Addie's in Vogue

I think it is fair to say that as a child, I was never, ever, ever cool. I think this picture of me, circa 5th grade, will testify:

The photograph mostly cuts off my giant denim purse, which was, no joke, usually filled with large compendiums of Herman cartoons. Because I was a fifth-grader who effing loved one-panel comic strips about loose-jowled eldery men and their kerfrumpety wives.

So it pleases me to no end that, even at five months of age, Addie is already unspeakably cool. I gauge this how I gauge most things in my life-- how many accessories she has that have also been spotted as the accessories of celebrity babies.

For instance, I nearly peed my pants when I saw that she has the exact same blanket as Sandra Bullock's son:

 

 

Also, witness the awesomeness that is her having Sophie the Giraffe, just like whatever this child of Nicole Richie is named:

Clearly, Addie has more style and panache at five months than I managed to garner in all of my 31 years on this planet. Although let me give myself a little credit-- it's not as if she hand-picked these items herself (although to be fair, she actually received the Aden and Anais blanket as a gift from the awesome Denise Philipsen). Does this mean that I am just as stylish and au courant as Sandra and Nicole?

Obviously, yes. Not bad for a girl with a purse full of Hermans.

Excretion Excursion

Before Addie, it would have seemed unthinkable to go to work with another person's vomit on my shirt. Now, it's just a question of how much vomit is acceptable.

In the past five months, I have been pooped on, vomited on, and spat on. I have continued to wear pants soaked with another person's pee for a good three hours after the deed occurred, simply because I knew if I put on different pants they would just be besotted with some other bodily fluid. And once, while holding the baby over my head in the classic airplane pose, she vomited directly into my open mouth.

I was prepared, through years of bad sitcoms with babies tacked on at the end as a desperate ratings grab, for this sudden onslaught of excretions. But what I did not really expect was my total okayness with it. I gave up on burp cloths after the first day or two of Addie's life, too addled with exhaustion or fear of squeezing the baby too hard, a la Lenny's rabbit, to remember to keep one handy. It was what it was: I was going to reek of spoiled milk and pale urine for the foreseeable future.

Tonight, Addie blew a raspberry for the first time-- not just your run of the mill bubble blowing, but a full-on, pursed lip buzzing, leaving my face slicked with a patina of spit. And instead of being grossed out, or running for the washcloth, I just grinned. Because it's really hard to be disgusted by anything that comes from someone so cute. Not that her shit doesn't stink-- just that it's hers.

A mid-term report card

Addie had her four month well-baby check-up the other day, where we were updated on her latest stats-- at nearly eighteen pounds, she is in the 97th percentile for her weight, and at 25 inches, she's in the 67th percentile for her height. The doctor was impressed with her motor skills, particularly her ability to sit unsupported, something other four month old babies only lie around and dream about while they flail pointlessly on their tummy time mats. She also has a giant head for her age, which only goes to enhance my theory that she is some sort of Superbaby that will grow to enslave the entire human race (in the cutest way possible, of course).

So with these stats in mind, I thought I'd review her progress in some other areas as well:

Spoon feeding: B

She definitely gets the concept of spoon feeding. She lunges for the spoon like some sort of crazed lunatic, her mouth agape. It's what to do with the cereal once it is on-board that is the problem. Right now, her solution appears to be to shove it all out of mouth onto her bib with her tongue. But at least the fundamentals are there.

Bouncer Usage: A+

 One would think, watching Addie in action in her bouncer, that I had birthed some sort of weird, half-human half-rabbit, sort of like the one in Donnie Darko, only not terrifying or Patrick Swayze-killing.

Rolling over: B

She is so close to rolling over that I vaguely suspect she's already done it for the Day Care People, based on their very evasive answers when I ask about her progress. She hasn't yet pulled it off at home without our help, but if I find out she's been dogging it this whole time, she is in for a world of hurt. And by hurt in this context I really just mean hugs.

Crib sleeping: C-

Addie doesn't seem to know what to do with the extra room in the crib, so she compensates by rotating herself until she's laying across the width of the crib mattress as opposed to the length. Cute, but problematic down the road, as I'm assuming her future spouse won't be very appreciative of this particular sleep position.

Staying a tiny baby forever: F

No matter how much I explain to her that I need her to remain a teeny tiny baby for the rest of her life, Addie willfully continues growing and expanding her repertoire of skills. It's almost as if she intends to fully grow up and eventually leave my house one day. But I expect her to straighten out and stop growing any day now.

Addie Alive!

When I was a little girl, it devastated my mom that I wasn't into baby dolls. I was more of a fashion doll girl-- Barbie, Lady Lovely Locks (yeah, I just trotted out Lady Lovely Locks, let the reminiscing begin!), anything that had hair that could be brushed, braided, and eventually cut into an extremely unflattering female gym teacher bob. But for some reason, baby dolls just never interested me-- why would I want a toy whose main purpose was to pee on me?

