Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Birthday Cake
Here's video of Jasper digging into his birthday cake. Sorry for half of it being sideways on your screen. It's just shot on our camera, and Seth didn't realize it would be strange if he held the camera vertically. Oops. It's still pretty funny, and I think you get the idea. Scroll down to see still pics.
Jasper's First Birthday!
Started the day with banana chocolate chip pancakes and cottage cheese.
Dad and Jasper out for a walk in his new wagon!
First bites of birthday cake!
Saturday, September 19, 2009
It's Happened
Have you ever seen one of those Mommy Makeover talk shows? I'm sure you know the story. Mom has three kids and a loving husband, but she hasn't worked outside of the house in nearly a decade. She volunteers and is loved by many. The rock in her family. And no matter how hard she tries, she just can't look as good as she used to.
Gasp, you think, when you see her frumpy jeans from so many seasons ago, the look has surely been forgotten. Her shirt is oversized, a little stained and one of three in the steady rotation. She wears sneakers and can't really imagine an outfit they don't go with. Her hair has long ago shed its cheery highlights and her cut looks military-grade: sufficient with zero style. We won't even discuss all of the grooming, trimming, shaving and toning that simply does not happen.
I've watched plenty of these shows. And until recently, I always thought, "How does someone let it get that far?"
Gasp again. I've come down with yo-mamma's-so-outta-style-the-PTA-is-making-fun-of-her syndrome.
Here's how I came to my self-diagnosis:
The rocky road begins in pregnancy when you naturally give up any hope of looking good or wearing clothes that fit. Gaining an extra 20 to 30 pounds in the girth never did anyone any fashion favors. Not to mention the additional weight that gets added to the face, fingers and ankles. And then once you've had a baby, you end up looking like a half-deflated bounce house whose clothes, once again, don't fit. Then you have the excuse of a newborn who keeps you up all night. But a few months later, and you begin to think, "If Britney Spears did it, I can, too." Well, hell, my kid is now 1, but still don't have it together, folks.
I'm not so worried about what I'll wear tomorrow as what it means for my future. This must be how women get stuck in a certain decade. My girlfriends and I determined that the hairstyle you have in your 30s is probably the one that will stick with you for the rest of your life. What if that spreads to other areas of style? Is this how we wind up with jeans so old that our great-grandchildren will beg for them because they're exactly like what's selling at the vintage shops?
As a kid growing up I remember a few shirts and sweaters in my parents' closets that they just never did get rid of. My grandfather wears Levis in that faint blue color that is only achieved through decades of washing. And my grandmother still has dresses hanging in her closet that look like they were stolen from the costume department of Mad Men.
I hope like hell that the jeans I'm wearing right now have a different home 20 years from now. And please, oh please, give me another shot a my rest-of-your-life hairdo. Next time you see me, save it. Don't tell me I look good or ask where I get my hair cut just to be nice. Your energy would be better spent inviting me to shopping, bringing over the waxing kit or booking me a hair appointment.
And even if the offer comes with free clothes, a professional stylist and a trip to Chicago to sit on Oprah's lap, do not sign me up for a makeover show. It's bad enough I walk around my own neighborhood like this. It would just be mean to subject a nationwide audience to it. Besides, I bet if they look out their own window, they'd see a few moms just like me pushing strollers down their streets.
Gasp, you think, when you see her frumpy jeans from so many seasons ago, the look has surely been forgotten. Her shirt is oversized, a little stained and one of three in the steady rotation. She wears sneakers and can't really imagine an outfit they don't go with. Her hair has long ago shed its cheery highlights and her cut looks military-grade: sufficient with zero style. We won't even discuss all of the grooming, trimming, shaving and toning that simply does not happen.
I've watched plenty of these shows. And until recently, I always thought, "How does someone let it get that far?"
Gasp again. I've come down with yo-mamma's-so-outta-style-the-PTA-is-making-fun-of-her syndrome.
Here's how I came to my self-diagnosis:
- I wear only jeans, sweats or shorts and pretty much none of them fit properly.
- When I wear shoes, the choice is easy: If it's sunny and warm I go with the flip flop. If it's cold and cloudy it's the sneaker.
- I think it is perfectly acceptable to use the eyelash curler while driving down the interstate. And then I realize it's absurd because I'm just going to the grocery store.
