Hairy Situation (NOT About Genitals, Relax)

Awhile back before I got pregnant, Jeff and I found ourselves with a lazy weekend afternoon. We put our heads together and decided on three goals: get high, have sex, and cut Jeff's hair.

The sticking point was: what order to do them in? It was the very definition of a high class problem. Or, OK, maybe a low class problem. Certainly the problem of a childless person who didn't know how good she had it. But a problem nonetheless.

It seemed unwise to get high first and then take a pair of scissors to my husband's head. But then, who wants to have sex with little hair cuttings falling all over the place? Luckily, once we were high we were too lazy to do the haircut. Pot has a way of making everything seem less important than watching YouTube videos and eating Wheat Thins.

Even though his mop remained shaggy, Jeff dodged a bullet. The one and only time I had ever cut human hair I accidentally snipped off a piece of my friend Charlie's scalp. In my defense, I think I was high at the time. (Oh, college.) And my Jem doll's circa-1991 buzz cut did little to recommend my styling skills.

So you can imagine my abject horror when last week, Jeff grabbed S.'s rattail and demanded that I snip it off.

See, our son came out of the womb with locks to rival Liberace's, a trait he gets from his dad:

Jeff at 2 months; S. at 3 months (in his badass passport photo--hey TSA, someone doesn't give enough of a fuck to sit up straight. Or to sit up, like, at all.)

But after a few weeks, it became clear that our S. was not only probably the president of the Hair Club For Babies, but that he was cultivating what could only be described as an Extreme Mullet.

I feel confident in classifying it as "Extreme" because the traditional mullet, as everyone knows, is "business in the front, party in the back," while S.'s was decidedly a party at every angle.

I blanched at cutting my son's hair for three reasons, aside from the aforementioned sucking at cutting hair in general:

1. Since S. is uncircumcised, it would be the first thing anyone snipped off of him, ever.
2. (Okay, except for his fingernails, which will soon be Edward Scissorhand-ian seeing as I cringe every time I wield the baby nail clippers. It's like playing Operation, except that if you miss, instead of getting that freaky buzzing sound you chop off one of your progeny's digits.)
3. I always want Jeff to keep his hair shaggy and he ALWAYS cuts it against my wishes, and S.'s is the only head of hair in the household I have any control over (mine doesn't count, due to its fondness for settling into a triangle shape and, lately, falling out in clumps).

Still, no one wants a baby who looks like 80s-era Richard Dean Anderson (KIDDING, obviously--everyone secretly wants that), and so I amputated the rattail. Based on my handiwork I expect Frederic Fekkai should be contacting me shortly...

Before and after. Bald spot not my doing.

... maybe to cut the ribbon on his next salon opening with a pair of oversize gardening shears.

Hairy Situation (NOT About Genitals, Relax)

My New Boss

I don't know about this job, you guys. My boss just farted and grinned, and then demanded that I feed him instead of continuing my Lost marathon on Hulu Plus. (I'm picking up a lot on my second viewing of the series, like: Why doesn't Kate have a mustache? I know they had food and water and a shower in the hatch, but unless the Dharma Initiative air-dropped some Jolen bleach into the jungle, homegirl should have some facial hair by season two. Also, that the best way to tell someone you would like them to stop talking is to hit them in the face with the butt of a gun.)

Anyway, back to this boss of mine:

He has vomited into my cleavage. More than once. He passes out all the time, often on top of me. The other day he licked my shoulder. He grabs my boobs whenever he gets the chance--other people's boobs, too; like Honey Badger, he don't care. He soils himself constantly and expects me to clean it up. He insists that I carry him everywhere. In the middle of a conversation he'll start crying. When he's not drinking or sleeping, he spends most of his time staring at lamps.

You know, I'm starting to think that he doesn't have much experience in upper management.

P. to the S., y'all: Any readers in the Brooklyn area should check out Momma C's art show at the 440 Gallery!It's called Imagined Light: Memories of Rome, and is on display through February 19.

It should be noted that in all of my 31 years she has not once pooped through her onesie and onto her bouncy seat. Some people are classy. Ahem.

My New Boss

Does This Baby Make Me Look Fat?

So, we all know that it's a bad idea to pose for a photo with a supermodel or Tropical Miko, Beautiful Island Friend of Barbie. If we do that, we are basically asking to look trollish in comparison.

But nobody ever warned me not to pose next to a baby.

Last weekend we gave S. a bath, and then I took a shower, which is the real shocker. Feeling impossibly fresh and clean and pure, I allowed Jeff to capture the Precious Moment on camera.

Even his tits are bigger. Sigh.

