Indoor Gardening

It's hard to get mad at her when she's so stinking cute.

Mommy Lessons

Miss Mia is eight months old, and she is on a tear. In the course of just a few weeks, she began crawling, pulled herself up to a standing position, started feeding herself puffs and crackers, and (finally!!!) slept through the night.

She is still a Mommy's girl, protesting loudly whenever I am out of her sight. She is shy to strangers, and she likes to cuddle when she is upset. She has Eric's sense of adventure and my determination. Hence the two bruises on her forehead. I have a feeling she will be getting her share of bumps and scrapes in the future.

Mia knows what she wants, and she isn't shy about letting us know when she is not pleased. Usually this entails loud shrieks or, humorously, rolling her tongue and making a razzing sound.

She is a squirmer. Diaper changing sessions are tricky, as she likes to roll onto her hands and knees and make a quick break. Getting her dressed is even trickier. On good days, Eric and I are both home and present to tag-team her.

She has an amazing sense of humor. When she smiles -- showing her two bottom (and only two) teeth -- it warms my heart. We haven't always fit together like two matching puzzle pieces. There have been days where I wondered if I would ever feel connected to her like I did my much more easy-going son. But I have come to love her for who she is. That is the lesson she has taught me.

Cool Babies Wear Cloth

I get a little lonely on nights when Eric works. The house seems big and quiet, and too dark. When Mia falls asleep, I sneak into her room over and over just to stroke her head and listen to her sigh in her sleep. I have to resist the urge to bring her to bed with me. She's getting so big. Where did my little baby go?

Perhaps She'll Ride Horses

Her Royal Highness had her sixth month checkup today. (This is the part with obligatory baby stats, so skip ahead if they make you yawn.) Our little peanut is weighing in a 14 pounds, 7 ounces, and she is 25 inches long. Not destined for life as a basketball player or a sumo wrestler, I am afraid. I hope she she has other career plans in mind. Like, say, jockey.

I realized today that I haven't watched one single television show or DVD without a persistent whine, cry, fuss, babble, or chime of some ungodly loud toy for the last sixth months. I wonder what I have been missing.

Three days old.

Self Sabatoge and the Lost Art of Feeling Sorry for Oneself

I.am. so. tired.

Ah, the collective whiny cry from moms of babies all over the world. (Except they probably say it in Mandarin or Sanskrit.) Yup. she's got a severe case of Icantbeawayfrommommyitis, which is kind of sucky. She's good for about five hours -- from 7 to midnight, but then it's up anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours, bt mostly in the 90-minute range.

It's her sixth-month birthday today or anniversay or halfaversary or whatever you want to call it. I think it's time we had the talk. you know, the one where I tell her that it's not totally unreasonable for me to expect her to only wake once or twice a night, instead of four or five. Maybe if I took the bull by the proverbial horns and let her cry it out a little, things might improve. Still, Connor needs to be up early for school and it's so much easier to just nurse her back to sleep than fight it.

*Sigh*

It's more than just the baby, however. My diet has been horrible. Too much caffeine, not enough water, too much sugar and carbs, not enough of the healthy stuff. And although I feel great keeping up with the C25K program, eating is just as important. I need fuel for my body, and downing a handful of mini-Hershey bars is not going to do it.

So, to sum up: Excersize, good. Diet: bad. Sleep: nil. Self-respect: dwindling.

Time to regroup.

I have my Bio final this week. I should be studying, and I am doing anything but. It's amazing what you can find on the internet when you should be outlining notes.

Reality Color Commentating & Mia Torments Me Further

Eric is always making fun of my TV viewing habits. I admit, much of my TiVo list includes most of the Bravo lineup. I swear, I only watch "The Real Housewives" to mock the utter avarice and cattiness. He refers to "The Biggest Loser" as "that fat people show." "Project Runway" is "that show without straight men." In a fit of desperation, while struggling though last year's writers' strike, I got hooked on "Make Me a Supermodel," and ohmygodIcantbelieveIamgoingtoadmitthis, even "Groomer Has It." Yeah. Good times!

Eric laughs and mocks, but I usually know where the remote control is. Which means I decide what we watch as we try to wake up in the morning. To his credit, he will sit through an entire reality hour without complaining. That doesn't mean he doesn't comment, however. Imagine watching reality TV with Yogi Berra or Harry Kari. That's exactly what it's like watching "Top Chef" with Eric. I don't mean that I get a second-hand play-by-play of the culinary action. I mean he comments on everything that happens in each episode. And then there's his favorite reality TV pastime: picking out the penis.

The penis is the contestant whom Eric deems the dickiest. On this season of "Top Chef: New York," that would be Stefan, the overly confident penis from Finland. Once said penis has been identified, I can expect the rest of the episodes to be filled with such colorful phrases as, "I want to hit him, " and "He's such a penis, I should draw a scrotum on his neck." So it was, this morning, that we watched the season finale with all the gusto of the Super Bowl, all the while Eric actively cheering against Stefan. I believe he shed a tear when Hosea was announced as this season's winner.

On to the next show, and undiscovered penises yet to be labelled and mocked.

***

Mia has mastered the art of rolling. She's using it as a form of transport now, rolling from one end of the family room rug to the other, and stealthily sneaking up on an unsuspecting dog. Heretofore, she has been an unwilling and often complaining member of the Tummy Time Club, preferring to bitch and cry whenever she ended up in such as position. In the event she accidentally rolled over onto her tummy, all heck would break loose, and no peace would be had until her precarious situation was rectified.

Imagine my surprise, then, when she did a barrel roll, a la alligator, and decided to sleep on her tummy. And no, that's not quite an accurate description. She decided to take a face plant and sleep like this:





Okay, I may not be the best mom ever, but I know that babies aren't supposed to sleep on their tummies. Oh, sure, I know lots of babies who will ONLY sleep on their tummies, but Mia has never been one of those. Yes, she is sleeping in this picture, and yes, her face lies directly against the mattress. The first night this happened, I convinced myself that one of two things was going to happen: a) she would most surely suffocate, or b) someone from the SIDS Prevention Alliance was going to come and knock down my door and send me to mommy prison for allowing her to sleep this way.



Then I got over, relaxed, and realized that she would be okay. And you know what? She was just fine.

Alas Poor Bed, I Knew It Well

Sleep. Why won't she just sleep. I am tired of that stupid freaking Pampers commercial. The one in which a host of unconscious babies are shown as that twangy little number plays in the the background -- "Silent Night." Everytime soneone asks me if she is sleeping through the night, I have to stifle the urge to slap them and make them babysit. We're good for a four to five-hour stretch at the getgo, then it's anywhere from 1-2 hours until I finally relent and just bring her to bed with me. At which time she commences to play kcikball with my ribs.

Now she's playing "I know it's my bedtime, but I am not going to sleep."

She's rolling. All over the place, even in her crib while she sleeps. She has decided she likes sleeping on her tummy. Which is odd, since she hates it while she's awake.

Mine!

Her Royal Highness tried a sipppy cup for the first time. She took to it with all the ferociousness of a mother wolverine. Look at her eyeing the camera, as if she's saying "Don't mess with me," all while keeping her death grip on the sippy cup.