That’s really all.

First of all, can someone tell me why hundreds (literally) of Russians create shell accounts on my MT and then disappear?  Are they testing bots?  They never post comments, and I always delete the users quickly.  Anyone (Joe?) know if there’s a way to stop this crap?  It’s just another stupid thing to worry about.

The Chicklet is doing quite well.  His 4 month check-up was last week and went very well.  He passed all of his milestones, well, almost.  The back of his head is getting too flat and we have to do tummy time more.  Problem being he hates tummy time, no matter how well we disguise it.  Stuboorn little fella — he gets it from both sides.  His eyes have stayed blue as can be, and we have really just a short period now to worry that they might go brown.  Not that there’s anything wrong with brown eyes.  It’s just that pretty much everyone says he looks just like The Boy that I want him to at least have my blue eyes.  We’ve settled into a good routine and it all seems so much more manageable than it did a few months ago (or even a few weeks ago).   It’s all baby steps (pun intended!).

I’m glad the weather’s been getting warmer, he’s been having more outdoor experiences.  Poor winter babies don’t get outside for months.  He’s actually a little afraid of some outdoor things, but it makes him hold on to me that much tighter, and that I can never get enough of.

Here he is in his bouncy seat, aka The Baby Spa.  I’d love it if someone put me in a giant vibrating lounge chair.

Still over at Facebook finding every person I ever knew.  So bizarre to talk to the kid who sat next to you in kindergarten or something.

Have a good one kids!

I know it’s not like we have a chance in hell of winning, but hey, I got to post his photo and it’s an hysterical one.  Vote for the Chicklet if you can.

Gracias.

Funny how the meaning of the word changes so drastically depending on where you are in your life. When you’re single, alone can mean sadness, loneliness, or even the promise of unlimited possibility.  When you’re coupled, alone can mean yearning, aching, or a needed respite.  When you’re a parent, the word becomes scant and treasured.  It also becomes fearful.

This afternoon, I am alone.  As a new mother, I have never been so thrilled, happy, and nervous as I am right now at the prospect of “alone time.”  It’s the first time I’ve been alone in 12 weeks.  Just me and Boris, as if the last 3 and 1/2 years never even happened — in bed, watching TV, surfing the net.  No one needing to be fed or diapered or coddled or helped  (neither baby nor husband, that is).  No visible evidence that anyone lives here but me.  No noise, no expectations, no pressure.

I’d be enjoying all of this freedom if I were not worried to death that my husband will somehow kill my baby.  Of course this is a totally irrational, if not common, fear.  Yet here it is.  Looking over my shoulder with each key-stroke, each change of the TV channel, and each attempt at a restful moment.  What if something happens and I am not there to stop it.  The intonation of a control freak to be sure.  But how could I just let someone walk away with my child, my baby, the thing that lived and breathed inside of me for so long?  I could, and I did, because I had no choice.  I tend to forget that half of that little angel belongs to someone else.

I also tend to forget that every day that someone else, my husband, places all of his trust and faith in me that I will safekeep this little treasure of his.  That every day he heads out the door to work, he lets go in a way that’s almost unfathomable to me.  Every day, he shows me a level of trust and love that seem to come effortlessly to him, yet require all of my strength to muster.

Alone.  This afternoon.  I shall ponder.

Today I got a call from the hospital at which the Chicklet was born.  They informed me that they did not have his correct insurance information (which, BTW, The Boy assured me he had taken care of weeks ago), and if I did not call them back immediately, I would owe them the entire amount of the bill.  I called her back within three minutes.

The exciting contest, then, is for you, yes you dear reader, to guess how much just the Chicklet’s hospital charges totalled using the following information:

He was born six weeks premature.  He was taken to the NICU within minutes of being removed from me, where he was intubated and put on a ventilator for two days.  It was about two more days afterward that he was removed from all breathing assistance.  His birth weight was 4lbs, 11oz and during his NICU stay dropped to 4lbs, 1oz.  He had a feeding tube for most of his two week long stay.  His release was delayed because he was not eating properly or enough.  In his area of the NICU, there was one nurse for every four babies.  He was, obviously, fed, clothed, and diapered around the clock.

OK, so with all that information, guess the total!  Contest ends either when I say so or due to an expected lack of interest.  There are no prizes for winning, just the self-satisfaction of knowing you are better attuned to the inflated health care costs in this country than anyone else who bothers to participate.  OK, maybe I’ll email you a bacon-gram or something too.

Good luck!

