"That's Not Food!"

The gap between the words Andy understands and the words he can say is widening on a daily basis. It's alarming how much of what we say to him he actually seems to get, while, in return, he can only nod, shake his head, and say the following: Buh-bye Ball Mama Dada Duh (dog) 'Nack (snack) Yeah More Baba (bottle) Wawa (water) Muh (milk) Nana (banana) No Baby Dinosaur So, that's about fifteen words that my little linguist can say. I just wish there were some verbs in there. I wish he could say "Daddy purchases banana" or "Baby destroys dinosaur." Although, I suppose that "milk" can be a verb. It's possible that Andy's first full sentence could be "Mama milks dogs." But I don't milk dogs, so hopefully Andy won't go around telling his day care peeps that I do. Embarrassing! It's amazing that Andy can only say these fifteen words while he truly understands so many more. I'm starting to realize ho...

Andy's Thanksgiving meal. Thanksgiving would be a wonderful holiday if not for all the football. I spend much of Thanksgiving wishing that the three F's were food, family, and "Frasier." Or "Friends," or any other television show that starts with the letter "F." I can't stand football. I hate it. In a universe filled with boring sports, football is the worst of the worst. When I realized, a couple years ago, that sometimes time went BACK ON THE CLOCK during football games, I almost slit my wrists right then and there. We spent Thanksgiving at my parents' house yesterday, where there were four F's: food, family, football, and flea bags. They have two dogs. Sandy is the more pleasant of the two, and Rusty (which I found out yesterday is short for " Rustino ") is the troublemaker. Rusty has a loud, grating bark that tears through your very soul, and he is quick to jump on you, nip at you, and scratch at your legs. As much a...

"Oh my God," Chris whispered, staring at our son. "This is the greatest thing he's ever done." And there it was, Andy's finest accomplishment to date. We were in a casual restaurant during that depressing hour between lunch and dinner when only the very old and those with babies eat their late meal for the day. I'm not even sure it was five o'clock yet, and the group of senior citizens right behind us were so ancient that they were reminiscing, loudly, about being middle-aged during World War I. Eating out so early on a Saturday evening- technically, let's face it, still afternoon- was one of the many lame habits that we'd picked up since becoming parents, but by this point, we were barely fazed. We wore our lameness with a sort of delusional pride , much like the hunched over lady to our right boasted a lone pink sponge curler on the top of her head. "Wow," I breathed, awed by the actions of my sixteen month old. By this time, ...

If you buy your baby formula, make sure it comes in some sort of container. Andy had formula as an infant. There, I've admitted it. Cast your stones as you feel necessary. Just try not to aim for my face; I am nothing without my looks. I tried to breast feed, I really did. I think I lasted about four weeks and even that was with heavy formula supplementation. Anyway, when I finally gave up and went strictly to formula, it was both the best and worst feeling in the world. Best, because I was relieved to just be done with what for me, had been an awful and horrifying experience. Worst, because I felt like I had failed my child and that DCFS was going to burst through my front door at any moment, declare me unfit to raise a child, throw Andy into a pillowcase, and hustle him out into their waiting van. After Andy was born, and after the birthing room and I had both been sufficiently hosed down, the nurses wheeled me into a recovery room where they neglected to ask if I wante...

With the holidays right around the corner, I've decided to put together a gift guide if you're so inclined to buy Andy a present this Christmas. Why should you have to wander aimlessly around the Dollar General trying to find little Man-drew the perfect gift without some sort of direction? Your discarded junk mail. Planning on throwing that flyer from Bed, Bath, and Beyond in the trash? Well, stop right there- that piece of paper is baby gift gold. A piece of mail is very entertaining to Andy, and he's found a dozen uses for a single sheet of advertisement. He can look at it, rip it, crumple it, put it in his mouth, and hand it to me... and then wait for me to hand it back. We spend entire afternoons sometimes just handling the mail. A balloon. Andy fell in love with balloons sometime around his first birthday, and that love has blossomed into a sort of psychotic obsession. Andy sees a balloon as a trusted, weeklong companion, one that he can drag around the house, ba...

Andy pulls hair. He pulls hair hard, and he doesn't let go. He pulls hair like it's his goal to somehow yank your brain out through your skull, closely examine it, proclaim it a "ball," and then hand it sweetly back to you for a game of catch. He has a surprisingly strong grip for someone with hands the size of kitten paws. He is also adept at getting individual hair strands wrapped around his fingers so that disentanglement rapidly becomes a horrible puzzle that you must solve behind your head while enduring the kind of pain that makes you regret every life decision you've ever made up until that very moment. I have to assume that Andy's not trying to be mean, and that there's a good-natured intention behind the barbaric and, let's face it, shitty act. Perhaps Andy somehow got the impression that savagely pulling a curl of hair was a non-verbal way of communicating, "Let's eat pizza together this Friday." It is true that Andy never see...

