "I am the most talented girl I know. Of course I can!" So I stood up to show Dad how skilled his oldest daughter was.

I took a deep breath in preparation. Easy as pie. Just kick that leg straight up into the air. And I heaved my leg upward, just like the Rockettes! And then I felt something bash into my face. It was my own knee! I had kicked so brilliantly that my knee hit my mouth, and I felt something small and hard land on my tongue. Yes friends, I had kicked out my own front tooth.

When I showed my dad the tooth, he burst out laughing. Then he called for my mom and they howled together at my horrible misfortune. I couldn't believe how uncaring my own parents were! I was humiliated and embarrassed. I thought I was going to look like the Rockettes with their long, straight legs, and instead I looked like a one-girl incarnation of The Three Stooges. So I went to my room and slammed the door.

The end.

P.S. That's me on the top row, left, with the side half-pony and thick bangs. I think the bow tie really brings the look together.

Mama Needs a Massage

I didn't appreciate how easy I had it before the punk started walking. Among the many phrases I've (calmly and sweetly) uttered this morning:

"No, little boys don't belong in the dishwasher!"

"No, we don't climb into the fireplace!"

"Ewwww! We don't eat apples out of the garbage!"

And, the classic, "I'm gonna get you... raaaarrr!"