Scratch my back Elmo.

There was Tickle Me Elmo.

 Then Birthday Elmo.

And now, thanks to Aunt Courtney and the 7th night of Chanukah, Ari is a proud owner of the newest red furry fad: Lets Rock Elmo:

Like every other kid, Ari loves Elmo.  He sings with him, he dances with him, and he even eats with him.  No, really. Ari gave up a cookie so that Elmo could enjoy it.  (But after 45 minutes, Ari must have assumed Elmo was choking on the cookie because he removed it from Elmo's mouth and proceeded to eat it himself.  Sorry E.) 

But, I'm about to tell you something pretty shocking.  You may not believe me, but I figured out why the little people like Elmo.  Here it is... Elmo is real.  !!!   He has a personality.  (He cracks jokes and laughs at himself.  Sorta like me.)  He has likes and dislikes ("Elmo likes to sing acapella."  Whoopdeedoo.)   He even makes demands and tells us what to do.  ("Bring me my drums, touch my foot, hand me the tambourine."  You mean the $60+ dollar price tag doesn't include instrument retrieval?  Elmo, can you say "Rip off"?)

But here's the coup de grace.

Elmo has feelings.  Seriously.  When Ari no longer wants to play with him, Elmo gets testy.  And sorta annoying.  And then he makes me Ari feel guilty, tells him he's taking a break, and ultimately gives him the silent treatment when Ari diverts his attention elsewhere.   

I'm not sure I can take much more of this.  Elmo is freaking me out.  And, this whole 'Sesame Street character has emotions' thing makes me worried... and nervous... and scared. 

And overwhelmoed.



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Swapping spit part 2

You may remember my original post on this topic when I admitted that I enjoyed didn't mind swapping spit with my then 4-month old.  There was something so pure about Ari's saliva.  He never had morning breath.  He had no signs of gingivitis.  He didn't even have teeth for goodness sake.  If he wanted to drip a little drool in my mouth, I would be happy to swallow it. 

Gagging yet?  Just wait.

The french kissing with my baby did come to an end and life went back to (spit-free) normal...or so I thought.

The very quick background: Our bathroom isn't huge so Matt and I take turns in the a.m. and p.m. performing our hygienic rituals.  While he's brushing and flossing, I'm getting dressed or undressed, and then we switch. 

Here's a photo of our bathroom vanity.

Notice the back right - Matt and I use the same make and model of vibrating toothbrush.  Mine is in front.  Matt's is in back.

Oh wait, actually, scratch that.  I was just informed that mine is in back.

The conversation went like this:

Me (brushing my teeth): Brushhhh
Matt (enters the bathroom to grab a q-tip): Why are you using my toothbrush?
Me: This is my toothbrush
Matt: Nope, that's my toothbrush
Me: Your toothbrush is that one in the back.
Matt: Incorrect.  That's your toothbrush.
Me: You've been using my toothbrush.
Matt: You've been using my tootbrush.

It took me a few minutes to get the gag reflex under control, swish with mouthwash, and then re-brush my teeth with my toothbrush.

And then, from the bedroom, I heard:

Matt: Wait, maybe that's my toothbrush.  Who really knows.

Dental damn-it! As soon as Ari wakes up, we're going to CVS to buy me a new toothbrush. 

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scapegOAT

Just when I think I have run out of blog material, I have this mind boggling discussion with my husband yesterday morning.

ME: I'm making oatmeal.  Do you want me to make some for you?
MATT: No thanks.
ME: What will you eat?
MATT: I'll find something
(2 minutes later)
MATT: (hovering) That looks good.
ME: I made a lot.  Let me know if you want any.
MATT: I'm fine.
ME: (Stirring)
MATT: Smells good too.
ME: I'll give you some!
MATT: No, there isn't enough.
ME: (Said with sarcasm) Fine, there isn't enough.
MATT: I don't want any anyway.
ME: (Scooping oatmeal in a bowl.)
MATT: Mmmmm
ME: Here, I'm putting the rest in a bowl for you.
MATT: I really don't want it.  I won't eat it.
ME: OK. I'm not going to beg you. (I put the pot and extra oatmeal in the sink, fill with soap and water, and sit down to eat my oatmeal.)
MATT: (Making some noise in the kitchen)
ME: (Enter kitchen, find Matt filling up a pot to make oatmeal.)
MATT: I'm making oatmeal.  You didn't make enough.

Here's hoping Ari doesn't have the stubborn gene.

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What's your name?

Ari is a chatterbox.  Though 97% of his babbling is incomprehensible, the other 3% is both fascinating and thrilling to hear!  He picks up new words every day and repeats things said to him.  Now, to be accurate, none of his words sound...well...accurate, but I know what he's saying.  He points to a zipper and says "zzzz", he looks at a light and say "iiiit", and whenever Matt is around, he wants to be near "Da."  And, I have to admit, hearing him call for "Ma...Ma" when I walk out of the room makes my heart swell with happiness.

But a few days ago, he said something that sounded very familiar.  He said it over and over again.  I listened carefully, but couldn't quite decipher his slurred speech.  What was he trying to say?  Hardy?  Party?  Malawi?