Naming another human being is a task that should not be taken lightly. Whatever you name your child is the name that they are stuck with through all of their formative years. In my opinion, the more unique you try to go, the more likely you are to be leaving work early in seven years to go pick up your son who was punched repeatedly on the playground during lunch because someone (you) thought it was a good idea to name him "Gaylord." It wasn't. You screwed up. And that shiner on your kid's eye, that's on you. It seems that girls get a lot more leeway with the unique names than boys do. You can name your daughter "Honeysuckle," and maybe she'll make it out of junior high with only a minor case of anorexia. It'll help if she's super pretty and well liked because of the shininess of her hair and eyes. Kids can be so shallow. But your son Pigeon Nugget is not going to be so lucky. Pigeon Nugget's going to get it pretty good, and he's go...

Look out single ladies of the year 2040- if Andy is still available, let me tell you, he will be quite the catch. I'm predicting it now- my sweet little boy is going to be one phenomenal husband. There are many reasons I'm sure this statement is true. First of all, Andy is very loving. He gives the kind of hugs that drive the Kohl's cashiers wild. Second of all, Andy is destined to be a high earner. Even though his main career interest right now seems to reside in plumbing as opposed to doctoring or lawyering, I hear being a union member can be very lucrative (Christmas present idea: his very own brand new toilet plunger. The brand new part is important here.). Thirdly, Andy is very handsome. He will be even more handsome after I stop haphazardly cutting his hair myself and he grows in the rest of his teeth. But the main reason Andy will be an excellent husband is because of his interest in cleaning. It is fair to admit at this point that, yes, Andy creates way more mes...

There's a lot to be said for the biological clock. It does exist, and it does start ticking. One day, seemingly out of nowhere, its alarm starts going off somewhere between the uterus and the heart, and no matter how hard you try, you just can't seem to find the snooze button. The alarm is annoying. It starts out as a low hum that murmurs, "Maybe you should consider have a baby" and builds to a deafening crescendo that screams so hard at you, it makes you break out into a sweat. "GET PREGNANT NOW," it roars, dispensing with the pleasantries. "YOUR EGGS ARE GOING ROTTEN DOWN HERE." My biological clock seemed non-existent for most of my twenties. I thought that maybe instead of having a clock, I'd been born with a biological blow dryer and one day I'd wake up, look in the mirror at my hair, and say, "THAT'S IT. I'VE HAD IT WITH THIS MESS." In fact, I'm still kind of hoping that I do have a biological blow dryer, becaus...

When your baby starts to do things that any other normal person would expect to do without fanfare- such as putting a spoon down on a table instead of throwing it in someone's face- you, as an encouraging and loving parent, find yourself doing something which never would have come naturally during the pre-baby years. You applaud. You clap and say "Yay!" and act like your baby has just completed his or her valedictorian speech, the one in which the statement "couldn't have done this without my parents, who are not at all expected to pay for my college" is peppered liberally throughout. Before baby comes along, applauding for the simple act of not intentionally breaking something, making a mess, or being generally jerky would have been unheard of. If your coworker managed to keep her yogurt in her mouth instead of spitting it all out in an explosion of milky strawberry bits and saliva, it wouldn't even cross your mind that this was something deserving of...

Love of animals is certainly not a genetic trait. My husband and I are not pet people, and Chris has gone on record saying that he doesn't get "the point" of dogs. When his friend's dog died a few years ago, Chris managed to muster a "Sorry to hear that. I know you really liked that dog." The unspoken part of that last sentence was "for some reason." Don't be fooled by these dogs; not one of them knows how to vacuum. In fact, Chris thinks that everyone that wants a dog would be better off just taking in a drifter. His argument is that in the battle of dog versus homeless person, a homeless person wouldn't need to be housebroken, he probably wouldn't chew up your slippers, and he could make himself useful by helping out with chores and being the third player when you and your significant other have a hankering for a game of "Clue." So, next time you're considering adopting a puppy, why not just take in a wino? ...

"That's not food!" is a life lesson that I try to teach my fifteen month old son daily. "That's not food!" usually refers to the toilet brush, paper napkins, dirty socks, currency, and other items that look delicious but, as we've learned, are not food. Since this blog is to ultimately serve as a love letter and message to my son Andy (and any other future offspring that come tearing out,) I figured it was only appropriate to entitle the blog after one of my mother exclamations that he's currently hearing (ignoring). Along this vein, other possible blog titles could have very well been: Get Out Of The Dryer! There's Poop On Your Sock! That's Not A Toy! Don't Kiss With Your Tongue! Get Your Hands Out Of Your Diaper! and Don't Throw Liquids! Or Solids For That Matter! I meant to start this blog about fifteen months ago, right after little Andy was born, but it's just today that I finally decided on the title. Tha...