Little did I know that by posing with my son I was essentially stepping in front of a funhouse mirror. Here is how you will look through baby-colored lenses:

Baby: Skin as creamy, unblemished and soft as top-shelf Brie.
You: The discolored leather used to make knockoff handbags at Payless.

Baby: Clear, piercing eyes.
You: Rheumy, pink orbs speckled with dust and--probably--Oreo crumbs.

Baby: Adorable button nose.
You: Lumpy, sun-stained and blood vessel-blossomed schnoz that is at least twice as big as when you last checked.

Baby: No teeth.*
You: Crumbling, wine-splashed reminders that it's been a year since your last cleaning.

Baby: Chubby little hands with dents for knuckles.
You: Horrifying geriatric hands with pulsating veins and giant, arthtritic joints.

Baby: Smooth temples.
You: Crow's feet that NASCAR could use for its next superspeedway track.

I've learned my lesson. When you look back through your albums, son, this is why Mommy isn't in them. Don't let Daddy claim she was too busy pooping.

*Actually, S. ALREADY HAS A TOOTH. And another breaking through. At THREE MONTHS. This is what my bagel-stealing** hath wrought. Also I just found out I have hyperthyroidism, so I didn't actually lose the baby weight because I am genetically blessed, or because Jesus loves me and wants me to have more cheeseburgers.

**Yes, I am going back today to give them the money. I don't need this on my conscience, or on my karma. DO YOU HEAR ME, BAGEL GODS? I AM SORRY, OKAY???

Also, yes, I know this photo is fairly adorable. I just have to be self-deprecating; it's my spirit animal. You understand.

Does This Baby Make Me Look Fat?

The Bagel & Schmear That Ruined My Year

I'm pretty sure 2012 is doomed for me, and not just because of the End of Days as predicted by the Mayans (way to be a bummer, Mayans, ending things on December 21, just before Christmas but not until AFTER I will have bought everyone's presents--can I redeem my AmEx points from hell?) and potentially saved by receding-hairline Lloyd Dobler (I never saw that movie--what happens?)

No, my year has been karmically fucked by a bagel with a schmear.

See, yesterday Jeff and I went for a jaunty New Year's Stroll, accompanied by our Adorable Spawn. I'm sure we looked like a slightly downmarket J. Crew ad--something you would find in a crumpled Sears catalog your dad keeps in the bathroom next to the toilet. Anyway. The world was our oyster, and then we went to Bageltique Cafe.

I know. I KNOW. I had no business eating a mound of dough that puts on such ridiculous airs. BagelTIQUE? Are we en France? Are we wearing striped boater shirts and carrying baguettes and putting curly little penises on our lowercase c's? (Incidentally, my neighborhood also has a restaurant called La Bagel Delight). So that was my first mistake.

My next mistake was thinking that the universe owed me a free bagel. It was around noon the morning after the annual holiday most likely to end in excess drunkenness, ill-advised make-out sessions and ugly crying, and so even though Bageltique was out of everything bagels (it really IS the end times, y'all) the line was long with bleary-eyed twentysomethings eager to gulp down weak coffee and danish in the hopes of filling the pits of their stomachs with something other than regret. The guy behind the counter was taking orders at lightning speed. I think he thought someone else was ringing up customers. But no one was. So a team of three (no doubt hungover) guys were killing themselves to make food that no one was paying for.

I know. I KNOW. I'm an asshole.

I thought they would take my money when they handed me our breakfast. But no one did. And at first I thought, Free bagels! What a good omen for the new year! Sure, it's no everything bagel. But it's something!

But then it dawned on me as we continued our walk, noshing on our Euro-chic boiled rings: That was not a good omen. That was my test.

If I had given the harried Korean man my $5, I would have had a good year. If I had been a good Samaritan and told them they were giving all of their food away for free, then I would be writing this post from the deck of my yacht, to inform you all of my book deal and unseasonably good hair.

But as soon as I realized my misdeed, the baby woke up and started crying, I spilled coffee on my coat, and I'm pretty sure I felt a chin hair sprout.

There's no hope for me; save yourselves.

Happy New Year.

The Bagel & Schmear That Ruined My Year

Another Failed Video Blog, But This Time With MORE BABY

Like more cowbell, it's never a bad thing.

Another Failed Video Blog, But This Time With MORE BABY

Liquid Capital

As of this week, I have a new get rich quick scheme: breastmilk faith healing.

Hear me out.

Remember my wonky red eye? Well, my mom--who is kind of a hippie homeopath but who also has freakish Demi Moore-like skin even though she currently qualifies for Medicare, and therefore whose beauty advice I trust implicitly--was all, just put some breastmilk in it. So I did. The process wasn't pretty--it involved a shot glass and a woeful lack of hand-eye coordination--but it worked. Now all I want to do is set up a tent outside the Port Authority and squirt breastmilk on the lame, making young children toss aside their crutches and do somersaults.

