Two months of Jack

Jack is two months old. Good grief. Really. It’s good grief. Good because he is healthy and wonderful and we love him to pieces… but grief because already two months have flown by.

Today Rob said, while his little son was curled up in his arm, “Can you believe he’s ours?” One of us says this at least once a day… it’s still unbelievably lucky feeling to have Jack in our lives.

I ran out to the grocery store this week and watched a woman berate a small boy in one of the aisles. I assumed that she was the mother but it’s hard to say for sure. In any event I wondered when will I stop soaking in my boy with looks that have me accidently ramming my cart into the endcaps of aisles? when will I start treating him with irritation? Ugh. I pushed my cart, with Jack, quickly out of the earshot of that woman (who may, to be fair, have had a perfectly wretched day) so that I could whisper, “I love you Jack I love you Jack I love you Jack.”

And how do single mothers/fathers do it? Egad. Thank goodness for Robby and me as a team. Always the other to take over when you’ve run out of ideas to quell a crying jag. We don’t get much done around the house (it’s getting to the disaster point) so it’s not like we are on top of this parenting thing by any means– I’d hate to create that impression– but we’re managing through the grace of our nuclear family and God.

I grew up in a house where, for a long period when my sister and I were still at home together, we would all crawl on to my parent’s bed each night for “devotions”– sometimes a dip into the Bible and always a round table prayer. My parents, I knew always prayed for my sister and I and for the day that would follow “as we go about our daily tasks.” I appreciated that somewhat then but more so now. Robby and I usually are exhausted when we crawl into bed but we’re in the habit now of praying together and for our Jack. (And for Michigan football… which shows you where Robby’s priorities are…)

Jack is two months old now and long enough, in our world, to be habit and still new enough to be a wonder.

Oprah’s Medicine Cabinet

Shopping with Baby takes us to whole new areas of our favorite shops. Target, for example, has revealed to us aisles unventured before… and it was on one of those excursions that we found a product called “Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.” Honest and truly– it’s a real product. Yellow box with a happy baby and the words “Boudreaux’s Butt Paste” proudly adorning the front. Apparently it’s a diaper rash ointment. We took one look at it and immediately, in unison, said, “Gordy!”

Gordy is our dear friend. It was his triatholon that took us out West to Galena, Illinois last Spring. He and his wife are notorious for finding silly things for the rest of our amusement. A cheeky monkey for our friend Musselman who once watched in horror a monkey pleasure himself at the zoo. A cigarette pen for me to curb my obsession with candy cigarettes. (They were frowned upon as a kid. Smoking is bad. But dang if those candy cancer sticks aren’t delicious!)

So it was that the tube of “Butt Paste” made it’s way in our piles of luggage to a Museum conference this weekend in Green Bay, Wisconsin. (By the way– Jack did SPENDIDLY for his first big trip. He’s a good traveler.) We presented it to Gordy on the second night while we all sat around the hospitality room. Gordy, in his usual fashion, took glee in such a simple thing and it became the focus of a whole night’s worth of humor. And education. We learned, from the package, that it’s not just for diaper rash but also can be used to cure/aid jock itch, chapped lips (eeek!), and a myriad of other ailments. (At what point does one think that a product called Butt Paste is the perfect cure for wintery chapped lips? How does one arrive at the desperate need to try it out? How much liquor is consumed?) Passing the tube around we agreed with the claim on the box that it has a “fresh and pleasant scent”… it surprisingly does. Who knew? Kind of minty. A closer inspection of the fine print on the box revealed that there is a website devoted to the wonders of Butt Paste and, Pete to the rescue (Pete was the judge at last Springs impromtu Cheese Stuff Off)– from his stores a laptop was produced and quickly connected to the internet so that we could learn more about this miraculous product.