Or wait a sec, could he be saying what I think he's saying?

(Watch this video with an open ear mind.  Humor me.)

Uh huh.  He's saying ARI.  That's my boy.

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Doing IT

Yesterday, Matt and I commemorated 6 years of wedded bliss.  And how, you ask, did we celebrate?  Did we have a romantic dinner?  Get a couples massage?  Take a leisurly hand-in-hand stroll through the neighborhood?

Nope.

Instead, we stayed home and did the nasty all weekend long!

Yup.  We did it in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night.  We did it standing up and we did it laying down.  We did it on the floor and in the chair and in the bed.  We did it so much we had to do multiple loads of laundry and change the sheets two times!   

We even cancelled our dinner reservation to stay home and do it.  In fact, I am so exhausted I can barely move this morning. 

Happy Anniversary to us!

And, you know what... I do not want to do it ever again!

That's right.  I'm over cleaning up Ari's puke.  I hope he gets better very very soon.

Wait.  What did you think I was talking about? 

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Therapee

I love Las Vegas.

I love the food, the shopping, the pools, the poker, and the escape from reality.  So, to celebrate Ari's first birthday, we gave him a gift of 4 days with his grandparents and we forced ourselves to get out of town.  Happy Birthday to us!  Err, I mean, happy b-day Ari! 

And hello Sin City!  Oh how I missed you.

But little Ari, I missed you too!  So, to help me relax and stop sending check-in text messages to my mom, I booked a treatment at the spa.  I arrived early to take advantage of the hot tub and sauna and the 8 different rooms with water features, temperature changes, heated chairs, light shows, aromatherapy, and more.  And in each room, I sampled a different iced beverage.  I had a cup of pineapple tea, raspberry tea, cucumber water, lemon-lime water, fresh squeezed orange juice, and finally, I ended my hydration vacation with a cup of warm chamomile tea.  And then I sat and waited for my treatment.

As my therapist led me into the room where I would receive my scrub and rub, I realized I may need to pee.  Nah, I thought, I can hold it.  So I undressed and lay on the massage table.  The masseuse came in and began to exfoliate my skin with a mango-scented scrub.  Half-way through the best back scratch of my life, the masseuse walked over to the jacuzzi tub in the room and turned on the water to fill it for my soak.  The sound of the running water made my bladder ache.  I suddenly regretted the 6 cups of water I had consumed (plus the large coffee earlier in the day).

But what should I do?  I could tell her I needed to go to the bathroom.  It would surely only take a minute.  But right as I was about to say something, she said, "Okay, time to get out and go sit in the tub for 10 minutes."  My lips were suddenly paralyzed.  I need to pee.  Like, badly.  But, for whatever reason, I kept my mouth shut.  I stepped inside the warm bath water, lay on my back, put my head down, and tried to enjoy the strong bubbles enveloping my body.  As my bladder continued to fill, I realized I had only 1 option.  I would get out of the tub, dry off, go outside, find my therapist, and ask to use the bathroom.

Or, I thought, this probably isn't an option, but maybe I could tinkle in the tub?  Would she know?  Is that against the rules?  Would the water change color?  Are they going to laugh at me? 

The heck with it, I thought, I paid good money for this, and I'm going to pee! 

I inhaled and pussshhhed.... (and the strength of the bubbles made this very difficult, plus who knows when the last time I tried to pee in the water was, not to mention laying down, this is hard work) and I pushed...there it goes I think I'm peeing...and pushed some more...and I half peed.  I felt a bit of relief.  I looked down, no change in color, and no way could she tell what I had done. 

Because that went well, I figured, maybe I can get the rest out?  (Repeat above actions.  And...success!)  Wow, my bladder was empty and I felt good.  I laid back, put a cool compress on my forehead, and chuckled.  I may be laying in a pool of my own urine, but at least I can now enjoy it.

After the therapist returned, I dried off and lay back down for the massage.  And it was relaxing and wonderful.  I thought about my beautiful boy and all of my worries disappeared.  I could truly relax.

I left the spa feeling refreshed and renewed, calm and content.

And happee.

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Giving Thanks

Things for which I am extraordinarily thankful:

• A post-baby body that is a wee bit smaller than my pre-baby body.
• The chance to take a mini-vacation/anniversary trip (sans toddler) right after Thanksgiving.
• A brand new BBQ joint with a Top Chef runner-up in the kitchen, less than 1 mile from my home
• A cameo on the homepage of Magic Beans

Hold up. What happened to health and happiness? Friends and family?

I sure could use a reality check. And I got one.

Last week, a fellow mom and blogger (a “famous” blogger) Jill Smokler (aka Scary Mommy) posted about the cost of a Thanksgiving dinner and the many families who could not afford the luxury of a hot turkey dinner. She asked for 2 readers to volunteer to donate $25 to help a family in need and she vowed to match these donations. Within hours, she had 600 readers donating over $18,000 which helped provide Thanksgiving dinner for 378 families.

Scary Mommy? I think not. Sensitive, sweet, compassionate Mommy? Oh yeah.

