Tales from La La Land

When I was pregnant with Harper (and had absolutely zero clue what the fuck was coming my way), I was all, “I’m totally going to be a hot mom who is basically un-phased by snot, poop and Cheerios.” I’m not kidding when I say my current life mission is to NOT have my life taken over by Cheerios. They symbolize the complete and total loss of pre-child life. Like, seriously, if you let them, Cheerios would fill your house, car, bed, bath tub, hair and towels.

But, of course, being a normal 20-month old, Harper loves Cheerios (Chee-O). It’s one of the words, along with chocolate (shadda), cookie (titty), treat (tweet), milk (muk), paci and MINE, that she has perfected. Of course being an anal bitch, I’m still determined to conquer Cheerios so I spend half my life picking them up off the floor and vacuuming them out of the car seat and telling Harper that Sanch does not like Cheerios. And then the other day, I pulled out a beach towel, and low and behold there was a year-old Cheerio crusted onto the towel.

I wept a little inside.

I’m totally not winning this game.

When you spend half your time picking up food or changing diapers or searching the Internet for the best chemical to remove the smell of puke, you simply aren’t left with tons of time to be the “hot mom” you always dreamed you’d be. When you add being almost 6 months pregnant into the mix, looking in the mirror at your super hot body and dark eye circles contradicts everything you visualize in your mind.

And you know what happens when you have a mid-pregnancy/raising a toddler at the same time crisis?

THIS:

I went to get my hair done, and I somehow came back with red streaks. Clearly, I am losing my mind if I thought red streaks = hot.

I just needed something.

Harper is my life. She kills me with how cute she is. Every phase we go through requires time and attention. We are currently in the transition phase from crib to bed. It takes no fewer than 1.5 hours for her to finally go to sleep. She loves the fact that she can get out of bed on her own. She gets up, knocks on her door and says, “Mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama” until someone comes to get her. We get her, put her back to bed, read Good Night Moon for the 600th time, sing twinkle twinkle, kiss Mickey, hug Minnie, tickle Mimi and hug Harper. This routine happens over and over and over until Harper finally gives in.

It. Is. Exhausting. And, even though it’s only 8 p.m. on a Friday when she falls asleep, and I technically could go for a jog or paint my nails to look pretty, I prefer to lay on the couch and eat Pretzel M&Ms while watching Real Housewives until I pass out at 8:45 p.m.

HOT. MAMA. HOT. HOT. HOT.

But then I look at her sleeping in her big girl bed and I feel like I want a gold star. I feel like Laef and I are winning. Like despite the fact that he’s gone completely bald and is already stressing about having two girls, which means one thing, and one thing only to him – TWO WEDDINGS – we’re doing this.

Despite the fact that my hair is completely fucked up and I’m trying to squeeze into non-maternity clothes for as long as possible so that Harper can go to gym class and swim lessons, we are pretty much winning this game.

Yes, on most days my feet and hands are totally sweaty (yay Pregnancy!), I’m out of breath from walking to the bathroom (double Yay pregnancy!), and I eat Tums for breakfast (HIP HIP HOORAY Pregnancy!).

BUT Harper sleeps in a bed!

And she’s so cute!

Aside from the occasional baby spit-up and two instances of projectile vomit when Harper was an infant, we have been super, super lucky in the puke department. I hate to even type that sentence because I’ve probably just assured some kind puke jinx.

But, I’m pretty sure this past Sunday night/Monday morning was our inauguration into for-real parenting. Like, the days of Harper’s bedroom smelling like freshly-bathed toddler and baby powder could be over. The days of our living room smelling like Cinnamon Yankee Candle and homemade pot roast  grilled cheese sandwiches could be done.

We hung out with some friends on Sunday evening. Harper went to sleep like normal when we got home. Then she woke up at midnight. As usual, Laef and I looked at each other, and rolled back over. I know what you’re thinking, that we are terrible people, but she normally puts herself back to sleep within 5 minutes. On this particular evening, however, 5 minutes became 15, and it was evident that something was amiss. Laef got up to check, came back and said, “She threw up. I need your help.”

The way he presented that statement, as if to say, “She peed her diaper, no big deal”, did not properly prepare me for what I was about to walk into.

I will spare you the details (there might have been whole blueberries stuck to Mickey), but we stripped the bed, changed her pajamas, threw everything in a plastic garbage bag. Her hair had barf in it. Her hands and face had barf. All of her stuffed animals were victims. There are simply zero words to describe the smell. Did I mention blueberries? I will NEVER eat blueberries in my life again.