Butt Paste has been featured on several television shows including the Today Show (I bet Al or Anne got stuck with that assignment), While You Were Out (Does it also serve as a grout repair??), and, among others, the Oprah Winfrey Show– “Oprah Loves Butt Paste!” declares the site. Think about that. Oprah’s a powerful woman. Oprah could be president. Who are we kidding… Oprah could convince us all to go back to a monarchy with her as Queen. (Though I’m still a little bitter about the car thing deep down I’m still a fan.) If Oprah Winfrey is linked with Butt Paste– if her lawyers haven’t swooped down to crush the statement “Oprah loves Butt Paste” then it must be true. And, if it is true, who are we to laugh in the face of the good Dr. Boudreaux?

Anyhoo. The website is www.Boudreauxsbuttpaste.com or something like that. Just put Butt Paste into a search engine. Use our pals at Google. Make their day. Dr. B sure made ours.

Happy Anniversary to me… oh. And the Boy, too.

Wish us well. It’s our 10th wedding anniversary today. (Jack rewarded us with a few really big grins… and then with the emptying of his stomach onto his Mommy.)

This anniversary is a big one, obviously. The first decade. Double digits. But more importantly, it begs the question– what the heck do we do with the wedding cake that is STILL in our freezer? Is it okay to throw it out finally? It takes up a lot of room…

What did you all do?

Look Ma! No hands!

Today I went out for the first time all by myself. Jack was in good hands– my Momma came over to keep an eye on him so that I could go get MY hairs cut. (See previous entry…) It was very strange to venture out without him or Robby or the pup. My arms were free. I only had to carry a wallet– no diaper bag, no leash, no tote. I waved them around my head in a butterfly stroke just because I could.

At the hair salon I realized that I didn’t have any pictures of Jack with me. Well, any recent pictures. I carry around the very first ultra sound image we had taken… in it Jack is 6 weeks old. Just a white blip on a triangle field of murky grey. It’s still a powerful image. I look at it and instantly I am back in that office knowing the pure joy of knowing that the blip was exactly doing what it should be doing– blinking. A tiny heart. Now, with hindsight, and much clearer pictures of what Jack looks like, I still very much treasure that first image– that first real rush of hope and anticipation and Possibility.

When Alicia, my hair girl, asked for a picture I suddenly felt guilty for all the times I have chastised new mothers for not having photos on them. I get it now. Jack is so imprinted in my mind, heart, toes, that to have photos with me is redundant. I’ll bring them in next time, I promised.

An hour and a half later (my hair takes ridiculously long to blow dry. It’s why I don’t own one. Who has that kind of time? and yet, an hour and a half is NOTHING compared to what my poor Princess sister recently endured…) I immerged with crinkley hair (Alicia scrunched it dry) and the still heady feeling of free arms… so I called home to check on Jack and then ran an errand. Went to the Museum where I peeked into my desk that seems as though I left it years ago and not just 7 weeks. Saw some office mates. Again apologized for the lack of photos. My buddy the maintenance man remarked that I looked happy. And I realized how much I am. It’s not just that I love Jack– I guessed that I would. It’s what’s done. But it’s how much I love being Jack’s mom. That’s still an awfully nice perk. Who knew?

On the way home I cranked up U2 louder than I do when Jack’s little ears are in the car. Bono and I sang while I navigated the neighborhoods to my own and pulled into the driveway where I realized that the very nicest part of leaving Jack for a few hours is in returning to Jack. I found my small boy sleeping in his favorite stripedy blanket in the arms of my Mom, also asleep.

Life is good.

