You're like a time bomb, baby.

Mason hung out with his cousin Haylie the other morning. Haylie's almost a year old, so she was definitely curious about Mason... but he was generally apathetic about the whole situation.

I always try to push it and see how many pictures I can get in before he cries/screams/tips over. And do you see the look of indifference on his face? It's like he's thinking to himself, "I will be patient with mommy while she takes three dozen pictures. I will not scream or cry yet, and out of the kindness of my heart I will give her approximately thirty more seconds... then she's done for". My sweet, patient little man.

30 seconds to meltdown...

16... 15... 14... 13... 12...

3... 2... 1...

My kid has the saddest sad face I've ever seen in my life.

Look, Mom!

The thing I miss the most when I'm at work is giving Mason his bath. Two or three nights a week, I miss out. He loves it, especially when he's in the big tub rather than his baby tub. He splashes around and we sing... but now Mason's learned a new trick and, inevitably, he does it as soon as I lay him down in the warm water.

He definitely knows that when he pees in the tub I'm going to take him out and drain the water and fill it back up with clean water before I put him back in. He knows I won't wash his hair in pee. But see that guilty look on his face? I always think he's sorry... until he's done and he gives me a big smile and just cracks up.

In other news:

Yikes.

Why I need to win the lottery

I want to quit.

I hate that I'm gone eight hours, come home and Mason's already sleeping. By the time he wakes up it's been fourteen hours since I've held him. I'd hate it if he was up all night, waiting for me, unable to sleep, but I really hate that he can fall asleep without me there. It hurts a little bit.

I'm only two days in to this whole working thing and I'm so ready to choke someone with my stupid tie. I just really miss my baby.

Back to reality

I did it. I went back to work today.

After being at home for 88 straight days, leaving Mason was hard. More than hard. I walked into the Olive Garden in tears. Luckily, it was pretty busy, so it actually went kind of fast. But I forget how to do it. I ran around for five hours like a headless chicken. I forgot if there were onions in the arrabiata sauce or on top of the shrimp primavera. I didn't know what kind of beer we had. I had no idea there was such a thing as a chicken flatbread.

And I stumbled over all my words. Where the phrases used to come easy ("Would you like cheese on that?" "Coke, Diet Coke, Cherry Coke, Sprite, Dr. Pepper", "Care for a complimentary sample of our house red wine?" "Blah, blah, blah") I completely forgot what to say. Instead, I offered cheese on top of iced tea, dessert before the meal, and tried to card an 80-year-old man.

It appears that all I know how to talk about anymore is poop. I'm unable to have a conversation with adults. And that's fine with me. I was miserable at work. And then I came home, changed a poopy diaper, had a 20 minute conversation with Mason in "goooo"s and "abbahhhh"s, and felt completely normal again.

This is reality.

Chicken

Mason slept all the way to Wilkes-Barre Monday morning, where he went swimming for the first time and hung out with his great-grandparents. I'm not sure how he felt about the pool. I think he liked it. I mean, he was kicking his little feet and splashing... and he wasn't screaming or anything. He seemed really brave. I'd call it a success.

From there it was off to Knoebels, where he slept through his first ever train ride and won a giant puppy.



For three nights in a row he didn't get to bed until 11. His routine? Completely shot. I lugged him around all day at a crappy amusement park that he isn't old enough to enjoy and he barely made a peep. He was a little angel. The funny part about the whole trip wasn't Mason though. It was me. I've never been scared on a ride. Ever. I love rollercoasters, I love heights, going fast, everything. But when I got on those giant swings all I could think about was the chain breaking, sending me flying across the park to my death.

They aren't supposed to be scary. There were 10-year-olds on them with me. But I walked off those swings with my legs shaking, hands red from grabbing the chains so tight, holding back tears. I didn't want to make a big scene, but I felt like grabbing Mason out of his stroller, kissing him, and showing him that I was still alive. It was even worse after the rollercoaster.

Hopefully someday I'll be able to get on a ride again without silently composing my will in my head and worrying about who's taking care of Mason if I plummet to my death. And I hope Mason never finds out that he's way braver than Mommy.

The kid's got skills!

This past week, there doesn't seem to be anything news-worthy aside from the accomplishments of Michael Phelps. He's on the front page of all the papers and he's all they talk about on the news. Don't get me wrong, six (seven?) Olympic gold medals isn't something to be over-looked, but honestly, I'd like to know what else is going on in the world. Then, I thought about how Michael's mom must feel. I'm sure she'd never get sick of seeing her little boy on TV.