I am proud to be counted among the 600 donors. I didn’t think twice before I donated a grocery gift card so a family in need could spend Thanksgiving just like I will – with family, friends and a great bounty of food.

It is important to recognize what we have and what we take for granted. My husband, son, and I eat a warm meal every evening. We live in a comfortable home, we have clothing, and toys, and birthday parties, and so many other little luxuries that we forget to appreciate on a daily basis.

Giving money to charity is important to us and is a value we hope to instill in our son. We think a lot about the organizations to which we donate and the impact of these funds on people and places in Boston and around the world. This Thanksgiving, I truly want to give thanks. And the most meaningful way I can show my gratitude is to be able to provide for someone else.

I applaud Scary Mommy on her ability to mobilize the blogging community, to raise funds, and to allocate them to families in need. I hope every family who is able to give will do so this Thanksgiving.

I am truly thankful for my lot in life.

Wishing you and your family a very happy Thanksgiving.

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GOLDilocks

I have vivid memories from one childhood haircut. 

Growing up in Texas, I was always jealous of the blonde, straight, long, beautiful hair of my classmates.  (I'm no longer envious since I found my way out great products to tame my mane.)  Side ponytails were in style and my pony was lopsided.  I was determined to fix it.  So I grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors and cut my side ponytail straight across with one big snip.  Voila - one very cute and very even hairdo! 

All was great 'til I took the ponytail holder out and found the left side of my hair 8 inches shorter than the right side.  That day, I vowed never to let anyone but a professional cut my hair. 

So what, therefore, was I thinking when I let a non-professional hairdresser cut Ari's beautiful baby locks for the very first time? 

Well, I reasoned, my husband can change a tire, can unclog a toilet, can hang a chandelier, and can paint walls... he must be able to cut a toddler's hair!

Right, I wasn't thinking.

Now, in our defense, Ari was sporting a mullet.  His gorgeous 'do had grown halfway down his back, was completely covering his ears, and beginning to hide his eyes. 

Something had to be done.

So we gave him a bath, washed his hair, wrapped him in a towel, and while I held and fed him, the butcher dad went to work.  Snip snip snip.  "Are we done?" I asked.  "Not yet, now I need to texturize," he replied.

Texturize?  I should have known this was not going to end well.  Looking back, we would have been better off with a flowbee. You remember this thing right?

When all was said and done, we had a gorgeous merkin pile of hair to put in the baby book:

And one beautiful little boy... with an unusally large forehead:

Sorry sweetie, it will grow back.   And next time, we'll take you to Snip-Its.

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Trapped

I think my son is a Jewish mother trapped in the body of a 1 year-old boy.

Here's why:

He force feeds.  If you come over, he will greet you with some delicacy from the fridge floor and do everything in his power to get the food into your lips.  And, if you refuse, he will keep trying until you nosh!  He will even take the food off his own plate and out of his mouth to make sure you're satisfied.  He insists!

He's a backseat driver.  Oy vey, you should hear him whine from the back seat.  Either you're not driving fast enough, or there's too much traffic, or the air is too cold, or you're simply not going the way he wants you to go.  And he's not shy about letting you know how he feels.

He is very manipulative.  He knows what he wants and he knows how to get it.  And when he doesn't get his way, he kvetches.

He uses Jewish guilt.  (See above)

He has to be the center of attention.  (Oh you want to be part of the conversation?  Too bad.) 

He likes to take a little shluff in the middle of the day.  And, he complains if he doesn't get his beauty rest.

He collects tchotchkas.  You should see all of his crap.

He meddles in my business.  Whether I'm on the phone, the computer, or the toilet, he wants to know everything I'm doing.

And finally, he's incontinent.  This must be the Jewish great-grandmother in him.  What a pisher.  Literally.


See what I mean?  Ari is Jill Zarin a Jewish mama disguised as a toddler.  Stereotypical perhaps, but I'm pretty sure it takes one to know one. 

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Cramping my style

When thinking of whether or not to write a blog post, I tend to use some simple criteria.  1- Is the topic interesting?  2- Would the story make me chuckle? and 3- How would I feel if my mom or father-in-law or son (16 years from now) read it? 

And, when the answer to #3 is "mortified", I know I have a solid topic. 

So, here goes.  Apologies to the folks listed in #3...most of all, to my son, who, poor thing, has no concept of the embarrassment he's in for when he learns to google.


Ari mimics everything I do.  Sometimes he repeats an action on himself- like, if I yawn, he opens his mouth and says "ahhhh."  If I pick my nose, he picks his nose (unsuccessfully I might add).  If I walk around the house stomping and clapping, he follows right behind me.  But often times, he tries to mimic my action on me.  Examples - I pull out a wedgie.  Next thing I know, his little hand is in my tushie.  I tie my shoe.  He tries to tie my shoe.  I eat a grape.  He feeds me a grape.   And on and on.

Sometimes it's cute, sometimes funny, and as his pediatrician says, it's an indication that he's a smart, inquisitive boy who is soaking up everything around him and practicing new skills. 