Tiny Tim just needs a tit.

My other revelation of the week: I finally know why there are pockets on baby clothes. S. has all of these cargo pants and T-shirts with functional pockets. It's not like the baby has any socket wrenches or fountain pens, and even if he did, the only thing he can manage to do with his hands is accidentally hit himself in the face while sleeping. So up until today I assumed the pockets were for surreptitious drug smuggling (for shame, Baby Gap). But wait! This afternoon, after eating, S. vomited directly into the breast pocket of his striped onesie.

Form meets function. Slow clap.

Liquid Capital

Two Posts In Two Days? PSYCH.

Don't worry, I haven't left Jeff and the baby and escaped with a box of wine to a La Quinta Inn with free wireless. This post is service-y but fun. Like a hilarious prostitute!

The amazing Momma C was interviewed on Babble, dropping her expert knowledge about childbirth. Go learn about whether you can have an orgasm during labor, and why it hurts so effing much (the labor, not the orgasm--which you're not going to have, by the way. Spoiler.)

Also, I've been posting over at Aiming Low (I get paid for it, hence my prolificness [sub-parentheses: Is that a word?], don't hate):

In Defense of Scrooge
Killing My Inner Child, One Christmas List At a Time
How To Fail At Sleep-Training Your Baby
FUPA: The Owner's Manual

You've got to admit it's a nice break from my whining about motherhood, though. Think of this as your own room at La Quinta. You are welcome.

Two Posts In Two Days? PSYCH.

All I Want For Christmas

Hey y'all, I'm back! Sorry for the radio silence, but I got a bacterial infection. On my face. I didn't realize that could happen, either. THE MORE YOU KNOW.

It started with a really busted-looking eye. On Thanksgiving my left eye turned redder than Santa's rosy butt cheeks and everyone kept telling me I looked exhausted. The next day it started oozing. Jeff suggested that I might have pink eye, and when I laughed him off he gently reminded me that someone who handles another person's feces all day AND who has a penchant for dramatically rubbing her eyes to communicate just how many kittens she would drop-kick for a decent night's sleep might have a pretty good chance of getting poop in her peepers. He also pointed out that using a bed pillow as a nursing pillows might be getting fecal matter all over my entire face, but if that's true it has also cleared up my postpartum acne, so I'll turn a blind, disgusting eye, I think, to that theory.

I've also not had the best week. We took S. on his first car trip, to Jeff's homeland of Massachusetts for a wedding, and ten minutes into the drive I realized that I had neglected to bring the head support accessory that saves your baby's head from turning around, Exorcist-style, in the event of an accident. Being the McGyver wannabe I am, I fashioned an impact-absorbent ring around my son's head using sweatpants from Baby Gap. But then the panic set in: HAD THESE TINY LEISURE PANTS BEEN CRASH TESTED??? I made Jeff go 20 as I cursed myself for being a bad mother.

Later, after we made it to the Worcester Marriot, our eardrums shattered from the brain-bending screams that result from strapping an infant into a confined space and then deigning to get stuck in weekend traffic, I made the mistake of giving our wailing, gas-afflicted son gripe water. Gripe water is basically just fennel and ginger extract, and is supposed to calm colicky babies. But S. was having none of it. After feasting only on my Twix- and root beer-flavored breastmilk for ten weeks, he was unable to appreciate the subtleties of homeopathic herbs. Which is to say, he gagged and then promptly projectile vomited into my cleavage.

Which brings me to my 2011 Christmas list, much simpler than those of years past:

1. I want to not have puke in my hair all the time, like it's my new product (I thought I was past that after the night in college when I mixed vodka, Mountain Dew, and independent film), and while we're at it, I want a retractable ponytail a la the 1971 Growin' Pretty Hair Barbie so that my adorable spawn cannot twist my locks into his death grip whilst screaming directly into my ear.
2. I want someone to weld a bassinet onto a Roomba so that S. can sleep in perpetual motion while the sediment of two months worth of take-out is simultaneously removed from the living room rug.  
3. I want to be able to wear a shirt that does not pull down easily to expose my boobs. I had no idea how constrictive a postpartum wardrobe is. You don't fit into your old pants, and all tops must be flasher-friendly. Oh crew neck sweaters and underwire bras, how I miss thee. 
4. I want to be able to wear any shirt--even matronly nursing tops--without putting yarmulke-like breast pads on my nipples to avoid those ever-fetching milk stains that mark new mothers like wet, twin bullseyes.
5. I want to be able to regularly eat foods that do not come packaged in convenient bar form, and that do not have to be cut up and fed to me while I bounce on a giant ball and half-watch Community (fudge excepted).
6. And despite all of the petty bitching above, I want to be able to spend forever just being in the company of my gorgeous, charming, magical, cleavage-vomiting son. 

