Trick-or-Treat!

I decided to wrestle Mason into his costume one last time tonight, since it's officially Halloween and everything. It's always been one of my favorite holidays, so I couldn't just stay home and miss it. Trick-or-Treating was from six until eight, so at six o'clock, I strapped Mason Monkey into his stroller and we were off.

It was the perfect night to take a walk. For once, it actually felt like fall. I could smell the leaves and it was warm enough that Mason didn't even need a blanket. Instead of walking our usual loop, we walked down the side streets in the more rural areas. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I was pretty sure I wanted to take Mason to the door of at least one house. All the while I was walking, I was keeping my eyes open for that perfect house. I was peeping in windows searching for friendly looking people with their porch light on.

I watched witches and ghosts and Power Rangers run around on sugar-highs, moms following behind yelling, in vain, for them to slow down and walk. As I watched a four-year-old Super Man chasing his big brother and sister fly across the street and face plant into the concrete, I realized that that could very likely be Mason some day. Super Man's mom, already well-practiced at handling these sorts of dramas, picked up her screaming child without missing a beat and said something about his siblings taking all the candy if he didn't hurry. He wiped his tears, forgot about his injuries, and continued across the street as if nothing had happened. How did that mom do it? I think I would have sat down and cried.

Anyway, about twenty minutes into our walk I saw it. Looking into a big picture window, I could see a gray-haired old lady folding clothes or something on the couch. The porch light was on. I took a deep breath and prepared myself to go up the sidewalk. I'm not sure why I was so nervous. I guess I just didn't know what I was going to say. Clearly, Mason's too little for chocolate, and anyone that would give him chocolate would know that I was going to be the one eating it, but I just wanted a picture of him trick-or-treating for the scrapbook. Surely, this nice old lady would understand and would hold Mason while I snapped a quick picture of her handing him a bag of M&Ms.

That's when I glanced down at Mason and saw this:

Oh well, at least he kept Mommy from panicking about knocking on the door of a stranger. And hey, there's always next year. Happy Halloween, Monkey.

The Bald and the Beautiful

Mason was born with hair.. quite a bit of it, actually. But apparently, baby hair falls out and is replaced with new hair. Eventually. Mason's isn't growing back. Well, it is... just very slowly. Tonight after his bath, he got his first hairdo.

Here it is!


What? You can't see it? How 'bout now?

Monkey Business

I really wanted to make Mason's first Halloween costume all by myself, so I decided I was going to make a skunk suit from scratch. I'd done some research and I had a plan which included a big fluffy tail that I was going to make stand straight up with wire on the inside and a long stripe of white fur up the belly. It was going to be a pretty big project, especially for a girl who can't sew on a button (and actually has never tried) but I came up with the idea in August, so I had plenty of time, right?

Not so much. Time flies and I procrastinate. I ended up buying Mason's costume online. Oh well, he made an adorable monkey.

He loved it. He kept touching his big feet and chewing on his tail. The only thing was, this costume should have come with a disclaimer that said it sheds. Bad. Mason and I were both eating fur for the rest of the day. I found monkey fur in his diaper.

Snow Day

Ahh, Pennsylvania. October isn't even over, and this is what I woke up to this morning:

Now, I hate snow. Ideally, I'd want to move somewhere warm and come back to visit once in awhile, seeing the snow a couple times a year instead of every single day from October 'til April. But this year, it seems different. I mean, this was Mason's first time seeing the snow! Sure, it was only flurries, but I was super excited to take him out and show him what this white stuff was all about. I'm not sure he knew how to feel about it though. His little face scrunched up every time a flake landed on his nose.

I'm still not a fan of winter, but I'm realizing that everything is going to be more fun this year. Yes, even snow. Seeing his little face as he experiences everything for the first time is completely priceless.

"What do I care if icicles form?
I've got my love to keep me warm.."

Reader, Reader, Pumpkin Eater

Today, Mason and I read a little Halloween story. It was something about a baby in a cat costume searching for his pumpkin, and I think he liked it.



Needless to say, he had to eat the book, but he did wait 'til I was done so I'm pretty sure I have a reader on my hands.

After that, George and I carved our pumpkins. I remember last year when we carved pumpkins, I took my time and both of mine (I carved one for me and one for the cat) were perfect. This year, I had to rush a little and I ended up chopping off the tombstone in my haste. There are no pictures of the finished products because, well, there aren't any finished products. Someone got sleepy and had to go to bed.