And boy-oh-boy did he learn a new 'how-to' today! 

He watched intensely and then attempted to... ohmygod I can't believe I'm really going to write this... yank out my tampon.

Please don't leave me Matt.

Um yeah, so, there are certain things that just can't wait until nap time.  (If you know what I mean.)  And, no matter how well my house is baby-proofed, I would never close the bathroom door preventing Ari from coming in while I take care of business.  I try to teach him about toilet paper and washing hands and other bathroom etiquette.  And, I assume potty training must be easier if kids watch their parents use the toilet.  (Right?  I don't know.  Cut me some slack.)

But today's bathroom adventure was a bit unexpected.  Thinking this through, I should have realized that Ari has been using toys that involve putting different shapes in and out of corresponding holes.  That and, he has a train, on a string, and he loves to pull it around the house.  Combine these two things with the mimicking and, well, we have a bloody mess. (Err. Literally.)

I may regret telling this, but that's the story and I'm sticking to it. 

Period.

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Jamaican me crazy

Our one-day-a-week nanny Dee recently became my Facebook friend.  Remember Dee?  She's how I know Ari isn't colorblind.  (And she's the reason he loves Oprah.)

This post is in honor of her.  I hope she doesn't quit.

Let's call this...

Sh*t Dee Says:

1.
DEE: "Good morning Harry."  "Come here Harry."  "Do you want breakfast Harry?"
ME: (to myself) Who the F is Harry?  My kid's name is Ari.  Ah-reeeee.  You're going to give him an identity complex.

2.
DEE: "I ordered shoes on eels.com" 
Me: Where? 
DEE: "Eels.com" 
Me: What?
DEE: "Eels.com" 
ME: How do you spell that?  
DEE: "H-e-e-l-s.com"
ME: Oh, Hhhhhhhhhh- (as breathy as possible) -eels .com.
DEE: What did you think I said?!

3.
DEE: I'm going to get my air done alf up for alloween.
ME: Dee, this is nonsense.  Hhhhair, hhhhhalf, hhhhalloween.
DEE: Didn't I tell you in Jamaica we drop the H?
ME: Um no.  But...you pronounce my son's name H-arry.
DEE: Yeah mon, and we put the H where it doesn't belong!

4.
DEE: I want new knee-high boots but my cows are too big.
ME: Excuse me?
DEE: You have big cows too.
ME: You mean my calves?
DEE: Yeah mon, but we are adult cows. 

5.
DEE: Harry must have some Spanish in him.  He has a meaty bottom.
ME: He gets it from me.
DEE: Then you have Spanish in you.
ME: (to myself) (How did you know about that one night in college?)
DEE: Don't worry mon, he looks good.  Especially for a white boy.

6.
DEE: Matt has sexy legs.
ME: Matt my husband?
DEE: Yeah mon, in Jamaica we call those legs sexxxxxxy.
ME: (Why you checkin' out my husband?) You mean sexy cows?
DEE: What? You crazy!

7.
ME (via text msg): Is Ari okay?
DEE: My baby is great
ME: (to myself) (You mean my baby?  Yeah mon.)

8.
watching Dee changing Baby J's (Dee's other job, same age as Ari) diaper.
ME: Woah!!  J has a huge penis.
DEE: I know. He's hung like a black man.

9.
DEE (via text msg): Your son just ate everything on the tray plus a waffle and a banana
ME: He's gotta maintain those thighs
DEE: He is just a big sexy guy.

10.
DEE: When I change Harry's poopies, he touches his penis.
ME: Maybe he likes you.
DEE: Come here Harry and give me some sugar.
ME: Maybe you should go for someone your own age.
DEE: You crazy.

To my sweet eel wearing friend, thanks for taking great care of Harry.  And for the record, you crazy!

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Married White Female

I used to be a great stalker private investigator.  I could find out any one's personal information!  I realize this sounds a bit creepy, but Google and I were totally in sync. 

Yet, I have a current contact conundrum and my stalking skills seem to be a bit outdated. 

Here's the background.  Ari and I have been taking a class at MyGym for months.  At the beginning of every class, we go around the circle and say the names of all of the kids.  I know the regulars well.  There's Nola and Ella and Beverly and Molly and Elle.  (Where are the boys?  Good question.)  Elle and Ari seem to get along very well.  And Elle's Mommy and I do as well.  She's funny and down-to-earth and well-dressed.  Sometimes we jump together on the trampoline or talk about new toddler finds.  We've bonded over chicken meatballs and goldfish.  We've even shared apple slices and squeezable yogurt.  Yeah, I really like her. 

It seems I have a mom crush.  I want to call her up and ask her out on a play date.  Maybe she wants to come to the Aquarium with us today?  We could even have lunch or ice cream together afterwards!

But, slight issue, I don't know her name.  I don't know her number.  And I don't know her email address.  All I know is that she drives an SUV and has a 1-year old named Elle and she gives her daughter coconut milk (I didn't say she was perfect.)

(I'm also praying she doesn't read this.  Ever.  She'd definitely think I was psycho.)