I forgot to spare the details. Sorry.

Anyway, we cleaned her up, put new sheets on the bed, and got her into new pajamas. She didn’t have a fever, so we figured she just ate something that upset her stomach and that she would feel better. I rocked her back to sleep, but let me tell you, I was dry-heaving the whole time. Her hair didn’t have that sweet baby smell. Not even close. You never want to be dry-heaving while cuddling your child, but, I guess that’s the reality of parenthood, yo.

We all settled back into bed, and then about 10 minutes later, I heard it. It happened again. We did the whole drill again. And realized we were in for a long night.

She eventually fell asleep for a couple of hours, but by 7 a.m. she no longer wanted to kick it in her crib. I wonder why?

When she woke up, we decided to give her a small bottle of milk because she was hungry, but didn’t really want to eat her normal breakfast.

Milk. Was. A. Bad. Choice.

She immediately threw up all over the living room. When I say all over, that’s what I mean. Everywhere. Because of course we tried to pick her up and get to the bathroom, which did nothing other than assure that there was barf from the living room, to the hallway, to the bathroom. We put her in the bath tub, and she looked up, smiled, and said, “All done.”

So, now we had two garbage bags full of puke covered things.

Laef skipped off to work with nary a wave. I mean, I’m sure he wanted to hang back and bask in the new fragrance of our home, but my woeful eyes didn’t do much to persuade him. I really did not want to be stuck home alone with a projectile-vomitting toddler. I just don’t handle the vom well at all. I had to act quick, so I told Laef that we’d make his lunch and bring it to him at work. (This makes me sound like an awesome wife, but really I figured if I took her to Laef’s work, she could puke there instead.)

Thankfully, the milk incident was the last of the sickness. Harper went about her morning as though nothing had happened. We visited Laef at work, and she ran around playing, blowing kisses to his coworkers, fooling them all.

Later that afternoon when she went down for her nap, I put on my breathing mask, and made my way to the laundry room. I figured if anyone saw me, I could say I had allergies. Luckily no one was in the laundry room, because, let me tell you: THAT MASK WAS BUNK. When I opened the two garbage bags full of vomit-covered items, it was clear: THIS IS THE MASK I NEEDED. I was not prepared for what came out of those trash bags. I tried to throw everything into the washing machine as fast as I could and run away.

Just as I closed the lid to the washing machine, and removed my D-list mask, one of our neighbors rolled in. I don’t know how it came up, but he mentioned in conversation that his wife is pregnant, and the baby is due in May.

I am not sure if my face was the “this is so exciting you are going to love it, babies are amazing, life changing, wonderful things” or “omg, you poor motherfuckers, wait until you smell baby barf it is the worst thing, and I only slept two hours last night, enjoy every second until May see you later, bye!!!!!!!!”, but either way, I totally smiled and said Congratulations, you will love it.

HAHAHAHAHA.

But, seriously, freshly bathed, happy babies, really are THE best. xo

Laef has finally returned from an 8 day trip to China. Yes, it was wonderful to have the TV all to myself. It was also nice to go out for drinks on a Thursday and not have Laef sitting across the table from me doing the math as to exactly how much each Appletini costs when you factor in the babysitter wage. Is Laef the only person who thinks that if Harper is sleeping, the hourly rate for babysitting should drop down to $1.50? (Sidenote to Liz: I’m in your corner. I got yo’ back).

But, we missed him. I not only realized this when I was taking out the trash, cleaning the litter box and doing the dishes, but when I was taking a shower. Or should I say, when I wasn’t taking a shower. The absolute best part of him returning was taking a shower for longer than 2 minutes.

He arrived home on Wednesday night, and because our day care provider happens to be on vacation this week, Laef had the opportunity to reconnect with Harper by staying home with her on Thursday and Friday.

The questions I always ask when daddy is in charge are:

1. What is she wearing?
2. What is she eating?

I got a text on Thursday morning from the park with the following photo:

Shorts, shirt, watch, no shoes: PASS

This probably means that she ate a Popsicle for lunch, but there’s no photo evidence so there’s no need to worry.

I arrived home on Thursday evening, however, and it was a much different story. This is what I saw:

No shirt, No pants, no shoes, pink backpack (???): FAIL.

I guess the fact that she was in the comfort of her own home, and it was a scorching day in LA should make it OK. There is nothing like seeing your daughter looking like the next lead character in a Jon Krakauer novel.

