R.I.P.

Brookline resident Toy Ferret, 3 months, died April 24th, 2012 at his home in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Toy ferret was born in China to parents with the same names.  He moved to an orphanage in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts as a newborn and was adopted soon thereafter.

 

Toy lived a short but vivacious life.  He had boundless energy and a true joie de vivre.  He loved to roll around the house and buzz around the hardwood floors.  His big brother Ari spent hours chasing Toy and trying to pick him up and hold him.  Toy never complained, rather, seemed to revel in the attention.  The two were best friends.

 

Toy suffered a tragic end to his short life when Toy's mother, plagued with a splitting headache, was heard yelling, "I can no longer deal with this annoying Toy.  He never stops.  I can't take it anymore."  And with that, she tried to give Toy a short rest but accidentally injured Toy's internal organs making it impossible for Toy to regain his strength.  The family determined it would be in Toy's best interests to keep him out of medical care and simply pull the plug battery. 

 

 

 

He is survived by his brother Ari, his parents, and his many fellow annoying battery-operated toddler toys.

 

Condolences may be sent to Big Brother Ari.

 

A private burial was held at home.

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Private parts

Towards the very end of my 18 week ultrasound, the radiologist asked if we wanted to find out the gender of the fetus.  I told him we already knew it was a girl because we had CVS testing due to our genetic genes. 

With that, the doc said...

Doc: ...Okay, then if you look right there, you can see the labia.

Matt: (quivering) Labi-what?

Doc: Yes, the labia, it's part of the vagina.

Matt: But I don't want my baby to have labia.

Doc:: If she doesn't have labia, her vagina will be abnormal...deformed.

Matt: (Muttering) Oh. I didn't think about that.  Wait.  You mean, she's going to have a vaa...vaa...?

Doc: Vagina.

(Matt stopped talking and looked away from the ultrasound monitor.  He became eerily quiet and withdrawn.  I collected the print-out pictures, pulled up my stretchy pants, poked him to signal it was time to leave, and we walked out of the room.)

(Outside)

ME: Matt, you understand she will have a vagina?

Matt: Does she have to?

Me: What do you mean?  Yes, she has to.  That's what makes her a girl.

Matt: I don't want her to have a vaaa...vaaa...

Me: Gina. Vagina.

Matt: I don't want to talk about it.

Me: Okay, but Ari has a penis, right?  Boys have penises and girls have vagina's. 

Matt: I don't want to talk any more about it.

Me: Are you joking?

Matt: And I'm not going to touch it.

Me: Incorrect.  You will change her diaper.

Matt: That's fine, but I won't touch it. And I won't look at it. 

Me: I touch Ari's penis multiple times a day.  I put vaseline on it for a week after his circumcision.  I clean poop off of it on a regular basis!

Matt: That's really nice of you.  I am just letting you know I won't be touching her... her... her...

Me: Vagina?

Matt: I don't want to talk any more about it.

(Matt gets in his car and drives away)

I went home and googled "dad afraid of baby girl" and I found this list of 10 common dad fears.  What's on the list?  Concerns included are the baby's health, lack of sleep, not being a good dad, and having to grow up (examples include drink less beer and play fewer video games).  It seems anxiety over a baby girl's vagina is not so common.

There's also gynophobia, defined as an abnormal fear of women.  This could be the diagnosis, except we all know Matt doesn't have that (or else we wouldn't have conceived this little issue in the first place).

So, I guess I'm just going to have to wait and hope Matt gets over this fear as soon as the baby arrives.  I'll hold off from teaching him about front-to-back wiping for now.  That may put him over the edge.

And, I can't believe he's really freaked out about this. 

What a pussy!

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Sh*t my Nanny says (part 2)

I once blogged about my Jamaican Nanny D.  That post was such a hit that people always ask for new D stories.

So, I'm going to humor all of you.  But let me preface this all by saying that she's the racist, not me.  I am simply re-stating the things she says. No hate mail.  OK?

Soooo...

On a warm day, Matt and I go to the park to find Ari running around without any shoes. 

Me: D, where are his shoes?
D: He doesn't need shoes.
Me: Why not?
Do: He's West Indian.
Me: He is?
Do: Yeah, he loves spicy food, he listens to Bob Marley, and he doesn't wear shoes.  He's West Indian.
Me: Okay, but he could get hurt.
D: You crazy. West Indians are tough.
(Me: How can I argue with that?  She's obviously right.  My kid must be West Indian?  His skin tone is just deceiving.)

Then a week later, I hand D an outfit for Ari.  The conversation continues as follows:

Do: I'm not putting my baby in this.
Me: Why not?
Do: It's mitchmatched.
Me: No it's not.
D: Yes it is.  You always dress him mitchmatched.
Me: It's not mismatched.
D: It is mitchmatched.  The colors don't go.  He looks like an Asian.
Me: Excuse me? 
D: Yeah, you always dress him like an Asian.
Me: First of all, he is dressed well.  Second of all, so are the Asians.
D: Not an Asian, an Asian.
Me: Come again?
D: Not an Asian, an Asian.
Me: Like Chinese?  Korean?  What?  I don't understand.
D: ASIAN!!!  Not Asian!
Me: Why are you yelling at me?  The Asians I see are always in designer outfits.
D: NOT ASIAN...ASIAN!!!  AAAAYYYSHHHHHAN!
Me: Calm down D.  Will you please spell that?
D: ASIAN! spelled H-A-I-T-I-A-N!
ME: Oh, Hhhhhatian.
D: You crazy. What did you think I was saying?
Me: Well this makes sense now.  I dress Ari like a Haitian...since he's West Indian.
D: Girl, you crazy.