I tried googling and Facebook searching but that got me nowhere.  I think I may just have to awkwardly introduce myself to her next week.  "Hi, we've been chatting for the last 4 months.  My name is JulieSue."  I cringe just thinking about it.

I'm ordering myself  a Mom card.  And, in the meantime, anyone want to come to the Aquarium with me today?
 

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Prick or Treat

Ari celebrated Halloween as a:

Woopie Cushion:

 (People asked how I came up with the idea for this. Duh.),

and as a Dragon:

 (note the tail),

and as a...

Pumpkin?  Tomato?  Body-less voodoo doll?

Nope.  A pin cushion. 

That's right, the pediatrician did not seem to care that it was Halloween and the poor 1 year (and 2 day old) received not 1, not 2, not 3...but 4 shots in his pudgy arms.  Trick or treat?  Trick, obviously.

It was like a scene from Scream.

And then, after he had recovered and was happily eating an animal cracker (with little tears still fresh on his cheeks), he leaned over, grabbed my arm, and did his best Twilight impression.  The dragon and woopie weren't enough for him...I guess I should have purchased a Dracula costume too.

Now, I don't think I have a biter.  I think he was both mimicking and punishing me at the same time.  He got "bit" 4 times and was just trying to show me what it felt like, right?

I tried to reason with him.  I said, "Ari, these shots will keep you healthy and safe.  I'm really sorry and I know they hurt but it's for your own benefit."

He looked at me with puppy dog eyes and I gave him an extra hug and kiss and firmly said, "do not do that again."

I know what you're thinking.  And sheesh.  You're right.  I guess it's my fault for taking him to the doctor on Halloween.  I'm a first time mom!  Nobody told me not to do it. 

You know what, haters?

Bite me.

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A Very Special 1st Birthday Post

1 year ago today, I pushed a 7-pounder out of my 'gina.  Holy sh*t!  The year flew by!  Looking at him now, I can't even believe my 26+ pound walking/talking/eating/joking/laughing toddler was ever a tiny baby.  One of our closest friends told us that every stage of a child's life is better than the last.  That is definitely true.  Just when I think the current age is perfect, he learns and grows and transitions and I am once again amazed and in awe and so madly in love.

So, in honor of my 100th blog post (yeah!!) and Ari's 1st birthday, I made a list of 100 things I love about my little boy.  This is my way of marking this incredible occasion and ensuring I never forget all the little things that I adore. 

In no particular order, Ari:

1. Is constantly sticking out his tongue.
2. Claps whenever I walk into the room.
3. Plays peek-a-boo but he covers his ears and/or smooshes his face rather than hiding his eyes.
4. Will do anything to make strangers smile at him.
5. Loves to read books (over and over).
6. Laughs when he farts.
7. Bangs on the front door until I take him outside.
8. Tries to catch the sun rays in his hand.
9. Sticks his finger in my belly button.
10. Shares his food, will even chew food, remove it from his mouth, and give it to me.  Sweet.
11. Sleeps from 7:30pm-7:30am every day.
12. Loves his crib.
13. Devours smoked salmon, roasted salmon, broccoli, and peas.
14. Sings along with music.  Loves Katy Perry.  And Rihanna.  (He must like beautiful women with bad taste in men.)
17. Thinks sunglasses belong on your head and tries to put mine on his head.
18. Has rosy cheeks in the morning and after every nap.
19. Believes anything with buttons is a phone.
20. Likes having his ears cleaned out with a q-tip.
21. Stares at me when he poops.
22. Shakes his head "no" when he doesn't want to do something.
23. Eats the rind off apples.
24. Loves to eat pickles.  (One time, he ate 4 half sours for lunch.)
25. Loves exploring new places.
26. Is really good at drinking from a straw, but blows out of the straw, so food is always floating in his cup.
27. Cries every time someone turns on a vacuum.  (Therefore, I just don't vacuum.)
28. Eats the bubbles out of the bubble bath.
29. Sucks on his big toe.
30. Sleeps in a sack.
31. Sleeps with a sound machine.
32. Ok, and he sleeps with a humidifier, 5 binkies, and 4 lovies.  (Whatever.  At least he's no longer swaddled.)
33. Holds on tight when he's scared.
34. Greets other kids by putting his forehead to their forehead. 
35. Mooooo's when you say "cow".
36. Has smelly testicles at the end of the day (don't ask)
37. Mimics me.
38. Has dimples on his thighs.  And a$$.
36. And elbows.
37. Has an arsenal of tricks.  He waves, washes hands, touches head and nose, claps, sticks out his tongue, shows his teeth, puts him arms up and down.   (All on command.)
38. He does the baby sign for "more" but he doesn't do it when he wants "more" of something.
39. Kicks off his shoes.  (I'm constantly searching Brookline for a missing shoe)
40. Says ball, mama, dada, up.
41. Always claps at the end of the itsy bitsy spider.
42. Flirts with strangers.
43. Aggressively sniffs the flowers in Pat the Bunny. 
44. Sticks out his tongue and makes a noise that sounds like "bagel bagel bagel".
45. Laughs when I laugh.
46. Smiles for the camera.
47. Loves to brush his teeth.
48. Loves to brush my teeth
49. Has long, dirty toenails.
50. Drinks sparkling water.  Then burps. 
51. Uses his hand to wipe snot from his nose and smears it all over his face.
52. Has a really long rat-tail. (I can't cut his hair.  It's beautiful.)
53. Will bang on anything to make loud noises.
54. Has the hiccups very often.
55. Could watch trucks drive by for hours.
56. Gives himself kisses in the mirror.
57. Loves Pirates Booty.
58. Has a 10 pound diaper every morning.
59. Likes putting his fingers and toes in my mouth.
60. Loves to climb up stairs.
61. Pulls his hair and rubs his eyes when he's tired.
62. Is unusually strong.
62. Has lint in his armpits.
63. Generates a ton of earwax.  I could open a candle factory.
64. Gives open-mouth kisses.
65. Will not cuddle in bed.
66. Rolls over during diaper changes.
67. Wants to bang on my laptop.  (We bought him a baby toy laptop.  He's not interested.)
68. Is ticklish.
69. Loves water - drinking, playing, splashing, kicking.
70. Loves dogs. 
71. Will cuddle with anything soft.
72. Loves hard boiled eggs but won't touch scrambled eggs.
73. Has barely visible eyebrows.
74. Points with his whole hand.
75. Loves being naked.
76. Eats a sandwich like a big kid.
77. Always smells like heaven (aka Mustela bath products)
78. Goes down the slide face first.
79. Likes to lay in the ball pit.
80. Likes to touch his penis.
81. Has big squishy cheeks.
82. Brings me books and backs up to sit in my lap.
83. Grunts to get my attention in the car.
84. Likes to have his back rubbed after naps.
85. Plays chase (and he laughs hysterically when I catch him).
86. Sits on his tushie and uses his legs to spin himself around in circles
87. Plays peek a boo under the coffee table.
88. Memorizes books and turns the pages until he gets to his favorite page.
89. Gives high fives.
90. Loves the Iphone.
91. Likes to suck on whole lemons.
92. Talks all day long and makes absolutely no sense.
93. Is always happy. 
94. Blows kisses.
95. Is scared of really old men.
96. Hates dressing rooms.
97. Does not cry when kids take away his toys.
98. Won't let me clip his finger or toe nails.
99. Likes to go through other people's strollers.
100. Is really funny.  Seriously.  He has a sense of humor!  (And he knows it.)