After surviving day 1 with a toddler and jet lag, Laef and Harper embarked on Friday. They decided to make a trip to UCLA.

Wearing this:

Cute skirt, shirt, SHOES THAT ARE TOO BIG SO THEY ARE MacGYVERED WITH ATHLETIC TAPE???: OK, fine. Pass. Barely.

God, I love these two. SO. MUCH.

So the other day I was telling someone how I’ve stopped writing on my blog because I’m scared of being attacked by all those perfect mommy types who describe motherhood with words like bliss, euphoria and sunshine.

Don’t get me wrong. Harper has lots of shining moments.

But, sometimes, um, you know, she is a TOTAL DICK. And, sometimes, I am an ASSHOLE of a parent. And, it’s all so confusing when you don’t know what the F you are doing from one day to the next.

Thankfully, Harper has finally started using some of her sign language so we can at least figure out some things. However, she has her signs crossed, and apparently clapping means more, and the sign for more means hungry, but whatever, we have a Morris system, and it works.

I had recently come to a nice point in our mother/first-child relationship where I wasn’t stressing over her every move. Like, I had finally stopped walking behind her to make sure she didn’t fall and break an eye. I had finally let Laef’s mantra – “She’s a toddler now. She’s going to have falls. She’s going to be OK” rule the house. I was comfortable with letting her be a walking, falling, knee-scratched, shin-bruised 14 month old.

Then one morning while we were doing our normal morning routine, there was a loud sound followed by a cry. This was a real cry. Not the bullshit cry Harper does when I tell her that she can’t eat the roll of toilet paper or Sanchez’ food. (Although, those cries do sound like the world is ending). Anyway, the reality was that her chair had fallen over with her strapped into the high chair. She hit her head, and for a few seconds her eyes rolled back in her head and she lost consciousness.

We spent the morning at the ER. There’s no sadder place to be. There are tears and fears. There are what-ifs and hows and whys.

It was a giant relief to learn that Harper was fine. She had a bump on her head. By the time we left the hospital, her and Laef were back to their old ways, happy to be home.

I was fine too. After I drank a bottle of wine in my bed under the covers. I was trying to erase the memory from my brain. Then Laef brought Harper into the bedroom to show me her new daily required attire.

I don’t always laugh at Laef’s jokes, but this helped. It took a couple of days, but the flashbacks eventually faded. Now it’s a story we can tell later.

By the way, when you share a parenting story like that, you get to hear other people’s horror stories.

“My brother ate a piece of acid when he was 1, and he was OK.” – Anon

“My daughter ate a cigarette butt at the playground once.” – Anon

I guess after hearing a few gems from other people, I figured I could get back to the blog.

UCLA basketball season is over. The NCAA tournament is definitely more fun when you have a team to follow, but I can not lie: I am happy that the season is over, and that Laef is home more often. Yes, I’m happy to see his mug everyday, but, again, I can not lie: What I missed the most was his hands. As in: Please hold the baby while I do A, B, C. Or, please take out the trash, bring in the laundry, clean the litter box while I give the baby a bath.

So, anyway, Laef had his first day off from work on Tuesday. I assumed that he’d spend it eating CheezIts and watching Storage Wars while scratching his balls.

But, he proudly proclaimed that Harper would not be going to daycare, and that they were going to spend the “whole day together having so much fun!”

I immediately gave him my Parent of the Year banner, because, again, I can not lie: If I had a day off from work, Harper would be going to day care (at least for part of the day). Judge me all you want, but I’ve been looking for a spare 4 hours for a while now, and the only way to get that is by having a day off when day care is open. Which, frankly, never happens.

When I left for work Harper was eating a blueberry waffle wearing nothing but a diaper and a bib.

Laef: “I don’t want her jammies to get messy.”

Me: “OK, well, it’s a little cold.”

Laef: “Go to work.”

The key for any mother is this: Out of sight, out of mind.

If I don’t see that Harper is wearing stripes and plaids together, then it probably didn’t happen, and I will never know, and then I won’t lose sleep. If I don’t see that she ate a piece of cat food from the floor, then it definitely didn’t happen (unless I see it later in her poop).

Later that day, Laef brought Harper to UCLA to visit his coworkers. Then he brought her by my office to say hi. So. Cute. The two of them out and about spending their day together.

