It’s a Dog Toy, People.

Let’s face it. Come to terms with it. There’s nothing wrong with it, really. The kid likes it, right? That’s all the matters. But the truth is…


It’s rubber. It squeaks. Sounds like a chew toy for the ol’ mutt, doesn’t it.

Photo credit: Amazon

Well, belovers of this antique french giraffe.



Those French sure are smart.

Picture it. Not Sicily. 1961. Somewhere in Paris. You know the inventor was just sitting there. Little wedge of brie. Little glass of wine. Reading philosophy* or some crap. Little Pomeranian by his side. Gnawing on a little rubber pork chop.

He hears the kid cry in the other room. The wife went to the market. The nanny was off duty. The kid was teething.

Not knowing what to do – hey, this was back in the day and you know most dads couldn’t do shit – he frantically tried to find the solution to make this infant shut its yap.

Bottle? Nope.

Blanket? Mais non.

Cuddles? LOL French men don’t cuddle.

In throes of fury he yanks the pork chop from the Pom, shoves it in le bebe’s facehole.

Yikes. But baby noms. Baby is happy. Baby bites down.

Sqquuueaaaaaak. Baby squeals with glee.

Well. That sure did the trick now, didn’t it.


He knows he’s not the rightful owner.

He thought, “C’est bon! Let’s sell the shit out of this thing!”

And the rest, shall we say, is history.

Thankfully, someone had enough foresight into making it a cute little giraffe with a sweet little name. Otherwise babies across the world could be nomming on rubber pork chops or hamburgers right now.

Which actually would be sort of cute, though way less marketable. Although I bet they could have made Sophie the Steak work.

But yeah. Next time your kid is drooling on that thing, remember this history lesson. It’s a dog toy. And that’s okay. Just don’t let the baby and the dog share it. That’s gross.



* He could have been reading philosophy or…wait for it…philosophie. Huh? HUH?? Oh god. I am ashamed of myself. Big A must have wore off on me over the extended weekend. Apologies.


Crib Stains and Tear Stains

This post was written the evening of June 24 and scheduled to be posted June 25, but, well, this happened instead.


Little A is less than two weeks away and our nursery is just starting to take shape. Why, yes, we ARE a family of procrastinators! But it was a process to even get to this point. We are utilizing our old (ancient) bedroom dressers for the kid’s dressers, meaning we couldn’t move them into the kid’s room until we picked out our new furniture and had said furniture delivered.

In the meantime, I found a crib online that appeared to match the color of the now nursery furniture, ordered that shit up and we were on our way. I knew the crib color wouldn’t match exact with the dresser, bench and bookshelf in the room – since none of those matched each other anyway – but it looked to be in the same color family so it would suffice.

Old furniture was moved on Thursday. Crib came Friday. Our new furniture came Saturday. Big A cleaned out the nursery on Sunday. Me, being all antsy in the pantsy, was dying to get the crib out of the garage (and away from the keg of Yuengling from the weekend full of shenanigans, but that’s another story) and unpacked so I could verify the color selection.

The crib made the journey. I held my breath as the tape was cut and the ties released. Big A flipped it open. I frowned. It was less “light 1980’s Oak” and more “rich 2000’s Cherry”. Not. The. Same. Not even close. I mentioned, several times, that it was Amazon and free return shipping was available.


Big A stood firm. He tried to tell me that it was fine. BUT IT WASN’T. Besides, he is color and design impaired. I didn’t like the fabric with it, it did not look at all like the color online, I was frustrated, I wanted the room done, I was so excited to have this KEY PIECE of the nursery and I was sitting there, on the floor, totally disappointed.

I tried to fight it. I did. I tried wicked hard. I closed my eyes and tried to find my happy place. I knew it was not the end of the world. I tried to be zen about it. But the lip quivered. And the breaths started to catch. Then the tears welled up.

And I cried. And laughed. And cried. And laughed.

I knew I was being ridiculous. But I couldn’t stop. Big A laughed at me. I laughed at me. My mascara ran. I told Big A to shut up. I couldn’t help it. I was crying over a crib.

He left the room. Probably to roll his eyes and find something to shut me up. He returned with sandpaper. He RUBBED IT ON THE CRIB.

I accused him of doing that so he wouldn’t have to send it back. Which was probably true, to a point.

But when he sanded it…it looked closer to the 1980’s Oak I desired. Somehow, it removed the red tone, distressed it enough and looked better. Not perfect, but better.

And he asked if I liked it. I said that I did, but it wasn’t enough to warrant the time that it would take. I mean, cribs have a lot of slats and pieces and whatevers. It would take a fair amount of sanding.

He said he would do it for me.


I didn’t care if it was only because then he wouldn’t have to repack it all and send it back or if it was just to shut me up, but he was going to take the time to sand the shit out of that crib.

So, of course, I started crying all over again. Harder. Still laughing. But crying harder. Fat, happy crocodile tears.

And then about an hour later I went to hug him and thank him and I started crying again. I CAN’T HELP IT.

Oh, hormones.