I love him so much.  Words can't begin to express...

I could easily write 100 more. 

Happy 1st Birthday Ari. 

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Big Foot

Ari has HUGE feet! 

To put his shoe size in perspective, the average 1 1/2 - 2 year old wears a size 5 or 5.5.

Ari, one week shy of his first birthday, is wearing a size 6.5-7!  In baby terms, this is unusually large.  I took a trip to Stride Rite last week to buy him "first walking" shoes.  Early walking shoes are lightweight and bend easily to protect the feet and prevent falls.  Since Ari is now walking more than crawling, his fashionable Adidas and Puma kicks are no longer appropriate (so sad, especially for my sneaker-loving baby daddy) for day-to-day wear.  He needs a shoe that will move with him as he learns to walk. 

But, the Stride Rite sneaks only go up to a size 6!  When the shoe saleswoman measured Ari's feet, she asked me if he was 2 years old.  When I said, "ummm no, he's 11 months and 3 weeks" she recommended we "look for shoes online at Baby Big & Tall."

According to this website, I should not be surprised that Ari is a big boy with big feet.  Matt and I are very tall and both have big feet.  And my brother, Ari's Uncle Jeff, measures in at a whopping 6' 6" and wears a size 15 shoe!  (And no, he does not play basketball.  Do you play miniature golf?)

So I'm off to go search online for big baby shoes.  This may be a bit of a hassle now, but I think it will work out in Ari's favor in the long run. 

I mean, come on, you know what they say about boys with big feet, right?!

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Catch me if you can

Ari loves all books "touch and feel."  Page after page, he locates and palpates the fuzzy, the soft, the bumpy, the wrinkly, the squeaky, the whisker-y, and now-a-days his favorite, the sticky.

Here's an example.  The frog with sticky pads on its legs:

Little guy likes to place his index and middle fingers on the page and repeatedly poke the adhesive-y pads.   He has touched them so much, in fact, that they've lost most of their stickiness. 

But those pads must have been contagious...because Ari is now the one with the sticky fingers!

Yup!  Just last week, Ari broke the eighth commandment three seperate times! 

First, we were at Party Favors shopping for his b-day extravaganza.  While I picked up cups and plates, Ari was busy taking greeting cards off the shelves and placing them behind his head.  Before we checked out, I collected 2 cards and 1 envelope from his stroller.  (And then he was unsuccessful at securing the #4 candle from the stroller-level shelf.  But in the process of attempted robbery, he knocked all of the sparkler candles on the ground.  An employee walked over and gave us a dirty look.  Ari blew her a kiss.  <Sigh> He can get away with anything.)

