Time For Your Update. It’s Okay If You Giggle.

Yoooooo. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? I know you missed me devastatingly so, and I figured I could give you a heads up on everything that’s hot on the docket and remind you that our $%$@!# Family does, in fact, still exist.

We’ve had a busy summer with trips to the beach, vacations to Minnesota, Colorado and Georgia, lots of visitors and a holy shit SECOND birthday. It’s also been filled with doctors appointments, wicked colds, lots of referrals to more doctors and about six boxes of Kleenex, both for tears and nose gunk. And a monkey cake. There was a monkey cake.

Everyone is healthy, though. Until we see more doctors. But no one is rushing these appointments, so I’m gonna stick with healthy. 

I had an amaaaaaazing self-experience trying to summit a mountain and I have plenty to share about that. But do you know what it’s like to climb a mountain for 12 hours and have stupid kid TV show songs in your head? Because I do.

No joke. These two songs. Twelve hours. It was worse than the actual hiking-for-12-hours thing. 



We totally watch Bubble Guppies though. And their stupid Mac & Cheese puns get me every fricking time.

So get ready for blogs about doctors, hiking, traveling with (and without) a toddler and a full update on the kid at 24 months. Get excited. Pour some bourbon. I’m You’re We’re gonna need it.

If I Made Mistakes, I’m Sorry. Just Tell Me.

Dear !@$!# Baby,

At your last doctor visit in January, we were told to schedule an appointment if you weren’t saying any true words by May or so. Well, buddy, we are mostly through April and you still don’t speak.

You communicate, for sure. You know and use the signs for eat, more, please, nap and poop. You can make the sounds of cars, trains (even though it sounds like a monkey), helicopters, airplanes and vacuums. You imitate dogs, cats, monkeys (even though it sounds like a train), birds, seals, ducks, lions, sheep, mice and bears. You know your head, ears, eyes, hair, chin, cheeks, mouth, nose, eyes, elbows, hands, knees, feet, fingers, hands, toes, belly and butt. You know what the five senses are. You can imitate snoring. You know when to clap your hands, stomp your feet or smile when a song tells you to. 

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Toughest Job? Nah, I Don’t Think So.

I saw “the ad” yesterday. Maybe the night before. And at first I thought it was sweet and almost shared the link. But I didn’t. And then I thought about it a little more. And then I rolled my eyes.

And at this point I know I’m not the only one that’s bitching about it or will bitch about it and I’m definitely not the best of the best that will bitch about it, but whatever. I feel like bitching about it and I already wrote it so I don’t care. 

If you are somehow blissfully unawares of the latest in viral emotional scams, let me assist you: Advertising geniuses ingeniously came up with a campaign that had real people interview for a fake job that had stupid, not to mention obviously illegal, work demands and then hit them with the SURPRISE IT’S MOM! shtick.  Continue reading


Photo Friday: Mama’s Little Toddler Muddy Butt

How’s THAT for a catchy title, eh?! So much for that one-post-a-week resolution; I missed like two weeks. But whatever, if I hadn’t said anything you would have probably never noticed. And if you DID notice, well, I pledge to you my undying gratitude and love. And applaud your devotion to this !$!@# failblog.

ANYWAY. Maryland saw waaaay more than it’s fair share of snow this season and while I for one reveled in the white glory, it is now beyond mid-$%@#$-March. Even I’m ready for spring at this point. The last of our recent fluke 6-inch snowfall melted yesterday, leaving behind a wonderfully destroyed yard of muck and mud. In which I wanted to stomp.

What can I say, my fraternity mud wrestling days are hard to leave behind! I’ve been looking for a pair of rain boots for Little A so we can stomp in rain puddles and I would have a reason to wear my polka dot boots, but have yet to find any for him. But today the sun was shining, the wind was blowing and there was a lovely little puddle next to our driveway that was just begging to be stomped in.

Can...can I touch it?

Can…can I touch it?

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18 months, 19 months, whatever.

