Bambino Mom

I’m making this t-shirt. In fact, I’m going to make five of them in different color combos for each day of the week. And I’m going to wear it every time I go on a walk with Aidan and Maddy (which is at least once a day, more often twice).

Email me at bambinomom (at) gmail (dot) com to place your own order.

Call it anti-social, passive-aggressive, I don’t care. Call it what you will. I’m tired of talking to strangers for 20 minutes.

Don’t you see I’ve got my Fuelband on? I’m trying to hit my goal for the day! Besides that, Aidan has a short window of opportunity in which he’ll ride in the stroller without protest. And while I’m on my soap box, you’re messing up my puppy’s training when you tell her to jump on you and lick your face. We don’t do that at my house.

Too harsh? Probably. But I assimilate it to the stranger-on-the-airplane situation. When you walk past a random stranger on a sidewalk, you are forced to come into close proximity. At which point, they make their move. You’re trapped. The stroller isn’t yet capable of four-wheeling through the grass to get away, and Maddy is a sucker for attention.

Example: today, Jane Doe cornered me. And we were just steps away from our neighborhood. I learned that her mother and her mother’s dog are both dead, she has two boxers of her own, her nephew – 17 years old now – was always protected (and bathed) by her former dog when her nephew was a baby, the dog was eating grass today because her dog-friend was too, she also has a cat, etc. etc. etc.

And do you know what Jane Doe knows about us? She knows Maddy’s a puppy and Aidan is 7 months old.

Apparently I’m a better listener than I am a talker (although, I’m sure Ozgur would have something to say about that).

But this t-shirt has me covered now. Next time a stranger approaches me, I’ll just dig my heels into that power walk, get my pony tail a’ swingin’, point to my shirt, smile, wave, and keep on keepin’ on.

That way, I can focus on important things, like updating you on the status of the sleeping squirrel:

Yep. He's definitely sleeping.

No, I did not roll him over. I’m not interested in contracting squirrel flu. But I do think he looks a little better than the other day. He seems to be recovering!

Readers, this post is not for those with a weak stomach or a particularly tender heart. I’m warning you now: it contains a picture of a dead squirrel. Yes, a dead squirrel. (Don’t worry, it’s not gory. It’s just dead.)

Turn back now if you don’t want to see it.

If you’ve scrolled this far, I can only assume you’ve consented to viewing the material.

Poor thing. He looks so peaceful...

It was so bizarre. He was just laying there on the sidewalk. Dead like that. It really got me wondering what happened to him.

And here’s my hypothesis: he found an old 40oz malt liquor on the side of the road, had a few too many sips of the remnants, got a little too much liquid courage, and went and played on this thing:

It was a pretty tall lamp post...

Only just now, as I’m putting this post together, am I reminded of a similar incident from my childhood. (Yes, this post was just going to be me sharing this dead squirrel hypothesis with you. But then… THEN…)

My sister (maybe 13 or 14 at the time) was  helping my dad bring wood in for the fire, and she saw a similar squirrel situation. It was just laying there under a tree, completely still, no wounds or anything, all rigor mortised.

“Dad, what’s wrong with that squirrel, is it dead?” she said.

He took one look at the squirrel and knew. And this was his response… “No honey! It’s not dead. He’s just sleeping!”

In the years after, we all laughed at my Dad’s blatant white lie, told only to protect her potentially very tender heart. And when we turn to our family in times when we really need to hear the truth, we say…

“Tell me the truth. The squirrel is dead.”

Editor’s note: This is from last week, but I forgot to post it on my busy Friday. Enjoy.

I’m typing this on my cell phone keyboard because I have a case of the insomnies, so I intend to keep this brief. And don’t hold typos against me.

Let ‘s take a moment to note the journey that is having a dog, and the even crazier journey that is having a child. But last night, Maddy takes the crazy cake. Yes, she out-did our unpredictable, world-revolves-around-me, complex human baby. And here’s how…

A woke up as per usual around 4am to grub. Unlike normal people, though, he screams almost inconsolably until a bottle is in his mouth. So I bust out all the super mom tricks I know, and just when he can’t take it anymore, Dad arrives with the milk. (And that’s not even the heroic part.)

