What We’re Reading Now

Mary Bullock is a girl with opinions.

She gets this from her father.
Not that I don’t have opinions–I do. It’s just that [maybe because I was a youngest child and my household sway was minimal] I’m just as likely to say ok to whatever anyone else feels strongly about.
Law & Order marathon for the seventeen bajillionth night in a row? Ok. [Just for instance.]

But whether its a genetic inclination or a first child phenomenon, she cares about all sorts of things, including her books. The ones she’s loving now are a mix of pleasure and pain for me, the reader, but I’m slowly gathering that pleasure and pain are going to be the running theme of her coming third year of life.


It rhymes. It has cute animal pictures. And it glorifies my role in my baby’s life.

It also provides MB the opportunity to say super cute stuff– like uppy duppies!! for whoopsy daisy. I like it when she says super cute stuff.  Kind of makes the whining more bearable, if you know what I mean.

Then there’s pleasure and pain in combination:

I actually love this book. The only part that gives me pain is the glimpse into my future seen here:

Dear Lord, please don’t let MB ever decide she’ll wear nothing but a polka dot blankie. This is not a battle I can win, and there’s not enough wine in this world to make up for it. Amen.

And then, of course, there’s purely pain:

Yes–this is a Where’s Waldo kids’ meal book from Wendy’s. If we’re being honest, she requests this book about as much as anything else on her bookshelf. She’s not too bad at it, either. But this book sends her normally kind of cute Uh-DAT???? questions into another stratosphere.  One page, for example, has about forty dinosaurs on it. And she must know what each and every one of them is before the page is turned.

As much as I dislike Where’s Waldo, reading with MB is high on my list of Birthday Things, and I know one day, years and years from now, when she’s too old to snuggle up with before bedtime, I’ll miss even this.

Zucchini Bread

I wonder things like this all time:

Who was it who first looked at a zucchini and said: You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take this vegetable, and I’m going to shred it. And then, I’m going to bake it in some bread.

I mean, really. Who thinks of things like that? 

 And then I stuff my face and remember: I don’t even care.

I may be losing my mind…

1. I realized this morning that the expiration date on Mary Bullock’s milk is September 18th, which yesterday I remember thinking was some point in the distant future. Like, next week maybe? And then today it dawned on me that that couldn’t possibly be true. A calendar check verified this. A smell check double verified. Ick. Sorry, baby.

2. I got into the shower this morning with my glasses on. And this was after 1.5 cups of coffee.

There is good news, however.

A. It’s naptime.
B. I DVR’d Glee last night. Oh yes.

Don’t bother me for the next hour. I’m re-programing my brain with teen melodrama in song.

I’ll mark that off the worry list

In Mary Bullock’s two years of life, there have been a few things that I’ve worried seriously about.

And when I say I’ve only worried seriously about a just a few things, I’m of course eliminating all of the mundane daily worries that crowd my brain, like food choices, sleep schedules, whining, and so on. I’m proud to say that though I’m a worrier by nature, I’ve managed [with practice] to relegate those worries to fleeting thoughts.

But some of the big worries have been these:

1. When to unswaddle. Mary Bullock was very nearly walking by the time we set her free of her Miracle Blanket. Ok. I exaggerate. But not by much. Really. I delayed making this decision until I had polled all of my mama friends, my mother, my sister, a thousand internet sites, blah blah blah. In the end, I gathered my courage, put her down without a swaddle, said night night, and she slept on as usual.

2. When to wean. She decided she was done-zo when she was nine months old and let me know by using her feedings to bite me. But she’d never taken a bottle, and the idea of weaning her to formula and struggling with the bottle only to wean her to milk in another three months just seemed kind of pointless. So again I polled my mama friends, my mother, my sister, and the same thousand internet sites. What can I say? I like to know exactly what advice I’m about to ignore, you know? And so I weaned her to whole milk. She didn’t starve, she didn’t become anemic or any of the other scary things I was warned about. In fact, my shrimpy baby gained weight and thrived.

Do you see the pattern?
I worry.
I poll.
I wait.
I finally, finally decide.
And Mary Bullock goes on about her business as though everything is hunky-dory.

So I’m not sure why I thought that when I finally made up my mind to have her baby hair cut, the result would be any different.

I was so sure she would throw herself on the ground in hysterics and accidentally have her ear sliced off.
I had pictured it in my head very precisely. Well, the scissor part. And the ear part. But not the blood part. I don’t like picturing my baby and blood.

And in the end, she sat in the chair with her Teddy Grahams looking very nonchalant, and in less than five minutes, all of my worrying was rendered a complete waste of time and energy.

I’m sure there’s a lesson here somewhere. 

But right now I’m worried about the gaggle of bug bite looking things on her leg, so finding the lesson will have to wait.
I have mamas to poll.
There’s google to consult.
And I might put in a phone call to my mother.
Just, you know, to see what they think.

Could be something serious.

A Postcard to Marissa

My hair stylist and my husband have been conspiring to have Mary Bullock’s hair cut for a few months now, and I’ve finally relented. But not without a few words of warning.

And P.S. Good luck! I hope you are still on board with parenthood after this.