6 months

Dearest Ozzy,

Bubba. Buddy. Mister. Love. It is 9pm, which means there are 3 hours left in your 6 month birthday. I like to quantify things, which you probably already know about me. On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do I love you? 10 being squishing a mouse in my pocket-love? 417,000 to the power of you. I have also never been good at math. You smell like the color of cream, of warm sheets, wet gums, of things multiplied and growing.

I look at this photo and can't help but think that one day this will be the direct gaze staring at me from a graduation pic, a wedding photo, from the corner of a business card should you become a real estate agent, I don't know. Just this: there you are. My boy. All boy. I don't know how much is me putting gender on your everything, but you are: such a boy. The way you laugh when your sister makes a loud noise, your stance before you even know how to stand.

At night you sleep in our bed. You fuss and grunt, babble, call out until I push my boob into your mouth, and then you breathe deeply, sigh, sleep. There is no other way to put it, this dance, nothing poetic about poking my nipple around in the dark across your face until I feel your wet mouth open. I'm sorry to embarrass you already but it's funny to think of the first time you encounter a "real" girl's boob, how I think you will push yourself into it greedily and then fall instantly asleep once you make contact.

Sorry.

Moving on. You like airplanes and cats, carrots, the window down when we drive. You are big. 91st percentile, and lately you have started to do this backstroke thing across the floor, opting not to crawl quite yet but to push yourself laying down on your back like a fish. Oooo. You sound like an owl, my backward fish-owl boy who smells of cream of wheat and soft.

183 days, give or take, like I said: I suck at math. A lifetime is what it is, these last 6 months, yours. Because I am just that: yours.

Love,
Mommy

Thank You.

Truth: I used to not like Thanksgiving. What with all the family dynamics, dysfunction, all those dishes to wash. I did not particularly like turkey, the stuffing heavy with slivered mushrooms ground, impossible to pick out. Pumpkin pie is only good the first few fork-fulls, you know, pecan pie tasty if it weren't for the actual pecans. No, I did not like any of it until now. This second. Today, with a kindergartener. Hands traced into toms, feathers glued to gourds. This hat made from bunched up paper bags so that it looks as if she has two turkey legs on top of her head. And that freaking smile.

I guess finally I get it. The gratitude. The giving, the on-my-knees, no way, why me, how did I get here, how am I so lucky? The kiss their cheeks by the fire, a quick inhalation of laughter, the actual taste of thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

As an Aside (And as a Title), I Would Love to Surprise My Dad With His 1972 International Scout But I'm Thinking It's a Goner

Bryan does this annoying thing when we watch movies. That is, if there is so much as the slightest possibility of someone dying, like maybe the mother starts to cough a little and it's obvious that in the next 90 minutes she is going to die of lung cancer because duh, people don't cough in movies unless death is imminent, then Bryan sits up and looks back at me. To see if I'm crying. He looks at me with this smirk on his face that says you are such an emotional fish, except of course when I push him away he says what? You are cute! It's because you're so cute. Consequently I have not been able to cry during a movie in quite some time and feel totally constipated.

So last night I showed him this 5 minute flick and watched his eyes get seriously shiny.

Back in the day when I used to wear men's vests to school, also known as 1990, Bryan had a `75 Chevy Caprice (which istotallyalmostthesamething as an Impala if you so much as bring up the difference to him). He spray painted a fishbone across the hood and God help me if Zoey is anything like me, but for some reason I found that fishbone-painted Caprice sexy, even if it did start with a screwdriver. So there's that.

And before you get all jaded consumer--believe me, I went there, too--apparently the brothers started the quest to find their father's Impala and only contacted Chevy to see if they wanted to film the reaction. Their father was indeed miked, but told that they were filming a piece about three family generations when his car pulled up.

So let your eyes shine on.
xo,
S

Gimme Gimme

I think I may have given up. That is: once upon a time I yearned for high heels. Strappy numbers in gold. Now I want these sensible shoes, something I can really rock the shit out of at the grocery store:Clean up on aisle pretty please. Size 8. Black. Just sayin'. Actually, you know what? Forget it. I can't wait for someone to buy these for me for Christmas. Purchasing...now.

Then there's this beanie. Don't even. I know it has a pom pom, I SEE the pom pom. It is yellow, yes, the pom pom is yellow which makes it a yellow pom pom and still I want it.
Also? This flannel nightshirt from Little Larry Bean. Size large, monogrammed, traditional 3 letter style with last initial in the middle: SMC. Let's see: Uggs, a pom pom beanie and large monogrammed flannel L.L.Bean pj's...I'm painting quite the sexy picture of myself aren't I?Yeah baby. Well then, let's kick this up a notch. Because I also want these Super Skinny Sparkle Jeans (take it from me--the pic doesn't do the sparkle justice). They're only $36.95, but the problem is they're from the kids section at Gap. Yeah. I bought them for Zoey and feel downright covetous whenever she wears them. So here's my question: I'm a fairly medium-thin (albeit flabby thin) woman. Think I can fit into a girl's size 16? 18? Truth: on a scale from one to fucking pathetic, how bad would it be for me to wear sparkley black jeans from the kids section at Gap? Really fucking sad? Well what if I wore them with a yellow pom pom beanie? Oh stop.
Also at the top of my Xmas list is a Kindle Fire. Like seriously at the top. I want it like the pre-2008 me wanted stuff. Get it? Because pre-2008 me didn't know that the economy could/would crash and that materials goods meant nothing. I wanted shit more then, like I thought it all mattered. That's how much I want the Kindle Fire. I think it matters even though I know it doesn't which makes no sense but neither does the fact that The Gap doesn't sell those goddamn Super Skinny Sparkle Jeans in grown woman sizes.