- I do not carry a purse, just a bag that looks like a Pottery Barn Catalog nursery picture threw up on a tote. In keeping with the theme, I stuff it full of diapers, wipes, toys, sippy cups and binkies.
- I shave my legs only after severe harassment from my husband and even then I do such a miserable job he still makes fun of me.
- My last highlight job has a good several inches of grow out, and I may soon have to stop calling myself a blonde. My cut could be cute, I suppose, if I took the time to style it.
The rocky road begins in pregnancy when you naturally give up any hope of looking good or wearing clothes that fit. Gaining an extra 20 to 30 pounds in the girth never did anyone any fashion favors. Not to mention the additional weight that gets added to the face, fingers and ankles. And then once you've had a baby, you end up looking like a half-deflated bounce house whose clothes, once again, don't fit. Then you have the excuse of a newborn who keeps you up all night. But a few months later, and you begin to think, "If Britney Spears did it, I can, too." Well, hell, my kid is now 1, but still don't have it together, folks.
I'm not so worried about what I'll wear tomorrow as what it means for my future. This must be how women get stuck in a certain decade. My girlfriends and I determined that the hairstyle you have in your 30s is probably the one that will stick with you for the rest of your life. What if that spreads to other areas of style? Is this how we wind up with jeans so old that our great-grandchildren will beg for them because they're exactly like what's selling at the vintage shops?
As a kid growing up I remember a few shirts and sweaters in my parents' closets that they just never did get rid of. My grandfather wears Levis in that faint blue color that is only achieved through decades of washing. And my grandmother still has dresses hanging in her closet that look like they were stolen from the costume department of Mad Men.
I hope like hell that the jeans I'm wearing right now have a different home 20 years from now. And please, oh please, give me another shot a my rest-of-your-life hairdo. Next time you see me, save it. Don't tell me I look good or ask where I get my hair cut just to be nice. Your energy would be better spent inviting me to shopping, bringing over the waxing kit or booking me a hair appointment.
And even if the offer comes with free clothes, a professional stylist and a trip to Chicago to sit on Oprah's lap, do not sign me up for a makeover show. It's bad enough I walk around my own neighborhood like this. It would just be mean to subject a nationwide audience to it. Besides, I bet if they look out their own window, they'd see a few moms just like me pushing strollers down their streets.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Tweet Mistake
I've been a bit out of touch lately because I'm busy. I'm doing a bit of real-live paycheck work.
Today I took advantage of Seth's fall football schedule and went into the office while he stayed home with Jasper.
The morning got off to a surprisingly good start. And when I left Seth was feeling confident, a little boost thanks, I'm sure, to my changing the morning poopy diaper just before I left. And apparently about 15 minutes later is when things began to deteriorate.
Jasper showed his daddy a new trick of climbing onto the ottoman in the parlor. Dad, ever with the iPhone, decided to take a picture of said trick. Then, what else to do with it but put it out there for the world on Twitter. With one eye on the little guy and one on the phone, he wrote a cute quip, hit the button and then froze. He'd accidentally sent it to his work Twitter account, not his personal one.
That means a few dozen friends and relatives who like reading every blip Seth makes in 140 characters or less did not receive the post. Instead, a mere 1,600 people who signed up for Oregon sports news got a snapshot of my monkey crawling on the furniture.
When he realized the mistake, he said he grabbed Jasper and headed to the computer in the den. Trying to pin Jasper on the couch next to him with an elbow, Seth called it up on the computer to fix the error. He then realized he couldn't do it on his own. About that time Jasper fell off the couch, thankfully, making a plop landing on his bottom. Once he spotted the remotes, the kid perked right up, he said.
At this point in Seth's relaying the morning to me, I ask, "Why didn't you put him in the Baby Einstein?" which is what we call our jumper/baby jail contraption, which Jasper is too big for but it works in a pinch.
"It was a moment of crisis," he said. "I wasn't thinking clearly. It was like that time when you spray painted the kitchen. Afterward you realized that was a really stupid idea."
True, so true. I very much underestimated the over spray factor and spent the next few weeks scrubbing tiny silver dots off of every surface in my kitchen.
In the end, the Tweet was pulled after Seth begged a colleague for help. Because the photo hadn't been saved anywhere else, I -- unlike the 1,576 Oregonian sports Twitter followers -- didn't get to see the picture. Perhaps a few of those people logged on expecting to see the latest on Chip Kelly's Ducks and instead got a glimpse of Jasper.
