Momnesia

I bought Emerson a Baby Einstein book. She loved it so much in the store that she cried when I took it away from her to put it back on the shelf. I was going to get her a rattle, but she liked the book better.

Swinging in her swing/high chair contraption, I hear her shriek with laughter. She’s holding the book! I wonder what it is that so amuses her:
the bright colors?
the photographs of animals?
the different languages?
the crackly material?
the squeaker?
the teething strips on the edges?

I lean in quietly and peer over her shoulder as she guffaws again and kicks her legs.

It’s the tag.

There’s always a checklist to follow when I go anywhere with the baby. Tonight, we were getting out of the car at Famous Dave’s - BBQ, yum! - and I was going through it...

windows up?
check.
sunroof closed?
check.
purse?
check.
bank card in my wallet?
check.
diaper bag?
check.
baby?
check. Trust me, I double check every time I leave the car.
husband?
check.
keys?
... keys?
...
fuck, where are the keys?

I’m rummaging through my purse, pissed with myself because I ALWAYS lose the keys. Scott, waiting by the car with the baby in her carrier, says, “Honey, are you going to cut the car off?”
“As soon as I find the keys,” I mutter irritably, and continue rummaging.

...

oh, crap.

I developed a theory of music after playing a game years ago with geek friends of mine who would quiz each other on music knowledge. We would have “name as many bands as you can that...” category quizzes. One of them was place names, and the theory I developed goes like this: “A band’s lack of suckiness is inversely proportional to the size of the place it is named for.” The smaller the place, the better the band is. The bigger the place, the worse it is. Large name = huge sucking sound. Big suck. Much suckage.

Supporting Data
Portishead - Really, really good. Named after a small English town near Bristol, UK.
Boston - “Don’t Look Back” is a good song. Not the best song ever, but good. Didn’t Clinton use this on his campaign tour?
Kansas - I love “Dust in the Wind,” but not a whole lot else... the list of good songs gets really short around the state-sized band names.
America - I doubt they’ve ever really been through the desert on a horse with no name. Not only do they suck, but they are liars. Saved from an opinion lower than this by LSD. Don’t ask.
Europe - “The Final Countdown”... ‘nuff said. Only saved from being the worst band on this list by the industry hair-band frenzy that got them signed so unfortunately in the first place along with Winger. Similar modern situation: Ashley Simpson. Two Simpsons are not better than one - one is bad enough.
Asia - “Heat of the Moment”... are you kidding? Sucky harmonies. Dated style. Cliched phrases in their song-writing.

If there is ever a band named “Earth” it would be almost the worst band ever. But not as band as a band named Jupiter... or Galaxy... God forbid some group would name themselves Universe. Anyone who heard them would go into convulsions. They’d be like the Vogon poets in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”

So the way out of the curse is to name your band after somewhere small. Podunk. Bumblefuck. A.O.W. (Armpit of the World) I think the best band name would simply be “Here.” As in: “Here, tonight!” and “Hear Here!”

Aw, let’s face it: Most people are better off naming their band “Free Beer and Pizza.”

I have a splinter in my ass. I must have gotten it when sitting on the deck stairs watching the dog run around like mad. Scott offered to get it out for me, and I know he’s my husband, but I just can’t let him.

Is that weird?

Scott got off work last night at 11:30. I was tired, okay? I was TIRED! We’re driving home, and I stop at a red light on Milledge Avenue. We’re still chatting away and after a couple of minutes Scott gets impatient.

Scott: “So, are you just going to sit here?”
Me: “What? Well, we’re at a red light.”
I gesture to it. I freeze. My eyes follow the length of my arm to the red light... which is flashing. I smile at Scott and laugh.
Me: “I guess we can go now.”

Reminds me of a joke:
What goes “vroom - screech! vroom - screech! vroom - screech!?”

A blonde at a flashing red light.
Or, just me.

Scott and I are writing the summary of his book to submit to Harbor House Publishing. We’re writing it in the form of a news story (my idea), and I’m writing it because Scott doesn’t know how to do this. He’s frustrating THE HELL OUT OF ME because - well, here’s an example of how the conversation goes every time I ask him a question.

Me: Okay, how old is this guy?
Scott: He’s... wait, do [the newspapers] have to have his age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style.
Scott: Okay, he’s 67.
Me: And what does he do?
Scott: He’s a retired professor.
Me: Cool. And this guy? How old is he?
Scott: Do they have to have everyone’s age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style
.... ad nauseam until I’m flapping my arms and saying: “YES! IT’S PART OF THE THREE IDENTIFIERS REQUIRED BY AP STYLE! WHY DO YOU KEEP ARGUING WITH ME!”

