We won’t be dressing up as Oprah… I can tell you that

In his navy blue Dr. Denton creeper (with the feet) my Jack looks remarkably like Uncle Fester. Really. The kid just needs a lightbulb to suck on. We’re going to have to avoid brown robes till more hair comes in.

Today, we learned from Oprah (she teaches us something nearly every day) that there is a wonderful concotion out there called “Frozen Hot Chocolate” from a place in NYC called Serendipity. I must have it. The website is jammed. Stupid Oprah. She should just call me with this stuff and not share it with the whole world. It’s right up there with the frozen ice-pop treats that Ellen mentioned on her show recently— apparently they are frozen coconut chocolate goodness… but can the little people get them now? No. Stupid, rich, connected people. Stupid dial-up internet.

Tomorrow Jack and I have a big TV day planned. I’ve told him all about the wonders of Halloween and its effect on television personality grown-ups… our pals Katie, Matt, Al, and Ann will all be bedecked in clever costumes as will our dear Ellen and Reeg and Kelly. It will be a good day, indeed.

For our part, we’re not dressing up this year. We didn’t get invited to any big shindigs. Jack has a frankie-stein creeper with frankie-stein slippers to wear (and a pumpkin hat) to recieve all the little beggars on All Hallow’s Eve. (But next year he’ll be a fezzed monkey if I have any say…)

Hope you all find chocolate in your bags and non of those yucky Krispie bars. Blah.

To Do When Able

Our accomplishments are small and difficult to measure… Jack’s and mine. Today, for example, we suited up in the Baby Bjorn Carrier and went outside. “Oh!” said my mother, “You went for a walk?” No, thought me. We just went outside. Stood in the front yard… me in my slippers at that. (At least I wasn’t still in my pjammas.) Jack watched me and I watched the leaves in the trees move. The fresh air was nice. The sun felt good on our faces.

Back inside we almost vaccumed a room. Almost. We just hit the really noticeable areas and called that good. And we partially unearthed the dining room table from the papers and Jack Things that have accumulated there.

I think Jack grew. He seems bigger tonight than he did this morning. I didn’t get in lunch (unless Pringles at 11 and cheese and pickles at 5 count?) and I didn’t get near the basket of ironing or downtown to get stamps and a passport for Jack (you never know when he might be asked to give a recital at St. Martin-in-the-fields…) but he smiled one of his goofy grins at me today without any evidence of it being gas and he and I thought it a very good day.

Tomorrow we’ll shoot for the trip downtown to pick up stamps. Maybe I’ll make him take me to lunch.

You’ll get your phone call later, mister

Our cousin Roo brought home a boy for us to meet. Not just any boy. The Boy she’s moved in with. You can imagine our delight and our anticipation. Roo doesn’t just flippantly move in with a boy– this is serious. And exposing him to us? it must be love.

We assembled at my sister’s house for a simple dinner. The menu was irrelevant– what was important was the grilling. Trish was in fine form, too. Poor Matt had only just put a bit of chicken on his fork when she cleared her throat, ended the preliminary round (you know, the part where the rest of us tried to be polite and welcoming… nonthreatening even) and began with the questions. In rapid fire progression she got the important info, “What do you do? Where are you from? Tell us about your parents… where are they from? what do they do? What’s your middle name? Any siblings? Coke or Pepsi? Any speeding tickets? Why? What kind of pets do you have? their names? How’d you meet Roo….”

While Roo and her mother (our Wonderful Aunt) shrugged and Robby and Andy raised their bottles of beer, Matt held up. He answered her questions politely and correctly. (If he’d said “Pepsi” we wouldn’t have continued. What would have been the point?) He even managed to laugh when we poopooed some of the questions thrown out by Roo’s mother as “too easy– besides– we got those from the private detective’s background check…”

By dessert, when Trish’s attention had moved to the newest family undergoing the life change only our Ty Pennington can create, Matt was old news. Accepted. He’s a good guy. (Of course, we knew when we knew that Roo loved him.)

Not to digress, but as much as Trish, Maddie, and I love to watch Ty’s “Extreme Makeover Home Edition” (and oh we do! we do!) we wonder when he will do over the home of some one like us– with a lovely house that we really enjoy but just want to see what Mr. Pennington and his team would do with it… (That and we want plasma television sets…) The problem with that show is that it’s always, in the wise words of my good hearted sister, “about some do-gooder’s family… some sap out there that’s doing nice things for other people… and really NEEDS a home makeover… what about the rest of us?” That nobel prize must have been lost in the mail.