So that's what I want for Christmas. In case you were wondering. What I want now on a Tuesday night wearing my ratty flannel nightshirt with the monogrammed initials SJC, that's how old it is. My maiden name, and I got married 6 years ago. Gimme Gimme please. And you?

WTF Wednesday: The Answers Edition

No real questions today with the exception of this photo:
Instead, in a total word-vom of wha'the-fah-ness, here's a list of strange facts that will make you the most popular girl at the cocktail party (unless of course there's some other girl giving out hand jobs in the loo, in which case knowing that beetles taste like apples, wasps like pine nuts and worms like fried bacon isn't going to do a thing for you).

1. There's a spider in Brazil whose bite causes an erection that lasts for hours.
2. Jackie Chan was in the womb for 12 months.
3. A banana is a berry but a strawberry isn't.
4. The total weight of all the ants on the earth is roughly equal to that of all the people on the earth.
5. Hitler was once nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.
6. You will create enough saliva to fill two average-sized swimming pools in your lifetime.
7. There is enough fuel in the tank of a jumbo jet to drive the average car around the world four times.
8. A portion of the water you drink has already been drunk by someone else, maybe several times over.
9. You are taller in the morning.
10. I cannot stop at nine facts so I am just typing here. For the record, I also want to say that #6 and #8 make me nauseated. According to Br'er Rabbit I shouldn't say this to anyone, but I hate spit more than anything else. Seriously. I'd rather eat a spoonful of someone else's poop than drink a glass of someone else's spit. And I don't say that lightly. For some reason I have thought about this conundrum at length which is probably why I don't have a retirement plan in place or know what is going on with the presidential candidates. I am too busy choosing between poop and spit. What about you? Which would you choose, and/or who is Ron Paul?

That's it people of the wwwtf.
xo,
S

Standard Time

I think I've got me a case of the sads.
Or a mild case of the mehs, I don't know. The end of Daylight Savings Time, sure. It's stupid how every year we all turn to each other at 4pm and say it feels like it should be 8! When duh, it happens every year, how are we still surprised? But yeah. It feels like it should be 8.

On the bus home tonight I read the news. Something about how the cost of climate change is expected to be enormous and then that bit about Penn State. Fuck--what is wrong with people? With all of us? It makes me want to spend an hour plucking my eyebrows in a magnifying mirror. (Which is what I did just now before starting this post so if you see me tomorrow don't look too closely at the outside of my left eyebrow because it's kinda' not there anymore.) (Oh, also? I have always wanted to be able to raise one eyebrow in bemused skepticism, but when I try it just looks like I'm trying to hide the fact that I farted while having a stroke, and now I certainly can't raise one eyebrow seeing as how one is a shadow of its former self.)

Or it could just be the Mulling Spices I bought this weekend at Trader Joe's. How I have ruined one pot simmering them to make my home smell safe and warm and right. How I think that if I pay my bills and balance my checkbook that everything will be ok, the world tepid, ten year old boys untouched. How I tell myself that at least it is 8 o'clock twice a day, I mean that's good, right? So I put on my chenille sleep socks and pad around the house softly once everyone is in bed, putting things away where they belong, smelling of orange peels, allspice and cloves.

WTF Wednesdays: Mathalete Edition!

So because I really do hate the word hump, I think I'm going to call this recurring Wednesday doohicky WTF Wednesdays, as in the slow slide into Wednesday, Thursday, Friday (WTF) with a side order of good ol' fashioned What The Fuck (WTF). Yes?

This week's WTF Wednesday Edition is for the mathalete in all of us (stay with me here, I need you)...

1. If you choose an answer to this question at random, what is the chance that your answer will be correct?

a. 25%

b. 50%

c. 60%

d. 25%

WTF.

2. Did you know that the last two digits of your birth year + your age = 111. For example, I was born in 1972, so 72 + 39 = 111. Try it. This is true for EVERYONE this year. (Next year it will be 112 if we make it past the Mayan calendar.) WTF.

3. If this dress on the left is $188 at Anthropologie and I have a $100 gift card, should I buy it for $88 or wait to see if ever goes on sale risking the chance it will sell out? (If instead of answering the question you all go out and buy the dress in a size 6, I will cut a bitch.) WTF.

In the classroom of life I am totally trying to cheat off of you. Seriously--can you move your shoulder a bit? I can't see your paper. I hate math, but questions one and two are freaking me the eff out. How the Huh? And question #3 just needs some rationalization.

Happy WTF.

S