Anyway, I couldn't really give Mason a knife and let him dig in... but maybe next Halloween. We didn't carve his wee little pumpkin, either, because that one is getting chopped up, pureed, and frozen. I found a recipe for a really good-sounding pumpkin puree, so if all goes well, his very first pumpkin will be his very first food next month.

So Mason just watched and seemed generally confused about the whole ordeal.

And then he had to eat the pumpkin. Anyone else see a pattern developing here?

Independent (But Only a Little Bit)

Mason did the darnedest thing this morning. I woke up to strange little humming noises that, in my sleepy haze, I wasn't able to identify at first. I looked at the clock and realized it was 7:15. That's a little later than Mason's been getting up lately, so of course I was surprised. I glanced beside me and there he was, wide awake, playing with his feet and singing to himself. I wasn't woken up with the usual grunts and kicks... he was singing, of all things. I've heard about this idea of babies entertaining themselves, but so far, it's been kind of out there with the idea of babies that poop once a week. It just doesn't happen in this house. I mean, he'll play on the floor with some toys for a few minutes without me there, but definitely nothing to brag about. I was so happy to have slept past seven, but still, he didn't need me as soon as he woke up? What was he doing without me? Was he going to get up and change his own diaper, too? I was seriously upset.

It all reminded me of this commercial I saw the other day. I can't remember what it was for but this maybe four-year-old little girl walked into the room and asked her dad if she could borrow the car to go to the movies or something, and when the camera flashed back to her she was a teenager. He gives her the keys and she leaves and an even younger little boy comes in and the dad asks where he's going. He grabs a jacket and says "work". I cried. You probably have to see it to get the full effect, but the point is, I'm just not ready for all that independence.

Then, it took over two hours to get him to bed (so far). I put him down for the first time at 7:30. He was just up for the fifth (sixth?) time since then, and it's 9:45. He's not hungry and he doesn't have a poopy diaper, he just wants me to go in there and cuddle him. He's still just a little guy and he needs his mama. I guess that means he's not planning on singing himself to sleep.

Whew.

A Mason Story

On May 24th, 2008, I was working my usual Saturday night closing shift at the Olive Garden. I was exactly two weeks away from my due date, and the time just couldn’t go fast enough. Work was the hardest part. I waddled around, night after night, on ankles so swollen I could see the indents from my socks for hours after I took them off. Not to imply that I could see my feet or anything, because I couldn’t. My belly was huge, bigger than any pregnant belly I’d ever seen. Maybe I just hadn’t been paying attention to pregnant women in the past, or maybe it's different when you're looking down on it, but I was pretty sure I was carrying the biggest baby that had ever been born.

I don’t remember much about that Saturday night at work. I remember that it was the first night that I had to leave a button open on my men's size large shirt. If I tried to close it the whole way, the button pulled tight, threatening to fly off and fling across the restaurant. I remember that my last table was a party of twenty-five or maybe thirty, and I remember that people at the table kept telling me “there’s no way you’re going to make it another two weeks”. I brushed it off; I’d been hearing that for months. After all, I was the hugest pregnant woman to ever walk the earth. Eleven o’clock rolled around, and as they were leaving I stood with George in the doorway to the kitchen. People were stopping, wishing me luck and handing me five dollar bills for the baby.

I counted my money (I know I made well over two hundred and fifty dollars that night – simultaneously growing a child and carrying around a tray full of food leads to some awesome tips) and George and I headed home. It was already midnight, but we decided to stay up and start painting some letters that spelled out Mason’s name for the wall of his nursery. I discovered my talent for painting and we ended up being awake until around three in the morning. For many weeks after, I thought back on that night and wished I had slept. It would have been the last good night of sleep I’d get for a long, long time.

I woke up at five to pee. Not unusual. Those days, I was waking up to pee five or six times throughout the night. At first it had been a pain to get used to, all that interrupted sleep, but at thirty-eight weeks in, I hardly even realized I was up anymore. I could stumble to the bathroom, pee, and get back in bed without even opening my eyes. This time was different though. When I woke up, I realized that if I didn’t hurry, I was going to pee the bed. I flew into the bathroom, running into the wall on the way there, and sat down just in time.