Too bad the grandmas don't follow that Twitter feed. I'm pretty sure they'd have thought it was newsworthy.
Today I took advantage of Seth's fall football schedule and went into the office while he stayed home with Jasper.
The morning got off to a surprisingly good start. And when I left Seth was feeling confident, a little boost thanks, I'm sure, to my changing the morning poopy diaper just before I left. And apparently about 15 minutes later is when things began to deteriorate.
Jasper showed his daddy a new trick of climbing onto the ottoman in the parlor. Dad, ever with the iPhone, decided to take a picture of said trick. Then, what else to do with it but put it out there for the world on Twitter. With one eye on the little guy and one on the phone, he wrote a cute quip, hit the button and then froze. He'd accidentally sent it to his work Twitter account, not his personal one.
That means a few dozen friends and relatives who like reading every blip Seth makes in 140 characters or less did not receive the post. Instead, a mere 1,600 people who signed up for Oregon sports news got a snapshot of my monkey crawling on the furniture.
When he realized the mistake, he said he grabbed Jasper and headed to the computer in the den. Trying to pin Jasper on the couch next to him with an elbow, Seth called it up on the computer to fix the error. He then realized he couldn't do it on his own. About that time Jasper fell off the couch, thankfully, making a plop landing on his bottom. Once he spotted the remotes, the kid perked right up, he said.
At this point in Seth's relaying the morning to me, I ask, "Why didn't you put him in the Baby Einstein?" which is what we call our jumper/baby jail contraption, which Jasper is too big for but it works in a pinch.
"It was a moment of crisis," he said. "I wasn't thinking clearly. It was like that time when you spray painted the kitchen. Afterward you realized that was a really stupid idea."
True, so true. I very much underestimated the over spray factor and spent the next few weeks scrubbing tiny silver dots off of every surface in my kitchen.
In the end, the Tweet was pulled after Seth begged a colleague for help. Because the photo hadn't been saved anywhere else, I -- unlike the 1,576 Oregonian sports Twitter followers -- didn't get to see the picture. Perhaps a few of those people logged on expecting to see the latest on Chip Kelly's Ducks and instead got a glimpse of Jasper.
Too bad the grandmas don't follow that Twitter feed. I'm pretty sure they'd have thought it was newsworthy.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
All for not
You may remember I've written a little bit about baby gates.
I guess I've become the de facto baby gate expert on my block. Friends and neighbors are now following up the "How's it going?" with a comment about the Gate Depression. And when they come over, they see the gate into the kitchen and ask if it's the one that caused so much trouble. In fact, I have to show most of these guests how to operate this gate -- the only one I've liked since the beginning.
It's simple, I tell them. Just pull up and swing. After a time or two, they get it and move freely in and out of it.
As a parent, I've anticipated a lot of things -- the newspaper on the table needs to be moved to the center because little fingers can now reach onto the edge. Or opening a cabinet in front of Jasper is an invitation for him to give it a try. And out of sight no longer means out of mind.
But I wasn't prepared for this.
Last night, as I was slicing some veggies to throw on the grill, I watched as my little angel did his drunk-sailor walk over to that gate, fought with it for about 10 second and then with ease, opened it right up and walked through.
With horror, I put down the knife (good mom points), retrieved him and shut the gate. A fluke, I thought. Back to the veggies. Then, once again he did the same thing, with more ease than a new adult guest to the house, he opened the gate.
Crap. And crap again when I told Seth, who responded: "Oh yeah, I saw him do that this afternoon."
Three times in one afternoon can only mean the boy knows what he's doing.
So it appears the joke's on me. Seth and I talked last night about how Jasper's rapid cognitive and physical growth may not be a good thing. Bad mommy and daddy.
Well, on the up side, maybe I won't get stuck behind gates anymore, and Jasper can now show visitors how to maneuver through our baby-proof house.
I guess I've become the de facto baby gate expert on my block. Friends and neighbors are now following up the "How's it going?" with a comment about the Gate Depression. And when they come over, they see the gate into the kitchen and ask if it's the one that caused so much trouble. In fact, I have to show most of these guests how to operate this gate -- the only one I've liked since the beginning.
It's simple, I tell them. Just pull up and swing. After a time or two, they get it and move freely in and out of it.
