Otter's New Man

Otter's found herself a new boyfriend. And while I missed the shot of them sucking face, here are a few photos that might get her in trouble with the press should they be leaked...

Ima Mama

This Sunday I celebrated my first official Mother's Day. Unlike last year, when I was simply a storage compartment, this time it's fo' real. Otter and I commemorated by donning what will be the closest we'll ever come to "Mommy & Me" outfits - matching t-shirts...

Congratulatory phone calls were exchanged, the appropriate people texted, and my Facebook status updated to reflect the glorious day of all thing mother. My FIL gifted me with flowers and extravagant praise. Bree, in a bid for super husband actually began the celebration early, with a card and half dozen Crumbs Cupcakes delivered to my work on Friday afternoon. I think Crumbs can be effectively used as enticement for sectors of the population where birthrates are falling off. I challenge my most child-phobic of friends to not get knocked up if the promise of these cupcakes were to be offered as a prize for birthing.

Indeed, the rewards for mothering are many. I know - you're thinking I'm referring to the mystery of a new life created, the satisfaction of nurturing a small being, the joy of seeing your Dear Child laughing with glee at the wondrous world around it. But being a literal lass, I'm actually talking about the shwag you get, be it of the pastry, floral or bejeweled variety. Childed friends everywhere were discussing their acquisitions - luggage, diamonds and electric toothbrushes.

My own Mother's Day began with homemade strawberry pancakes and mimosas and ended with scrubbing down the kitchen before collapsing on the couch for my unavoidable, late-night pumping session. All was as it should be.

Great Expectations

A friend of my grandmother's has a granddaughter approximately Otter's age.  While she was always sweetly interested in Otter's progress and development, it was simultaneously a forum for her to draw comparisons between the two babies.  To hear her, the girl was something just shy of a genius.  At 4 months, when Otter was just starting to make the first hints of noises, Little Einstein was pointing out her head, hands, toes and all body parts in between on command.  My family lapped up these tales with wide-eyed amazement, and when I called BS on the whole scenario, I was reprimanded for my lack of faith in LE's super-human intellect.  

More recently, another babied co-worker and I were discussing our respective offspring.  Not surprisingly his son, who is 2 months younger that SB, also displays all the qualities of a savant. While Otter babbles incoherently, mixing her ma's, ba's, da's and a-goo-ah's in no particular order, 6-month-old baby linguist apparently says "Dada" with appropriate meaning, and even something that sounds suspiciously like "I want my mama."  Yeah, OK.

All of this led me to wonder, why must we project mythical skills on our newborns?  Why can't we be satisfied with our babies' actual milestones?  For me, the fact that Otter babbles wildly and meaninglessly is fascinating.  I am amazed at how good she's gotten at putting herself to sleep.  And that she can now grab the bottle and feed herself.  I don't need evidence of higher mathematical abilities or hints that she might be a musical prodigy.  I'm excited that she's almost (although not quite) crawling.  Aren't these achievements enough for a creature that a mere 6 months ago could do nothing but lie around like a large radish?

Yet I seem to be alone in satisfaction.  Articles abound about children so over-activitied that they require their own planners to keep track of it all.  Turn on the TV and I learn that with the proper kit (for 3 easy payments of $19.99 plus S&H Charges) I can teach Otter sign language, reading and theoretical physics.  Is it me or is our over-scheduled society not only robbing her of a childhood, but a babyhood as well?

Of course only time will tell if I'm right.  Perhaps when my friends' French-signing-astrophysicist-cellists are applying to Harvard at age 5, while Otter is learning not to eat paste, the last laugh will be on me.

The Final Frontier

Before I say anything, I must explain that I've always had a very contentious relationship with meat. Throughout my life, I've had bouts of vegetarianism that have lasted anywhere from weeks to years. And even when I am feeling carnivorous, there are numerous criteria that a piece of meat must fulfill before I'll ingest it. An accidentally-consumed traumatizing bit of chicken kept me from eating poultry for over a year. Even now, I rarely eat "public chicken," trusting only myself or Bree to properly dissect it.

