Jelly Monkey

Getting psyched for my big debut

We enrolled our little dude in a six session swim class.  I know he's barely six months old but I'm keeping with tradition. My parents did a baby bubbles class with me at that age so it seems appropriate. Based on the baths and showers we've given Lil Man we had a pretty good idea he'd love the water. I'd been looking forward to this for the past two months. The class requirement stated he had to be at least 6 months old so we waited for the class that started three days after his half birthday hurdle. We already had a swimsuit and the day of we walked to the store to score some swim diapers. Paul even had the day off so he was going to be to be a part of this milestone. We were more than ready for this exciting venture. My stomach, however, was not.  To spare you the details, lets just say I drank a lot of prune juice that day to hopefully eleviate my issues.  Hip Monkey and I were suffering from the same ailment but he was prepared to carry on.  I was not.  By the time the class was about to start I wasn't sure if they would have to evacuate and drain the pool after I got in (Code brown) or they would wonder if I smuggled a motorboat in my bikini bottoms. Since either scenario couldn't be risked & we couldn't find a swim diaper that would fit me, Paul stepped up to the plate. I squatted on the edge, played papparazzo and cropdusted poor unsuspecting lifeguards.


Not so good with directions but mom and dad are still proud

Finally got it right, and loving it

Re-enacting a last scene from the Titanic, "I love you Rose but this noodle isn't big enough for both of us..."
There goes Rose.

And ending my class in a shouting match with the lifeguard.  "Man your mom stinks!" "Crazy water lady... You stink!" She told me I could come back... I told her she couldn't!

Milk Pushers

I somehow someway got on a mailing list that sends me baby formula, for free.  Its not my intention to mock other parents who give their infants formula.  There are a lot of reasons and lots of necessities.  Being a new parent, I won't point fingers at how another parent raises or what they feed their child.  That's my disclaimer now here's my little ditty.

The formula and the money checks for formula started coming about a month before Little Man was born.  I dutifully put it in the pantry, you know, just in case, like a squirrel.  A very pregnant squirrel.  There are no guarantees that your milk will come in after you have a baby or that it will come in right away, you hope for the best especially if your goal is to breastfeed but kids are game changers and by game changers I mean the plays change by the minute, with no guarantees except an astronomical deficit of sleep.  You are guaranteed a sleep deficit.  So I put the first box in the pantry.  And the second box.  And the third.  I'm sitting here staring at six large containers, a stack of $4 & $5 checks and a bottle.  Yeah, they sent a free bottle too.  Enfamil and Similac are battling it out behind the pantry door.  What they don't know?  Neither will beat the boobs.

Its like the nursery version of drug pushers.  The teenage kids standing on the corner, getting your kid to "try" something for the first time by letting them taste it for free.  Yup, that's right, I just equated the free formula in the mail to crack.  (And probably described an unrealistic scene in a movie.)  I won't count the number of times I could have easily served up the formula and given it to my baby between the time he was born and now as we're closing in on his six month birthday.  From nipples so sore I thought they were falling off and a baby crying so hard I thought he was starving, yeah, I could have caved.  It would have been so easy.  I had a pantry stocked with formula boasting "complete nutrition" "triple health guard" (what does that even mean?) "closer than ever to breast milk" (?) and two containers for the sensitive tummy.  How nice.  And even though it says on the box, "...So whether you're breastfeeding, supplementing or formula feeding, there's so much inside for you." If you're breastfeeding, ladies, there is nothing inside for you, trust me, I checked.

Last week we ran out of milk, we had cheerios and no milk.  Paul was tempted.

At least now we have something to give away at Halloween.

Crockpot Confessions

I will readily admit I'm not the domesticated diva that my pinterest boards might suggest.  You don't have to start following me, I said "might".  I think for one to be described as a diva their hair and their hairbrush need to have a better working relationship than my bi-annual meetings allow (Yes, I own a blow-dryer and no, I don't use it.)  For one to be described as domesticated? Well, lets just say I have made a grand total of one crock pot meal in the entire five years I've been married.  This past week.  Its the easiest meal to make, you literally chuck ingredients into a deep bowl and flip a switch.  I feel like that should have happened before now, except, and I'll get into the details in a minute, after the incident I was reminded why I waited till two weeks ago to even purchase a slow cooker.

 

I was quite pleased with my purchase.  Initially.  I did my appropriate research (Real Simple's list of best slow cookers) and the one I picked happened to be on sale at Target.  I found the recipe I wanted to try (on a cork board in Whole Foods) and after my husbandito went out to gather the ingredients I was actually excited to start.  Are you starting to get an idea of how easily suggestible I am?  Lets skip to the part where I was excited.

 

I planned for it to be ready for a late lunch and since it was going to take seven hours to cook I was going to have to start this experiment before breakfast.  When it comes to food I'm not typically a planner.  I get hungry, I make something fast.  I eat it, meals over.  I don't usually think about food until I'm so hungry I'm nearly a puddle of tears (hypoglycemic much?) but now that I'm a mom I'm trying to address this deficiency because until Little Man can open the refrigerator or pantry doors by himself it's up to me to keep him alive.  How better to drastically address this issue than by making something you're going to prepare first thing in the day and then not eat till the sun goes down.  Its all about deferred gratification.  Right?

 

If you're the mother of an infant or was at one time, you'll understand that they change time frames like nobodies business.  So to say I was getting a late start would be an understatement.  Lunch was going to be pushed back to 8:30pm.  I layered the ingredients not realizing how the very ingredients I was putting in were theoretically going to taste.  I mean, you don't have to eat a recipe before having a general idea.  I cheerily added the stewed tomatoes to the lentils and onions and vegetable broth.  I don't love stewed tomatoes.  I can handle all other variations of tomatoes but due to the stewed tomato and okra incident of '97 I am forever scarred.  I do not know what I was thinking.

 

Seven pm rolls around.  It was Paul's day off so we had taken turns working out, cleaning the house and watching the Hip Monkey, as we now refer to our offspring.  In addition to burned calories the intense aroma rising from the cookery only added to our hunger.  Finally its done.  Or close enough.  We ladle it into our bowls and dig in. 

 

Paul says he loves it and goes for a second bowl.  I don't know if he really likes it, is just being nice or is suffering from the insane combination of smells, hunger and waiting seven flipping hours.  Did I mention it took seven hours to cook?  I however, while first famished and then shoveling the concoction into my mouth, have another epiphany.  I suddenly realize why it took me over five years to purchase and use a crock pot, why its prefaced with crock and why I have such, uh, memories of all the meals my mom made in her slow cooker.  You make something, your stomach growls while you're forced to suffer from the aroma-coma and then, like it or not, you eat it out of pity for whoever dumped the ingredients into bowl in the first place.  In this case, me.  I've now decided that possibly other than chili, nothing should cook for more than 90 minutes.  And yet, I'll try it again.  (Probably not that same recipe.)  But with another prolonged stewing episode.  Because, that's what moms do.  They persevere.  They keep their kids alive with food and as I learned from my mom, if its technically edible, you eat it.  Plus its actually quite fun to throw things in a pot, flip a switch and try forget about it.  For seven bleeping hours.