The misogyny I don’t want my daughter to learn

Posted on May 2, 2013 | 6 Comments

People often ask me what is the biggest cultural hurdle I’ve had to jump to adjust to life in Chile. I usually pause, because honestly I can think of many, I’m just not sure I can say them out loud without offending someone. I try to pick one that is benign, like how no one takes their shoes off inside or goes barefoot anywhere. Ever. I love me a day with no shoes.

How we look most days.

How we look most days.

However, my go-to culture shock is the street harassment, or street “compliments” depending on whom you ask.  And if you use local vernacular, the piropos. Sometimes they are poetic. Sometimes they are whispered and hushed–more of a hiss. Other times they are downright vulgar and disgusting. And I have to temper the impulsive side in me from shouting back, “Where do you get off? You think that just because you stand up to pee you have the right to objectify me? Go to hell. And on your way there, I hope you get a scorching case of herpes!”

I had thought that I was more or less immune to the advances of lecherous men since now I walk around with my nearly six-month-old baby strapped to my body. Even though she flashes her gums at everyone and they smile back, it had not been in a perverted way until…suddenly it was.

One day, I was walking and a doorman was out sweeping the step of his apartment building. “Beautiful baby,” he smiled as I walked by. Maybe it was my mistake, but I broke into a grin, too. I have the cutest baby in Santiago. Obviously. You would smile, too.(Santiago has taught me to never leave the bitch face far behind. Always leave it where I can reach it). “Tha-” I started. Then, he leaned in, “And you, too.”

Sigh. Really?

It never fails that when I bring up this gripe with a Chilean, they will mention how it’s cultural and I just need to ignore it. And maybe a tiny, miniscule part of it is cultural. The culture that has yet to accept women as equals and as deserving of leer-free transit as the next. But mostly it’s machista, sexist and misogynistic. It trains men that they don’t have to respect women for the thoughtful, intelligent human beings they are. It tells them that women are objects for their viewing pleasure. It’s skewed, unfair and, in some cases, it’s dangerous.

And if it’s so cultural, why is it still an issue in the US? Albeit not as big of a problem as the ’60′s and the ’70′s, but I can remember jogging around campus and having trucks go by and honk or yell, “Shake it, baby!”  Except, Chile never got the memo that that is now considered sexual harassment.

Ever since that day when the doorman exposed me to the Pandora’s box that is mother-daughter piropos, they haven’t let up. We get kissy noises blown at us. A delivery truck slowed down the other day so the driver could pantomime an enormous smooch.

I remember once when I was walking with my sister-in-law, who is conceivably young enough to be my daughter, and the attention we got. It scares me to think if she had been walking alone that day without an adult wearing a bitch face.

I want to say to Squeaker that she’s smart and beautiful no matter what anyone says. No man (or woman) has the right to objectify her based on what she’s wearing or how she does her hair. Her body is hers and hers alone. Period. The end. And there is nothing cultural about that.

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Futon fairies, bad customer service, and tremors

Posted on April 30, 2013 | 5 Comments

The legs were in the futon the whole time. The whole mother-effing time. Seriously. They brought the new one, took it out of the box, and propped it up. Then, they went to leave and I was all, “WHOA. Hold up a second. This futon hasn’t got any legs either. That’s why we are returning the other one. How can we be so unlucky TWICE?”

The poor men–who proclaimed themselves to be delivers and not assemblers–flipped the futon over. It was the first time I had really gotten a glimpse of the bottom. Sure enough, amongst the black fabric was a skinny black zippered compartment with what? The legs. They looked at me like I had announced, “Look! I just saved this fish from drowning!” And shook their heads slowly, probably for dramatic effect.

We spent Thursday night, after Squeaker gave up the nightly battle, screwing in the legs. We (read: he) had to manually drill the holes because they may have provided the legs, but there was still no place to put them. The instructions were literally: 1. unfinished product; 2. finished product, wherein the futon fairy stopped by and put an end to the madness. Obviously.