P.S. In case you somehow managed to miss my mass distribution of The Chicklet’s new video, check it out here.

No one’s died, no one’s gotten divorced or kicked out of the house.

I finally gave in and tried Facebook.  I’ve been so busy chatting with old friends it eats up all of my internet time. I wish I’d given in while I was on bed rest for almost four months.  I mean, that really would have been the time, because I had all the time in the world.

But now I have to have separate internet time, because, you know, there’s Chicklet time which is almost all of the time, if I don’t give The Boy some time he will wind up divorcing me, Boris needs time, and then there are all those pesky chores.  I’m taking my therapist’s advice and hiring myself a mother’s helper/assistant/babysitter type person for two days a week.  I didn’t bother mentioning the pain time, because that’s ALL the time lately.

So having someone else around could potentially help with the time shortage.  Aren’t I just going to be so all Hollywood glam and stuff with my personal assistant at my beck and call?  Somehow I don’t think it will work that way.  The good news, though, is that the recession is on my side on this one. The available pool of talent and their desperate need for money will definitely get my higher quality than I could otherwise afford.  I’ll let you know after I interview my first tomorrow.

In the meantime, look for me on Facebook.

I really do have other things to post about.  Like the lady who was “saving” her place in the supermarket line with a potato or my ladies only happy hour leaving The Boy home alone with the Chicklet.  Instead, I’m going to continue obsessing over photos of the Chicklet and Boris.  I just can’t help it!  It was so important to me that Boris love the baby, and we did so much training so things would go smoothly.  I suppose he’s not quite at the “love” stage yet, but he keeps getting closer.

It’s just that you hear these stories of people who have to get rid of their pets because they don’t get along with the new baby (like my dumbass brother).  I was absolutely terrified of that possibility and just so relieved my hard work has paid off.  Indeed, in addition to the few fun snaps we’ve been able to get, the baby and the dog have been doing all sorts of fun things together.  It warms the heart, really it does.  So check out this awesomeness:

And just LOOK at the size difference from just a couple of weeks ago!

The Chicklet went in for his 2 month checkup today (time flies, huh?) and all’s well.  One of the things we’ve been concerned about is that he spits up.  A lot.  And it doesn’t bother him in the least.  He’ll spit up in his sleep and not even cry, so we’ll find him hours later with formula caked all over his face and clothes.  Nuts, right?  Well, not so much.  His pediatrician informs us they call babies like the Chicklet “Happy Spitters.”  They spit up, it’s part of life, they don’t mind, and no one makes a big deal over it. Certainly there are worse things out there for him to be doing, so really it’s OK by us.  Still, the term makes me laugh.  Even moreso the need for it.

We took a family road trip upstate this weekend to watch the Super Bowl with The Boy’s best friend and his family.  So the night before I’m talking to The Boy and told him that while he was at work I would pack “for the three of us.”  The three of us being me, the Chicklet, and Boris.  All of a sudden I was struck by how very adult that sounded.  Seeing as I’ll be 42 soon enough, I really should come to terms with it.

I leave you with the most awesomest, best, gorgeousest photo to date of the Chicklet.  I can’t stop looking at it!

P.S. Road tripping with a baby and a dog wasn’t nearly as difficult as I imagined.  It’s all about getting your crap in and out of the car.  After that, no problemo.

OK, not really porn.  I just can’t stop with the cutie-pie photos.  I just wanna eat him up with a spoon!

We’re into a nice, reasonably stable routine now.  Every three hours he eats, gets a diaper change, gets some cuddling if he’s still awake, and then he’s back in the crib.  Sure, there’s fussing and spitting up and explosive poopy diapers, but it’s all just part of a day’s work. Yes, I’ve settled into mommyhood.  It’s not nearly as bad as I had imagined, mainly because I’m so in love with this kid I actually miss him when he’s sleeping.  Still, there’s a long-ass way to go.

The in-laws blew into town last night, and we can expect multiple visits, some overnights for the MIL, and presumably some babysitting and actual help.  I won’t start counting my chickens though, something always seems to go wrong and she ends up unavoidably in Brooklyn helping the daughter-in-law she actually likes.

My proudest mommy moment so far is that the Chicklet woke up having a tantrum when he was supposed to be sleeping and I sung him back to sleep.  Yes, I found someone who enjoys my singing.  That I had to make him was really a small price to pay.  *Ahem*

And what would a post around here be without a closing photo of the Chicklet.  Here, I’ve managed to capture him mid-yawn.  Don’t you just want to eat him up with a spoon?!