Dear !@$#%! Baby,

As is tradition, we had your 18-month check up shortly after your 19-month of being alive anniversary. Because, clearly, we weren’t going to take you in on Christmas Day, which is your extremely awesome half birthday.

Lovin' life and his banana chocolate malt. The grilled cheese and turkey? Not so much.

Lovin’ life and his banana chocolate malt. The grilled cheese and turkey? Not so much.

Three months ago, there was starting to be some concern about your growth. Mainly that you weren’t really growing. We weren’t expecting you to go from the bottom of those percentile charts to the tippy top, but we needed you to not totally FALL OUT THE BOTTOM either. So for the past 12 weeks we’ve been shoving the most caloric and the fattiest of foods into your gullet. You want a big fat Five Guys burger? OK! You want mac and cheese? You got it! You want french fries? Super Size ’em! You want shakes and peanut butter and ice cream and cookies? Done.

You had a few good runs with veggies, including a month long obsession with broccoli. You chug milk like a frat boy with beer. ALL OF THE Goldfish Crackers are not enough Goldfish Crackers. And then you started doing the frustrating toddler games. Love something one day, hate it the next. Then I spend a week figuring out what you like now. And you love it for a week and throw it on the floor. All the while, you still aren’t gaining weight because you burn it off running around like the mofo tornado you are.

THE CAT STILL OUTWEIGHED YOU. It was a joke when you were born but now it’s getting sort of sad.

Teaching each other the Art of the Selfie

Teaching each other the Art of the Selfie

You grew upwards almost as little as you grew outwards. I was finally able to pack away your 9-month sized clothes. Twelve month pants are bordering on too short, but I’ll have to roll the 18-month ones up for a looooong time. Not to mention the pants that your non-existent belly can’t hold up, turning you into a Thug Life type pants sagger. HASHTAG HILARIOUS.

All that said, you only gained a pound so now you weigh the same as the cat. You grew half an inch so you’re gonna continue to be short like me. BUT apparently your height-to-weight ratio doo-daddy puts you in the 20th percentile for THAT so while you’re off the charts everywhere else, that is supposed to put my mind at ease and you’re totally fine.

You still aren’t saying much, aside from Dada, baba ba (bubble bath) and the occasional and frustratingly whiny mamaaaaa. You still spend way too much time with those stupid caveman grunts but you’ve at least expanded your auditory vocabulary to include what are meant to be car sounds, dog barks, vacuum noises and cat purrs. While your growth was a major concern, your lack of speech was a close second. And again, supposedly quelling my fears, I was told it was fine and not to worry unless you didn’t say a few new words within the next three months.

We didn't tell him we were there to get shots. And not the boozy-type.

We didn’t tell him we were there to get shots. And not the boozy-type.

Here’s the deal. Your first pediatrician was a young doc, fresh out of school, no kids of his own yet, and a little worrywortish, as it turns out. I liked him, he was nice (and pretty cute) and being a first-timer myself, I was fine with worrying. I was doing it on my own already. He had me concerned about your lack of growth and your “speech delay”. He ordered hearing tests and blood draws, told me to butter everything and left copious notes in your file. He left the office right after your 12-month check-up. Like RIGHT after. Like you were his last patient there, ever. A few weeks later, we were assigned to another pediatrician in the practice. This one was older, a woman, with children, and much more seasoned (read: less worrywortish). She all but deleted all of the notes left by Dr. Young Dude and told me on our first visit to not worry about any of it.

Which is basically what she did to me yesterday, too. Your weight is fine, your speech is slow to happen but not “delayed”, everything is fine. I don’t have to worry. FINE. But look, Dr. Youlady, I’ve been worrying for 19 months, thanks to Dr. Thatguy, I can’t just turn it off! So now I’m just worrying about not worrying enough.

Basically what it all boils down to is you’re doing awesome. I love your animated “conversations” when you decide to turn the grunts off; I love your bulldog kisses and your fist bumps. I love that Dada taught you the sign for poop in five minutes and you thought it was hilarious and that you say please by viciously rubbing your tummy. You still drive me nuts but I suppose you always will.

Love you, Crazy Face.