I have nothing but a million completely valid and acceptable excuses for my absence. So, as an apology, I’ve uploaded a Cinco de Mayo coloring book I made for my son out of clip art and whatnot. Feel free to take it with no strings attached*.

Except that by downloading, you agree to forgive me…forever…for any and everything I do wrong. Ever again.

I got up at 6:30 this morning to have a little me time. Thanks to the crushing guilt that overtakes me whenever I think of wanting one moment of doing something that doesn’t include my son, I rarely get (or ask/accept) a moment that doesn’t include The Boy in some way or another. So, the husband did me a solid by sleeping in an extra couple of hours with The Boy (that selfless man’o'mine) while I checked my email, drank some coffee and cleaned the living room. You heard me right, I used my “me” time to clean the living room. (At this moment, my 18 year old self is screaming, “What happened to you, man? You used to be cool.” To which I would respond, “Shut up! Go back to your drinking your rum punch and partying all night and being 400 many pounds lighter and having no responsibili…skank.”)

We spent the rest of the morning arguing about what should and should not be covered with marker and paint making Valentines. His latest artistic obsession is, “TRACE HAND! TRACE HAND!” So, before taking the time to think, “Huh, these are Prismacolor markers…and the last time I got Prismacolors on my hand, I contemplated using them for tattoos. Maybe this isn’t the best idea seeing as how, you know, the marker is red and matches the blood perfectly.” Instead, I yanked the top off the marker as quickly as I could so as to stop the screams of, “TRAAAAACE HAAAAAAND, MOMMYYYYYYYYYYY! TRAAAAAAACE HAAAAAAAAAND!” And managed to cover the edges of his fingers in blood red, super-staining marker ink which, even after a multitude of washes, still looks like I let my kid play in a paper shredder. Which should make for interesting conversation at family dinner tomorrow.

“What blood? Oh, that. Yeah, we were letting him play on a rusty pile of cans and compost when he fell over and tore his ear off. We just stapled it back on. It should stop bleeding eventually.” If my next post is complaining about the ever growing cost of bail, you’ll know what happened.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

As I mentioned in my previous post, Ben was all about trying to nurse at the fireworks show. I dressed for the occassion (as I always do) and was very discreet (as I always am) whenever I did nurse him. Unfortunately, as is the luck with Eric & I at public get-togethers, we ended up seated next to one of the loudest and most annoying families in the entire park.

They descended upon us after we’d already chosen our perfect spot in the grass. The kids were wrestling, popping those confetti bottles with no regard for the baby (my luck at parks sucks) and one of the dads kept yelling, “I LOVE AERIAL BOMBS! WAIT TILL WE SEE THE AERIAL BOMBS! MY FRIEND BROKE HIS FOOT SO HE AIN’T BEEN HUNTING…FOR AERIAL BOMBS! I’M GONNA DRINK BEER WHEN I WATCH THE AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMBS!” Then proceeded to run in a circle screaming, “BOOM BOOM BOOM” and peeing on the lesser men in the audience.*

So, at one point, I’m nursing Ben and I look up just in time to catch the aerial bomb dad trying to catch the eye of the other dad by wiggling his beer at him. He then proceeds to smile knowingly, wink and nod in my direction. He caught me glaring at him just then and averted his eyes immediately. I shot the same look at the other dad just in time to catch him turning his head to look at me. Yet another eye aversion.

What the hell is up with that? Seriously. If you’re giving me the “hey, something dirty’s going on over there” look, then why not oogle? Is it because I look like the kind of girl who’d kick your ass? Or because you know you’re a raging idiot for trying to sexualize just knowing my baby’s nursing? Because, Lord knows, you couldn’t see any skin. I had clothing surrounding every possible side. Or maybe it was because I said, very loudly, “Oh yeah, because me feeding my son is totally more annoying than your kid screaming at the top of his lungs.”

*Actions mentioned in this sentence may or may not have happened.

Despite being late, forgetting my camera, screaming and cursing all the way back to get my camera, parking a mile away, realizing we forgot the stroller and schlepping a 40lb diaper bag that entire way, Ben’s first 4th of July went pretty well. He did very well until the fireworks started and then his day of napping protest caught up to him. He went between wildly wiggling his arms at the fireworks, cheering along with the little girls behind us (they’d say “WOOH!” he’d say “GABADABABADAAAAAA!”) and trying to rip my shirt up while screaming at the top of his lungs.

At about the height of his “I’m dying! DYING!” freak out, a father walked behind us with his very unhappy son. “Look! Look at the fireworks.”
“Noooooooo, daddy! I don’t WANNA look!”

For a moment, I thought Ben was speaking and I was shocked. I mean, with the amount of f-bombs and sailor talk that was flying out of my mouth on the way down, I expected something a lot more creative than that.

Newport, Rhode Island, 1901. “The Manger. Experimental portrait showing values of white against white, featuring a young woman holding a baby.” 8×10 dry-plate glass negative by Gertrude Käsebier. View Original

Who fed me from her gentle breast
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.
~Anne Taylor

My beautiful son,
I’m watching you cruise across the old recliner to get into something you’re not supposed to and, in the midst of getting up to run and grab my work planner away from you, I’m stopped by your giant smile. You drop the planner and come crawling at me as fast as you can. My sweet, wonderful boy, you’re the reason I get to celebrate today. Thank you so much for being part of my life, part of this family. I love you.
Mama