The next day, we walked through CVS.  Thank goodness the clerk noticed the pack of gum Ari was trying hard to conceal from my view.  It wasn't even sugar-free!

And then on Friday, we took our morning walk to Trader Joes, picked up some necessities, paid, left, and walked home.  After we entered the front door, I removed Ari from his stroller, and found a carton of raspberries tucked under his tush.  I did not pick up any raspberries on that trip to TJ's, and I definitely did not pay for any either.  Sticky fingers likes fresh fruit!  (I promptly returned to the store and made Ari hand over the "hot" produce.  The manager insisted I keep them.  Red-in-the-face, I begged him to let me pay.  I told him I needed to teach my kid a lesson.)

I'm doomed.  My very-soon-to-be-1-year old is a kleptomaniac. 

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Walk 'n Roll

First, he learned to roll.  Then, he figured out how to sit up on his own.  Next came crawling.  Soon after, climbing.  Followed by standing and cruising.

And now the highly dreaded, but inevitable, walking. 

Don't get me wrong.  I want Ari to walk.  But I wasn't quite ready for him to walk just yet.  As is, he's what we call crazy   hyper   ADHD  fearless energetic. 

Here's a clip of him using his stroller as a trampoline.  And yes, he climbed up there unassisted (and unsupervised.  Oops. FYI, the stroller now lives in the bathroom.  Both the toilet and the buggy are off-limits.)

It should have come as no surprise when he took his first steps a few days ago.  Here he is learning to walk.

And now that he can get around on his own two feet, he is very interested in push toys. 

Not this kind:

Or this one:

Nope, those would be too easy.  He much prefers the kind of push toy that is around his same height and weight and also has two feet.  And it's even better when they push back.

To the little girl in today's baby gym class: I apologize on behalf of my rambunctious son.  He didn't mean to push you into the water fountain.  Really.  He was just using you for balance.  If it's any consolation, your head left a nice bruise on his cheek. 

Watch out kids. 

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Vogue

I am not one of those moms who believes my kid is the best looking baby in the world.  Do I think he's unusually cute?  Of course.  But, I'm not about to spend money on professional head shots and submit them to a modeling agency.  In fact, I've always thought those moms and dads who travel around promoting their kids and entering their offspring in contests are pathetic, embarrassing, and exploitative. 

So, when I saw this posting from my fave kid's store Magic Beans on my Facebook newsfeed...

"Casting Call: We need some cuties! We're doing a photoshoot for the holiday issue of our magalog, Surprises on Monday, October 10th and we need models. If you'd like your kid to participate, please send an email to facebook@mbeans.com with your child's age, clothing size, and a snapshot!"

...I, without a question in my mind, thought...

Hell no.  I have a firm position on these sorts of things.  And that's NO.

PICK ME!  My kid can model.  He's so cute.  He does tricks on demands.  He loves the camera.  Please, pretty please, with a cherry on top!

(The heck with values.  He could be famous.) 

So, I quickly sent an email with the requested stats, crossed my fingers, and immediately started working with Ari on his modeling pose and hair-do.

Impressive, eh?

So we waited.  And we practiced.  And we starved ourselves.  And we watched Zoolander.

And then, this popped up in my inbox:

"Dear JulieSue,

Thank you so much for submitting your child's photo for our casting call. We would be delighted if you and Ari can join us on Monday, October 10. We actually have sort of a special request. We're wondering if you'd be interested in modeling as well. We need a shot with a mom pushing a stroller and thought you and Ari would be perfect for it. Let me know ASAP if you're willing :) We'd just need you to wear skinny jeans, a cute top and maybe some simple ballet flats (or something along those lines) and Ari to wear something green."

I had to re-read it 3 times.  They wanted Ari.  Obvi.  And, did I read this right...were they asking ME to model as well?!  OMG.  Could this get any better?  Yes, it could have been anything but skinny jeans.  I think not.

So Ari and I spent hours trying on different outfits, settled on a pair of straight-leg jeans, a grey cardigan, and blue flats.  I did my hair.  Okay, you're right.  I got a blow out.  And then I did my own make-up.  Really.  And I looked pretty good.  (Ari who?)

At the last minute, I switched into a different top because it was an unusually hot and humid day, woke my little hombre from his afternoon nap, packed the diaper bag, and off we went to catalog stardom.  Now, if you recall the last time I was this excited about something, it was for my cameo in an Adam Sandler movie.  (What does this say about me?  Nothing good.)  As it turns out, the two experiences were eerily similar.  It was hot, there was a lot of waiting around, and by the time we were called in to shoot, I was oily and frizzy and I had to pee.  Ari still looked good.  He sat in a stroller and smiled.  (And he was a natural.)  I pretended to push the stroller.  (And I was an awkward mess.)  .

Click. Click. Click.  Before I could regret my wardrobe decision, it was over.  Bye bye lights, camera, Tyra Banks, action. 

It was a fun experience, but I am pretty sure I won't be America's next top mo(m)del. 

Ari, on the other hand...

...will learn there's more to life than being really, really ridiculously good looking.

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Big baby

It's 8:33pm on Tuesday night.  Ari is fast asleep, dinner has been cleaned up, and I've changed into my comfy clothes.