But he looks pissed. In the time it took for him to go downstairs and make a bottle, something has gone seriously awry. And we’re not talking the usual 4am don’t-talk-to-me look. This is a kill face.

“Maddy shit in her kennel.”

(You don’t want an MS Paint of this. Trust me.)

1. Words are never exchanged in the middle-of-the-night feedings, so to hear a voice at this hour was weird.

2. That sucks bad. Even when I offer, he refuses to let me clean her kennel (she has had a few other diarrhea situations in the past). Which is nice on one hand, but on the other, I just keep feeling more bad each time he has to clean it.

3. It’s 4:20am. And the kennel isn’t the only thing that will need a bath.

To top it all off, post-cleaning, he attempted to sleep on the couch for the rest of the morning incase she had to go again. And she whined because he was there, and she didn’t have to go even though he took her out three more times, and she essentially worked really hard so that he didn’t get anymore sleep before work.

Poor, sleepy, heroic Ozgur. I can’t imagine doing it all without you.

I’m happy to report improvement with Maddy’s sitch.

But I’m even happier to have a husband who gets shit done. In this and so many other ways.

So I’ve recently entertained the idea of returning to work part-time. That would mean three days a week. And because it wouldn’t be full-time child care, we could afford a nanny so we don’t have to spend time going to and from daycare on the days I work. Which means more time playing and eating together… what we do best!

But I’m torn.

Maybe I can get the answer by analyzing the uniform of the day... No, that's pretty unfair. I mean who wouldn't choose velour pants and flip flops?

Part of me thinks it’s a cool idea. Having an employer contribute to your 401k and/or IRA is never a bad thing. And aside from that, I actually like the work I do… writing, strategic communications, etc. It exercises a part of my brain that I like to use. Crave to use. Miss using.

But the other part of me is like, “Are you crazy girl? You’ll never get this time back. You rock at taking care of A. And who wants another stress in their life? Something else they have to juggle, balance, etc.?” As I write this, his little sleeping body lays snuggled up next to me. You can’t beat that.

But if I did go back to work for three days of the week, I’d still be spending the majority of the week with him. And I’d have an outlet for my untamed brain, and my outspoken mouth.

… But will anyone care for him like I do? Like family does? Would I be crazy to use a nanny cam – a neurotic mother’s security blanket?

How do you know which way is the way to go? Honestly, depending on the day, I can convince myself of either. Then, the next day, I change my mind. I’m like a flip-flopping politician. And much like a lot of politics, I’m clearly undecided on this issue as well.

I suppose this decision is not unlike many other life decisions. I mean, my life will be what I make of it no matter which path I choose.

Sigh. I thought writing about it would bring me closer to one side or the other. It hasn’t.

Please feel free to leave advice on making life decisions in the comments. I could use the insight.

You know what’s sweet? The Nike+ Fuelband.

Nike basically intentionally sold out on every release just to build a bunch of hype around them. I guess the hype worked on me, though, because I got on the notification for when they came out next, and we bought two. They came in the mail yesterday.

Isn't it pretty? Yeah, that says 4232 fuel points... no biggy.

It’s kind of weird. Nike Fuel is essentially a totally made up unit to measure your movement throughout the day. I’m sure it’s based off of some calorie, step, height and weight calculation… but it doesn’t really matter.

The fun of the Fuelband lies in the competition (hence the need for O and I to both get one). You set your daily goal and work toward it, competing either against your goal or against someone else with similar goals. It also tracks steps and calories (real measurements that you’re probably already familiar with).

It’s not perfect. We’re still trying the different options (right arm versus left, 8mm extension versus 16mm), and I’ll report back on what works best. But it is fun.

I had Fit Moms this morning, dropped A off with Grandma Turkey, and did a serious santization of the entire kitchen, bottles, playroom and den. Then O got off work, and we walked with Maddy. On the way to pick up Aidan, we found ourselves shadow boxing in the car (Ozgur only with one arm since he was driving), running up the stairs faster, generally moving much more than usual, and specifically trying to move more than each other.

Look how it tracks your movement:

The first peak is Fit Moms. The second is my cleaning spree, and the third is a combination of walking with Ozgur and shadow boxing in the car. So cool.

