Just a day

Suffering from writers' block. No matter, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Adventures in Parenting: Refrigerator dreams

It's a lazy, early Saturday morning. Ezra has had his morning nai (milk), and is playing contently in the kitchen with his dad. I think I might just fall back asleep here on this couch with Olympic diving droning in the background.

"Meesh? Can you come in here? This is bad."

Words you never want to hear from the kitchen where baby is playing happily beneath the feet of your cooking-with-hot-stuff-and-sharp-things co-parent.

I frantically rush (as only one can when woken from that place of half-sleep) into the kitchen where Bo stands dazedly at the refrigerator, with one finger rhythmically tapping the door shut as it stubbornly bounces back open. Ezra, in his walker, babbles at the out-of-reach shelf of kitchen appliances. I imagine he is telling the objects, through mouthfuls of drool, about his new favorite toy Sophie. It is at this moment that I realize my reaction is decidedly overreacted (as if it's possible for a new mother to overreact, sheesh).

"The fridge door won't close. Can you figure it out?"

I systematically go through all the reasons why the door might not close. Is the door path free and clear of any objects that might hinder proper door closure? Yes. Am I sure? Yes. Have I made sure by pushing every single item to the back to the fridge to be damn certain that a rogue carrot is not to blame? Yes. What about the janky crisper drawer, is that thing closed all the way? Yes. What about in the door; is that one-too-many bottle of hot sauce that causes the door storage to bow slightly taken out of the fridge completely? Yes. In the end, I blame the issue on the amount of rust and deteriorating door seal. Okay, so now what?

Tape the door closed to preserve Ezra's milk stash. Call the landlord (aka Bo's mom). Decide the silver lining in this situation is that I have a reason to spend too much money on my dream refrigerator.

Yeah, I said it: dream refrigerator.

It's stainless steel, with double doors and a bottom freezer. All the food will be at an easily accessible height. The appliance will be grime-free. The thing will be shiny and new and oh-so-pretty. When I open the double doors, angels will actually sing arias as the golden, energy-efficient light floods the kitchen. I imagine this fridge will make me more attractive simply by association.

So maybe I'm ridiculous. However, Major and I both squealed with delight as we described it to each other, so I'm not the only weirdo that gets excited about a new kitchen appliance (this also solidifies my uncanny connection with Major, but that is another story).

Bo's mom tells us that she knows someone that will give us a good price. Knowing the issues we've had in the past trying to get new things into our house, we measure door frames and maximum height/width allowances. I make all assurances that I have the information to make a grown-up, informed decision (so I can ultimately buy what's pretty). Ezra foregoes his morning nap to watch Mommy and Pops bounce around the house singing, "We're getting a new fridge!"

At the store, we look at each model, opening doors and getting a feel for each product. Laboriously, we make a final decision. When the salesperson approaches, I let him know what we want and give him our specs.

"That's not going to work. All double door models are too wide and all bottom freezer models are too tall given your height and width constraints."

I felt my refrigerator dream bubble burst. No double doors. No bottom freezer. No easily accessible food. No angels singing arias. No golden beams of joy. Grime-free, shiny, and new, sure, but it's a let-down all the same. But our purchase cannot wait to remove the impossible metal cabinets that are restricting its height, nor can it wait for us to remodel the layout to allow for its width. Ezra needs refrigerated nai!

So we grumpily choose a top freezer, single door refrigerator in stainless steel for half the price, telling ourselves that one day we will remodel and get our dream refrigerator. Bummer.  But my baby gets something new and shiny to tell his stories to, so I am endlessly happy and grateful.

Note to Ezra: You were amazingly patient with your parents at the appliance store. I thought for sure you would throw a fit of boredom and frustration after two minutes, but you relaxed patiently in your stroller while Mommy and Pops shopped. You surprise me every day, and I love you for it!

Just like dad

Bo took two weeks off to have some family bonding time with The Dumpling. Bo has been giving Ezra a crash course in how to be cool like dad. Ezra is a great student.

Oh yeah! Ezra is only 5-months-old, by the way. Yup. He is ALL head with little, mini legs and yet the kid is strong enough to stand, mostly unassisted. And he's into shoes.

Sigh.

Solids! (well, kinda)

Today Ezra turns five months old. To celebrate, Bo and I thought a nice treat might be to let Ezra eat his first solids. And by "solids," I mean rice cereal. And by "rice cereal," I mean creamy, formula-flavored, beige mush.

Yum.

We have video that may be used as blackmail during his teen years (mwaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha). For now, photographic representations of the event shall suffice:

What a difference a dress makes

I must announce the fact that I'm feeling super hot today. A few weeks ago I purchased a cheap black dress at Target without trying it on. Normally this act would end in tears and self-loathing, especially if the first time wearing the garment was a Monday morning. But this particular Monday morning the dress slid on and actually flattered my post-pregnancy frame.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

And I smiled.

And I called Bo to confirm that I, indeed, looked hot (as if he'd say otherwise, but that's another story).

And then I did this:

Damn, I feel good today. BOOM.

Raspberries and a note on change

Last night I asked Ezra what he would like to do for the rest of the evening. He did this:

So what? Right? I have become that person who thinks every little thing my kid does is comparable to discovering the concept of zero. The single, baby-free version of me hated those resembling the current ooey-gooey, constantly cooing version of me. I used to have clothes without baby drool and/or spit up all over them. I used to have a tummy that did not resemble the aerial view of a corn field. I used to have control over my emotional waterworks. But in all that unglamorous, stretch-mark-scarred, bipolarity I have found an uncanny sense of worth and pride. I don't need a smooth belly or the ability to hold back tears at the drop of a Hallmark commercial; I get to watch Ezra blow raspberries for the first time. #winning

Ladies and gentlemen, we have tooth!

Yesterday morning, Ezra had no teeth. I know this because he loves to grab my hand and chomp on the knuckle of my curled index finger, and he had no teeth during his morning chew-fest. When I go to pick up the babe from my mom's house, she asked, "When did Ezra cut that tooth?"

Excuse me?

Cue me running to wash and sanitize my dirty hands that I've been denying Ezra's oral fixation. I glide my finger along his bottom gum and promptly get stabbed by the teeny, tiny tooth that pushed through sometime during the day.

Cue me crying tears of joy, then laughing at my ridiculousness.

To celebrate, my parents, Bo and I go to eat like fat kids at Hard Knox Cafe (can anyone say OXTAILS?!). Growing teeth must be hard work because Ezra slept the whole time. I was worried that he would be up all night from such a late nap, but he slept well yet again. I actually had to wake him from his sweet, precious baby slumber this morning to get him ready to go to my mom's house. And he was pissed. I made my fussy little man a bottle, and the little (and I say this lovingly) brat snatched the bottle out of my hands as if to say, "Gosh, mom. I can do it myself *rolls eyes* " ...

Really? A tooth and holding his own bottle? All within a 24-hour period? I guess this is why my parents kept commenting on the speed at which my sister and I grew. It's so bittersweet; I want Ezra to grow and develop without hinderances (and am so proud that he has done so thus far), but I also want my baby to stay a baby (I'm a selfish, selfish person). I'll be okay, of course. When I asked Ezra if he still needed his Mommy, he grinned and cooed.

Cue me melting with a cliche "awwwwwwwwwww".

Note to Ezra: Slow down, baby. Our fast-paced world will have you trying to grow up faster than you should have to. But just know that even when you don't need me, I will be here for you. Love you, Monkey.