Trish can be rented for your own interrogation needs. She’s really quite good. Just like Roo’s Matt.

Yeah, yeah, they all told me so.

Already my Jack is one month old. Impossibly. It is ridiculous to even try to remember a time that our living room wasn’t decorated with a bouncy chair, boppy pillow, laundry basket of tiny little socks and clothes, etc.

When we told people we were expecting a baby there was, inevitably from those who already had had their babies, the response, “It will change your lives forever/in ways you can’t even imagine…” They’re right, of course. Before Jack we were pretty darned sqeamish about vomit and poo and breastfeeding. And, while you still won’t see me going near his sweet little stinky butt with a rectal thermometor (armpit, my friend, use the armpit…) I have relinquished much of the 34 years of carefully constructed and nurtured heebiejeebies.

And I’ve discovered a whole new appreciation for the TiVo that has always been very much appreciated. TiVo makes early morning feedings a virtual buffet of choices for Mommy. Ellen Degenere’s talk show is funny whether watched live or TiVo’d. I thank the TiVo manufacturers for the BH90210 episode that has Dylan’s wedding and his wife’s funeral. I don’t get out much so it’s safe to watch Survivor a day later or put off watching “Desperate Housewifes” until I’m in the mood for camp. Yes, yes, I’m rotting my son’s brain. (Or am I? Maybe I’m just upping his pop culture IQ– maybe I’m creating the perfect Jeopardy contestant… How many kids do you know really benefitted from listening to Opera?)

The biggest life change in our house isn’t with me or Robby (he’s adjusted to the lack of sleep relatively well. He can now fall asleep in mid-sentence or while leaning against a wall. Thankfully he doesn’t operate heavy machinery or perform surgery on a daily basis…) the one that has felt the most sincere change is our poor little black dog. When Jack and Philbin first met in the hospital (Trish snuck him up. I missed him.) Jack’s eyes opened a slit at Philbin’s first lick as if to say, “Little black dog my stinky little butt! This dog is huge! Dear God!” Philbin, for his part, happily licked me and sniffed appreciatively of the delicious baby scent of his new sibling. The first night home Jack was in his bassinette at the end of our bed and began to make his little squeaky noises– Phibs barked a single “woof!” that, translated, said, “Baby, you shut up.” Baby’s soothing bear with the voice activated womb sounds activated, baby went back to sleep, and the pup resettled himself with a deep sigh. Over the past few weeks Phibs has patiently tolerated the fussing and cooing over Jack… and more slowly, has begun to get a leash on the sleep deprivation we are all experiencing. The people that we love the most are, without a doubt, those that still fuss over the pup, too.

So yes, life has changed. For the better. It’s a bigger adventure now. More unknowns, more rewards, and still the same joy that is found in discovery (and not just with the baby– who knew that the Gilmore Girls reruns could be so much fun? Or Pearl Buck such a great writer? or autumn so perfectly leafy smelling?)

Happy first month Jack Rabbit– and many more.

Baptism by, well, it’s not fire

Okay, okay. Pride does goeth before a falleth.

The other night we decided that my mother was right, it was high time for Robby and I to attempt bathing Jack on our own. (Usually Mom has come over for bath time… she would bath him while I took the pictures he’ll use against me years from now in court.) I’d bathed my naked, squirming, little neices years ago so I wasn’t completely inept… just nervous that I’d break our little son. Our boy, with his full belly, was slightly wary of our preparations. He watched with one eye open. Armed with Johnson & Johnson Head to Toe Baby Wash, a tiny polka-dot washcloth, his hooded froggy towel, a towel to line the sink, and his “Safety Ducky” with the temperature gauge, we slid our boy into the water while he cooed and we washed. Brilliantly, we thought even to give him his vitamins while he was in the bath. They are a sticky eyedropperful of gooey mess. Robby took the slippery wet boy from me and dried him off, diapered him and together we slipped him into a little sweet pea gown. I warmed up lotion in my hands and patted his flakey little head while the two of us marveled that we had enjoyed such success.

