Just Another Mommy Blog

Life with Chloe is a series of moments. I cherish these moments -- the first time she discovered she could rotate her wrist, the first time she blew a raspberry, the time she realized that baby in the mirror was her. She is becoming more and more interested in her world, and is making connections between everything. You can almost see her little mind working.

Sometimes I peak around the corner and watch her when she doesn't know I am there. I suspect I will always do that.

The other night, I peaked. Martin was playing his guitar. Chloe was watching him with wonder. She filled in the pauses of his music with music of her own. LA LA LA LA LA. DA DA DA DA DA. She couldn't take his eyes off of him. She was pumping her arms and "singing" along.

It was a defining moment. I stood there watching the two most important people in my life, and realized just how lucky I am.

Ah...Girl Scout Cookies. I have loved these yearly treats since I was a kid selling them. As a kid, my favorites were thin mints and those peanut butter sandwich ones. As an adult, I still love the PB ones, and also the caramel yummies. I can't remember the name off hand, but that's what I call them.

I get so excited for Girl Scout cookies. In January, I look up on the local Girl Scout website to see when the troops will be setting up in front of grocery stores just in case no one comes door to door. This year, the girl that sold to me last year called. Very resourceful, I think. I ordered 6 boxes, and they arrived last night.

I paid for them, I looked at them, and I stashed them away in the Contraband closet. All six boxes are sitting there with a box of Moostruck chololates I got for Christmas just waiting for the day I wean Chloe. It's not far off. When I am feeling desperate, I go double check the labels...yes, they still have milk in them, just like they did yesterday.

Ahhh...I can't wait.

Can I vent for a minute?

"Been There, Done That."

I hate that phrase. That has to be the most condescending, demeaning, unhelpful phrase in the English language. It's like the phrase is somehow supposed to show empathy by the teller, but really it's thinly veiled one-upmanship that minimizes what the other person is going through.

It really irks me.

So, another weekend went by, and we still have green walls. They are the color of mint chip ice cream without the chips. I am so tired of this color, and I was really excited to paint.

Mother nature had other plans. It was the coldest it's been all winter this weekend. If we paint, we have to vent out the house. The fumes aren't a big deal to Martin and I, but we'd like to preserve Chloe's brain cells, at least until she hits the first grade... Anyway, venting the house requires opening the windows. Below freezing temperatures would freeze our toes off, and would be too cold for the paint to dry.

So, we bagged it, and went out to breakfast, and to dinner, and shopping, and other assorted errands.

Better luck next time.

We are not the best when it comes to home improvements. Before Thanksgiving, I decided I wanted to paint the front room, and Martin decided he wanted to paint the floor in his "domain" (read: the room in the basement with a door that is perpetually shut so as to hide the stellar organization of his toys, files, tools, keg, and who knows what else). We bought the supplies for both projects. Three months have gone by. The front room is not even started, and the domain...well...

Martin cleared a corner of the room to see what the paint would look like. He painted that corner and realized he had poured too much paint. Of course, he didn't want to waste it, so he proceeded to use it by painting around everything that was sitting there. So, now there is an inch of old concrete floor around everything, down to a box of files that had been sitting in the middle of the room. If you moved everything out of there, you could probably play hopscotch in the markings on the floor. It's been this way since Thanksgiving.

This weekend, we are taking Friday off, and Monday is a holiday. Our plan is to paint the front room. Between me and everyone who reads this blog, the plan is actually to have Martin spend some quality time with Chloe while I paint the front room. I'll let you know how it goes.

I have always been a freak magnet. There was the guy in the dog park who told me he'd never get his dog chipped because it was big brother's way of finding him. There was the lady who stopped me on the street when I was 8 months pregnant to tell me how she used to sell her breastmilk to her doctor in exchange for medical services. (A lot of people tell you a lot of weird things when you are pregnant, but that is another post entirely.)

I am the person people always choose to talk to on an airplane.
People sit next to me on park benches when there is an empty one close by.

Why? I have no idea. Here is what I do know: Chloe amplifies the magnetic force by a thousand times.

Today, we went on a walk. Just me and freak magnet jr. It was a nice sunny day, unusually warm for this time of year. We went to the bank, and a nut job struck up a conversation with me. First, he hit on me with a really bad line about me and Chloe having beautiful eyes. Why on earth would this guy hit on a woman sporting a wedding ring, a spit up stained shirt, and a 7 month old baby?

Have you ever noticed that time seems to stop when standing in line at the bank or post office? All I wanted to do was deposit a check and get on with my errands, and this guy was talking my ear off. He asked me about my future reproductive plans (really, none of his damn business), and went on about Johnny Jumpers and some wired CD image projector thing on eBay.

I eventually got out of there, and I thought, you know, even as a very happily married woman, I usually enjoy those rare moments I get hit on (and I laugh about them with Martin)...they add a little sass to my step and make me feel like I've still got it. Today though, it just made me feel worse. He wasn't exactly Brad Pitt, and definitely not the sharpest tool in the shed. I was wearing old faded jeans, muddy shoes, and the aforementioned spit up stained shirt. I had no make up on. I may not have brushed my hair. It occurred to me that he felt I was in his league. I think I need an Oprah makeover.