What I know about Chicago.

Number one: Chicagoians, particularly the women, don't care for people with children. And by that I mean they hate us. Nope, no love for babies in Chi-town. In fact, if they had their choice of saving an infant from a runaway bus or throwing their body over a pair of UGG boots lying in a busy street, well, let's just say there'd be a lot thankful UGGs out there. Seriously, I've never seen a greater concentration of FUGGs (what I prefer to call them because, personally? I think they're hideous... and I thought that even before I had a baby and turned all mom jeans and shit) in a one block radius in my life. I thought that fad had gone out ages ago. Apparently, Chicago didn't get the memo.

Number two: The kids that where spared need to be taught some manners. I was in Niketown, just minding my business, pushing little d around while he napped, when out of no where this little girl rips back the hood of his stroller and screams "Aww! A baby!" Scared the shit out of me, and when she started reaching in to touch him I just about had a stroke. I was ready to bust out the kung fu when she flitted away as fast as she appeared. It took me a good couple of hours to calm down from that one.

So, yeah. The AUDACITY of people bringing their kids to Chicago. How DARE we take up space with our strollers and diaper bags and, oh, HEAVEN FORBID our babies cry. *rolls eyes* I mean, the NERVE of some people.

You know, I guess I understand if someone gets a little irritated because the baby on the bus won't stop crying. What I don't get is the no compassion part. You'd think that maybe, just for one day, one bus ride, one time you crossed the street, they'd let you by. Maybe they'd help you get a stroller and two bags on the bus instead of staring at you like you deserve it.

Anyway. Despite the bad impression the people of Chicago left on me as a parent, I have nothing against the city. I really enjoyed what I saw of the Shedd Aquarium. And even though I couldn't find the one thing I really wanted, Navy Chuck Taylors, and we waited twenty minutes for an elevator to take us ONE LEVEL DOWN, the seven story mall was a shop-a-holic's dream. But man, I can't remember feeling so unwelcome anywhere.

I miss him when he sleeps.

Over the past month or so, little d changed from a blob of baby just lying there to a smiling, laughing, talkative little man who is nearly sitting up by himself. He's growing by leaps and bounds both physically and mentally. He can now grab his rings (and my hair) and hold on to them with a grip that would put The Hulk to shame. Of course, his rings go directly into his mouth, just like most things he gets his hands on these days.

It's hard to believe that I ever questioned my decision to have a baby. In those first three months it was so unbelievably hard. And it still is hard... I'm sure it always will be... but it's a different hard. It's no longer a "why are you ruining my life" hard. It's a "I want to take care of you every minute of the day" hard. When your baby starts to pay you back with giggles and smiles and coos and whole conversations about serious baby business, it's amazing. And you hate to see their little eyes droop. Because that means it's bedtime. And you have to wait another 8-10 hours to kiss that little patch of hair on the top of that beautiful little head.

Eviction notice: Fat, you gots to go.

Mr. D and I attended my company’s holiday party last night. The venue was fabulous. The food was delicious. The entertainment was great. It was a hell of a party to say the least.

I only had a couple glasses of wine, so, other than being tired, I was feeling pretty good this morning. That is until I opened the email with the link to the jpegs from the photographer the agency hired. I scrolled through the jpegs looking for the photo of Mr. D and I with hopeful anticipation that I had finally taken a decent picture. And there it was. Page 22. My husband was standing next to Shamu the fucking whale.

You guys, I almost started crying at work. Of course, since the jpegs were there for the entire agency to peruse, I played it off. I didn’t want anyone to know just how much seeing the post-baby me devastated the pre-baby me.

Seeing myself through the eye of the camera, an eye that captures only the truth, I’ve realized that I LOOK WORSE THAN I THOUGHT. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t tell me, “You just had a baby! Give it time.” Bullshit. I had that kid four months ago. I’m haven’t been breastfeeding for three months so I’ve had plenty of time to drop at least SOME of the 20 lbs that have taken up residence on my body.

I’m struggling with being patient because I have never been this heavy before. Ever. Not even when I was fresh out of college eating Taco Bell and hot wings for lunch and dinner three nights a week. My “I want it now” personality doesn’t help the situation. Nor did the huge slice of black forest cake I had last night.

No more "I'll start tomorrow." This is it. I want my sexy back.

Just surrender already.

Are you a Nazi Mom? Cause I am. I’m not proud of it, but I am. I want to have control over everything pertaining to that bald-headed bundle of boy. And I mean EVERYTHING. Yesterday, when Mr. D wrote little d’s stats (name, date, contents) on his bottles for daycare in china marker, I caught myself wanting to go behind him and re-write it because it was messy. Uh-huh. It was messy. And because neat penmanship is a direct correlation to how good of a mother I am, you can see my point, no?

It’s neuroses like these that are probably the biggest reason I’m such a hot mess in the morning. Because I obsess about the details so much that I can’t focus on getting the important things like getting dressed and out of the house on time accomplished. Mr. D is the opposite. Sure things may look like a tornado blew through, but by God, that man can get that baby fed, dressed and out the door. So what if there are still stalks on the green beans and the peapods are a little burnt, at least the stir fry tastes good. No, I wouldn’t say he’s big on details, but he is big on thought. Where as I might insist little d’s socks match his outfit, if he’s got mittens on his feet, Mr. D feels, hey, they’re covered, so it’s all good. Opposites do, indeed, attract.