And this is where the fall part comes in. (Put down the phone. Tell Social Services you’ll call them later. Not that kind of fall…) Jack snuggled on my stomach and I soaked up his delicious baby smell. Robby stood nearby, wistfully, so I reluctantly asked, “Do you want to cuddle with him for a while? I get him all day tomorrow… it’s okay. You can take him…” We transferred sleeping, snuggling boy from Mommy to Daddy and I asked, “Hey– he might be a little chilled from the bath– take a blanket…” I tossed him Jack’s favorite stripey thermal blanket. And that’s when Linda Blair’s head begain to spin around while projectile vomiting milk and vitamins. It splashed on to Robby’s arm, on to the blanket, again on Robby, again a few times on the blanket. Robby deserves a medal for resisting the urge to jump away from the source of the bile… while I tried to get myself up from the couch (laughing after a C-section is a whole new kind of funny).

Covered in goo were two of my three boys. (The third, the pup, escaped un-vomited-on.) We stripped down the smaller of the two and plopped him back into the sink. (Water still warm…) And, to add insult to injury, as I washed the bileous ick from the folds of his wiggely legs, I suddenly felt a gush of warmth. I look down to see that my son is happily peeing on me.

And to think I don’t understand infant baptisms. Ha!

The Due Date Finally Arrives

Jack and I are watching Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. Okay. That’s not entirely accurate.. Jack’s asleep in his little bouncy/vibratey chair and I’m tuned in to our gentle presbyterian friend and his Land of Make Believe. The two of us have had a big morning– we managed to finish The Good Earth. It was a good read. But the ending made me sad. To combat Mommy’s sadness we made toast. And the rest of the morning has flown in addressing envelopes for announcements and writing thank you notes for all the kindnesses rained on our house.

Yesterday was a good day, too– two loads of laundry were done! and we managed to get in a short, ginger-stepped walk around the block with the great black dog straining against his leash.

Tonight we celebrate (one day late) Keegan’s birthday– she of the double digits now. She shakes it off because, when one is actually turning 10 one can’t show excitement, but we marvel at so many years of loving our family’s youngest girl. She’s picked a good menu for the fest– pot roast and mashed potatoes and my mother’s famous Texas Sheet Cake. I am gleeful at the thought of all that yummy food.

And, lastly, today is the day that Jack was officially due to arrive so I sit and look at my small son, curled up on his side under his favorite striped blanket, who is so now entrenched in our lives and I am amazed to think that, had things gone by in a text book way, he might have arrived today. I can’t imagine not having these past few weeks of living with Dr. Bunsen Honeydew. (Where did this kid come from? His father and I are perpetually late to everything and yet this little stranger shows up weeks early?)

Being Jack’s Mommy

Well, I’ve been Jack’s Mom for two weeks and one day now. In some ways it seems like just a minute ago I awoke to his tiny little face but in others I can’t remember much of life before Jack.

We’re both very new at this– apparently he’s never been anyone’s little son before and I’ve never been anybody’s Mother– we have a lot to learn. Some lessons come easily. For example, we are expert already at the cuddling and kissing. I can’t get enough of his baby smell or his soft little head or those long fingers catching mine in a grasp. Today I discovered the delicious velvet of the back of his wrinkled neck. My nose, I learned at once, fits there perfectly. And he has learned that his cries elicit rather quick responses from his Dad and I. We are sure to ask, “What is making our Jack so upset?” and sometimes, when we’re all lucky, we figure out the cause without too much delay.

Other lessons come by more arduously. His cries aren’t easy to decifer at 3 a.m. on little sleep. Nor are we wise enough to know all the ways to make him content. (It’s a fine line of tickling him under his arms until he gets ticked.)

Still, we’re making headway. Everyday we pick up a little bit more. Jack and I are slowly and surely getting to know each other.

Today he’s been, for the most part, content to curl up like a little frog on my chest and sleep there. In his bouncy/vibratey chair now he’s a little fractious– unused to seeing something else on Mom’s lap besides himself and the rather large black dog (to him Philbin is huge). He’s wearing his little dinosaur footed baby thing. It makes him look boyish. Tough almost. (Well, as tough as you can get with a happy green dinosaur grinning on your tummy…) His mommy, I’m happy to type, is wearing a pair of cargo pants again (yay!) and has somehow managed to read half of Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth. (As much as I love this boy, and believe me, I do beyond measure, it’s still good to be me.)

And then again– the still blue eyes of my boy have popped open and they put the sirens on the rocks to shame in their ability to call me away.