My personal food-weirdness aside, it was a matter of time before we'd try to give Otter meat. In my perfect world, she'd be eating spinach and tofu well into her collegiate years, at which point she'd move out and could eat whatever the hell she wants. But reality and what little common sense I have left dictated that we would need to introduce carne into the mix sooner or later. The "sooner" came this week.

Before I could have Otter boldly go where she had not go-ed before, there was the question of preparing "Baby Turkey." The instructions were simple enough: heat ground turkey in a pan with water; blend; serve. Yet to someone with my meat-aversion, each step was an obstacle to be conquered.

To begin with, while I have no issue with meat in it's pink-to-red raw bloodiness, the sight of it turning beige in a pan turns my stomach. Add to that the odor (dare I say, stench) of pan cooked ground meat, and I'm out. I won't even talk about the blending part.

Initially, Bree had volunteered to prepared this glop, but since there was a question of our meal to prepare, he manned the grill (a perfectly acceptable way of cooking flesh, for the record), while I continued my duties as baby chef. Armed with a skillet, an apron and a spatula, I sucked it up and started heating.

"If this doesn't prove I love her, I don't know what does," I informed my husband while trying to stir the browning (no, let's be honest - graying) homogeneous mass while standing as far from it as arm plus spatula would allow. Bree valiantly offered to finish it up. "No," I said, the picture of martyrdom. "I'll do it." My heroism ran out when it was time to blend, and Bree had to step in.

Minutes later, he stood back, admiring the grayish-pinkish paste his efforts with the immersion blender had produced. Then he did the unthinkable: he tasted it. I looked on, utterly disgusted. "It tastes like bland turkey paste," he said, somehow acting like this wasn't a bad thing. "It looks and smells like dog vomit," I replied.

The final verdict was not up to us however. On Tuesday, Otter had her first taste of turkey. "Well," our nanny reported that evening, "she's definitely not a vegetarian."

image by allygirl520

Hot Mama

***WARNING: What follows may be Too Much Information for some. Proceed at your own risk.

In a crazy, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants fashion moment, I have discarded my usual uniform of jeans, t-shirt and Docs for something a bit more weather appropriate. So I am wearing...

a skirt (let those zombie-white legs show, darlin')...

heels (which make walking a bit challenging from lack of practice)...

and, most importantly, a REAL bra. Yep, that's right folks. I have traded in my utilitarian, clasps on each cup nursing bra (which is hideous, despite claims by my mother and m-i-l that things used to be much, much worse) for a snazzy, hot pink, before-there-was-baby REAL bra! There are no extra hinges, or hidden compartments. There is push-upness and shape. There is cleavage (or, as close an approximation to cleavage as I am ever likely to get).

I feel decidedly un-momish. Now if only I could figure out how to pump with this thing...

***This photo is SOOOOO not me. Mom and dad, you can exhale.

Image by http://www.abriefaffair.com/Cosabella-Soire-Push-Up-Bra

After the Epidemic

To celebrate the end of our plague outbreak, on Sunday we packed Otter up for the Los Angeles Arboretum. Having lived here for 12 years and an entire lifetime (respectively), neither I nor Bree had any idea this place existed. But the gardens more than made up for their lack of notoriety. It was a gorgeous day, and we all enjoyed the sights, smells and sounds of spring...

The only thing marring the outing, were the informative placards that had been tacked on to all the trees.

image by ikkoskinen

They displayed mosquitoes the size of medium birds, followed by several paragraphs in tiny print. The kind of disclaimers you find at the bottom of contracts. The ones that lead you to understand the message of without ever having to read: in the final analysis, you're screwed. This being the great outdoors (OK, OK, a Los Angeles park), and us lacking a mosquito net or DEET, we decided to soldier on.

Upon returning home, we noticed several bug bites on SB's legs and back. So now we watch and wait...will Swine Flu be followed up with Baby West Nile?

A (Very) Belated Easter

Ok, so in terms of getting photos up, I've kinda sucked. But in my defence, we were battling swine flu. So here, much belated, are our Easter pics...

Easter morning...

Grand-Diggy arrives...

A basket, for me?

B-U-N-N-Y-!-!-!

I'll get you, yet, you Wascally Wabbit!

Yeah, I like Easter.