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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