As a parent, I've anticipated a lot of things -- the newspaper on the table needs to be moved to the center because little fingers can now reach onto the edge. Or opening a cabinet in front of Jasper is an invitation for him to give it a try. And out of sight no longer means out of mind.
But I wasn't prepared for this.
Last night, as I was slicing some veggies to throw on the grill, I watched as my little angel did his drunk-sailor walk over to that gate, fought with it for about 10 second and then with ease, opened it right up and walked through.
With horror, I put down the knife (good mom points), retrieved him and shut the gate. A fluke, I thought. Back to the veggies. Then, once again he did the same thing, with more ease than a new adult guest to the house, he opened the gate.
Crap. And crap again when I told Seth, who responded: "Oh yeah, I saw him do that this afternoon."
Three times in one afternoon can only mean the boy knows what he's doing.
So it appears the joke's on me. Seth and I talked last night about how Jasper's rapid cognitive and physical growth may not be a good thing. Bad mommy and daddy.
Well, on the up side, maybe I won't get stuck behind gates anymore, and Jasper can now show visitors how to maneuver through our baby-proof house.
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Cleavers We're Not
The sweet and sticky chicken almost took us down tonight.
It's really unfortunate. It's a great recipe from Christiane back in the days at ATT when we had so much fun at work we almost peed our pants laughing every day. That was, of course, before we worked a 36-hours-straight shift and got laid off. But I digress.
As I started throwing the chicken in the pan, Jasper opened one of the last cabinet doors without safety latches and pulled out a ceramic dish that he then dropped on the floor, watching it shatter into a gazillion pieces. He was bare foot. I was bare foot. I had raw chicken in my hands.
I called for Seth, and managed to pick up Jasper without touching him with my wet-raw-chicken fingers. Seth appeared, and I shoved Jasper into his arms and started cleaning up the broken bowl. That's when I should have stopped.
After the cleanup, the cooking continued, and Jasper romped around the room, now taking his pants off whenever he pleased. The heat from the pan set the smoke alarm off, which, in turn, made Jasper cry. Baby crying on my hip, I am waving a kitchen towel at the alarm to get it to shut off. Then it goes off again. And again.
My mother-in-law will not be impressed because there was neither smoke nor flames. She's got the kitchen-fire-thing down. She once started a fire in her kitchen and managed to actually clean up and repaint before my father-in-law got home. This is a woman I can learn from, folks.
While I was cooking, Jasper had something in the works himself. He had a poopy diaper that Dad had to manage. Given Jasper's tendency to flip and climb and crawl, Seth actually straps him into the changing pad. And it's on the floor. All I hear on the monitor sitting on the kitchen counter is F*&$# -- D@#%* and the like. According to Seth (who snapped the boys hands down next to his side), Jasper couldn't keep his hands off of his dirty diaper area.
Finally, we all sit down to dinner and Seth asks why the floor is so sticky. After pan-frying the chicken, there was a layer of grease over every horizontal surface within 30 miles I suspect. This just pushed me over the edge. I saw the little foot prints in the greasy floor, too, but for some reason when Seth suggested I clean it, I just lost it.
The chicken was good, we all agreed. But not that good, Seth said, for this kind of mess. I sent my boys upstairs for bath and bed. I was a little disappointed when Seth came back downstairs. I was hoping he'd put himself to bed too.
Oh well. I spent the next hour cleaning the kitchen and nursing a glass of wine. Or two. Another day. Another dinner.
It's really unfortunate. It's a great recipe from Christiane back in the days at ATT when we had so much fun at work we almost peed our pants laughing every day. That was, of course, before we worked a 36-hours-straight shift and got laid off. But I digress.
As I started throwing the chicken in the pan, Jasper opened one of the last cabinet doors without safety latches and pulled out a ceramic dish that he then dropped on the floor, watching it shatter into a gazillion pieces. He was bare foot. I was bare foot. I had raw chicken in my hands.
I called for Seth, and managed to pick up Jasper without touching him with my wet-raw-chicken fingers. Seth appeared, and I shoved Jasper into his arms and started cleaning up the broken bowl. That's when I should have stopped.
After the cleanup, the cooking continued, and Jasper romped around the room, now taking his pants off whenever he pleased. The heat from the pan set the smoke alarm off, which, in turn, made Jasper cry. Baby crying on my hip, I am waving a kitchen towel at the alarm to get it to shut off. Then it goes off again. And again.