Futon assembly may require one of these.

Futon assembly may require one of these.

“Are you going to take down your post where you bitch about the bad customer service here?” my husband asked me while resting his blistered hands.

“No. That’s still not good customer service. How can we talk to so many people over the course of two weeks and NO ONE…NO ONE…mentions that maybe we need to check the bottom again? That’s the epitome of bad customer service in my book. First, I thought it was a factory error, now it’s just laziness. Sorry I made you do your job and look at a manual, customer service. I won’t have such high expectations next time. My bad.”

Oh and we still can’t use it because we can’t get on the fifth phantom leg. He said to put something on top of the futon so no one wants to sit on it in the meantime. It is now the most expensive laundry receptacle I’ve ever owned.

On Sunday night, the time changed here. Yes, it’s “fall back” time. We can save the daylight savings time debate for later, but ugh. I’ve never felt jet-lagged during fall back time before. Ever. Because, as every sane adult on this planet who lives in a country that still follows archaic and agrarian time knows, gaining an hour means MORE SLEEP, which is awesome. Until your body adjusts, that is, then you’re screwed again.

Tell that to my 5.5-month-old who has never even looked at a clock. I awoke to her cold, slimy baby fingers poking around in my nose at 4:45 this morning. Four. Forty. Five. That is not daylight saving time. That is how they get prisoners to talk. And I would have told her anything this morning if she would have just taken her fingers out of my nose and. Gone. Back. To. Sleep.

Fortunately, she eventually fell back to sleep, but not after I turned on the news, ate breakfast and blew raspberries on her tummy. Just as I was getting comfortable again, the bed started shaking. It’s been a while since our last good tremor and this morning’s did not disappoint  It only lasted a couple of seconds, but had it lasted longer, I think I would have been looking for a solid hiding place–crabby baby or not.

I can never sleep well after those. I sit there in the semi-darkness thinking, “Afterschock, preshock, or standard tremor?” And since I was already caffeinated, the words ran together in a jittery jumble until I got out of bed.

I’m exhausted.

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This is a customer service win, I think

Posted on April 24, 2013 | 12 Comments

I had a friend who said, “Every country has something that they do really well.” We had started talking about this fresh on the heels of both having spent time abroad and I was hashing out a frustrating tale of my customer service woes in Chile. We decided that customer service is one thing that the US usually does well. We can argue motives or specifics later, but as a rule, customer service (re: returning shit you bought but then didn’t like for some reason) is waaaaaaaaay easier than here where you must promise them your first-born.

Or not.

Or not.

Remember that photo I posted of our legless futon, our fresh-from-the-factory, but already battle-weary living room companion? Then remember how I said they wanted 11 days to figure out what to do?

Here’s how I feel that situation would have gone over in the US:

“Hi, I’m calling because that futon I purchased doesn’t have legs. Is it supposed to?”

“What? That’s awful. We’re sorry for your inconvenience. Would you like a new one or store credit?”

DONE.

Here’s how it usually goes down here:

“Hi, I’m calling because that futon I purchased doesn’t have legs. Is it supposed to?”

“That sucks.”

“I’m sorry…did I call the right number?”

*gum smacking* “Customer service? Yes.”

“So, what can you do about the futon?”

“Well, that depends. Do you have any witnesses who would be willing to sign a notorized affidavit that this futon arrived without legs? Then bring it to our main office in a place unreasonably far from where you live between the hours of 1-2 on a day that doesn’t end in ‘y’?”

“Can I speak with your supervisor?”

*click*

They finally called and said they had decided to give us a new futon. Since they woke me up from a nap, I didn’t have the chance to get snarky. Was that so hard? Why couldn’t that have been their initial response? Shhhhhh… Best not to tempt fate because they haven’t delivered it yet.

And our pillows that never arrived were reimbursed in a gift card, which we used to buy plates. So somewhere, there is a delivery man reclining on my pillow, but, whatever, I’ll count it as a win.