Yes, I know, puke. Literally and all over your heart. Did you like that kamikaze dose of Christmas cheer? More's a-comin. As soon as I fit in a shower.

All I Want For Christmas

How Does Any Parent, Anywhere, Ever Get Anything Done, Like, Ever?

So, remember when I used to get all stressed out and announce all dramatically that I had to take a break from blogging, because doing half-assed As Seen on TV! workouts and keeping track of all of the various Gossip Girl plot lines simply took up all of my free time, and doing all that plus writing about my pubes on the Internet was about to just push me over the edge?

Ha. Ha ha ha ha. Hahahahahahaha. Oh, hindsight, you are such a sanctimonious asshole.

Before I had S., I imagined that the days of my maternity leave would be full of long, languid stretches of baby nap time that I could spend reflecting on motherhood, thinking up funny things to say about it, and regaling you with stories that would catch the eye of some book agent who would sign me immediately for a debut nonfiction bestseller, Mother Eff: Getting Through The First Year Gracelessly.

I thought that at the very least writing one post a week would be easy. But S. has other plans. I have, I am learning, what some might call a "high needs baby." He sleeps restlessly. He cries easily. He eschews Mary J. Blige's call for no more drama. Look, I love him forever and there are a few hours a day when he is a sweet, gurgling charmer, but a mellow baby he is not. When he gets really worked up, Jeff and I have taken to quoting from Say Anything:

"You must chill! You must chill! I have hidden your Firebird keys! Chill!" 

He doesn't get it.

The first thing people always ask is if he is sleeping. And the answer is, it's complicated. I mean, yes, he sleeps, but he prefers to sleep on my body, and does not enjoy being removed from the warm embrace of my spit up-stained sweater. If I wait for about twenty minutes, sometimes he will stay asleep when I gingerly transfer him to the bassinet like I am holding a live--and irritable--bomb. But most of the time he will instantly wake, giving me a look that says, "Bitch, you did not just do that." And then he will cry.

Even on my lap, his sleep is not always sound. If, for instance, he falls asleep nursing and then loses his vise-like grip on the nip, a violent Stevie Wonder-like head bob ensues, accompanied by a shrill wail. "WHERE IS MY NIPPLE?!?" he seems to say. "WHERE THE FUCK IS MY NIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEE?!?!?! SHAKESPEARE CAN GO FUCK HIMSELF, FOR THIS IS REAL TRAGEDY. THIS IS TRUE PAIN." Other times, I will move ever so slightly, or Jeff will cough, or a flea somewhere in the country will softly sigh, and he will startle, and we'll have to start the sleep process from scratch, bouncing wearily on our giant exercise ball.

This is all a long way of saying that I have about ten minutes total during the day when I have free use of both hands, and if there is a muffin anywhere in the vicinity the blog is screwed.

On Thursday, he is two months old. I am told it will get better. Please hang in there until it does.

Lucky for him he's cute.

How Does Any Parent, Anywhere, Ever Get Anything Done, Like, Ever?

Of Mice and Very Small Men

There is a mouse in my house.

I saw it for the first time last Friday, while I was nursing S. and watching my fiftieth consecutive episode of Mad Men. I closed my eyes and hummed and stayed in my rocking chair until Jeff came home... forty minutes later.

I saw it again--or thought I saw it; it was a corner-of-my-eye kind of thing--on Wednesday, and immediately left the house under the pretense of getting a latte. S. was my unwitting accomplice.

It had been well documented that I am terrified of rodents. If Carrot Top giving me an erotic massage is my 10th circle of hell, my 11th is the hallway at the Museum of Natural History which is part of the "North American Mammals" exhibit but which I have alternately christened "The Hall of Rats." It's literally a bunch of rodents tacked up to the wall. (Granted, they're behind glass, but seriously, anyone with a hammer and some nails could do this at home.)

Anyway, I don't know what to do. Most days I spend 6 hours alone in the house with no one to protect me from four-legged critters but a tiny man who spends most of his time vomiting on himself and smiling toothlessly at walls. Moving, according to Jeff, is not an option. Any tips that don't involve just growing a spine? I'm thisclose to ordering an anvil and some sticks of dynamite from the Acme Corporation...

P.S. For those of you not sick of baby posts, I wrote about failed sleep-training over at Aiming Low. I may or may not call my son "the world's greatest cockblock." (He totally is.)

Of Mice and Very Small Men