Actually, AP style just requires that you identify people with three separate identifiers and that you be consistent about it. Age is just an easy choice. Anyway, so then he apologizes and we go on. I try not to ask anyone’s age. Instead, I ask a name.

Scott: Do they have to have her name?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Scott: The newspaper in this town would never print her name.
Me: Yes, they would... or they wouldn’t mention her.
Scott: No, they would have been instructed not to.
Me: Okay, it’s not a real town. It’s fiction! It’s doesn’t exist. You asked me to write this as a news story. I have to have names. Why do you keep arguing with me?
Scott: Okay! I’m sorry. Ask me a question.
Me: I DID! WHAT! IS! HER! NAME!

You’d think it would get better, but no. Finally, I get fed up. It’s like trying to play basketball with chimpanzees.

Me: Scott, SERIOUSLY, get out of character.
He laughs.
Scott: But you don’t understand! They would never print this in the Cularville newspaper.
Me: Okay, you need to get real. This is not a real place. This is marketing yourself to a publishing company. Get with the program.
Scott (with dramatic hand gestures): I’m sorry. You married an artiste!
Me: No, I married someone who calls themselves an “artiste”, which is worse than just marrying one.

By the way, he’s the one who came up with “basketball with chimpanzees.”

Me: Honey, what’s hard to do with chimpanzees?
Scott (without even a split second of hesitation): Basketball.
Me (amused): Why basketball?
Scott: Because they’re short.
Not because they’re fucking CHIMPANZEES, and everything is difficult with them?

How do moms do it? I’ll tell you exactly how. But it will look funny because I don’t know how to format indentations:

1) You kind of have no choice. You might think of selling your screaming child to a passing band of gypsies, but
a) those passing bands are few and far between
b) that’s why nature invented Mommy Guilt
c) You really do love your screaming child
2) You cut corners where you can
a) screw the housecleaning (until today, when my sister will be here)
b) screw the environment (use paper plates and plastic utensils)
c) screw cooking (those new box mix dinners are really not bad, especially the ones in the Asian foods section)
d) Right now, she’s sitting in her car seat with her bottle balanced on a blanket in her lap because I’m tired of feeding her. Is it a recommended feeding method? No. Is she quiet, safe, and is she eating? Yes.
3) You pick your battles
a) the dog is licking the baby’s face. She likes it. I let it go. Plus it conveniently cleans the formula off her.
b) is it worth Scott stomping around the house all morning after you make him get up with the baby at 4 a.m., or can you manage it yourself and take a nap later to avoid the drama?
c) The crib sheets still aren’t dry, and it’s time for her to go to bed. Does she really need sheets? She doesn’t even know what sheets are. Check that off your list of concerns and put a big towel down.
4) You figure out what works for your child. This takes time, but unless you completely ignore your baby all day, it’s inevitable.
5) You sing. A lot.
6) Babies are funny. It’s like having a free comedy show every day.
a) Emerson can roll over onto her tummy, but she can’t get back yet. It frustrates her to no end. That’s funny.
b) She has little baby-talk conversations with her toys. I don’t know what they say to her, but she finds it fascinating... and then she tries to eat them.
c) she tries to sing, but she only knows one note and no words unless you count “ayayayaya” and “nnngah”
d) we have probably $500 worth of toys in her room, but nothing entertains her more than a good old Sharpie pen or a crumpled piece of newspaper.
e) She’s still learning how her hands and mouth work, and she spends a lot of time with a hand in her mouth, biting it and feeling her tongue. Sometimes she gets excited about some new hand/mouth realization, shoves her hand too far into her mouth, and gags herself. Then she takes her hand out and looks at it in surprise.
f) She dreams. She laughs, smiles, cries, and makes sucking noises in her sleep. I always wonder what it’s about. Probably a beautiful land where the sky rains formula, and there are lakes, rivers, and oceans of formula.
g) She tries to eat my nose.
h) She hasn't grown much hair yet on her big ol' round punkin' head, and she bears a striking resmblance to Mr. Magoo.
7) Baths. Baths soothe almost any hysterical, crying baby.
8) Each new thing makes the old, annoying things worth any amount of trouble.
a) at my parents’ house this week, she held her arms up to me for the first time.
b) she hates hats, and when I put one on her at my nephew’s rather sunny baseball game, she tore it off her head (in a rare display of complete manual control), threw it on the ground, and screamed, “Yaaaaaaa!” before smiling sweetly at me and laughing.
9) Naptime
10) Grandparents
11 - 20 are also grandparents.
And that’s how it’s done.