Now that Addie is here, I realize that, even with the fantastical advances in fake infant behavior (they poop now! THEY POOP!), perhaps the main reason baby dolls disinterested me is because they did not accurately depict the many varied actions an actual baby can possess. For instance, if there were an Addie baby doll (which there should be, and which I would market as Addie Alive!), it would be capable of all of the following real-life dolly actions:

• Viciously punching itself in the sides as if it were King Kong
• Super kung-fu hair hank death grip
• Intermittent release of noxious butt fumes
• Random heart-melting sighs of contentedness, especially after the release the aforementioned fumes
• Stealth sock removal skills
• Vicious head-butting action
• Laser-precision spit up aim (particularly when held overhead in a game of Superbaby)

Actually, when I put it that way, it sounds like Addie Alive! would make a much better action figure than a doll. Except for the heart-melting sighs. But I think the ass stink more than balances that out.

Addie Alive! may be hazardous to anyone under the age of three, pets that dare to wander into her range of motion, or people who enjoy having their clothes unsoiled by bodily fluids. Do not use Addie Alive! if you require more than six hours of sleep a night. All accessories, medical bills, foodstuffs and college tuition sold separately at outrageous prices. Allow nine months for delivery.

Addie at Four Months

It seems absolutely impossible that four months ago today, Ben, Addie and I were spending our first night together as a family. It seems impossible that four months have gone by so quickly, and impossible that there was ever a time that she wasn't already here.

But before I devolve into a teary rendition of "Sunrise, Sunset," let me post her official birthday picture. Her cuteness will distract me from the fact that someone has apparently pressed the fast forward button on my life:

See? That face can cure cancer. For reals. Or if not cure it, at least kick the shit out of it:

Oh, snap! Pinned by the sheep! I'll get you next time, foul beast!

My life as a cow

I decided long before Addie was born that I was going to breastfeed, and I don't regret the experience one bit-- it's a fantastic way to bond with my baby, it gives her the nutrients and antibodies that she needs to grow strong and healthy, and it is an excellent excuse to sit on the couch and watch reruns of Glee without having to feel guilty that I'm not accomplishing anything. However, when you both breastfeed and work-- because apparently you can't buy diapers with baby smiles-- you are also required to pump, which is an almost debilitatingly unpleasant experience.

I suppose it could be worse-- I at least have an office I can pump in. Without it, I would be forced to go to the Women's Room at work, which is really just a small room with a shower and a bench in it (why is there a shower at the insurance company where I work? Has there ever been a woman sitting at her desk thinking, "Man! Binding these policies has really caused me to work up a sweat!"). The room is governed by its own set of laws, making it a lactation Thunderdome-- Four boobs enter, two boobs leave.

Even my office, though, is not free from peril-- I have a small window that looks out into the common area, leaving me exposed to gawkers. I ordered blinds, but due to a snafu, they never arrived; too freaked out from fending off an extremely aggressive fellow pumper who attempted to bust in on me during my last visit to the Women's Room, I took matters into my own hands and just taped a bunch of paper over the window:

But as you can see, for reasons beyond even my own understanding, I chose to use paper that was already pre-three-hole-punched, essentially turning my office into a peep booth for any brave soul who dared to put his eye up to it. Sort of like that Madonna video for "Open Your Heart," only instead of getting a glimpse of Madge, you get to see me hooked up to a milking machine. Sexy.

Also, you will find that should you put up a giant wall of holey paper over your common room window, you are basically announcing to the world HELLO! I AM MILKING MYSELF IN HERE! PLEASE ASK ME ABOUT IT! And people will ask you about it-- coworkers, the maintenance guy, and, in fact, the guy I called today to ask why my blinds never showed up ("Oh!" he said. "That's your crazy office!").

I'm not sure it will be much better when the blinds arrive-- yes, it will be classier. But it will also serve as the proverbial Sock on the Door-- Blinds up = stop on by! Blinds down = National Geographic Boobs On Display.

All I know is, three times a day, five days a week, I have to live with the fact that I am, for all intents and purposes, topless at my desk at work, and everyone knows it. Among the people in my department, I refer to the act of pumping as "The Unspeakable," as in "I wish I could help you with this project, but I have to go commit The Unspeakable right now."

After all that work-based nudity, I guess I could use a good shower...

...you know, unless it IS

So hey, remember how I wrote that whole thing about post-partum thyroiditis, and how I probably had that, and it was SO CRAZY because I had all the symptoms and I was so proud of myself for actually realizing that there was something wrong with me, etc? Well, scratch all that, because apparently I DON'T have post-partum thyroiditis; in fact, I called the doctor's office and all of my blood tests came back totally normal. Which is awesome and all, because it means I'm not in the process of blowing out my thyroid, but not awesome, because it means I now have no explanation for my hair loss OR my rash, other than that I am That Gross Woman now.

You know, the one you see in the cafeteria at work, or at the bus stop while you're driving by in your nice, non-rashy car. With the conspicuous bald spot and the bright red welts all over her arms. And you think, oh, wow, look at That Gross Woman.

That is me! I am her! I'm That Gross Woman! Are they going to come and take away my car? Am I going to have to start eating Marie Callander pot pies for lunch every day? Is there some sort of handbook for this? I haven't been this set adrift since my time as That Stupidly Ugly Teenager!