Have baby. Check.

Today I’m 35 years old. Sigh. No longer in the desirable advertising demographic of 18-34 year olds. No one cares now what I purchase. I don’t even know what grouping I’m in… 35-80 year olds?

Jack makes it a lot less depressing than it could potentially be. I figure I’ve accomplished something now. Jack’s potential is greater than the sum of mine. I worry though that I’ll be the oldest Mommy Jack’s friends know… even as I’m wise enough to know that I couldn’t have been Jack’s mom 10 years ago. Or even five.

The boys took me for tea today. I love finger sandwiches. And scones. And clotted cream. And big pots of tea served in china teacups with milk. I have been feted with presents and treats and well wishes (except from my OLDER sister who has relished in calling me six times to remind me that, “You’re 35!”).

Got to get cracking on my Secret List of Things To Do Before I Turn 40.

Yikes.

We don’t need no stinkin’ food pyramid!

I’m coming to the rapid conclusion that the glass is neither half empty nor half full but probably filled with the wrong liquid.

Feeding a baby seems to elicit all sorts of advice, comments, and quieries… when “we” just breastfed Jack we heard that it wasn’t enough. Or that it was too much. Now that he’s eating food, too, it’s up for debate whether “we” should still be breastfeeding… or whether we feed him too much… not enough… Are we spooning the food in too quickly? Too slowly?

Arrrgh.

Of course, it’s all very simple now. We control what he eats. He’s not tempted by junk or distracted by fancy presentation or Happy Toy additions. And, to Jack’s credit he’s a good eater. (And relatively neat as babies go.) So far he’s readily welcomed all the vegetables, cereals, and fruits we’ve introduced him to. I’m not a complete idiot. I know that tomorrow he might suddenly turn his little chin away from his beloved bananas or suddenly screech at the sight of sweet potatoes. Still, I hope he doesn’t. I like that he’s so easily accepting of new things. Picky eaters are a pain as children and even worse as adults. I once cooked macaroni and cheese for a teenager that refused to eat the cookout food the rest of the group was tucking into. A teenager. I’ll insert a feeding tube into Jack faster than you can say Terri Schiavo before I let it get that far.

(Of all the words I’ll eat, those will go down the easiest?)

Under one roof…

Our wee family is again under one roof (let alone on the same side of the international date line)… as I type this the baby is working on more time with Daddy. The baby monitor reveals the “hushing” and screeching contest going on upstairs.

Their reunion was a hoot. Jack awoke from a long car nap to find Robby nearby and the slow recognition across his face was priceless. He’s got memory!

Puppy is also pleased with the reappearance of The Walker. And the potential for more Milkbones. Rob brought “the boys” home little mascots from the World Expo– but Philbin’s a little miffed that Jack scored a stuffed samurai sword as well.

After the presents were opened, the laundry started, the baby fed, and the dog fussed over the plan is to stay up through The Amazing Race then crash. One of us is jet lagged the other’s just tired.

It’s nice to have Rob home again.

Housekeeping

Today is a catch all day. Random thinking.

Wonderful Aunt Becky (as opposed to merely Great Aunt Becky) is a little miffed with me. Apparently, when I mentioned the estrogen fest that was Saturday night at my house, I failed to mention that she had popped in for a quick audience with the Jack. Wonderful Aunt Becky is my mother’s little sister. She, my sister, and I have had all sorts of adventures from the days before she became a mom herself and used to come sit for us. Aunt B always cleaned our ears. Which, I realize, is not the kind of thing most kids think of fondly, but she did it armed with q-tips, lotions, and a gentle touch. We’d fall asleep to it. Aaaah. She also costarred in what was possibly my Dad’s best story– the legend of a long ago trip to Chinatown in New York City and a meal that merited no tip. The punchline involved an irate waiter, a knife, and a chase through the streets of Chinatown to the refrain of, “You leave no tippee! You leave no tippee!” Over the years the story took on new and improved details but it never failed to get a laugh. It still holds up. Aunt B also had the distinction of having a fold-out couch before they were commonplace. My sister and I felt very cosmopolitan on her fold-out couch. AND she went to clown school. Her make-up box was amazing.

Also on the mind is my very cool Gilligan Island bath tub playset. It’s still intact. Most of my old toys are. We didn’t lose pieces to things in our house. Our old board games have their plastic nooses and little houses and dice. The Gilligan’s Island playset had a palm tree sprinkler, an anachronisitic boat (don’t remember that on the show), a raft that never really floated all that well… and, of course, the rubber little effigies of Gilligan, the Skipper, and MaryAnn. After me they were well loved by my cousin Roo (who happens to have the Wonderful Aunt Becky as a mother), Maddie, Keegan, and now Jack. He’s enchanted with them. Me, too. It’s still a fun playset.