We both blew our goals out of the water today as a result. Let’s see if the Fuelband keeps inciting so much motivation. But so far, it’s a blast.

What devices or tools for motivation do you use? Leave a comment! Please!

My son is seven months old today. And I forgot to take a picture because I’m lame.

But because we usually take a million pictures every other day, I can still give you a pretty good idea of what our day looked like.

Two of these (in my arms):

This is the beautiful face I get to look at while he sleeps. And then fall asleep myself.

 A few of these (bananas, sweet potatoes, carrots, green beens, and yogie):

Love that face.

One of these (for a weird rash):

Diaper baby

One of these:

Yes. With the dog. It's a family affair.

One of these:

Nakey after the bath

And a lot of this:

This is his favorite book. Elmo. The Potty. What else could a boy ask for...

I didn’t get a picture of his first coordinated crawl step (yes that’s a technical term). But he did it today! And I got to see it. And I’d argue it was even more enjoyable without a camera between us.

I may be a dunce for not taking a picture today, but in retrospect, I see I’m the luckiest dunce in the world.

Happy seven months, Aidan.

Is it weird that I wish I would have taken a picture of a stranger and his grocery cart? Yes? Okay, good, then it’s probably best I didn’t ask this guy at Harris Teeter today. My paint skills will have to be enough.

The contents of his cart.

This is the man, his cool hat, his black clothes, his scruffy beard, and his long hair in a pony tail. Despite what it looks like, those aren’t dreads. They are well maintained locks of black hair longer than mine.

He had 10 store brand flavored waters, 10 store brand mac n cheese boxes, zebra cakes, and a case of Coors Light. Good to see he went brand name where it counts.

And all I could think when I saw this guy was… you must be Virginia’s most eligible bachelor.

Then there was me.

Aidan is too big for his car seat with the carrying handle. ... And he can't walk yet. So I carry all 22 pounds of him. Everywhere.

The pads and tampons are for me. The spaghetti ingredients were for a baked spaghetti recipe for my neighbor who just had a baby.

Does anyone else see the humor in the difference between the bachelor and me?

Not to mention, is anyone else infuriated by the fact that they, too, love Coors Light and mac n cheese but should they try to exist on it alone, they’d find themselves as a big as a blimp? Bastard bachelor. I love and hate you.

A recent post on my fave blog has inspired me to be more honest about my reality. So I thought for a few days last week… what do I not tell you? What are my secrets?

It didn’t take long for me to realize I haven’t told you what a basket case I am. I won’t go so far as to self-diagnose, but I am a little nuts. And I can admit that. (And you can say it, too. Just not to my face. Because that’s a sure fire way to make me get straight crazy.)

Case and point #1 (The first of many to come, I’m sure)

My most recent fight with O was about where the dog bowls should go. (They already have a home, he just wanted to switch it up.) During the circuitous argument, I pointed out that we should remember to pick our battles.

O: Fine. You can keep the dog bowls there. But your square plates that have been sitting on top of the refrigerator for months are going in this cabinet.

We can all see how wrong this is... right?

Me: (GASP.) But those are square!!!

O: … So?

Me: The bowls are round!

O: … … So?

Me: So, that’s it! [Removes plates, and resets cabinet appropriately while talking.] The plates are square, and the bowls are round. They just don’t go together! They aren’t even a part of this set! And I like having three stacks of four bowls in each stack (when all the dishes are clean), spread out evenly on that shelf. Not three stacks of bowls and one stack of square plates.

Whew. That feels so much better. Almost perfect.

O: What happened to “pick your battles?”

Me: Oh, I’m definitely picking the round-bowl-square-plate battle. Now, here is a battle I didn’t pick:

These mugs are lucky they are two of my faves. Otherwise they would have been taken out back and smashed.

I silently let you have your way.

O: I don’t think I put those there.

Me: Oh. Right. It was me. Even though I can’t reach that shelf, you are literally a foot taller than me, and the simple fact that they sit there in the wrong cabinet is like nails down a chalkboard to me. It was me. I put them there.