So, Chile, you may have delicious, plentiful seafood and good, cheap wine, but you still have a long way to come in customer service.

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Your separation anxiety is my separation anxiety

Posted on April 22, 2013 | 5 Comments

Dear Squeaker,

It’s finally happening. You are learning object permanence. Now, when Babysitting Cow gets hidden at night you still look for him (her?). He (she?) doesn’t merely cease to exist, only to be miraculously extracted from the toy vortex the next morning. You’d be all, “I didn’t know I had a cow!” But no more.

The same now goes for people. You know who I am and that I’m an important source of food, affection, and booger wiping. It’s only natural that you get nervous (or have a tantrum) when I leave a room. See how understanding I am? I’ve had over five months of practice.

Except, I didn’t expect the separation anxiety to happen when I’m in the same room–still in your baby line of vision. It happens like this: I hand you off to a well-meaning family member or friend and you do a quick scan; we make eye contact and your face lights up in a huge gooey, gummy grin; “There’s my mom!” you seem to be saying; then comprehension dawns, “But, if she’s over there, then WHO HAS ME?”; and your face scrunches into the saddest baby frown, soon followed by wailing that only I can appease.

Where's my mom? OH, THERE'S MY MOM taking this picture!

Where’s my mom? OH, THERE’S MY MOM taking this picture!

In a way, I kind of like this. It means you recognize the time and effort I spend keeping you fed, entertained, and clean. However, it would be nice to have a break every so often. And you are scaring people off. No one likes to hold a baby willing herself purple. Just saying.

Sometimes, this even goes for Daddy. In your mind, we have very different roles. He’s the goofy face maker with whom you giggle incessantly. I’m everything else. It’s such an ego boost for me, but probably means birth control for everyone in earshot.

I know it’s just a stage. Some day you might find me uncool and not want me to talk to you in public. You might say things in whispered tones to your friends like, “Ugh…my mom tweets and does yoga. Gross!” So even though leaving you for even five minutes produces anxiety palpitations in me, I’ll try to treat it as a compliment.

Now for the rest of my to-do list before you wake up.

Love,

Your mom.

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We are moved and got the internets

Posted on April 15, 2013 | 6 Comments

It’s been over a week since my last post and even though my phone has a thoughtful “personal hotspot” option to make myself a giver of internets for people far and wide the service often falls short. That and the pyramid of boxes the movers left wobbling precariously and the fact that we had one livable room meant I’ve been otherwise occupied. But, I’m back with fast wi-fi and a sleeping baby, who hopefully *knock on wood* will sleep long enough for me to finish this post. (She owes me, considering I carried her all day and my back aches.)

The move went about as could be expected. We never did pick up our permission to move, or not steal, our own belongings and nothing happened. It was anticlimactic. I was at least hoping to have to stand on a box and proclaim loudly, “THESE ARE SO MY STAINED BED SHEETS” to an officer waiting to cuff me for used furniture transporting.  I’m now convinced it’s another example of bureaucracy for the sake of bureaucracy as is common in Latin America.

Today, they delivered our new bed for the guest room. Hear that, guests? You now have a place to sleep that is not the floor. You’re welcome.  They also delivered our futon and installed our wi-fi and cable. It was a productive day. Read: a disruptive and crabby day if you are only five months old.

The futon arrived first. In a big futon-sized box. When I asked him if it was difficult to set up (a service I thought that was provided) he mumbled about having to call a technician and nearly bolted out of the door. Maybe with good reason.

Does anything seem off to you?

Does anything seem off to you?

That’s our deluxe futon on the floor. See those cute little legs that the drawing so helpfully shows you how to screw in? For all we know, they were the artist’s pipe dream, because they were nowhere to be found. Your futon, for best results, use with legs!

How does one open a futon box and misplace the legs? The universe has a black hole especially for futon legs according to the store we bought it from that needs 11, count that 11, days to respond to our complaint. For all I know, they are scouring the black hole for space junk resembling those cylinder legs.