My mother-in-law will not be impressed because there was neither smoke nor flames. She's got the kitchen-fire-thing down. She once started a fire in her kitchen and managed to actually clean up and repaint before my father-in-law got home. This is a woman I can learn from, folks.
While I was cooking, Jasper had something in the works himself. He had a poopy diaper that Dad had to manage. Given Jasper's tendency to flip and climb and crawl, Seth actually straps him into the changing pad. And it's on the floor. All I hear on the monitor sitting on the kitchen counter is F*&$# -- D@#%* and the like. According to Seth (who snapped the boys hands down next to his side), Jasper couldn't keep his hands off of his dirty diaper area.
Finally, we all sit down to dinner and Seth asks why the floor is so sticky. After pan-frying the chicken, there was a layer of grease over every horizontal surface within 30 miles I suspect. This just pushed me over the edge. I saw the little foot prints in the greasy floor, too, but for some reason when Seth suggested I clean it, I just lost it.
The chicken was good, we all agreed. But not that good, Seth said, for this kind of mess. I sent my boys upstairs for bath and bed. I was a little disappointed when Seth came back downstairs. I was hoping he'd put himself to bed too.
Oh well. I spent the next hour cleaning the kitchen and nursing a glass of wine. Or two. Another day. Another dinner.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Righting my wrongs
Dear Safety 1st,
This is a heartfelt apology for all of the public disparaging I've been doing.
Like calling you Safety Last. Or suggesting you use real moms to test your product. And telling everyone I know, including my 198 Facebook friends, that they shouldn't ever buy one of your gates.
After about three weeks of rendering our top-of-stairs gate useless, my husband and handyman cousin fixed the gate. Now, it works as it should. I'm able to hold my baby in one hand and open the gate with the other. It makes you look brilliant, Safety 1st.
I, on the other hand, look just plain wrong. Know it is not often I admit the error of my ways. Just ask my husband.
I was wrong for making Safety 1st the butt of all household jokes. Like, Did you hear the guards at Guantanamo Bay said using their prisoners to test Safety 1st products was just too mean?
And it probably wasn't wise for me to call it the "effing gate." Online.
I apparently made such a big deal about it that my neighbors stopped me in the grocery store to share their own miserable gate stories. Oops.
I'm going to take this as a little lesson in parenthood. Sometimes things aren't as bad as they seem. It's easy to get caught up in the moment, like when you've been stuck on your second floor for 15 minutes with a baby who wants his breakfast. But after a little work and some patience, sometimes things work out.
Some things can be fixed. We just have to stop cursing long enough to let someone else get a word in.
Thank you for your attention to this issue, Safety 1st, as I am sure my baby's safety is your utmost concern.
Sincerely,
Amy McFall Prince
P.S. The Push 'n' Snap Cabinet Lock still could use some refining, I'm afraid. Or perhaps you could just change your target audience and market them as safety deposit box locks.
This is a heartfelt apology for all of the public disparaging I've been doing.
Like calling you Safety Last. Or suggesting you use real moms to test your product. And telling everyone I know, including my 198 Facebook friends, that they shouldn't ever buy one of your gates.
After about three weeks of rendering our top-of-stairs gate useless, my husband and handyman cousin fixed the gate. Now, it works as it should. I'm able to hold my baby in one hand and open the gate with the other. It makes you look brilliant, Safety 1st.
I, on the other hand, look just plain wrong. Know it is not often I admit the error of my ways. Just ask my husband.
I was wrong for making Safety 1st the butt of all household jokes. Like, Did you hear the guards at Guantanamo Bay said using their prisoners to test Safety 1st products was just too mean?
And it probably wasn't wise for me to call it the "effing gate." Online.
I apparently made such a big deal about it that my neighbors stopped me in the grocery store to share their own miserable gate stories. Oops.
I'm going to take this as a little lesson in parenthood. Sometimes things aren't as bad as they seem. It's easy to get caught up in the moment, like when you've been stuck on your second floor for 15 minutes with a baby who wants his breakfast. But after a little work and some patience, sometimes things work out.
Some things can be fixed. We just have to stop cursing long enough to let someone else get a word in.
Thank you for your attention to this issue, Safety 1st, as I am sure my baby's safety is your utmost concern.
Sincerely,
Amy McFall Prince
P.S. The Push 'n' Snap Cabinet Lock still could use some refining, I'm afraid. Or perhaps you could just change your target audience and market them as safety deposit box locks.
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