Bad customer serviceis a real drag. The Mother-in-Law and I went to Target to pick up the new coffee table I’d finally settled on… only to have the dippy girl claim that she new not when or if they would get another in. Lovely. Real helpful. As it turns out there was one in Lansing. Got it. Own it now. Yay. But still am very ticked off at my own Target. I’ll boycott them for at least 48 hours. Sigh.

Maddie, my latest sleepover pal, spent last night with Jack and I. All of a sudden she’s growing up. I know that these things happen in spurts and fits. I see it already with Jack. Maddie’s hit a big one though– she’s starting to blur the lines so that we are friends. I like it. She’s fun to hang out with. And she’s very good with Jack.

So is Keegan, her little sister. Keegan has a solo in her latest jazz dance number that has her back handstanding/crawling/some gymnastics thingy across the stage. She’s working on a flip. Her little body is very flippy. It’s very cool to see. She’s our own little circus.

Taking up the most brain space, however, is the Return of Robby tomorrow. Jack, the little black dog, and I are all very excited to have him home with us again. Jack’s got the Dadadadadadaa thing down really well. Just don’t tell Robby that it not only refers to hearing Daddy’s voice on the recording, but also the dog, his banana toy, and the monkey.

I said it was all very random tonight.

Girls! Girls! Girls!

Baby Jack is surrounded these days by “wimmen’…. With his Daddy in Japan he’s been tended to by his Mommy and Momma and AunT and girly cousins… not a drop of testosterone in sight. Poor kid.

Yesterday my Uncle John was in town and we got a chance to see an old friend of my parents– so Jack had a few moments respite against the waves of estrogen… a couple of boys to talk Man Shop with. You know– trucks. Dinosaurs. Engines. Front Loaders. That kind of thing.

We undid all the good it did last night when Maddie, AunT, and Momma piled over to spend the night. It was fun. My mother slept downstairs and complained about the heat. My sister slept upstairs with me and complained about the cold. Maddie slept with the little black dog. Jack started off in his bed but woke up angrily in the predawn hours (“because he was frozen!,” shrieked his AunT) and ended up sleeping with his AunT and I. This morning he woke up and looked up at the ceiling, puzzled, then to me where he smiled a faint smile then over to his AunT where he did a double take. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, kiddo.

After everyone had trooped off to their own showers and houses (and contacts– that is if my sister made it home) Jack and I got a call from Daddy near Nagoya. He’s tired out. A long week of jet lag and living out of an albeit REALLY well packed suitcase (thank you. It’s a gift) and eating pig intestines and nodding at the gibberish that is Japanese when you don’t speak it… he’s tired. And homesick. And babysick.

Today Jack goes to a dance recital. Daddy can’t come home soon enough.

Wimmen!

Top this Benedict the XVI!

While the rest of the world was caught up in the aftermath of the white smoke (and, for the record, I think it’s a lovely custom and one that shouldn’t ever be changed to “keep up with technology”… Technology is already too removed from tradition as it is.) we had our own little drama…

Jack has a tooth. His gummy little grin is, instantly, a thing of the past. Now there’s the wee-est little sharpness on the bottom jaw. Poor Benedict only got about five hours of interest in our house before Jack’s amazing tooth took precedence. Poor Prince Ranier understands. Look what happened to his last 15 minutes of fame… totally overshadowed first by the death of the Pope then by the Prince of Wales marrying his…. lady friend.

And, if that weren’t enough news, old Jack came through with more. Dateline Our World: Jack has a second tooth. Right next to the first and just as sharp.

Very exciting, all this dentine happenings.

And poor Robby has to hear of it by phone. Though, in Japan, he is 13 hours ahead. So maybe he already knew?

Swing low sweet…

Our backyard now sports a nifty bucket swing from one of the trees. It’s red with a little yellow tray and blue and white roping. Very festive. Jack loves it. We do, too… it has the potential to buy us a few moments this Spring to get the yard back in order. Last summer, with Jack in my belly, I didn’t do much in the way of tending the things I’d planted… by the end of the season the weeds had taken over whole quadrants. (Settling the question of who does the weeding here once and for all…)

I think it’s one of our better purchases.

Jack has a lot of stuff. But most of it we use daily, I’m happy to report. There are a few things here and there that are ridiculously inane as usefulness go… but only a few. The bucket swing, I think, will go in the “good and useful idea” column.