The bed arrived next. They even set it up. It was perfect. I even texted my husband a photo of it. He responded by asking where the pillows were?

“The pillows we bought yesterday? They’re in Squeaker’s room”

“The pillows that came with the bed, I mean,” he clarified.

“THERE WERE PILLOWS WITH THE BED???”

“Did you sign already?”

“Of course I signed! They brought the BED and it’s lovely. I had no idea that it had PILLOWS.”

The black hole of futon legs and space garbage opened a little wider to make room for the pillows that were supposed to come with our bed. They’re laughing at us out there. Mark my words.

Shortly, after the chaos of calling customer service, which is sadly a misnomer in Chile, the technician arrived to install the internet and cable. I haven’t had cable in years! When he arrived with his giant spool of white cable, I could have kissed him, but I’m not that weird.

Anyway, he did whatever it is you do to cable–he talked to and coaxed the wall a lot from what I observed–and it worked. It worked beautifully for the three seconds that I watched whatever soccer channel that was.

Then he left. And I realized he had unplugged the cable. WHY!? Why for the love of God would you take a beautiful thing like that and UNPLUG it?

Now, it doesn’t work. And I can’t figure out the combination of buttons to make it all better.

So if you can help me, left a comment.

So if you can help me, leave a comment.

In fact, I didn’t even know he had left a remote. I found it discarded like an afterthought on my pillow. Like, oh, she might need this when she tries to watch her TV, if she’s smart enough….bahahaha *demonic technician cackle*.

Squeaker, who woke up by the way, and I are exhausted. May the customer service gods be merciful tomorrow.

P.S. The missing legs and pillows must be watching the cable. It’s the only explanation.

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Moving day is upon us

Posted on April 5, 2013 | 10 Comments

I’ve been waiting to bust out of this apartment and its eternally broken elevators, apathetic doormen, and ceiling stain for longer than I can remember. Well, it’s finally happening tomorrow. diaper boxesThere’s one wall of boxes. I didn’t get my fort, but the diaper boxes are having a useful second life, eh?

So everything was almost almost ready (yes, almost almost is a “thing” because I said so) and I got a frantic call from my husband this morning. See, there is this thing in Chile that the people driving the moving truck need and it’s a notarized document saying you are moving your things and not taking someone else’s old plates and grubby mattresses, which is about as appealing to me as stealing used petri dishes.

The first time I heard of it was about four years ago when I was still teaching English and my student said he’d have to postpone class because he had to get one of them for his Saturday move. “You’re just saying that to get out of class,” I admonished. He replied solemnly that he was not kidding and I could go with him if I wanted. I did out of curiosity. And mostly because they were paying me.

We ended up waiting in an endless line, while he explained in halting English this document that my middle-class-developed-country brain could not comprehend at the time, “You mean, the police might stop you and not believe it’s your stuff?”

“Yes.”

“But why would you hypothetically steal someone’s stained furniture?”

“Maybe they have nice things–even with stains. Maybe I have no things. Maybe they are on vacation. Maybe it’s from several families. Maybe I’m a…how do you say it? A scammer…”

I cut him off. I got it. It took me a couple more years to realize that whereas used things in the US are almost always given away or sold at a garage sale for pennies, here they depreciate in value at a much slower rate making a truck full of old furniture a gold mine on wheels.

Back to that phone call this morning, my husband needed me to quickly get a few of our last payments together so we could get this Get Out Of Jail Free Card or we wouldn’t move. We. Wouldn’t. Move. Try saying that to twitchy, pre-caffeinated me at 7:55 AM with snot dripping down my face because I couldn’t staunch the flow fast enough. I was not very nice.

Then try adding to that a baby who thinks she’s going to get packed in a box and…just don’t.

I blew my chapped nose, took an impossibly quick shower (I’m the queen of shortened personal hygiene now…I know…eww) and went downstairs with Squeaker in my arms. I approached the doorman and tried with my best Spanish to ask him for the dues receipts. We’d never spoken before.

