She smiles for Payne like crazy, by the way.
She saw the pediatrician today for her two month checkup, and he fondly referred to her hair as “duck fuzz”. Heh heh. Payne gave her a Thomas sticker after she got her shots.
On to things I wasn’t so sure about doing but did without hesitation under the pressure of caring for two kids by myself:
Eh, they can send me the bill for the therapy if I’ve damaged them. They both loved having a bath buddy, actually. See her grinning at him? I’m jealous! She doesn’t smile for me that readily and I’ve never beaned her with a toy, unlike someone. Harumph.
It seems that baby gear is either completely boring (think solid black diaper bag or stroller), covered in licensed characters (it sort of looks like Whinney the Pooh exploded in at least one aisle in every baby store), or covered in some variation of a modern, slightly feminine, print that could pass off as potentially home made.
It has recently become very apparent to me that when I am given these three options, I go for door #3. Always.
Thus, when in public I sort of look like the dorm room decor aisle of Target threw up all over me. It’s going to be really great looking back in 30 years or so, when damask is the twenty teens equivalent of bell bottoms and shag carpeting.
I’ll toss in some cute Payneisms:
– Dan always ruffles Payne’s hair and bats Payne’s butt when he gets home from work. The other day, mid butt pat, Payne yelled “Daddy ‘top it! My not a dog!”.
– As I was getting him out of the car recently, I groaned “Ugh, Mama is draggin” (as in, I was tired) and he corrected me “Mommy, you not a dragon!”. Silly Mommy…
– He was at Chick Fil A with his friend J.P. last week. As Aimee and I were talking Payne kept running up to me just crushed. His face was all crumpled up and he was sobbing, but he’d quickly recover and run off to play again. After the second time this happened we paid attention to see what was upsetting him. He walked over to J.P., who was actually eating his food like a good child, asked J.P. to play, and when J.P. very nicely said “No” (because he was busy eating at a restaurant) Payne was devastated, and repeated the sobfest for a third time. The boy can take all kinds of rough housing, but a polite “No” breaks his heart. Heh.
We went “offroad” for these photos. Wild, I know.
This one is my favorite.
And here is big brother. How is he almost three? HOW?!
This was a cute idea, which I screwed up. I wanted her lying in the grass, but was anxious about murderous fire ants, so I was all antsy to pick her up. In my hurry, I neglected to notice that I needed to cuff her overalls. We ended up with a lovely collection of pictures of what appears to be the world’s cutest amputee.
I wasn’t ready to give up being anywhere but my own family room after dinner tonight, so I went and scored some crack (i.e. Chick Fil A milkshakes) for Payne and myself and decided we’d have a lovely impromptu front yard picnic. I am FUN damnit!
I grabbed a blanket and my camera once we got home:
I LOVE little baby smiles. They make you feel like the countless hours you’ve spent feeding, burping, soothing a little screaming person, and wiping someone else’s butt have been appreciated. She really cares! She really likes me! And then she looks past me and smiles at the ceiling fan. Poop.
What a “simple” spur of the moment trip to the freaking yard with my two kids ends up looking like. As as a result, Payne’s next “game” was to throw all of the garbage into the trash can in the garage, one piece at a time.
Then it became apparent that Payne had also done something pretty horrible to his own diaper. At this point I gave up and went in for the night.
“My not tahrd. My not weepy.”
Not sleepy eh? Let’s poll the audience. (click)
To send Payne to bed, just text “lying liar” to the number 1-888-rachelneedsabreak.
And in other news, my junior employer was a little disgruntled recently:
Fat baby thighs.
I don’t think you understand.
I really, really enjoy the fatty fatness that is a baby from knee to hip. That adorable bit of chub sort of makes up for the fact that babies are pretty much a vocal digestive system for the first couple of months post birth. Well, the tiny clothes help too, I must admit.
I used to snuggle with Payne on the couch after his nap and massage (cough…squish…cough) his legs while we watched the local news. This ritual was far more for me than for him. I mourned the loss, when at around two years of age his legs thinned out and became cellulite and roll free; more muscle than squish.
When Genevieve was born I sighed at her little chicken legs and waited patiently. And now (Oh Blessed Day!) I have been rewarded!
I squish her legs about 300 times per day. No joke. I’m a freak.