I sit down, turn on the computer, and try to think of a blogging topic.  Blank screen.  Blank thoughts.

I look to my right to ask Matt, who is watching the Republican debate, for a suggestion. But before I can ask for help, I receive a gift from the blogging heavens.  I see this...

And then a few minutes later this...

Followed by this...

Um yeah.  No words needed.

Except this...I think I'm the one who needs the bear hug.

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Potty Training part 2

I potty poopie trained my 11 month old. 

I've been avoiding writing this post because: a. I actually try not to write too much about poop; and b. I will have to write about my own poop in order to accurately describe the situation; and c. I know the vast majority of you are women but some of you male readers may still believe that chicks don't poop.  (You single guys should stop reading now.)

So here are the deets:

We 3 Goldwasser's have a morning routine. (You can guess as to who does what.)

7:20-8:00am Wake up.  Change diaper.  Get dressed.  Empty dishwasher.  Make breakfast.  Make coffee.  Dad leaves for work.  Eat breakfast.  Drink coffee.  Drink bottle. 

8:00-8:10am Play.

8:10am Walk/crawl to the bathroom and announce "I'm going to make a poopie."

8:11am Poop. And poop. 

That's right.

Both of us.  At the same time.  Every single day.  Together.  In the bathroom.  One of us sitting down.  One of us standing up holding onto his Mommy.  No exaggeration.  And no joke.  And then Ari flushes the toilet.  We wash our hands.  (Then go upstairs for clean up time #2.  Ha, #2.) 

This cannot be a coincidence.  The kid knows to poop in the bathroom and at the toilet.  And he goes after his morning coffee bottle.  Truly remarkable. 

Don't believe me?  Come over one morning!  I promise I'm no longer not full of sh*t. 

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1-800-TERMINIX

After our home inspection, we received the comforting assurance that our casa had no termite damage and no sign of the pesky pests.  I was relieved.  I loooved the nothing-else-like-it-in-Brookline townhouse, but was petrified of small animals cohabiting with us. 

You see, there are many things I could learn to live with in our 1950's brick home - like colorful wallpaper, a pink and black bathroom, and a mean old lady living next door...actually she fell a few months ago and hasn't come back so I am a terrible human being for saying anything about her...especially since we now have access to her garbage cans and can use our front hallway for storage, and a harmless next door neighbor.  (The charm and character, gorgeous mouldings and built-ins, huge bedrooms, 2 1/2 bathrooms, finished basement, proximity to the T and Coolidge Corner, and unbelievable park and playground right outside our door could not be beat. [Apologies for the advertisement, but, anyone want to buy our condo?  It's not on the market yet, so we can both save broker fees.  It's awesome.  Contact me for deets.] )

But back to my point...I could not, and cannot, learn to live with ants.  Or mice.  Or cats.   And definitely not termites. 

Termites freak me out.  They reproduce, well, like Mormons - one King termite takes multiple female termite partners and before you know it, one runs for President one turns into one thousand.  They go door to door in every neighborhood and try hard to get into your home and eat at your dinner table.  And if one of your neighbors lets them in, they make themselves at home and swarm around the block.  Truly a nuisance.

Speaking of which, it has come to my attention that we may have one of the first signs of termite infestation: wood damage.

Check out Ari's crib.  Those are little bite marks all along the railing!  Yikes.  I think I have some big ass bugs hiding out in here.

I'm really scared.  What if they nibble on my baby?  Or gnaw through the walls?  And take over my house?!

Okay, you figured it out.  My home is not infested with insects.  Ari!  That is not what I meant by "solid food."

Termites! Teething!

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Jealous JS

I've been replaced.

It's really quite depressing.  I spend every second of the day ensuring the health and well-being of my child.  I take great pride in his meals, his activities, and his interactions with other kids (ok, and his clothing...and yes, I do realize this one is for me.)  Truthfully, I go the extra mile to keep him entertained and enthusiastic and energetic and effervescent.  And, I can tell he's extraordinarily happy. 

And to pat myself on the back, I was the one who could always turn his frown upside down.  I was the one he wanted to see when he woke in the morning and after every nap.  I was the one who he reached for when he was in anyone else's arms.  And until recently, I was the apple of his eye.

But move over Mommy.

Ari's love and affection and adoration are all reserved for another family member.  And this one doesn't work, doesn't help to pay the bills, doesn't do any laundry, doesn't cook or clean, doesn't even make conversation.  But it doesn't seem to matter.  Ari loves him.  He freakin' looooooves him.  He just wants to kiss him and cuddle with him and sit on him and lay with him and play with him.  (This used to be my job.  I could cry.  Okay, I did cry.  You got me, I'm crying right now.)

Stupid stuffed animal.  Wipe that smirk off your face.  You think you can live here rent free and become besties with my baby?  Just because you're really soft and cute doesn't mean you can come in here and take my place.  Whatever.  He'll get sick of you too.  Free roller.  And if he doesn't, watch your back.  Bear.

Ari, my precious little baby, what am I, chopped liver?!

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