“What?” He looked utterly perplexed that I had broken our speaking strike. They aren’t very nice people and neither am I when I don’t make the effort.

“The dues? We pay them every month? With a check?” It was all I could do to not pantomime signing a check.

He looked at me with my dripping hair, red nose and grumpy Squeaker like he was surprised I could walk and talk at the same time.

“I don’t have the amounts.”

“I don’t either. See how in this receipt it doesn’t show how much I paid?”

“I’ll have to talk to the administrator.”

The administrator who constantly gifts our parking spot to other people, blamed us for the broken elevators, and has yet to see the damage that the flooded apartment above us caused LAST YEAR? That one?

We’re screwed. We’re going to live in this shithole forever! Squeaker is going to get married here! Unpack the boxes! Tell the spiders their food supply is coming back!

Ugh. If the administrator doesn’t suddenly get a programing reboot called Version 2.0 REAL HUMAN EMOTIONS, we might just move without it. Wish us luck and don’t tell anyone.

 

 

 

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The Easter weekend post

Posted on April 1, 2013 | 7 Comments

I know that I traveled internationally through TWO airports in TWO countries with Squeaker when she was hardly eight weeks, but now when someone asks me if I’d like to travel to X place, it really sounds like they are saying “Would you like to try out this medieval stretching device? It’s not bad. Trust me.” She’s not a good traveller anymore. You take her out of her fragile routine and it’s a full-atomic-alert-everyone-get-to-your-bunkers type of a situation. There are tears, there is refusal to eat, there is a sleeping strike–a lot of avoidable “fun”,  in my mind. So when my husband asked me if I wanted to go out of town for two nights on a family Easter trip I was all, Meh… and then I stared off into space, drooling, for a good while.

It’s probably the first time in my life I’ve actively advocated for a stay-cation.

But in the end, we went. We took his work truck which is a bit more comfortable than our tiny grocery-getter and, apparently, much more to Squeaker’s liking.

This is where we ended up, a quiet resort in Olmué settled in the foothills of the Cordillera de la Costa.

This is where we ended up, a quiet resort in Olmué settled in the foothills of the Cordillera de la Costa.

Actually, she slept almost all the way there. She only woke up when we stopped for lunch in La Dormida. So besides the delicious food, I call it a win because it’s the first place I’ve tried to nurse her in public without a cover. Sorry, but exposing myself to curious glances has to be my least favorite (read: hated) part about nursing. Yet, there, I kind of felt all kinds of earth mother. I only lacked some flowers or feathers braided into my hair and a solid pair of Birkenstocks.

The trip was punctuated by our daily pleading with Squeaker to hurry things up and have a bowel movement already. I’m not sure if you know, but caring for a constipated baby is about as fun sticking your wet fingers in an outlet. When it finally happened, we yelled out the window to family members waiting below, “We’re going to be late. We’re cleaning up poopy!” And they all smiled and clapped appropriately. The neighbors kept their distance after that.

sara and isi olmue

It was nice to get away, but, yesterday, we left early to beat the rush. One thing that never ceases to amaze me about long weekends in Chile is how they all leave their destination at the EXACT SAME time and then get surprised when they all end up in the EAXACT SAME traffic jam, honking, cursing and tweeting pictures of each other’s cars. And it was a good thing, too. We ended up driving through the mountains at 15-miles-per-hour with the fog lights on. Squeaker thankfully slept through it. Again. Or we might have careened off a peak.

This week the moving fun starts for reals. I’ve packed precisely two boxes since my last post. In my defense, one was a very large box. So if you don’t see me for a while, I’ve probably built a fort out of boxes and I’m hiding from Squeaker there.

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The first box

Posted on March 26, 2013 | 4 Comments

It’s happening. It’s really happening. We are moving in ten days. Yes, we got an apartment through a degrading process known as the Santiago Housing Market and now we just have to cram our meager and minimalist possessions in some diaper boxes we’ve been stashing away and we’ll finally have a room for a guest…and Squeaker, if she deems it worthy.