Relief. But the peeing didn’t stop. And actually, it didn’t feel like peeing. It took a minute, but I realized what was probably happening. I know my heart stopped beating for five seconds as the realization flashed through my mind. My first thoughts were of the dirty dishes in the sink and the half-painted nursery letters. My second thought was to wake up George. I waddled into the bedroom, pants now soaked from the water that was still flowing. “Baby? Umm, wake up? I think my water broke?” He woke up and we turned on the lights, and the water still flowed, but I still wasn’t sure that what I thought was happening was really happening. I mean, it’s not like I’ve had a baby before. It’s not like I really knew what this was supposed to feel like. Nothing hurt. There were no awful contractions. I wasn’t screaming in pain and there wasn’t a huge gush of water like there is in the movies. It was just a slow trickle, and aside from feeling like I was going to have a heart attack, I felt fine. I got embarrassed then; here I was, leaking all over the floor, and I was starting to think that maybe I was just peeing myself. Sure, it would have been a lot of pee, but after only two hours of sleep, nothing was really making sense to me.

By this time, George had gotten out of bed, shed a few tears, and was now aimlessly running around the apartment. I stood in the shower so I didn’t get the floor all wet and watched George take a bag out into the living room. He opened up the list of things I wanted to take to the hospital and was now running back and forth between the bedroom and the bag (which he’d put in the middle of the living room floor). He’d grab a shirt or something from the bedroom, run out to the living room, throw it in the bag, run back to the bedroom, and repeat. I was pretty much cracking up in the bathroom and asked why he didn’t just take the bag in the bedroom. I guess he did. I took a shower and tried to focus on contemplating my next move.

I got out of the shower, after maybe ten minutes, and George was sitting in a pile of papers on the bedroom floor. He’d somehow managed to find the paper from the doctor that said when to call the hospital. Number one on the list was “if your water breaks”. I called. Hands shaking, I talked to the nurse. I couldn’t remember my due date, my birthday, or my last name. She told me my doctor would call me back, and she did, telling me to come right in. By that time, George had finished packing my bag, called a cab, and had composed himself enough to inhale some kind of egg and sausage sandwich in the kitchen. I felt like throwing up. I still couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that I was about to have a baby.

When we got into the cab, the driver made sure to tell me not to have a baby in the backseat. Thanks, buddy, I’ll do my best. Really though, besides my wet pants, I really didn’t feel like anything was happening. I was waiting for contractions. They weren’t happening. I half-listened to the cab driver telling George about the day his kids were born. I think he said his baby was two (or maybe eight? twenty?) but I wasn’t listening; I was picturing myself giving birth in the backseat of a beat up old cab, the scruffy looking driver named Bob or Mac catching my precious baby and cutting the umbilical cord with his Swiss Army knife.

Luckily, we made it to the hospital before I started to get too worked up about about my fears. I’m sure I gave Buddy $20 for a $12 cab ride, but I felt bad that his seat was wet and I was too scared to wait for change. Time started to speed up then - the walk to the elevator, the elevator ride, and the search for the nurses’ station took seconds. Before I knew it I was in a hospital gown answering questions, being poked at, and then, finally, left to wait. I really didn’t think we’d have to wait too long. I mean, I was in the hospital and I was so ready for this. So, what, I'd have this baby by noon at the latest? Fine with me. I called my mom and dad and sent text messages to everyone else I knew. My mom was the first one to get there, it must have been eight o’clock by then and after laying in that bed for an hour and a half I was beginning to get impatient. The nurse came in and gave me some Pitocin to get my contractions going since I still wasn’t having any. I think we watched Clueless on the tiny TV that was mounted on the wall and took some laps around the halls. My dad and Kim showed up, and while we talked and laughed, the contractions started. At first, they weren’t bad. I was asked to rate them on a scale of one to ten (I ended up being so sick of rating my pain that day) and I’m pretty sure I started out at a three. Alright, this isn’t so bad, come on, Mason! But nothing happened. After a few hours of me feeling like everyone was sitting around, staring at me, my dad and Kim left to go shopping, and George and my went down to get some food. I wasn’t allowed to eat anything, but I promised I wouldn’t get too mad at him if he did.

When he came back, my contractions were starting to get worse. Obviously, I’d never had contractions before, and I was quickly realizing that they feel like someone is stabbing you in the belly, over and over again. But I handled it well - I guess I'd rate my pain at about a nine, thanks for asking - and there was no screaming, no sweating or cursing, nothing like what you see in the movies; I only cried a few silent tears when they came harder. Still, I was in a good deal of pain when George took his shoes off and was arranging his chair by me, getting ready to scarf down his delicious-looking hot dog and cheeseburger, while I munched, jealously, on my ice chips. Before he sat down, he apparently stubbed his toe on the leg of the chair. He hopped around, near tears, as I braved the contractions and mentally prepared myself to push out a baby. Somehow, George is still alive (the pain of his stubbed toe didn’t kill him, and neither did I).

