Walk the Line

The BHB (big headed baby) refuses to walk.

He's a fast as hell crawler.
He's pretty much at a run - as long as you've got him by the hand.
He's about 14 feet tall.

But no walking.

I finally stopped opening myself up to the following nonsense:

Me: "Oh he's 19 months old. Yea. Not walking yet. He'll get around to it"
Them: Nodding earnestly
Me: "Must be a procrastinator like his Mom!' awkward laugh
Them: The Speech.

You know the one.

OH all babies are DIFFERENT. They all do things AT THEIR OWN time and pace. It's NOTHING to worrry about. I mean. My baby starting walking when she was NINE MONTHS OLD, well running actually, HA HA so you should feel lucky....

Really?
REALLY?

Ugh. I totally deserve it actually. When BHB was just a tiny nugget and tucked into my chest in a Moby wrap, I met a family with a cute toddler person. They shared that he had just started walking at like 16 months or something, only finally crawled at 15 months. They looked stressed about it.

ME: Oh I hope this one does the same thing! That sounds about right...
THEM: Nodding earnestly.
(internal monologue) Really. REALLY?



CUT TO: Now.

AND I'm done with it.


I know, I know it's fine. He's fine. But it's just a bit of a drag honestly. He's got the skills, just not the willingness. But carrying him everywhere or doing the one handed walk is making my body hurt. Wah to the wah, right? As if I've got problems compared to I don't know, a real problem?

I just want him to feel the joy of running. And he will soon. And then I'll be sorry.

Leaning to the right,

Cold Mountain

Today we needed to do 400 things. But, as always, one of our main priorities was to get up and down or local mountain. I'm pretty sure mountain is a bit of an exaggeration. Ok fine! I'll check the definition.

In the Oxford English Dictionary a mountain is defined as "a natural elevation of the earth surface rising more or less abruptly from the surrounding level and attaining an altitude which, relatively to the adjacent elevation, is impressive or notable."


So great, in relative terms - land forms that rise 400' above Los Feliz should definitely be called a mountain. Or fine, it's a nice hill. And we go there daily to rise above it all, admire the smog-ee smogginess or just notice that all of those cars filled with angry people are really not going that far or fast, it's sweet how their nasty little honks can't affect us up there. It's a nice little bite of perspective on this sprawling city of angel sandwich.

In fact, getting up and down that hill has become so critical to my peace of mind that I call it sanity mountain. Which is dangerous because if I don't get there?

Yep. I'm total koo-koo-pants.

Sometimes I go up twice a day, like today. The first trip I pushed BHB up in the stroller. The 2nd trip he rode on my back. I know, I'm really, really special. And strong! But mostly, sane.

But the story I want to tell is the morning epic. In the AM cute hubs and I gathered our forces and our selves:  brown dog, a big-headed baby with big hair, and the set of weary parents. We galloped out the door. Ahem. Limped? After the 10 minute car trip, the stroller was being set up at the base of the mountain (yep, I'm sticking with this mountain theory), and the transfer from car seat to stroller was taking place, a deeply disturbing fact was uncovered. Well, two.

1. A giant, foaming, overflowing poo diaper was in play.

2. The diaper bag with the nice wipes, clean diapers and other clean pants was woefully missing from the car.

What's a hike-needing family to do? Well, I remembered that there was one diaper in the stroller basket. Sure it was sorta crumpled and a little shredded but clean. And it exists.

Then! I remembered there was a buncha wipes in the back where the dog hangs out. Sure they were dried out and furry, but, wipes nonetheless.

Poor BHB. Perched in the back of the car filled with dog hair, he yelped while his little bum was  swiped by dried out wipes. Yuck-a. And the fact that the pants were blown out with a smear of poo juice made us go:

"Forget it. Let's go home"

'Cause doing the white trash diaper only thing wasn't do-able, it was a cold morning.

So back the stroller goes into the car, dog coaxed back up, baby buckled in. However, upon spotting a cute striped long sleeve shirt on the floor of the car, I had a brilliant idea.

"Look! Upside down pants!"

I mean really. Why should poopy pants come between us and the mountain?

So, with a relatively clean butt, warm legs and the crows and distant skyline to keep him company, we took to the hill.
Mountain.
Hill.

Here is some of the fun with improv pants and the Ugg's we got at a shower that are clearly still too big.

Notice the far-away city...nothing that small can be that bad!

Checking out awesome boots. Witness the neck hole at the crotch.

The 2nd trip up looked like this. Mom = Sherpa

Improvisationally yours,

Home Alone

Ah. Home alone on a Friday night...just me and my miracle brown-dog and the big-headed-baby.

Ok that's not really alone, is it? But it's quiet. Little BHB sleeps peacefully in his little room with his little blanket all cuddled up with his weird-ass rhinoserous head attached to a tiny blanket thingee. You know, a lovey. A lovey. Just one of the bajillion things I had never heard before this year that now runs my life. I once spent 3.5 hours searching the internet high and low to find another one of the the weird-ass rhinoserous head attached to a tiny blanket thingees while completely panicked that I had 'attached' him to something completely irreplaceable.

And I was right, that's basically what happened.