I hate moving more than I hate a lot of things and that’s saying something. Maybe it’s because I moved around so much as a child that my classmates just assumed one or both of my parents were in the army. Not that I’m a big fan of our urban cracker box (it’s human tetris in here), but the thought of packing it all up–even if it’s just to move a mile away–is stressing me out. Like any good procrastinator, I’ll start packing tomorrow…when Squeaker is having a good day. Right.

Blerg.

Blerg.

In other home front news, we finally bit the bullet and hired a part-time housekeeper/nanny, or nana as they are referred to here. With my husband out of town for most of the week, I was literally ripping out my hair, not bathing or changing my underwear trying to keep this cracker box running and the baby out of meltdown mode (her default mode).

She comes three times a week. Don’t look at me like that! I still do things. She just does those less pleasant things like cleaning the bathroom and cooking real meals that involve more steps than: insert bread into toaster. Last night I was commenting to my husband that it’s like living at a hotel. She irons everything. She even irons our sheets. Want to know what freshly ironed sheets feel like? Heaven. That’s right. Although, the first time I saw her trying to iron my underwear I was like, Oh.

I’m not very well-versed in the Chilean art of having a nana. After she cleans, she asks me something like, “What should I do now?”

I usually respond, “What do you normally do? Something that isn’t ironing my underwear that is.” I feel bad telling someone what to do after they’ve already washed last night’s crusty food off my dishes and scrubbed my toilet. My parents had housekeepers when I was growing up, but they only came twice a month and strictly to clean.

But I’m going to have to do it. I’m just going to have to reply, “I know what you should do. Here, take Squeaker while I pack a box and do a victory dance!”

I just need to get over the first box hurdle, but it freaks me out that I’ll be all, DID I PACK THE SALT SHAKER WITH MY HAIR DRYER? And smell like fast food for a month.

Wish me luck!

Oh, and Happy Easter.

P.S. I’m serious about this guest room stuff. Now, no one will have an excuse for not visiting me, besides the plane ticket for which you have to take out a second mortgage.

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How I became a hippie mom without trying

Posted on March 22, 2013 | 9 Comments
Baby contemplating life in the wrap.

Baby contemplating life in the wrap.

One of the things I’ve struggled with since becoming a mom is the changing face of my identity and what it is that makes me who I am. I went from an introverted, flexitarian, yoga novice with a penchant for novels and blogging to a frazzled mom who rarely wears makeup, wonders why she used to knock socks with sandals, and has to plan shaving her legs around when the baby is sleeping (which is never). I’m lucky now if I find time to get online once or twice a week to blog. My socializing has been curtailed to friends with babies because nothing is worse than being out with a single, non-mommy friend when your antsy four-month-old decides she’s going full-on Chernobyl in a coffee shop just because the other patrons looked too relaxed.

The first couple of months, I fought to maintain those parts of me, refusing to admit that things had to change and it stressed me out. I had thought I would have all this time when she magically napped, but I learned quickly that that wouldn’t be the case. Nap? What nap? Nap is a four letter word!

Instead, I’ve been learning to embrace my new identity, which has increasing become that of a hippie stay at home mom. Allow me to explain:

1. I babywear. Squeaker has to be held constantly and when she’s not being held, she must be tricked into believing that she is being held, hence the babywearing. Many times strangers come up to me in the street not to say ‘hi’ to her, but to ask me how I’m wearing her. I’m a fan of the Moby Wrap and the ErgoBaby and those are not very common sights on the streets of Santiago. When I took her to get her four-month vaccinations in the Ergo, an elderly gentleman waiting for his flu shot asked me how much she weighed and where I had purchased my baby carrier because he wanted to buy the same one.

Now, instead of daily yoga, we do our daily walk in the wrap or the carrier and she snoozes against my chest, or she tries to eat my headphones–one or the other.

