I Hate Baby Books

And this is why I really have to stop at two kids. There is no way on God’s green earth that I’d somewhat fill out a baby book enough for Kid 3 not to feel like he got the short end of the stick.

(Yes, he–Little Harley. Or Bennett. Or Oliver. Or Thomas.)

If you had to give me the choice between filing my family’s taxes and filling out a baby book, I’d choose taxes every time.

Since I have a few hours to myself tonight–my husband is taking the kids out for dinner and playtime–I thought I’d fill in some details on Baby Girl’s baby book. She is 8 months old now, after all. As I flipped through it, I realized that I hadn’t listed any further details/entries since August.


I logged onto her online medical record and went through her old visit records to get info such as weight, head circumference, and length. Then I utilized the search function on the text messages on my phone to find out other info, such as when she first rolled over and cut her first tooth. I’ll have to go through my Facebook archive from my old page that I downloaded to get more stuff.

Then there is really random stuff that I have no idea how to answer. Like “The first toy I grasped was…” and “I blew my first raspberry on…” and “My first word was…” Just kidding about the last one.

I’m not sure that some of my entries are really what the baby book making people had in mind. Like this one:

And I now understand why my personal baby book didn’t have anything in it past the two-month doctor’s appointment. Who has time for that shit?*

For the record, I checked Little Man’s baby book tonight to see how I had done with his. His was lacking in just as much detail as BG’s. So there, it’s not just BG that I get the crappy mom award with. 😉

I’ll probably set an entire day aside soon and print out pictures for BG’s and fill out the rest of LM’s as best as I can. And then, after BG’s first birthday, once I’ve finished hers, I’ll hide them for 20 years, that way when I find them when I get old, I won’t remember what shit I made up and what was real anyway.

*Do not tell me that you worked 60 hours per week while nursing triplets full time and still managed to utilize 395 Pinterest Baby Book projects to get yours done in a timely fashion.


How to Avoid Sleep

Most of these tactics are only effective if you’re a baby (or toddler). If you do some of these when you’re older, then you might find yourself in more than a swaddle wrap.

1. Lick any and everything. That’s what clothes are there for, right? And when it weirds out mom or dad, bonus! But at least this has daddy making sure he puts a sure on before rocking you.

2. Talk and laugh. You know that you’re precious. More importantly, you know that we think you’re precious. So anything remotely cute elicits a smile, even if we try to hide it because we know that you’ll take it as your cue to double up the cuteness and not go to sleep.

3. Spit. This one is a new part of the routine. Little Man did a lot of things to avoid sleep, but he didn’t freaking spit on us. Spitting comes in two forms: spitting as one who dips would and spewing, preferably with a mouthful of milk. You find it hilarious. We did, too, at first.

4. Thrust about angrily. This happens when you’re finally beginning to realize that you aren’t getting out of this. So you glare at whoever happens to be rocking you and start trying to break free of your swaddle wrap.

5. Yell. This could happen during the thrusting or by itself. The cute babbling turns into what sounds like be cursed out by a baby. It’s kind of frightening.

6. Scream bloody murder. This is your last course of action–high pitch wailing. I’m surprised you haven’t caused our eardrums to burst yet. This one makes mom and dad really want to drink–preferably while rocking you, but we haven’t. Yet.

What this boils down to is a battle of the wills. This afternoon, my will was stronger.

(If I ever have another baby, I’ll NEVER ask the doctor if she’s sleeping too much or tell anyone what a great sleeper she is, ever. Don’t do it, parents-to-be. Just don’t.)

“So There You Go” – A Boy and His Stuffed Animal

Last night, I was playing with Baby Girl on the bed. Since Little Man had slept with us the night before, his favorite stuffed animal was on the bed, and I was using it to play with BG. Every time I would wave the stuffed dog closer, she would squeal and reach her arms out, then try to clutch him to put his ears in her mouth.

It was a lot of fun, and then Little Man entered and saw what was going on.

“That’s my dog,” he stated matter-of-factly, narrowing his eyes at his six-month-old sister, who looked at him innocently while slobbering all over the dog’s ear.


10 Reasons Why I’m Going to Suck At Raising a Girl

I came across a blog post on Scary Mommy today called 10 Reasons Why I’m Going to Suck at Raising a Girl. Let’s just say that this article spoke to me. When I first found out I was having a girl, I was terrified. Not that I have anything against girls, of course, but because I suck at girly stuff. It scared me to think that I might mess her up somehow because of this.

The writer of the post mentioned things such “I can’t wear high heels,” “I don’t know how to put on makeup,” “I don’t know how to braid,” and “I’m not sure how I feel about Disney princesses.”