[Goes to another cabinet] Not a peep about this situation either:

This cabinet should be all glasses. Think of how pretty and organized that would be...

Not a peep.

So when you’re ready to organize the pantry and find the appropriate place for those square plates, you can remove them from the top of the refrigerator. Until then, sorry, Charlie. I win this one.

O: … You may have won the battle, but you will never win the war!!!

Now tell me about your crazies. Leave a comment. I love hearing from you.

P.S. Ozgur moved the dog bowls. He also cleaned the pantry. Ahhh, marriage.

Just another day at my Fit Moms class… Aidan barely holding on to his sanity, shouting for the duration of the workout as he is forced to sit in his stroller for 20 minutes, then forces mommy to hold him for 20, and finally wins and gets to eat the gym floor for 20 minutes.

(Hey, he doesn’t go to daycare. He needs to build his immunities somehow, right?)

And on the fun days, like today, he cries until we arrive home, and I heroically save him from the misery that is a car seat. Whew.

As I’m unloading the car with A on my hip, a passerby slows to a stop right behind my truck. And by passerby, I mean a creeper sketch ball with unkempt facial hair in a beater. Not someone I recognize in my friendly neighborhood with lots of familiar faces.

Defenses automatically go up. Am I going to have to bust out my boxing moves that I’ve luckily been practicing with a baby on my hip?

I will crush you. I needn't remind you of a mother's protective instincts, correct?

And the creeper leads with this: “Excuse me, ma’am….”

A high-pitched, dreadful ringing takes over in my ears. I can’t breathe. Can’t hear. Can’t see straight.

But it must not have been for too long, because I caught the tail end of what the guy was saying.

“… the clubhouse?”

So I said to this very unwelcome visitor, “Ma’am? MA’AM? I’m 26 years old!!! You’re older than me, fool!”

MS Paint doesn't adequately represent my bangs, just in case you were concerned. The rest is about right.

Well that’s not entirely true. That’s what I wish I said. But I actually stuttered… “Oh, you must be looking for the rental office for the apartments one street over?” A short set of directions followed.

“Ass.”

Ok, so that last part wasn’t audible either. But it should have been!

What is it that made this mo’ron think I was a ma’am? Is it simply that I have a baby on my hip? Does that automatically take me to ma’am land? I hope not. I’m simply not ready.

If that’s the case, I’m redefining the standards. I’m starting a revolution.

Let it be known: Henceforth, if a woman is less than 40 years of age, she is not yet a ma’am EVEN IF SHE HAS A BABY ON HER HIP. And as opposed to selling alcohol, if the age is difficult to determine, err on the side of the youth. (Amendments allowable on an individual basis, ONLY as directed by the woman that may or may not wish to be called ma’am.)

Random thought of the day…

I’m driving into work today and among the many morning talk shows I scroll through, I hear a lot of jibber jabber.  Something catches my ear though, and it’s nothing that I haven’t heard before or Hollywood hasn’t made a movie about.

According to the Mayans, 2012 will be the end of the world.

So I get to work and I’m sitting at my desk thinking to myself “what real world skills do I really have?”  I’m not talking about making an Excel spreadsheet or creating a jazzy PowerPoint presentation.  I mean things like being able to survive in the real world without modern day amenities like a smartphone or grocery stores.

If the world as we know it were to come to an end today, how would I survive? 

Would I use my consulting skills to talk to the best hunter and explain to him how his hunting process could be 38% more efficient for a nominal fee of just one deer leg per hunt?  Probably not going to happen.   I mean I really have no real raw discernable skill. Just look at my checklist.

Can I create a fire using just two sticks? No

Can I create shelter that won’t blow over? No

Can I make weapons and hunt with them? No (well maybe a sharp stick to hunt bears but that’s about it)

Can I talk to animals? No

Can I survive more than 18 minutes without my smartphone? Definitely Not!

Chances of survival = about 8.3% (calculation is pretty scientific)

I think what I’m getting at is trying to figure out what I want to do with my life?  I want something that’s meaningful and something that is a real skill.  Oh yea, it doesn’t hurt if this skill makes me a lot of money.  In the mean time I’ll stick to consulting and my nominal fee of one deer leg per hunt.