Ways I will screw up my kid

I believe that like the previous "Things I'd never do" segment, that this will become an ongoing series where I detail how and why I will screw up my kid making her as dysfunctional as the rest of us.


  1. I bonked her head on the handle of the carrier the day we brought her home from the hospital. She cried and then settled down and was fine. There was the lightest mark on her pristine little head that faded quickly, but I'm sure I damaged the part of her brain that will do long division or the part of her brain that will decide what nursing home to put me in one day.
  2. When she's crying hysterically or just really needy but I'm at the end of my patience, I have a tendency to put her down in her crib or pack and play and say "Kid, you'll need to hang out for a minute. I've got other stuff to do." Then, I take a break and regain my senses and then pick her up again and deal with whatever the issue is. I am sure she will have some sort of trust issues and will put me in a terrible nursing home one day.
  3. I call her "Kid" a lot. I am sure she will never learn her proper name and will go through life saying "My name is Phoebe, but everyone calls me 'Kid'". I have always jokingly said that I thought my own middle name was "Damn it" until I was 12. I am sure this is punishment for besmirching my parent's good name.

100 days old

Phoebe Elizabeth, you are officially 100 days old.

A year ago, my goal was to get pregnant for a chance at a child like you. Now? My goal for the last 100 days was surviving having a newborn.

You are a delight, Phoebe. You waken every morning with a smile. You pull your little body into the most amazing stretch every morning - both feet pulled up to your chest, your arms stretched wide.

Your daddy and I are constantly amazed that we have a child that appears to be a morning person, whereas Daddy and I are .. well, we're afternoon people.. well on second thought, your Daddy is a night owl. But, I digress.

You've started laughing this quick hearty chuckle that I can't help laughing at. I still don't know what will set off your little laugh but you seem to be developing your own sense of humor.

You are growing like a weed. You started out at 8 pounds 15 ounces and now you're up to almost 13 pounds.. you've also grown from 19-1/2 inches to nearly 24 inches long. We had to go clothes shopping for you because you've grown out of nearly all of the clothes that were gotten for you before you were born (there's a few items that are still WAY too big).

You are a fabulous eater. You're eating about 4-5 ounces every 3-4 hours. But, you know your limits. If I try to push you to finish a bottle, you wrinkle up your little nose and screw up that gorgeous little mouth. Mommy alternates between preparing bottles as needed by using room temperature water and formula powder and prepared bottles. Mommy finally got a formula pitcher to mix everything in.. there's few lumps cause Mommy takes her aggressions out in shaking the bottle!

We've got a little routine, you and I. You wake up about 5 am, about the time your daddy gets up for work. Then, you get changed and eat. Then, you take a nice long morning nap - about 3 or 4 hours. Then it's time for another bottle and you're awake for a while. Mommy loves to sit with you on her lap and just talk talk talk... then it's time for another bottle and then you're down for another nap. Your afternoon nap is about 1-1/2 to 3 hours.. and then you're up and time for another bottle. Then it's time for Daddy to come home, dinner, a little family time and then time for bed.

Have I mentioned that you're a great sleeper? You sleep through the night 5 out of 7 nights. And Mommy has learned that if she reads the signs right and puts you down when you're comfortably sleepy but not EXCRUCIATINGLY EXHAUSTED, you go to sleep with a smile on your face too.

Thank you, my darling girl, for the most exciting, most amazing 100 days. My life is forever changed. I would not trade ANYTHING for the last 100 days. And I wouldn't trade anything for being your mom.

My little monster

Internet access was spotty and in fact went out last week. I am fending off a cold with fluids and positive thinking. (I feel great. I feel great. I am clear. My nose is clear.)

Working on a few items and hope to have some posts up soon for various projects I'm working on. Meanwhile, you need a picture of my kid to make you as happy as me.

This is my little monster. This picture was taken this past Saturday and she was a real trouper even though mommy wanted her to get pix done in both her monster Halloween costume as well as a little dress.

Phoebe's 3 months old! and a new video!

Today, Phoebe is officially 3 months old.

She sleeps through the night - for the most part. She's an expert napper and has a growing attention span.

Fresh pictures are coming this weekend.. but meanwhile, here's a new video:


Aunt Flo came with a vengeance.

I was reading in the Baby Bible (AKA What to Expect the First Year, Second Ed ) that my first period postpartum might be more painful and longer than usual so I wasn't totally shocked when I started. But what I was shocked about was how worn out I am!!

Instead of my easy 3-4 day period, I've had an 8 day period with bad cramping, heavy flow, blood clots, you name it. Thank God for the giant maxi pads I had left over from after Phoebe was born. Additionally, I am wiped out physically. Just DOG tired. I've been combating fatigue with a little extra rest and lots of fluids and it seems to be subsiding.

Found one downside to the NuvaRing though.. you gotta put that thing back in - even if you're having a period. By the time I was done getting it back in place, it looked like I'd been doing field surgery during a war. Not at all pleasant, but a lot better than taking a pill every day.

"Don't get your socks in it!"

I am always shocked by poop.

Not my poop, but the poop of my daughter, that delicate little flower.

My mother, who routinely drove me crazy about all kinds of things, was a Poop Nazi. You see, I am not a Daily Pooper. A Daily Pooper does just that - poops daily. I am a bi-weekly to thrice-weekly pooper.

My lack of daily pooping drove my mother to distraction when I was a child. "When did you last poop? Are you constipated? Does your stomach hurt? Do you need to potty?" These were questions that I endured until I was well into adulthood.

If I was crabby, it must mean that I needed to poop. If I was distracted, I needed to poop. If my head hurt - you guessed it, I should poop. It was a cure-all - no need for fancy medicine or scientific advances in medicine, people just needed to poop more often.

My mother would be proud of my daughter. Phoebe is a daily pooper. She obviously inherited this ability from her father or from my mother's side of the family.

My first experience with Phoebe's pooping ability came on the day she came into this world. Until you have experienced meconium or a newborn's first bowel movement, you don't know what true horror is.

Moo and his mom had left the hospital get some dinner and pick up a couple of missed items at the drugstore. Almost as soon as they left, the nurses swooped into the room and got me out of bed for the first time post-c section. While I've never written about that experience (and I need to) suffice it to say that when I finally returned to my bed, I was exhausted and drained in many ways.

At this point, the nurses instructed me that Phoebe needed to be fed and probably changed. "No problem," I said. I had a tiny bottle full of formula and I had some idea of how to use it. My tiny baby sucked down 1/2 an ounce and burped beautifully. I was praised for my feeding and burping ability. Then, came time for the diaper.

I don't know what I expected from that first diaper, but it wasn't the vile, viscous, gelatinous black stuff I found on my daughter's hide. It was evenly distributed all over her hind-end. I considered running away right then, but the nurse said "Oh good, she's passing the meconium already."

I failed to see how this was good, as I was convinced that we needed a priest but never the less went to work trying to clean this stuff up. It laughed at the provided baby wipes - I used half a dozen to attempt to mop the goop up, but the moisture just seemed to make it spread. I expressed my concern about the lasting power of this stuff and the nurse suggested a warm wash cloth. This was slightly more useful, but I never want to know what happened to that cloth or if it came into contact with anyone's face.

Even now, every time I open Phoebe's diaper and am met with poop, I express my shock by saying loudly:

"Good grief!"


"What am I feeding you? How did you get birdseed in your poop?"

or my favorite: "Don't get your socks in it!" as my incredibly flexible daughter touches her bottom with her little sock covered feet.

One day, I will get over my poop shock, right now, I'm just trying to resist the urge to be a poop nazi.