Jack and the Giant Bookstore

Once upon a time there was a new Mommy and a little baby named Jack. The two of them happily accepted the invitation by the Mommy’s Princess sister to accompany her to the far away kingdom of Spartanland for her appointment with the Royal Hairdresser. It took Mommy most of the eve of the trip to prepare their things for the journey: stroller, car seat, blanket, diaper bag with diapers, wipes, nuk, changing pad, extra outfit for Jack, extra tee shirt for Mommy, camera, snack (for Mommy), bottle of Mommy for Jack, burp rag, bib, and Baby Magazine. The next morning Mommy awoke to the alarm clock and quickly ran about the house getting herself dressed and ready so that she could wake up Jack (who, unfortunately, wakes up like Mommy– not so much happy to face the world). Mommy fed Jack and then passed him off to the Princess so that he could be dressed while the Mommy gathered all his things for the day. In Spartanland, Mommy and Jack said goodbye to the Princess and headed to the Great Giant Bookstore. Mommy told Jack how wonderful Great Giant Bookstores are when they are near Universities… how the history, biography, and fiction/literature sections are much fuller than at the little wussy bookstores at the mall. And how sometimes, when Mommy is very lucky, she can find her favorite British magazines (for the curious, it’s Hello! which is, admittedly, like People with a british accent… it’s a guilty pleasure. But leave me alone. I don’t smoke. I rarely drink. I have very few vices.) As the Mommy pushed Jack in his nifty stroller she kept up a whispered commentary of the wonders they were beholding… matte covered fiction (Mommy doesn’t read glossy fiction or chick lit) and thick biographies, the smell of all those sacrificed trees (a good sacrifice… the Mommy’s worst nightmare is reading a book on a computer screen and not in her lap) and the quiet hush of other reading people. Reading People, the Mommy explained, are what seperate us from the wretched Britney Spears and Paris Hiltons. Reading People are what keep civilization from completely evaporating with a big Poof!… Reading People are good. Non-reading People are Bad. Very bad.

Little Jack, it turns out, wasn’t so much interested. Jack was hungry. Jack is generally always hungry. The Mommy had a back up bottle but knew that it might be more needed later so the Mommy thought hard and determined that the best place for the Mommy to whip out part of herself to feed the little lamprey would be where women went. Ruling out the “Lesbians/Womens Studies” section (too militant… Mommy breastfeeds but not militantly. Mommy still has issues with the first Lactation Lady at the hospital…) Mommy chose Cookbooks– a very comfy chair and a relatively man-free area. So far, so good. Jack is fed. Mommy is somewhat discreet (Jack has a big head) and there is only one infiltrating male– Mommy didn’t notice till Jack was latched on that the “Computer Reference” section is adjacent to the Cookbooks. That and Mommy was frustratingly close to the cookbook featured on the Today Show “Barefoot in Paris” without being able to reach it. Dang.

Jack, burped and full, and back in the nifty stroller (it really is nifty– the car seat locks right into it giving it the feel of a pram… without the 3,500 dollar pricetag. Good grief. What was Gwyneth thinking??) so that the Mommy and the Jack could continue strolling through the Great Giant Bookstore.

It’s a good thing that the Mommy had a lot to tell Jack about Bookstores– the Princess took FOUR FLIPPING HOURS to get her hair done. (It looks fabulous– but that’s not the point)… When the Mommy and the Jack finally reunited with the Princess at a Japanese restaurant (The Princess kindly bought the Mommy lunch. And Jack supper. You figure that out.) the Mommy had used half the back up bottle (other places aren’t so comfy as the Bookstore) and most of her energy in keeping the Jack from ever crying beyond a small whimper. (The kid has lungs– and the last thing that women at a salon want to hear is a baby crying. Most of the women there had escaped their own crying babies for a few precious hours of freedom. Mommy might be new. She’s not stupid.)

Still, she and the Jack and the Princess had a happy ending. There was, after all, a big plate of tempura seaweed and cucumber rolls and a hot bowl of miso soup. Oh. There should be magic beans. Do Edaname count?

And the Princess had pretty hair. Hair is very important to being a Princess. For example, when Jack was in the process of being born (a very LONG process…) my sister’s chief concern (okay, third concern– the first two being me and Jack) was her hair. We’d called to tell her that Jack was on the way when SHE was on the way to her hair appointment. She quickly cancelled and appeared at our side with a baseball hat covering her uncharacteristically un-done hairs. While I pushed and pushed and huffed and puffed like the proverbial Big Bad Wolf Goldilocks was trying to figure out if she had enough time to run home and at least wash her hair before the doc was ready to slap the behind of our boy. She never did leave which is, I tell Jack, a huge testiment to her immense love for him. C. S. Lewis never knew this kind of “unconditional”– trust me.

They all lived happily ever after.