Big A spent several hours away from the hospital in order to actually PUT the crib together so @#%$! baby would have a place to sleep upon discharge. He sanded the crap out of a hidden piece of it, only to discover it actually wasn’t going to work. But I am so over it now. More important things to worry about and all.


Coming to Terms

I’ll be honest here. With Big A back home my blogging motivation has plummeted – hate to see what it’ll be like when Little A arrives! I am also trying not to freak out about the amount of things that need to be purchased, built, arranged, washed, cleaned, organized, prepped, made, packed, installed, hung, mowed, read, polished, kicked, pwned, sterilized, bleached, moved, etc before said arrival.

Speaking of the little parasite (EPIC SEGUE), he is full term today at 37 weeks! So, that’s neat. But keep that on the down low, because I don’t want him to know that he is technically able to make his move – I ain’t ready for that yet. I’m still hoping he’ll pop on the 4th…but I was pretty much told at my appointment on Tuesday to expect to go late. I THOUGHT THAT WAS A WIVES TALE. Which meant I had to change my submitted last day of work from “set in stone” to “tentative”. Not cool, man.

Here’s a terrible picture from this morning, with bonus cat.

Yes, even with someone in the house to take pictures now I still have to resort to mirror cell phone captures.

Fetal Fruit Comparison: Winter Melon. Again, much like the durian comparison, unhelpful. I only know winter melons exist because of my time with Farmville a long time ago, but that doesn’t help me with the size visual. All I see is a cartoon farmer and a field full of pixels.

Feeling…Large: This little bastard’s getting heavy. He’s starting to drop so the pressure is increasing in the front and I don’t like it. No, sir. I don’t like it. I’ve gained about 22 pounds overall which is good (really good, considering the amount of junk food I’ve had a penchant for), but man, that creeping scale is a scary thing sometimes.

Rude Awakenings: Lesson learned and then forgotten until learned again the next day – one should not, in my condition, wake up, stretch and flex ones feet. HOLY MOTHER OF CHARLIE HORSES DON’T F’IN DO THAT. But every morning, I do it. #%^@fw!

LIKE A CHAMP: I only woke up to pee once last night (my current standard is three) and I felt like Rocky. The boxer, not the squirrel.

Jagged Little Pills: My nightly medicinal cocktail is wondrous. Metamucil, Tylenol PM, pre-natal vitamin, DHA and Zantac. I may continue while beyond pregnancy with this one. Healthy, regular AND drowsy? SOLD.

Speaking of cocktails: I could really use one.

Booty Popper: Much like his mom, Little A apparently has a giant rear and knows how to use it. Often. He’s booty poppin’ and droppin’ it like it’s hot all the time.

At least he’ll have one of my assets.

What Big A Doesn’t Know…May Shock Him

We are at the FINAL COUNTDOWN of Big A’s return and both of us are wicked crazy $%^@%3 excited about it. Even more so than when he was gone for eight months, at least for me. This one’s been tough, mainly because of Little A, obviously, but also because he had JUST finished a tour before going back out. But we had agreed that this was the best option – the other being leaving me alone with a newborn.

And that is a terrible idea.

When he left, I looked like this:

Week 17

As of a week ago, I looked like this:

Week 34

So things have changed a bit. Juuuust a little bit.

We had the following conversation yesterday (paraphrased because I can’t remember shit anymore):

AM: Ugh, this kid and his butt.
Big A: What do you mean his butt?
AM: Well, it’s either his butt or he’s got really big feet.
Big A: (doesn’t get it)
AM: Well, his head is down and to the right and his butt is up under my left ribs and presses out and I can feel it. It’s like the size of my palm. So it better be his butt or he’s got ginormous feet.
Big A: But…how do you know he’s head down? (He was also shocked I could tell body parts)
AM: Because the doctor told me he was and I can also feel his hiccups right above my right hip, where his face would be.

He’s in for it the first time he sees the alien wave of fetal movement from across the room. Because that’s some scary shit right there.

Side story about hiccups: A few years ago a coworker was pregnant and the fetus got the hiccups and made her belly jump. It was the first time I had ever seen a belly MOVE ON ITS OWN and I definitely ran from her office, down the hallway and back to my desk screaming. In heels. Fast forward and here I make my own semi-uncomfortable-with-the-idea coworker put her hand on my stomach so she could feel them. Her reaction was less intense than bolting down a hallway, but I still creeped her out. And I was proud.

I also told Big A it’s now a race between him and my belly button. I don’t know if it can stay an innie until his return. We are edging closer and closer to the turkey timer territory.

Which is quite nearly literal. He is almost fully baked.

I hope he comes with stuffing. Stuffing is my favorite.

Parenting According to Big A

So I’m a little hopped up on (approved) cold meds and fruit juice and was just energetically ranting and raving to Big A about all the stuff we have to do and learn in a short time. Having never really dealt with babies and hearing a lot of semi-horror stories, I was not buying into his tale of all-they-do-is-eat-sleep-and-poop. BUT WHAT IF I DROP HIM OR MESS HIM UP SOME HOW?

His cool-headed response?

“You know how many idiots raise babies? All we have to do is keep it alive. He won’t be a douche because we aren’t douchebags.”

Words to parent by. Thanks, honey. I feel better already.