Right up there with the new Tollhouse Mini Cookie break and bake dough (very tasty as a snack…), sliced bread, and TiVo.

Don’t eat your party hat, dear…

We’re celebrating the little black dog’s birthday today. It’s the closest Saturday to his birthdate and so we’ll take a stroll to the petshop for a new chewy toy then on to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal.

The little black dog has been short shifted. The Ba-beee (that’s how we imagine Philbin saying it) has taken up much of our time and energy and the poor pup has been somewhat neglected. Well. Comparatively. The little black dog still has more toys and treats and kisses then some children. This morning, when Rob made us pancakes, the little black dog had his share of breakfast. And he still has a place at the foot of our bed usually on Robby’s feet unless he switches things up and crawls up to the headboard to lay across my forehead.

This winter the pup was sorely lacking in his nightly walks. By the time Jack was fed and tucked in we were exhausted and even then we both couldn’t go– one had to stay behind with the baby so we put off a lot of evening strolls. I’m trying to make up for that now that the weather has turned. Jack gets put into his stroller and the dog, theoretically, could trot alongside or in front. Unfortunately, for the health of our canine friend he has discovered the bottom basket of Jack’s Urban Assault Stroller… and, thank you very much, has decided to ride on most of our afternoon walkabouts rather than, well, walk about.

The vet assures us that he is a healthy little beast. (The dog, that is, not the vet though he looks healthy, too.) He chuckled (the vet, not the dog) when I told him about Philbin’s birthday Happy Meal.

And yes, for those of you wondering, we DO stick a candle in it.

A tale of two toy stores

In our town there is a marvelous toy shop. It’s been there for decades… and it’s just down the street from where my Dad worked. On Saturdays my Dad worked a half day and sometimes he’d take me and my sister along and let us play secretary. It also gave my Mom a few precious hours to herself. I get that now.

Dad’s office was a toy house in itself. Trish and I have a deep seeded love for office supplies. Our school supplies weren’t ever the dumbed down version but the real thing. Even now I have a hard time keeping to any kind of budget when I walk into a stationary store or office supply shop. On our secretary Saturdays we’d write memos and type up letters and play with the confetti the beast of a computer spat out. (We were very popular at high school football games with our bags of pastel confetti.) We’d help tidy the office and stop for a “coffee break” of donuts and juice (my Dad didn’t start drinking coffee till he was nearly 40) or go out to the shop area of the factory where a line up of vending machines offered ice-cream, soup, sandwiches, and mini-meals. There was also a rat population that rivaled New York City. It added to the exotic ambience.

But the real reward was getting a five or ten dollar bill to spend at the toy store down the street. It was a marvelous place. The owners worked the floor along side their staff and promised giftwrapping for everything but sleds and bicycles. Trish and I had a harm time choosing. I was partial to Legos, games, and puzzles. (Oh who am I kidding? I still am.) Occasionally I’d have them wrap my purchase and then I’d open it twenty minutes later back in Dad’s office.

Jack and I had a few minutes today to pop in to the toy store while my mother had an appointment downtown. I’m in the market for a “bucket swing” for the backyard and wanted to check out the selection so Rob and I can get one maybe this weekend.

Jack slept through our entry to this high altar of all things toys and only just woke up at the very end of our walk about. The owners still work the floor and there is still the same bright colored wrapping paper as when I was small. I’m glad there’s something out there that hasn’t changed. This shop needs no bells or whistles. And– what I like best– is that everytime I go in they remember me and my little man and come to coo over him and remark on his development.

I guess, when Jack is old enough, the stories about the Saturdays at Dad’s office will be difficult to explain. Typewriters? Confetti spewing computers? Adding machines? Rats? Vending machines?

Maybe he’ll at least get the office supply allure.

And the toy shop. He’ll get that.

Smiling Jack

I spend a decent part of each day making Jack laugh. It’s usually because I know where to tickle him… but, increasingly, he’s starting to find situations funny, too. Today it was a Fisher Price Peek-a-Block on my head. It’s no Seinfeld, but it does the trick for my boy.

He’s still working on teeth. I tell him that they’ll always give him grief of one kind or another– root canals, fillings, flossing… but he seems determined to try them out for himself. This week he’s drooling up a storm. And chomping down on anything his little gums can clamp on to. He likes our fingers. And, again, it’s bittersweet for us. He’ll love all the stuff that comes with teeth like zwieback crackers and cheerios but I’ll miss his gummy little grin.

Every day I fall in love and every day he breaks my heart. Then mends it. And breaks it. It’s all entirely worth it but it still comes as a shock that such a tiny little being can so easily fracture me.