At 12:30, I told him he should probably get home because they’re now approaching the danger zone of her afternoon nap. If it’s me, I don’t fuck around with nap time. I stay within a 5 centimeter radius of the house so that we can be in the crib before the wheels come off.

Which is why I had to shoo them away. Because if I don’t see that it’s 1 p.m., and Harper is nowhere near her crib for her nap, then it’s not happening and I don’t have to worry about what this will mean for the rest of the day.

At 2 p.m. I got a call from Laef.

“I don’t know what to do. She fell asleep in the car, but only slept for 20 minutes. Now she doesn’t want to go back down in her crib.”

Me: “Well, she’s probably passed the point of napping, and will just stay up the rest of the day.”

Laef: “But, Dad needs a nap.”

Me: “Welcome to motherhood.”

So, they played and hung out for the rest of the afternoon. By the time I got home, it was evident that both were in desperate need of a nap.

Bed time came early. She fell asleep sitting up. Didn’t even bother to finish her bottle.

Daddy Day Care Day absolutely wiped her out.

We took Harper to her 2 week doctor appointment last week and the highlight of the visit was that she gained 9 ounces! And, I must say, if this little trick hadn’t gained anything I might have thrown myself on the floor right there and screamed until someone swaddled me and gave me a paci dipped in Patron. I swear I have been breastfeeding (or pumping) nearly 24 hours a day for the past 19 days. Breastfeeding has been far harder than I ever imagined, although I will say that my nipples have finally thrown in the towel and succumbed to the beast that is Harper’s mouth. I did not know that babies could suck cracks the size of the Grand Canyon in one tiny nipple. Nor did I know exactly how painful it was going to be.

Having said that, we are extremely lucky that she’s a good eater. She latched on from the first day, and has not looked back. She eats constantly, night and day. She is now able to drink breastmilk from a bottle, and it doesn’t affect her ability to breast feed. This means that Laef can do one of the nightly feedings. I can’t even tell you how nice it is to have that one little break. Of course, sometimes she will finish the bottle, and after trying to rock her into a coma, Laef will bring her back to me 45 minutes later and say, “Chris Farley is hungry again.”

She eats constantly.

At first this meant that I was confined to the couch or the rocking chair for most of the day and night. I will say that I do cherish those moments when she is making the “this tastes soooo yummy” sighs and her whole body is completely relaxed. I could stare at her for hours.

But sometimes I need other things to keep me occupied. So when Laef had to go to work and I was by myself for the day, I had to make sure that my command station was set up before I started feeding her. (I am just now getting to the point where I can be mobile or move around without having piercing pain).

Once I have my command station set up, Harper and I conquer the world. I’m so thankful that she eats well despite the fact that she usually shits herself halfway through, which means she grunts and kicks her legs violently while working it out, all done with my nipple in her mouth because God forbid I politely pull her off to help her burp or work out her giant shit. She does not like to be interrupted for anything while eating.

Fine by me, little Diva. Eat with your pants full of shit.

Anyway, Laef and I are approaching week 3 and I can’t really say that we’ve got it all figured out. Some nights she sleeps a max of 2 hours per stretch, other nights she will go 5 hours. But we can never count on anything because things change daily. And that is the hardest part. Just when we think we figure something out and think we’ve mastered the 3 week old who runs the household, she switches it up on us and we’re back to square one.

The good news is that Laef and I have both been in this together everyday since day one. I don’t think anyone truly knows how hard it is mentally until you’ve been through it. So I don’t have to explain to him why I’m crying after having been up all night. He already knows. Having someone in you’re corner who knows exactly what you’re feeling makes it a lot easier.

Because we all know that when I was crying because of PMS he didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on, nor did he understand why it was such a big deal that he missed the hamper for the 6ooth time.

Some days we look at each other and roll our eyes. Other days we stare at her and smile and say, “We did this.” We feel so happy and and so lucky. Even if I never have any idea what day of the week it is, and 3 p.m. is no different than 3 a.m.

At the end of the day, whatever day it might be, she has changed us both in a myriad of ways. I didn’t know I could give so much of myself and expect nothing in return. I didn’t know that Laef and I could talk about her epic shits and how many grunts it takes for her to finally be done.

Or how F’n cute she could be.

The baby is due on Friday. Which doesn’t really mean much. She could come tomorrow or she could come next Friday. We are currently in a holding pattern.