It seems like everyday now, Mason learns something new. A few days ago, he realized that his hands weren't the only things he could put in his mouth. Now, he's chomping on everything he can get his hands on. Sometimes it takes a few tries.


But poking himself in the eye won't stop Mason from trying again!


And again..


Finally.. success!

As of yesterday, he can roll. The first time, I wasn't paying attention. He got up on his side and it was like he was waiting there 'til I was watching. As soon as I looked at him he rolled the rest of the way over. He's done it four times, and I can't begin to say how proud I am. Here he is, mid-roll.

If only pictures had audio... you'd be able to hear me screaming like a crazy person. I'm feeling what the mom of a gold-winning Olympic athlete feels. They don't give gold medals for rolling over, but they should.

So I guess I'm a little more tolerant of all the fuss over Michael Phelps, since that could very well be Mason in 20-some years. I'll be the mom screaming in the stands, who'd never get sick of seeing my baby all over TV. Remember this face, you'll be seeing it again in the 2030 Olympics.

Bye bye, beautiful.

In less than a week, I go back to work. I always knew it was going to happen, I just don't understand how it happened so fast. I had about three months off of work. That's a quarter of a year. Sometimes an hour of trying to get an overtired baby to sleep seems like six months, and when he's really crabby the days seem like years... but the happy, smiling baby days outnumber the crabby, screaming baby days by so many, and those happy days go so quickly. Still.. how did three months pass by like they never really happened?

I feel like it's ending, even though I know that's crazy. I feel like Mason isn't going to need me as much as he does now or he'll need me so much and cry the whole time I'm gone. Either one sounds awful. I know I have to go back.. we're broke and babies are expensive. But I'm clinging to this last week. I don't want to put him down. I want to tell him what's going to happen so he won't be blindsighted. I keep telling him that I'm just going to be at work and that I'll only be gone for a few hours but I know he doesn't understand.

I google everything. I always have. So of course, I'm googling things like "coping with returning to work", "back to work transition after baby", and "how to not feel so devastated about leaving your baby that you want to stick your head in the oven". Nothing's helping. The advice they give: get lots of rest, visit baby on your lunch break, and make sure baby is with a responsible care-giver. Duh. There's nothing about dealing with the guilt I feel from leaving him or the way that my heart breaks when I have to be away even for three hours to go to counseling once a week.

Honestly, what's bugging the crap out of me is that stuff I learned in child development. Piaget and his damn object permanence. He pretty much said that infants, up until they're nine or so months old, have no concept of what he calls object permanence. When something disappears from their view, whether it's a toy or a person, babies just think it's gone forever. What a depressing thought. Thanks, Piaget. You help moms everywhere realize that as soon as they walk out the door, their babies forget they ever existed.

I always have something witty to say, but now I'm at a complete loss of words. Things are going to change, and I'm really not liking it.

But I wiped your butt..

As soon as you have a baby you start understanding your parents more than you ever could otherwise. My mom must have stayed up with me all night long, just like I've had to do with Mason. I probably threw up on her. She wiped my butt. Honestly, I've never really thought about it before. I guess I pictured my mom giving birth to a fully funtioning, self-sufficient 10 year old child.

That was always my mom's line. The butt-wiping thing. When I was 12 and started being all modest and not wanting my mom to be in the room when I was changing she'd bust out her line: "I've seen you naked already, I used to wipe your butt". Or when I wanted to spend the night at a friend's house or eat ice cream for dinner: "Stop bothering me, I wiped your butt". I guess I just laughed. I didn't realize all that the "butt-wiping" entailed. I didn't know about the lack of sleep and the poop and the throw up. Ugh. The throw up.

I'm sure I'll probably use the same kind of logic with Mason some day. He clearly should always listen to what I say because I stayed up all night and did this or that or the other thing for him. So when I say no tattoos, he'd better not come home with one. I have three... and only now do I understand why my parents said, "please don't get a tattoo". It's because they took care of my perfect little baby skin. They put diaper rash cream on me and they cried when they cut my finger with the nail clippers. But Mason will probably get a tattoo anyway. By the time he's old enough, they'll be piercing their who-knows-whats. And he won't understand why I said no until he has a baby.