Which means I'm screwed. I mean, sure I could find some other little fuzzy magic blanket that's way overrpriced that I can buy 20 of and slowly ever so slowly over time gently remove rhino-head from his plump little fingers and replace it with the new fuzziness. But. I can't. I won't. I don't care right now, I just don't have the juice.

To the right is the closest thing I can find by the same company. A horse is NOT a rhinoceros dammit, and um. It's $26.50. Comon'!

Which brings me to my topic for tonight. Supermom. Why I'm not her but continue to strive to be her and stress my ass out while feeling a mix of jealousy, disdain and despair at my inability to be her. And when I recognize her out in the world or in my in-box I get that wash of delicious chemicals, JDD let's call it, (jealousy, disdain and despair for those of you skimming and not really paying attention) it sweeps over my endocrine system and marches around all of the Jane cells making me look sorta washed out and lost and feel very, very tired.

By the way, have you noticed my obsession with initializing things? I do enjoy. Ok, back to the action.

I know y'all know, I know you do. And what I've noticed is that we Mom's seem to fit pretty squarely in one or the other camp. Argue that with me, I'm happy to hear it because I would like to enjoy some gray here myself, but right now I'm pegged pretty far over in the not so SM at all camp.


My buddy JJ has been talking about a book called Bad Mother that deals with this exact topic and you'd probably say to yourself, gosh why don't you just read it and find some relief? Harumph I say to that. Requires effort.

Jane: But, where do I get that book?

You: Well you just linked it on Amazon jackass, go there.

Jane: But then I have to walk into the other room to get my creditcard and then wait for it to arrive on my doorstep.

You: Seriously?

Unfortunately that basic exchange is the gist of every conversation going on for me right now. Even this second.

Jane: I'm hungry.

Other Jane: (the one you played in the last one) Get up and make some Miso soup out of the cool packet thingee that you bought at Whole Foods yesterday.

Jane: Ugh. Then I'd have to stop typing and get up and there's boiling water involved and oh yea. No.

OJ: Seriously?

Let me just share what has prompted this little affair of despair. (note: I just made that lil phrase up and I kinda think it's genius)

I have a cousin, who I adore. He married a lovely woman and they live in a lovely home and they have a 3-ish year old and now 6 month old twins. I mean, cool right? Our kids are basically the exact same age, BHB only has 2 months on those lil ones. Oh but wow, the difference in is his reality and theirs - they'll never be able to relate. Let me illustrate.

It's taken us like five days to get the lights on our tree. I was damn proud we bought it, and that was only possible due to the grandparents who are still lurking around. Godblessem. Ornaments are feeling a bit optional at the moment, but I would like to put them up so I can stop tripping over the boxes. I'd really like to buy a few gifts for the boy seeing as how it's his first Christmas and all but as you know, I've got the ol' creditcard-in-the-other-room stumbling block and so sadly he won't be getting any presents this year. I guess I'll print out this blog for him and put it under the tree.

Today I got a link to an album of amazing pictures from the aforementioned family of the extraordinary events of their recent life, amazing places, holiday goodness, smiling family pictures, a trip to Rockefeller center. Their giant tree decorated. I was still doin' okay until the pic of the matching stockings came on the screen, that was it. Straw, camel. Breaking and splintering happening as I tumbled into a downward spiral and the JDD washed over me.

I want matching stockings.
Who thinks of ordering matching stockings in time to put them up by December 15th? Someone with six month old twins? I'm amazed. I'm impressed. Let's face it, I'm jealous.
I will never have matching stockings. We'll just have to limp by with this ridiculous Santa one that I guess is for the cute hubs and this pathetic sock looking thing for the dog and the gorgeous angel one my Mom made for me a million years ago and what about the baby? HE WON'T HAVE A STOCKING? Sob.

While we're at it.

I was GOING to be that Super Green Mom too. I have admired the fuzzibuns and superheineys and angeltushies and all of those brands of washable diapers and basically ended up at eww. Um. These Costco diapers are kinda doing it right now for me.  Oh yes, I'm that person. Curse me silently, curse me aloud. Swirling trash piles in the Pacific are haunting me, but not enough to deal with getting the spray thing attached to my toilet or figuring out how the heck you actually get the stains out of the damn things.

I was GOING to be teaching the boy French by now and since this is the window (it's closing in fact, maybe closed?) where he is best able to learn another language I have proven it again, not SM. My neighbors speak Spanish to him and I just nod and think. Right. He should learn that language, and so should I if I'm going to survive here. But I have not, nor will I. I am not her.

Oh friends I could go on, but, I will not. I think Miso will win out here. Plus I have about 14,000 things to do for our movie. Hmmm, hold. on. a. minute. That's the issue isn't it? The movie is robbing my SM status. DAMN YOU MOVIE! And funnily enough, that is the very crux of this blog. Can she be a Director and a hustling-get-this-thing-funded Producer/Director/Wife and a super Mom?

Short answer? Nope.

Our tree. It has one ribbon. Cute hubs did a fantastic job putting the lights on. Call it good.





Bongo is very festive with his jingle bells on. I will say however is that he is looking a bit like a guy who could use some extra attention...BHB looks like a five year old in this picture. And here's my cute Mom being, you know, cute.