2. I breastfeed. So my relationship with breastfeeding was one of apprehension and misunderstanding in the beginning, but now that she’s not so colicky and I see how much she enjoys it, I’ve learned to cherish our time together–especially when she stares up at me, smiling and dribbling milk down her cheeks. A few days ago someone mentioned to me that it will be hard to wean her in a few months. In a few months! We started giving her boiled pears this week as per the doctor’s instructions to improve her regularity. (Yes, I did type that. Parents think more about their offsprings’ poop than just about any other indicator of health. Quantity? Texture? Color? Smell? We have entire phone calls with the relatives back home about this.) But, that doesn’t mean I’m ready to give it up. It’s still a great multi-vitamin and the best, most-digestible protein she can eat. In the beginning, my goal was at least six months. Now, who knows?

3. We co-sleep. I fully admit that this is controversial,  but weeks of struggling to get her to sleep in her crib and the screams of agony that sounded like we were leaving her on a mountaintop in an Incan ritual, not giving her a safe night’s rest, wore us out and made us mad–at each other and those lucky liars who say they babies who sleep through the night. Finally, one day, my husband asked, “And if she just sleeps with us?” WHAT? Don’t they have Geneva Conventions about that? I balked. Eventually sleep deprivation won and now the three of us sleep almost peacefully. When she gets her own room at our new place, we might have to try again.

4.  This happened:

I dress like a homeless yoga instructor most days of the week.

I dress like a homeless yoga instructor most days of the week.

Black yoga pants are formal wear at this point.

5. Coming to the realization that nothing is permanent and soon she won’t want to be held constantly and I need to enjoy every minute while I can.

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Happy four months!

Posted on March 15, 2013 | 6 Comments

It’s been four months and a few days since Squeaker made her grand entrance and my life has done a 180. Tiny humans are very time-consuming and noisy, but also simple, honest and grounding. Here’s an open letter to Squeaker, that maybe she won’t Google someday.

Squeaker with Babysitting Cow.

Squeaker with Babysitting Cow.

Dear Squeaker,

You seem so big to us now. We catch ourselves saying things like, “When she was little…” all the time. Of course, you are still little, but now you are flipping over very time we put you on your back. You don’t know where you’re going, but you’re in a big hurry to get there. You also attempt to grab on to random appendages/shirts/earrings/hair to pull yourself up to a seated position. It hurts, yes, but I have to admit you are a baby genius.

Beyond ruminating your infant intellect and readying your application for Mensa, I find myself singing through daily grooming like I do with your “diaper changing time”. That makes you squeal with delight, although I don’t know why. If the neighbors understood, they might find it odd a grown woman breaks into song about how it’s a “hair washing day”.

Since my work life and socializing has been seriously cut back, I think of intricate back stories for your toys, so not to lose my mind. It’s all telenovela over here. Did you know that Babysitting Cow had a baby? Here’s the little chap. You like to stick him in your mouth because he’s red and jingles.
cow's baby

If you ask someday, I’ll tell you it was an immaculate conception, even though we’ve seen this guy hanging around a lot lately. isi's toyWe’ve moved on to our third baby carrier. You seem to have outgrown one, or have become too unwieldy to wear in it. The other involves wrapping yards and yards of fabric, which hurts my sleep-deprived brain sometimes. Thus, we dropped the cash on yet another baby wearing device because you must be at or near adult eye level all day long. Daddy complained a little, but we prevailed. Remember that for when you want a puppy someday.

You are in there. I promise.

You are in there. I promise.

Speaking of adults, you are one of the most social babies I’ve met–not that I socialize with many. More strangers have come up to talk to me in these two short months than in the three plus years I’ve lived here. You’re forcing your socially awkward mother to make small talk and you enjoy it. You beam your baby gums every time someone tells you how cute you are, or asks me to pronounce your name. For the third time. What new ways will you learn to torture me in your teenage years?

And right now, I’m typing this with one hand while you snore against my opposite elbow. Please, don’t change.

 

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