And so on..

Mobility

No, we don't have any. Not yet anyway. But Mason's seriously so close to being able to roll from belly to back. He lifts his little head up and pushes and pushes but he just can't move. So frustrating, I'm sure.


I put him on the floor and watch him struggle and I cheer and act like a nut and he laughs at me which just makes his little Pillsbury arms collapse.


It's crazy how excited I am for him to roll over. I think it's mostly because the doctor said he might be a late roller since he's so chunky. I feel like my baby can definitely prove her wrong. But after he can do that I'll be waiting for him to sit up and then crawl and then walk. The only thing left after that will be driving. Ultimate mobility. Maybe I'm not in such a hurry for him to roll over.

Anyway, I'm getting real buff from carrying around 16 pounds of baby all day. And I'll carry him anywhere he needs to go until he's 18, if he'll let me.

The perks of being a mom

I think that now that I'm a mom, I have the right to embarrass Mason at any given time.. and I reserve that right for pretty much the rest of his life. When his hair gets long enough, I'll probably give him a little mullet. At the very least, a rat tail. I'll run up to him on the playground in front of all his friends, lick my finger, and rub syrup off the corners of his mouth. I'll make him wear sweater vests for picture day. And I'll definitely show pictures like this

to his first girlfriend.

Accomplishments x2

This is what we've been doing the past three nights before bed:

It's not the best picture because of the difficulty of juggling a book, a baby, and a camera, but it's still pretty clear that the kid loves to read. Look at him eyeing up those Sneetches.

Then, there's this:

Look who found his hands!

I'm so proud.

I'm just the narrator

Last night Mason and I took a walk, the purpose of which was to get him to nap for a little while. It was 6pm, he hadn't slept all day, and he was just not happy. Usually he's sleeping before we get out of the parking lot of the apartment complex, so I strapped him in his carseat, drug him and the stroller down the stairs, and we were off.

Of course, he stayed awake the whole time. It was the first time we were outside for a long period of time when he wasn't sleeping in his stoller, and he's big enough now to see over the sides. I had brought my Ipod, but I left it off this time so I could talk to him. I told him what everything was, and why these things were happening, and where we were going while he looked around, eyes wide. He stared up at the sky, the trees, a dog, the birds flying over him... and I realized it was because he was seeing everything for the first time. Everything is new to him.

I tried to see everything the way he was seeing it. I tried to pretend I hadn't seen the sky before. I couldn't.

He's lucky.

Smarty-pants

My earliest memories are of bedtime at our house in Forty-Fort, reading in bed to my mom or dad. I guess I was around four. I could read long before I ever stepped inside a classroom, and my love of books just never stopped. It continued all through elementary and high school. My sophmore year, when I took a creative writing class that consisted of all seniors, I realized I was a pretty good writer, too. I went to college to be an English teacher. I'm not a huge fan of TV; there are a few shows I like, but it's usually just on for background noise... and I'm not crazy about movies. Instead, I love books and I'm fascinated by words and language and the emotions that go into writing something really great and powerful.

So of course, I want to instill these values in Mason. I want him to love to read and write, like I do. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'd be disappointed in him if he didn't love it, but I want to be able to share with him the books I loved as a child and still love today. We'll start out with Dr. Seuss and Walt Disney and move on to Hemingway and Faulkner.

Which brings me to last night. Mason has a pretty simple schedule at night. When we follow it he tends to sleep better, so I sleep better, and everyone is happier. At 8:30 I take him in for his bath, I let him splash around for awhile, he's clean and happy by 9:00, and then he eats in bed with the lights off. At 9:30 I can drop him into his bassinet and he's out. Last night I decided I'd get out my favorite Dr. Seuss book, The Sneetches. I thought we could throw five pages a night into his routine, after his bath, before his feeding. Even if he can't understand the story, he likes hearing my voice and the pictures are really colorful. So I started reading and he started squirming in my lap. Okay, maybe three pages a night. Then he started to fuss. Just let me get through the first page. But I hadn't read the whole first sentence when he really started to cry. He didn't want to read... he was tired, hungry, had to poop, and wanted nothing to do with this sneetch business.

I was more than a little disappointed when I put the book away and fed my crying baby. Maybe it's impossible to instill the love of reading in a ten week old baby.

But that won't stop me from trying again tonight.