After at least three hours of really insanely painful contractions, the epidural guy came in to give me the only thing in the world I wanted at that moment: the pain-relief I had been waiting for. I never looked at the needle, but George told me later how huge it had been. I could feel the point of it pressed against my spine and I closed my eyes, dug my nails into George and waited… until I was informed that I was supposed to push myself back onto it. Essentially, I was told I had to stab myself in the back. It was going to hurt and I had to bring it on myself. I’d never heard anyone say that getting the epidural was the worst part of the whole birth experience. Maybe they messed mine up, stuck it in the wrong place or something, but I can’t describe how much it hurt. Still, somehow, I did it. I’m not sure how, but I am sure that I swore and screamed and cried to the point of hysterics and then… nothing.

I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down. The nurse had to pick up my legs and put them under the blankets because I couldn’t move them. We’d all watch the monitor and see the line that showed the intensity of my contractions go up and up and I couldn’t feel a thing. The strongest ones I’d had yet felt like butterflies in my belly. As much as the epidural had hurt, I knew that for this kind of pain-relief, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I happily clicked the button that upped the dose, and finally, after being in labor for something like twelve hours, I fell asleep. I woke up a couple hours later, around seven o’clock, I think. George, my mom, dad, and Kim were all back in the room, talking and watching the race on TV. I started to feel a lot of pressure, even over the numbness of the epidural. I’d gone from two centimeters to six or seven, but the nurses were still convinced it’d be awhile. Of course, they were wrong. Within a half an hour I could feel pressure so intense I would have sworn he was just going to jump out on his own. I asked to be checked, and I could tell she thought it was a waste, since she’d pretty much just checked me. Within seconds of checking she realized she could feel his head and went to get the doctor.

Minutes later, at about 8:20 PM, my room was covered in blue sheets and my legs were shaking so hard I was holding them down, trying to get them to stop. The epidural had worn off enough that I could definitely feel what was going on down there, but I’ll skip over the gory details. My legs were up in the air and the doctor was commenting on my yellow toe nail polish and I started pushing. It seemed like it was taking forever, probably because I was so anxious and ready to meet my baby. We’d wait for a contraction, push, wait, push, wait… my mom was watching the race in between pushes and George seemed surprisingly calm. After forty minutes of pushing, the doctor said that if I didn’t get him out on my own, they were going to have to use the vacuum. Scared of the thought of my baby being sucked out of me, I tried harder than I ever thought I could – five minutes later, at 9:04PM on May 25th, 2008, my baby came into the world. They put him on my chest and I held him and that was it… I was in love.

He was seven pounds and twenty inches long. He had the cutest button nose and stuck his tongue out when he was hungry. Conehead and all, he was the most perfect thing I’d ever seen.

And five months later, he's still the most perfect thing I've ever seen. This was difficult to write because I forget how long and painful forty weeks of pregnancy and the sixteen hours of labor were. I forget the intense pain of the contractions and the only thing I remember with complete clarity is seeing my baby's face for the first time, smiling at him, and being so happy and thankful. I think the memories of the pain faded the first time he looked up at me.

Then:



And now:



Happy five months, beautiful.

Aw, Mom!

I almost skipped our walk today. It was cold again, but I went because I really believe that fresh air keeps us healthy. Going outside in the cold doesn't actually give you a cold. It's one of those old wives' tales that probably originated because we usually get sick more often in the winter... but we actually get more colds in the winter because we stay inside and keep all the windows shut and the air inside becomes more germy.

So I'm not cutting walks out of our bedtime routine quite yet. Instead, I'm going to keep buying Mason ridiculous amounts of warm winter gear and braving the elements in order to get us out of the house. But I have to wonder, if Mason could talk, what would he have to say about this?


While I reserve the right to dress my kid ridiculously if I want to, I have a feeling that the next picture expresses his thoughts on this hat.

Mom Hair Part Two

I went through with it. I cut off about eight inches of hair, the world didn't end, and Mason still knows who I am. Who would've thought? It's a little disheveled from working all morning, but you get the idea.


It might not be the most glamorous hair cut in the world, but it takes three minutes to blowdry, thirty seconds to put a headband in, and Mason has a (slightly) more difficult time pulling it out of my head.

Mom Hair Part One

When Mason turned four months old, my hair started to fall out. I guess it's a pretty common thing to happen after pregnancy and is a result of all the crazy hormone changes. But when I wash or brush my hair, it falls out into the drain in clumps; I've always had thin hair, so now I'm actually scared I'm going bald.