However, after one too many loveless mornings from el fuhrer number one, Mr. D put the smack down. He got a little Napoleon himself and “suggested” that from now on he get the sugar booger ready in the morning AND take him to daycare so I could focus on rummaging through the piles of NOTHING FITS in peace. Of course, he was met with resistance. I mean, I am a dictator, people, and no good dictator can allow such insubordination. But, after mulling around the idea, discovering the potential and then declaring it as my own, I finally gave in. For two days in a row now, I’ve let Mr. D get little d to daycare without totally breathing down his neck.

Okay, I did go in there and ask, “What the hell are you doing to him?” after twenty straight minutes of crying, but you try listening to twenty straight minutes of crying and not flip just a little. See, little d likes to eat first and then get his diaper changed. Apparently, Mr. D still has not caught on to that fact, which is why, in my defense, it seems like I’m always telling him what to do. I notice these things and he doesn’t. It’s the attention to detail thing. If only humans came with an “Attention to Detail” knob. I could dial mine down, turn Mr. D’s up and then we’d be all set.

So, this morning? This morning, even though it’s only the second morning under the new regime, was rich with many silence-filled moments to myself. I even had time to pick up the house. And as I wiped the last toothpaste spot off the mirror, I asked the reflection smiling back at me why it took so long.

So I implore you, fellow Nazi Moms, let go. Let your minions help you. It will only make you a better tyrant. And because it will only be a matter of time before they revolt if you don't.

The word for today, boys and girls, is overwhelmed.

My, how 24 hours can change things. That and your kid getting up at one in the morning because he decides he’s not so much hungry as wanting to play. I usually melt when he gives me his adorable toothless grin, but after two hours of trying to get him back down, it’s not so cute.

Needless to say, I’m exhausted. And that’s got me thinking about how much I’m looking forward to the holiday break. Which would be nice, except that, between Christmas, New Year’s and our trip to the Windy City in between, there’s only two or three days that we won’t be out of town.

Yup. It’s about this time of year where I turn into a scrooge. I actually like the holidays. It’s the hustle and bustle I can do without. I love giving gifts… I just hate having to go out and buy them. I like being somewhere different, I just don’t like traveling.

So there’s that. Plus, my husband and his brother are trying to start a business. So, to help them drum up clients, I’ve put the word out at work. Of course, everyone wants what they’re offering, so I have the added stress of lining up jobs for them. Then there’s the fact that, while we may all get along fine in the beginning, there’s a good chance that difference of opinion may cause a family feud later on. I guess with my all or nothing tendencies, I feel like I may have a very different vision of where this thing should go. My drive to succeed often tends to come out in a sharp pushing manner, which may not be well received by parties other than my husband. So I guess I’m scared I may be the Yoko Ono in all of this.

Oh, and then there’s little d. Someone’s got to take care of him, right? It’s amazing how much I miss him when I’m apart from him for 9 hours a day. I really only get to see him for a couple of hours a day now. So on the weekends, the housework, bills and every other goddamned thing goes undone. Then, when Monday morning rolls around, I’m irritated because I’m tripping over the one pile of clean laundry I managed to fold but not put away. Cursing at myself because I feel like a loser that we’re living in such disarray. Then I panic because the mental image of Mason at school being picked on because he smells like pee and sour milk because his mother is too busy twitching in the corner pops in my mind.

Am I being too hard on myself? Yes. I know this. Does that stop me from being too hard on myself. No. It doesn’t. And it doesn’t help that I feel like I’m going a million miles an hour right now. You’d think I’d let Mr. D help a little, you know, to help take off some of the pressure, but I don’t. Apparently, my brain is fooled into believing that if I don’t do it myself, it’s not good enough.

Lucky. Me.

Still adjusting to life in 2007 A. B. (after baby)

Yeah. It’s been a while. I know. But between having to find a new daycare, a new pediatrician, Christmas shop and keep the snot out of the boys' noses, I haven’t had a spare moment to post. Well, that’s not true. I have had a few spare moments, but I chose to shower instead. Sorry.

So we can check “New Daycare” off the list. I won’t go into too much detail about why we had to switch other than: WALKED IN ON ONE OF THE CAREGIVERS PICKING HER BELLY BUTTON INSTEAD OF WATCHING MY KID. That was just the icing on the cake. There were numerous other reasons why this joint was not a good fit. Filthy was one. Oh, and incompetent.

Moving on. Next on the list is the pediatrician. I’m tired of the condescending doctors and nurses at our current one. Plus, today I heard a story from a co-worker who also goes there about how they were about to give a vaccination to the baby of another mother they know who goes there when she said, “No. My baby has an egg allergy and that particular vaccination that you’re about to give her has traces of egg in it.” I guess the nurse rolled her eyes and asked, “How do YOU know your baby is allergic to eggs? A lot of parents just read this stuff on the Internet and think their baby is allergic to everything…” I guess the mother pulled out a document from her baby’s allergist that did indeed state her baby was allergic and was all like BULL-YA… WHO LOOKS LIKE AN ASS NOW? How spectacular would that have been to witness?

Anyway. Yeah. Lots of little things going on but nothing really worth writing about. I guess I could bitch about how depressing it is to shop for a semi-formal dress four months after having a baby and how frustrating it is to not have access to the elliptical machine your husband found the time to put in storage but now can’t find the time to go get. Yeah, DON’T LOOK AT ME and GO GET MY MACHINE are said in the same breath around the Disgruntled household as of late. I’d go get it myself but the damned thing weighs fucking a bajillion pounds. Plus, I asked him not to put it in storage because I knew exactly this would happen. Even though I was pregnant and not using it then, I KNEW I’d want to use it a few months after delivery. But nooooooooo. SOMEONE had to put it in storage.