My last day of work was last Wednesday. Laef’s last day of work for most of the summer is tomorrow. So, if we’re being honest, we are actually OK if she doesn’t come until her due date or maybe a few days past that. Whatever days we have now – to ourselves – will be the last days where we’re not worrying about something: Is she breathing? Is she eating? Is she going to hit her head on that corner? Is she going to be bullied? Will she be kind? Is she going to slut it up? Is she having sex? Is she marrying the right guy?

And so on.

I spent my first two days off from work acting like the end of the world was coming. First, I went grocery shopping. And I was the woman with two carts full of shit! I was the person who got the wicked side-eye from the checker, the bagger and the poor sap who thought grocery shopping at 11 a.m. on a Thursday was the best time to go.

To be honest, I don’t know why I did this. I mean, Ralph’s is .5 miles from our house. It’s not like we won’t be able to make a quick trip to the store after the baby comes. It’s not like the first-ever tornado is about to hit LA and we will be stuck inside for 6 months. (But, if we are, everyone can totally come over and enjoy some of our cereal).

I know.

The following day I went to Target. I’m just going to leave it at that because when Laef saw the receipt he got sick. However, I assured him that we will not have to buy toilet paper, deodorant, baby meds, anything breast-pump related, laundry detergent or kitty litter for a least a year.

So, we’re now completely stocked and ready. Over the weekend we put the Pack N Play together and it’s next to our bed. The crib is ready. The stroller is ready. The car seat is in my car. We are now just waiting for the baby.

They say sex can potentially help start labor.

By Sunday evening I had had a solid 4 days of quality me time and figured we could maybe get the show in the road.

Me: “Want to have sex?”

Laef: …

Me: “Is it the drooling?”

Laef: …

Me: “Is it the gas?”

Laef: …

Me: “Is it that I’ve been wandering around braless for two days in the same clothes?”

Laef: …

I’m pretty sure it is all of the above. Not working is great. You just have to remind yourself that it’s OK to put on a bra and comb your hair. And, who knew that pregnancy causes a shitload of saliva and will make you drool ALL OVER THE FUCKING place?

It turns out the truth of the matter is that Laef is looking forward to having a few days off from work before the baby comes so he’s not exactly looking to speed up the labor process.

I can get with that. Every second that I am watching the MTV movie awards or Real Housewives, or enjoying a pedicure or taking a bath, I remind myself to enjoy ever last minute of it.

Laef had one final work trip this past week. He was in Michigan with the UCLA water polo team for 5 days. I’ll just say that I am really glad this traveling shit is behind us.

The highlight of my weekend (aside from the horrendously horrible migraine I had, which led to me barfing and swearing I would never drink again only to realize, wait a minute. I didn’t even drink! Who is doing this to me and why?) was buying a queen-sized waterproof mattress pad for our bed. OK, yes, maybe I’m spending too much time reading baby books and nesting, but I do not have shit else to do except try to get everything in order. And, what if my water does break on our bed? The last thing I want to come home to after delivering a baby is a fucked up mattress.

Anyway, let’s just say that things are getting progressively sexier by the day. We are now the people with plastic on our bed. And Laef actually asked me this question (he is also reading baby books) “Do you have maxi pads? Extra absorbent ones?”

What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On. Around. Here?

I digress.

Since the team only played one game per day while in Michigan, there was a lot of down time. So they went to the movies and saw Fast Five and Bridesmaids. The second might have punched me in the gut a little as I really want to see it, and there’s probably < .09812 of a chance that I could convince Laef to see it a second time.

We were talking about it afterward and he said it was funny. I told him that No Strings Attached had just arrived via Netflix, and I asked him if he wanted me to save it for when he came home “since you looove Natalie Portman so much.”

Laef: “Wait. So, I saw a poster for another movie that is the exact same thing. Friends with benefits or something.”

Me: “Yeah, that one has Mila Kunis, so maybe you’d rather see that instead since Mila is way hotter than Natalie.”

Laef: “I know. Especially now that Natalie is all pregnant and …”

Me: “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Laef: …

No, he didn’t mean it that way.

But I told him: “Congratulations, you’ve just made me list of things not to say to a pregnant woman. You almost made it the whole nine months!”

They say people get uber-tired in their first trimester of pregnancy. I didn’t really experience that. I felt great all through, and for the most part had my normal energy to go to the gym, continue to run, do housework, cook and meet up with friends for dinner.

