Randomness

Huh? What? I have a BLOG? Like, the kind I have to actively post on? You mean all those blog posts I compose in my head while breastfeeding/showering/rocking Sadie to sleep don’t get automatically sent from my neurons to the Internet?

Also, where the fuck are my automatically adjusting high-tops? It’s the year 2009, people! Let’s step up the technology!

“…they are so placid and self-contain’d…”

Hello, Internet! Do you recognize the title of this post? It’s pretty random, I admit. It’s a snippet of one of my favorite poems from my favorite Santa-Claus-lookin’-rumored-to-be-geigh famous historical figure in literature. And it has come to mind lately due to some very UN-contain’d situations regarding Sadie, her new sleep schedule, and some very compromised diapers.

“Using my beautiful writing to describe your daughter’s assplosions? GEE THANKS.”

Yeah, it’s going to be one of those posts, my friends. But please read on! I need your help! With this, and with things non-feces-related!

Jive Turkey’s Guide To All The Essential Shit You Need If A Baby Is Fixin’ To Come Out The Ol’ Brewster

Pretty catchy title, no?

It seems the clamoring masses (i.e., the lone commenter Lisa) have demanded my input on what I deem to be essentials when it comes to this whole baby-wranglin’ business. And because I love to share my opinion and behave like an expert on something I’ve been doing a whole two months, I will gladly oblige. Lucky you!

Real Post Coming Soon!

But for now, I have to share this with you (found here) because it is making my damn day.

Haaa.

Here I Go Again On My Own

First things first: YOU ARE WELCOME, Internet, for me getting that awesome song stuck in your mind.

Really? There was a time when no one found that hair ridiculous? REALLY?!

Like I Never Left

Well, Internet, it’s almost 3pm and I haven’t burst into tears or sprinted home in a baby-less panic, so I think I can call my first day back at work a relative success. Pumping has been…weird, but it’s working, and that’s all I can ask for. Thanks to everyone who has offered support – I have a feeling this is going to be A LOT harder in 6 weeks when I’m coming in 5 days a week, and then even harder in August, when Sadie officially enters day care instead of being under her Daddy’s care all day.

That’s her Daddy, the man who emailed me this today:

Uncanny, no? In other news, MY HEART IS ACHING TO GET HOME AND KISS THOSE CHEEKS.

It’s Off To Work I Go

Well, tomorrow marks my official first day back at work. Which means today marks my official first day of being filled with crippling guilt and dread.

Slit his wrists in the office bathroom. Little known fact.

Poop-date

Because I can’t stop talking about poop, and because I am seemingly hell-bent on embarrassing my daughter on the Internet (and because the lovely Kristin inquired and I have been so remiss about reading her blog that I hope answering her burning question somehow makes up for it), I am writing to let you know the outcome of Oops-I-Crapped-My-Pants-Gate 2009. While I sat there fretting about getting a shower while my darling precious angel wallowed in poo, Sadie – true to form – jolted awake and began bitching up a storm. So she totally won that round, and her dear, long-suffering mama didn’t get a shower until THE CRACK OF 6PM.

Fortunately, the owner of these adorable toes is totally worth remaining filthy until the evening news goes off the air.

(Even when she kicks me in the boob.)

(And even when her flailing legs break free from my grip during diaper changes and she grinds her adorable heel into her adorable poop-filled diaper.)

(That situation is also known as “Daddy, come hold your precious angel while Mommy throws back a beer.”)

Cheers & Jeers: Week Six Edition

Howdy from Week Six! I hope you brought money for ice cream.

OMG, popsicle dresses are SO Week Five, Mom, GOD!

Sadie’s Birth Story: Part 3

(So, it is now Week Five, but I started this post in Week Four, so…hence the mention of Week Four. Carry on.)

Here we are in Week Four, in which the little pigeon is starting to notice some of her toys and is suffering through her mother’s new pastime of singing her show tunes.

We like “Pinball Wizard,” but are not sold on “Sixteen Going On Seventeen.”