Color.

You love to color. Thankfully, you no longer seem interested in eating crayons. However, you also have zero interest in coloring on paper. Instead, you like to color on things. Like your grandparent's floor, for instance...


How did I let that happen, you're wondering? I was busy coloring in a Dora coloring book. Obviously, I was enjoying it far too much and ignoring you.

messy mess

This is what the floor looks like when we eat at restaurants:


Now you know why we tip so well.

whatever may be may be

Yesterday at the park, a mother came up to you and I with her 2-year-old daughter to say hello. After a bit of conversation, she asked me how much you weighed when you were born. Well of course I know the answer to THAT. But, I blanked. Had no idea. Eight pounds, I said, instantly knowing that was wrong. We chatted for a second more, but I was no longer listening to a word she was saying. Seven pounds, nine ounces, seven pounds, nine ounces. That was all I was thinking about.

The lady and her daughter walked away (thanks so much for the pop quiz woman), and you and I were left alone. For a very brief moment, I felt shame and embarrassment. What kind of mother can't remember her only child's birth stats? (Just in case, here it is in writing: you were born at 8:41pm on a Sunday, 20 inches long, 7 pounds and 9 ounces... oh, March 15th. 2009.)

But then, I looked at you, you smiled at me, and suddenly I remembered... I don't care about any of that!!! Becoming a mother means joining the club of motherhood. Members of this club love to share, compare, offer advice, ask questions, vent, laugh, cry... it makes us feel like we aren't going through this alone. While that's important and very necessary at times, there's really only one TRUE important thing and that's you. Our children. Which means there's a SLEW of UNimportant things. Like...

Remembering the date and time of your first smile (besides when I close my eyes, I can see it).

What my hair looks like.

Is your nursery cute, funky, unique enough?

What my clothes look like.

Is my house organized, clean, does it look the way I want it to look?

What my face looks like. Yes, that's poop on my face.

The list goes on and on. At the end of the day, I don't care about those things, thanks to you. You have freed me of the desire to meet any and all expectations that don't have to do with being a good person and mother. Thank you little buddy, it's quite a relief.

(See, I am capable of writing something serious and thoughtful. And yes, I do have poop on my face. It's pretty.)

Mocha Choka Lava Java

When you were 5 months old, I spilled an entire cup of hot coffee in your lap.

That sounds pretty bad but let me assure you, it was. We were at a large market, so factor in an audience and it was actually more than pretty bad. At least it felt that way, to me, and most likely to you too (I can't imagine a lapful of hot coffee feels pleasant).

Your dad and I decided to stop at the little Starbucks inside of the market where he purchased an iced beverage (smart, of course) and I purchased a hot ass mother f'ing cup of HOT. I set it down in the cup holder of your non-moving stroller, only for a second, while I did something unimportant like check my cell phone or pick my nose. And then I reached for it. And, in slow-motion, the lid went flying and the hot liquid attacked your little body.

Fine, I'm being slightly dramatic. You had a blanket over your legs (thank god) and the majority of the coffee hit the floor.

BUT, some of it, enough of it, fell on the blanket. You felt it. Your face, and your scream, left no doubt in my mind that you felt it. As your father calmly dealt with the mess, you and I quickly left the store and our audience behind and sat outside in shame. I quickly decided I would tell no one. And then I quickly texted my mom, sister and closest friends and told them what I had just done.

You were fine. You settled down pretty quickly. But not before a man from the market came out and offered me a new cup of coffee. I declined. I'm so glad you have a short memory right now. By the time you read this, you'll be all grown up and we'll have a good chuckle over markets and coffee and babies and silly mommies. Hilarious!

Oh and by the way, the whole incident went down just days after I bonked your face against a headboard that left a mark. I keep wondering, will your father ever make a mistake like this? I mean, can't he drop you? A little bit. A LITTLE BIT! Geez, never mind.

I suppose if someone inflicts pain on you, it should be me. Because if anyone else were to I would have to MURDER them DEAD with my GUN. (Your father is an exception though. He can drop you a little. I said A LITTLE.)

Diaper Bag? I don't understand.

When you were 5 days old we left the house with you for the first time to visit the pediatrician and I forgot your diaper bag.

You're probably thinking, so what? But, as it was happening, I felt like giving up on motherhood entirely. To me, it felt like I had just put diapers on your head and butt balm in your mouth. I was pretty convinced our doctor would call social services. You might be thinking, geez mom, I wasn't even a week old yet, give yourself a break (at least that's what I hope you'll be thinking when you read this obsolete blog someday because that will mean I raised you right).

But, the fact is, in those early days every moment is so monumental and intensified. We threw parties when you pooped! Party poopers. What.

Now, you're over 4 months old and I still forget something important every time I leave the house (buckling your car seat once... yes). It's all about trial and error, son. This is the lesson you should take from this note blog thing. Also, you should know I'm dramatic. (In case you haven't figured that out yet.)