Internet, I have not told you about Pete, how he tried to kill my mother the day after the baby was born. Pete has a history of attempted murder (and with an unsuccessful round of anti-anxiety medication), but we have always been able to explain it away with various territory theories — usually, he attacks the catsitter (not a smart idea on his part) or whoever dares to stay in the guest room (where he hangs out most of the time). However, my mom was making coffee and Pete jumped up on the countertop and proceeded to wrap his teeth and claws around her arm. My stepfather had to pry him off and chase him into the back room. I am convinced that if Pete were able to grasp a knife in his furry kitten paws, he would’ve done so and then applied it betwixt my mother’s ribs. (more…)

Oh, wow. It’s been awhile.

My mother has been in town the last week or so, being awesome and taking care of things to the extent that I have no idea how we’re going to manage once she leaves: things have been cooked (fried pork chops and homemade macaroni and cheese, anyone?) and cleaned (even my least favorite place, that spot called “the floor”) and organized (I’m looking at you, junk drawer and wildly overgrown bathroom closet) and she has rocked the baby into a gloriously comatose state at least twice a day. Sigh. She’s leaving tomorrow.

The baby is doing really well and has grown so much that he’s outgrown the newborn outfits that he was swimming in three weeks ago, a concept I find INSANE. Although on the other hand I sort of feel like he should be Andre the Giant by now with how much he is eating. I am trying really hard not to be neurotic about breastfeeding, but man: it is just too easy for the sleep-deprived mind to turn the corner from Sane Street onto OMG IS HE EATING ENOUGH Avenue and then to take the exit onto OMG CHILD HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY STILL BE HUNGRY Boulevard. Spike will go 3-4 days on an awesome three-hour schedule like a big boy and then throw me a horrible curve ball right when I think things are doable and then will want to eat every 37 minutes. Then we both cry a lot and everyone worries about my sanity. Rinse and repeat.

Motherhood-Related Confessions

–In general, I think the baby’s cries are HILARIOUS. While listening to him on the baby monitor makes me want to tear my hair out, watching him lose his mind because someone is changing his diaper or worse yet, his outfit, is a laugh riot.
–I also think that yuck diapers are hilarious. There was a particularly nefarious one a few days ago and it is possible that I laughed so hard I wet my pants.
–I am very good at cutting baby fingernails, which is good because Spike is intent on clawing his eyes out.
–I consider it a huge victory that not only have I bathed every day, I have also done my hair every day and have at least put on some makeup every day as well.
–I am afraid of the breast pump.
–My right boob, which always had a slight edge over the left, has apparently gotten into some Miracle-Gro and has gotten ridiculously huge. So huge the baby’s like, whoa, what the hell is THIS? when presented with it.
–Spike is the cutest baby ever. If I ever told you that your baby was the cutest ever, I was lying.

It’s late (early?) and I am attempting to celebrate the return of my ankles with some online shoe shopping. I go to Zappos, where they let you put in your size and how much you want to spend and then give you your results. So, internet, should I show off my slender, bony, fluidless, twig-like ankles in these hot little numbers or these?

Dear Zappos,

Do not offer the option of shoes under $39.99 if they are only going to be suitable for people named Nana.

Thanks for nothing,
Sally

I can’t stop looking at this picture and laughing.

Hello. I am officially sleep deprived.

My child has decided that instead of the leisurely two hours in between meals, sometimes the supernaturally wonderful three hours in between meals, he would prefer being fed approximately every 17 minutes, with each feeding lasting 30-45 minutes, sometimes up to an hour and a half. But Sally, you say, that makes no sense! That does something screwy with time that you are enough of a science fiction nerd to figure out! Yes, grasshopper. That is what I’m saying. There is definitely something screwy going on here.

Being someone’s only source of nourishment gets exhausting and sort of makes one feel like a robot, especially when that someone lacks the ability to ring a small bell or merely say, Hey, nice lady with the food supply: are you busy? So there is the emotional side of it, which results in more tears for all of us, but the sleep deprivation involved has also rendered me stupid. I’m so much dumber now.

It’s not just that concepts escape me — I have to ask Larry what he means after pretty much everything he says — but my senses don’t really work either. I can no longer hear correctly or even see correctly. Yesterday we were coming home from Target and Larry kept making comments about the world around us, and I just could not keep up. What tree? What car? What the hell are you talking about?

We also have plenty of conversations like this:

Larry: Remind me to ask the pediatrician about when Spike can start getting HGH.
Sally: I understand that that’s supposed to be a joke, but I don’t know what it means.

(A few years ago there was an article in the New Yorker about the science of humor, and I seem to remember that one side of the brain says “ALERT ALERT: INCOMING JOKE” and the other side says “HA HA THIS IS FUNNY BECAUSE OF ___.” Apparently it’s that second side that is broken now, although the fact that I know this article was written by Tad Friend and that it came out in the fall of 2002 should lift my spirits somewhat, since my brain has obviously not totally rotted away if I can remember that much.)

My tiny customer actually seems to be asleep at the moment (yeah, I was feeding him as I wrote this; it’s the 21st century) so I am going to attempt to put us both to bed before he figures out that he’s not actually eating right now. Wish me luck!

It seems that when there’s a baby around, there is considerably less tine for the important things, like writing blog posts about reality television shows and the dumb things I overhear. I feel certain that in the coming weeks when the baby gets more on a schedule — did you hear that, baby? MOTHER REQUIRES A SCHEDULE — and no longer acts like a tiny king demanding to be fed at odd hours, things will return to normal. Um, maybe they will think about returning to normal. Things will approach normal, then turn around and tiptoe out of the room because the tiny king is actually sleeping in his crib by himself? That sounds more like it.

Apparently there is something screwy with Wordpress and I am unable to upload photos, which is obviously lame. Just imagine a baby with a serious face but with Elvis hair, wearing a tiny crown and holding a tiny scepter, propped up on a tiny throne, ordering beheadings (or, you know, feedings) left and right.

In other news, why is Jason Castro still on American Idol? And why did no one sing “Solitary Man” this week? Theory: because the remaining AI contestants are lame. I am rooting for David Cook, obvs, because who else is there? Archuleta? Are you kidding me? I feel strongly about this. It’s about all I’m capable of at the moment. Besides crying a lot.

Seriously, I knew the tears would come in that postpartum hormone rush, but here is a brief list of reasons I have cried in the past week since Spike’s birth:

–Spike looked kind of red in the face when the nurse brought him to me; I was convinced he had been tortured
–Lulu looked at me funny
–the kitchen is so very far away from the living room
–getting to finally go to sleep
–my lasagna was cold
–the fact that I have started watching the Kathie Lee-hosted fourth hour of the Today show without vomiting
–global warming