So today, at 2 o'clock, I'm getting my hair dyed and cut. Really short. A mom hair cut, if you will, in hopes that the end result will have my hair looking a little fuller. I'm scared. I actually had someone tell me yesterday that Mason wouldn't recognize me, so now I'm worried about that too (although I can't imagine Mason is truely that interested in my hair style).

Here's the mop in question:


And you can see my bald spots in this one:


Yikes.. Hopefully I can go through with this. Stay tuned.

My Pumpkin and His Pumpkin

Maybe next year, when Mason's old enough to pick out his own pumpkin, we'll take him to a real pumpkin patch and get his picture taken surrounded by big orange pumpkins of all shapes and sizes. This year, I settled for one tiny pumpkin from Walmart and a backyard photoshoot.






He wasn't at all interested in the pumpkin. Surprisingly, he didn't even attempt to eat it.

Baby Bear

I'm still dreading winter... and so far, I haven't been able to do anything to stop it's impending arrival. It's still only fall here, but fall in Pennsylvania usually means forty degree weather and sometimes even snow. We haven't had any snow yet, but it's too cold for me already. I'm not at all prepared to give up having the windows open, sitting on the balcony, or taking my evening walks with Mason. He loves our walks and so do I. Actually, I refuse to give them up. Not yet, anyway. So tonight, we bundled him up and headed out.


We kept stopping along the way; George and I must have felt his cheeks and hands thirty-five times over the course of a half an hour. They were warm every time. Really warm actually. I, on the other hand, was shivering in my jeans and hoodie... when we got home, I cuddled up to Mason to get myself warm.


I wonder if they make bear suits in my size.

Piano Man

I love buying new toys for Mason. It seems like every time we go to the store, I'm buying him new toys. The money that, long ago, would have went to shoes and skirts and Starbucks now goes directly into the "fun-baby-stuff" fund. I remember being so anxious for Mason to start to play.. one night George and I laid a six-week-old Mason down on his playmat and waited for him to do something. He layed there. We showed him the hanging butterflies and the tiger that plays music. He cried.

Now, he loves to play and it's so much fun to watch him explore and learn new things. It's as fun for me as it is for him. Maybe even more fun. I'm living my second childhood. So, what's my latest find?

A baby piano, of course.



He loves it. Loves, actually, is an understatement. It's basically the only thing he wants to play with... strange, especially since he can't even chew on it. But he gets so excited about the sounds it makes and the fact that HE'S making the sounds. A silly plastic piano is helping him learn about music, colors, and cause and effect.


Sometimes he gets so excited about the beautiful music he's composing that he drools all over the keys. I bet The Beatles started out this way.

The Sweetest Thing

I was exhausted last night after work, as always. Mason woke up sometime around 1AM... and I couldn't get him back to sleep. He was thrashing around, smiling at me, playing with the blankets and there was nothing I could do about it. Finally, around 3:30 I believe, he fell back asleep... in my spot in the bed. There was no where for me to squeeze myself in between him and George, and I didn't want to chance waking him up by trying to move him.

I ended up curled up on the foot of the bed.

Then, at 5AM, about an hour after I'd managed to finally fall asleep again, I hear his little whine. "Ohhhh, Mason.. go back to sleeeeeep!" Still, making noises. I crawled my aching body up to the top of the bed and looked at him. That's when I heard it.

"Mama".

Are you kidding?! All sleepiness was instantly gone with that word. I'm not sure if he meant it or not, but he said it. It melts my heart, just thinking about it.

Prepare for Takeoff

Mason loves this. Really, really loves it. He completely loses it if you hold him up in the air and jiggle him around a little. Unfortunately for him, my weak arms can only hold him up there for about 30 seconds. George can do it a lot longer, therefore, George has taken my place as Mason's new favorite person in the world. Whatever, I'm not bitter.

Besides the obviously sore arms, the airplane is even more dangerous due to the high probability of getting a face full of drool. Not that I mind. Drool doesn't bother me. It's just that I can't hold him up there long enough, so when it's just the two of us at home, he has to resort do trying to do the airplane all on his own.


Still hasn't been able to get off the ground though.

180

Just when I thought the inchworm was the coolest thing since baby giggles, he goes and does this.


That's how I set him down. And he's off!








The whole process only took about a minute and a half. I'm not sure exactly how or why, but he did it! Mason can now, technically, go somewhere without me picking him up and taking him there. I mean, he can't jump up and go take a bath or get a snack whenever he feels like it, but this is definitely a start.

I'm one proud mama.