Whatever you say D.

(If you're interested, you can watch my little West Indian jamming to Bob Marley here.)

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Cool as a Cucumber

Most kids are picky eaters.  They mainly like carbs and candy.  Not my kid.  He likes green vegetables.  No joke.  So much, in fact, that I called the pediatrician to ask her what to do since there were a few weeks when he would only ingest broccoli and green beans and brussel sprouts.  Her response?  Take advantage of it.

His all-time favorite green veggie... the cucumber.  He'll take it raw or pickled.  Sliced thin or thick or speared.  Peeled or unpeeled.  And most commonly, in full form.  He'll just suck and slurp all day long.  (I know what you're thinking.  And no, he didn't get that from me.  That's why girls get married.)

Exhibit A:

It took him the entire shopping trip, but he successfully swallowed every bit of that Persian cucumber. 

He also likes to hold his cucumber while lounging.  (This he may, in fact, get from his daddy.)

Exhibit B:

Pretty good form, eh?

And finally, we have the little boy who thinks he's Moses.

Exhibit C: Check out my rod.  Go that way!

An old man stopped us to say, "that's a mighty fine cucumber you've got little boy."  (Sick-o.)  Ari giggled and offered the man a bite.  (Sick-o.)

I've learned to relish in the fact that Ari loves his veggies.  But maybe I should introduce him to celery instead?

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How do you feel??

It's the question of the hour 9 months.

Friends, neighbors, and family (and strangers) all want to know.  JulieSue, how are you feeling?!  And they expect the standard answer.  So I oblige.  "I feel pretty well."

But, do you really want to know how I feel?  Like, really and truly? 

Alright, then I'll tell ya.

I'm constipated.

My nipples could cut glass. 

I am a discharge factory.

I have to pee.  Oh wait, I have to pee again.

I am awake at night more than I am asleep.

I fart all day long.  And the smell is nauseating.  Well okay, I like it, but you don't. 

I have zits.

My ass has already doubled in size.

I am a hairy beast.

I can smell your breath from here.

My gums bleed when I brush my teeth.

I sweat through my sheets at night.

I'm glowing. My skin is so dry it is flaking off.

I look fat, not pregnant.  Stop lying.  (And I hate when you glance at my gut and tell me I look good.) 

Oh, and the hemorrhoids are back.  Lovely.

So how am I feeling?  Thank you so much for asking.  I'm feeling great!

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Perv

Ari is a chatterbox.  He's been vocal for many months, and he carries on lengthy conversations with me (and with himself), yet his English vocabulary is still a bit, well, ineffective.  I'm pretty good at deciphering his broken English, but the residents of Brookline are often taken aback by his word choice.

You see, he uses the same two words to point out the following items: Clock, Train, Tree, Rooster (or any bird), Truck, Sock, Tickle, Toes, Cloud, Carrot, and many other "c" and "t" words.

And what, you ask, are the two words he shouts every single time he sees or hears any of these things?

"COCK!"  "TITTY!"

Usually, it's like this (pointing) to one tree after another, "titty titty titty titty titty titty."  And when he sees a bird, he runs after it screaming "cock!!! cock!! cock!!" 

(We won't be teaching the next kid the sound a rooster makes.)

So now you understand my problem.  There are a lot of trees in the neighborhood.  And he's obsessed with trucks.  And on cloudy days, I really should just stay inside.

There's not much I can do except say the full name of the object and hope he catches on.  (And try not to laugh.  Too much.  Other moms don't find it funny.) 

And until then, I'm the Mom with the potty mouth child.

(And I couldn't be prouder.)

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Potty Training part 1

Now that the cat's out of the bag  fetus is out of the sack  enough JulieSue, we you know what you're saying word is out, I feel a bit more authentic blogging about my life.  It also helps to feel much better and have the energy to sit down and type.

And boy-oh-boy do I have a lot to tell you. 

Oh wait, first and most importantly, I should have said GIRL-OH-GIRL do I have some funny sh*t going on these days.  (Yeah!  Catch my not-so-subtle baby making drift?)

So here's my first of many upcoming posts. 

I decided to start potty training my not-yet-ready toddler.  Now, if you were to ask me which training approach sounds most effective and least painful and time consuming, it's this 1 week plan.  The gist?  It's like tearing off a band aid, err, or a diaper.  One wet week and then you're diaper free.  However, listening to the the voice from above Nanny and not my instincts, we purchased a potty seat and continue to let Ari sit on the toilet when we think he needs to pee...or poop...or, whenever he wants to sit on it.

The good news?  He loves the potty.  In fact, he can now remove his diaper all by himself!  He doesn't even need to remove the adhesives, he just shimmies and yanks and...

...there it goes.

He walks to the toilet, points and says "up", and...

...he sits patiently, makes a grunting sound like he's pushing (he must have learned that from his daddy, he definitely did not learn that from me over the last 4 months since I simply don't go anymore), and sometimes he even has a snack as he hangs out at the toilet.

But the bad news?  There's no action.  It's like waiting for Godot...or, more fittingly, for Ari to go.

And then, when we're both sufficiently bored and convinced nothing is ever going to happen, he hops off his baby throne, I take out a clean diaper, and...

...he does his business. On the floor.  Pretty often. (I can already hear our playdates calling to cancel.)

Crap!  Where did I go wrong?!

It's good to be back,

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