However, someone must be trying to prepare me for what it’s going to be like once the baby comes and I am sleep-deprived. I just entered the ninth month and have just 4 weeks to go. And I’m a walking fucking zombie. I am so tired I can’t even see straight. I have zero energy to do anything. On the weekends I wake up around 8 and go down for my first nap of the day around 11 a.m. I usually sleep for 2 more hours and then wake up and hope that I can do something useful and productive with my day.

The funny thing is, I sleep fairly well during the night – except for the several times I have this conversation with myself:

Me: “I think I need to pee.”

Me: “No, I think it will be OK.”

Me: “No, I really think I do.”

Me: “Just see if you can fall back asleep.”

Me: “Fuck. I might as well just get up and go so that I can be done with it and potentially fall back asleep until morning.”

Me: “FINE THIS FUCKING SUCKS.”

Yet I am still so tired. I could nap all day and still feel like I’m in a daze.

Speaking of peeing in the middle of the night. I drink a ton of water during the day. I sit at my desk at work and drink water all day. So, I figure I’m plenty hydrated, and that like a toddler I should cut off all drinking of liquids after 7 p.m. This way I can hopefully only get up 122 times per night instead of 150. Last Friday I stopped drinking water and made a frozen pizza for dinner (this tells you how tired I am). I knew this was going to be an issue because, well, have you seen the amount of sodium in a frozen pizza?? It should be illegal. Sodium = horribly swollen feet.

So, not only did I not drink water that night, I also ate 4 billion mg of sodium. Needless to say at 5:30 a.m. I got a cramp in my calf that was so painful I thought maybe the baby was being born, only it was coming out of my calf and not my vagina. All I know is that I stuck my leg straight up in the air, screamed bloody murder, punched Laef in the chest and said, “cramp, cramp, cramp!!!!!!!!!”

Never, ever, ever scream at a man in the middle of the night when you are 9 months pregnant. EVER. Once he gathered himself and realized this situation was not baby-related, he worked the giant knot out of my leg and we both sat their with our hearts racing still trying to figure out what just happened. And for some reason we both started busting up laughing. Like uncontrollable laughter.

Me: “I was all, cramp!! And your face, omg…”

Laef: “YOU SOUNDED LIKE A HURT DONKEY.”

Me: “It hurt.”

Laef: “You really need to work on your pain screams. You don’t want to do what you just did in the hospital. WHAT was that? It was a donkey scream, I swear.”

So, I guess along with putting the final touches on the nursery, installing the car seat and putting the Pack-N-Play together, I will be working on my labor screams over the next couple of weeks.

Everytime I go on Facebook it seems one of two things are happening: Someone is running a half marathon or having a baby.

Two things I would like to be doing today.

Thankfully, my time is coming.

NINE weeks to go. That means 30 weeks behind me, and only nine iddy-biddy weeks to go.

With time dwindling away, we have stepped up our preparations for Baby Mo.

Item number 1 was to paint the nursery. It should be noted that a few months back I was deciding on a color theme for her room. I asked Laef several times what he thought about different options, and everytime he would say the same thing: “Honestly, I don’t care. It’s more important to you. I give full decision to you.”

So, I picked the colors and came up with an idea of how I wanted to paint. It took two full days to paint the room, and it was exhausting. I don’t know why I wanted two different colors, but that definitely made things 1,909,436 times harder.

Painting the pink part: No problem. Painting the brown part: Problematic. It meant sitting very awkwardly for a long time. Making the line where the two colors met absolutely perfect: I wouldn’t know. I ditched out of there when Laef showed up with a TOOTHPICK and expected me to fill in the sketch parts with a toothpick. I claimed that I was too pregnant to focus on something so horrible. He claimed that I never finish projects pregnant or not.

When he was all done making it perfect, he came out to the living room and said: “It looks like neapolitan ice cream in there, FYI. I think the tan part should have been darker.”

First of all: What the fuck? Where was this feedback two months ago when I asked about color schemes?  Second of all: Who doesn’t love ice cream?

It should look less ice-creamy after we put all the furniture in there.

Anyway, the second item of business was trying to figure out how to use all the baby stuff. I looked at the breast pump for two seconds and immediately put it away. We then took out the Baby Bjorn and tried to figure out how to put it on correctly. Laef decided to try it out for himself because we saw a couple walking the other day and the dad was carrying the baby in a bjorn and the mom was like 27 steps behind texting on her phone. Laef realized his immediate future in that moment.

We were nervous that that bjorn was so little.

Laef: “Is she going to fall out?”

Me: “There’s only one way to find out.”

Needless to say, we’ve got some kinks to work on, but we’re getting closer.