That’s me, each and every one. I do have a few things to add to that, though:

  • Nail polish. No, just no. You know how some women complain about the nails painted by the non-dominant hand not looking as good as those painted with the dominant hand? Well, even using my dominant hand, it looks like they were painted by the other hand while it was shitfaced. As such, nail polish and I don’t mix.
  • Doing anything with hair. It’s not just braiding that gets me as far as doing hair goes–it’s everything. Don’t ask me to braid. Don’t ask me to do a cutesy side ponytail. Don’t tell me to put ribbons in it. Please don’t ask me to style hair–even with my best efforts, the end result with my hair looks like a hot mess. I could probably handle this, though:

  • Matching outfits. First, let me just say that I do not like little girl clothes. When I told people I was expecting a girl, a lot of women (who obviously don’t know me very well, despite being connected by DNA) ooohed and aaahed over the endless possibilities of dressing up a little girl. “The pink! The pink! The smocked outfits!” they screeched. It almost made my skin crawl because I don’t find hardly any of it cute. Since I would probably be reported to DSS by a well-intentioned family member for shopping in the boy’s department, I’ve made my best efforts at dressing Baby Girl in feminine, non-pink clothing. That said, when they don’t put outfits together for me in the baby’s department (the shirt/pants combo), lord help. I do blue jeans and t-shirts and now I’m supposed to look through shirts and pants of various colors to find something that matches? And heaven forbid I pair up the wrong shades of green.
  • Girl toys. I keep getting asked when BG will get her first American Girl doll. Um, she’s only four months old. The only thing she is capable doing with said doll is pulling her way-too-expensive hair out. I didn’t do girl toys when I was growing up. I liked superheroes and Ninja Turtles. That’s probably what I’ll do this time around, but outside of Frozen, I think most of the gender-specific toys for girls sucks. But hey, the next time someone asks about that doll, I’m gonna send this picture to freak them out a little:

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Even if I do stink it up when it comes to ribbons and crap, I will get a lot of things right–like teaching my daughter how to knock the crap out of a softball and how to love herself for exactly who she is (and if she is a girly girl, then I’ll do my best to learn and go with the flow).

Things My Infant Gets Away With That I Can’t

While we were at the Great Wolf Lodge, it dawned on me how much my three-month-old daughter gets away with that would be weird (or cause me to get arrested) if I did them.

We packed an adorable bathing suit for Baby Girl. Unfortunately, when we tried to put the top over her head, it wouldn’t go over. Baby Girl is on the small side, but she got her daddy’s head, which means we have trouble getting it through some shirt holes. As such, she could only wear her bathing suit bottoms.

There she was, kicked back by the pool, wearing nothing but bottoms, when I realized what would happen if I were to do that. At a minimum, I would be ejected from the water park for terrifying the children. And then I started thinking about all the things BG can get away with that I can’t.

Pass gas in public. Holy cow–BG lets ’em rip like a frat boy. And when she does it, people think it’s adorable (assuming it’s obvious and my husband and I aren’t getting blamed again). If I did that? Well, looks of disgust would be in order. And as bad as BG’s gets, someone would probably suggest that I see my doctor.

Sleep everywhere. Yeah, babies sleep a lot, and people think it’s precious (especially if those people are the parents and it happens at night).

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Now, if I were to fall asleep in public? Well, if I had a kid with me people might be slightly understanding (although the majority would ring up DSS). Sans kids and I get “She’s wasted. At two in the afternoon. Call the sheriff and have her thrown in the drunk tank.”

Wear ridiculously comfortable clothing. Have you felt a piece of baby clothing lately? No wonder they can sleep so much (sleeping at the appropriate times may be another matter)–that shit is comfy! Onesies, rompers, one-piece pajamas–all that stuff is much more comfortable than what I wear on a daily basis, and I’m a t-shirt and jeans girl. Since how this would look is obvious, it doesn’t need an explanation as far as public perception goes.

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Crapping themselves. Since this is an anonymous blog (I hope), I don’t mind putting this out there–my husband pooped himself once. Our friends parked half a mile away from the restaurant, and on the way back, his taco burger caught up with him. Watching him run down the boardwalk while clenching his cheeks simultaneously had me in hysterics. And after we finished laughing and caught up with him as he was leaving the bathroom, we noticed a smell. Needless to say, it was time for him to grab a newspaper to sit on in the car and leave. We thought it was funny, but a few others noticed and you’d have thought he was a leper from the way they reacted.

A baby, on the other hand? They get “Ooooh, someone made a stinky!” in an insanely high-pitched voice. I know my husband must be slightly jealous–no one ever smiled at him and asked about his stinky.