Darrell and I are constantly astonished and bamfoozled by the changes in baby products during the last 7 years (since we last had a baby in our house). Maybe it's not the changes, so much as it's the increase in products. The choices these days! It makes us feel old (and sound old, too- using phrases like "these days"). We're out-of-it. Not up with the newfangled ways of the youngsters. There are new gadgets and products of every kind, with 57 different varieties of each- all absolutely necessary to my child's survival and/or happiness, apparently. I don't know how many times I've been standing in B*bies R Us, holding some doo-dad and saying, "What is this?" The toys are different, the bottles are different, the formulas and foods are different, even the diapers are different.
There are sooooo many types of diapers now. Why is that? You can't just buy Hu*gies. Now, you have to choose Hu*gies "Nat*ral Fit," or Hu*gies "Little M0vers," or Hu*gies "Crapmypants." Why can't a diaper company decide which diaper works the best, and then just make that one diaper? Are 57 different diapers, all made by the same company, really necessary? Do babies' butts vary that much that we need subcategories of diapers now? Two tiny cheeks and a crack is pretty much standard, right? Or has that changed, too?
It's just too much for an old mom like me. I want to buy a box of diapers. I want these diapers not to leak pee or squirt poop out the leg holes or up the back. I do not need 40 brands, each with 57 different varieties from which to choose. I just don't do well with so many choices... Too easily overwhelmed, I guess.
So, could you guys, my blog peeps, the hip, youngster-moms and baby experts, pleeeease do me a favor? I'd love it if you would leave me a comment telling me the name of your favorite disposable diaper. I'm on a quest to find the best and want to hear what you think.
By "best," I mean the diaper should consistently:
Minimize the Dreaded Pee Leaks
Minimize the Disgusting, Up-The-Back-And-Out-The-Leg Poop Blowout, thereby minimizing the amount of baby poop that winds up on my couch and/or under my fingernails each day
Don't forget, since each brand has 57 different varieties, please be specific and include the whole name of the diapers you like, not just the brand.
BTW, Hu*gies Nat*ral Fit is one that I'm currently trying and I'm liking them not so much. I actually liked the Sam's Club brand better, I think- and they're cheaper.
So, what do you think? Tell me your favorite! And while we're at it, if you have a favorite baby product in any other category that you'd like to recommend, I'm open to your suggestions. Us geriatric moms need all the help we can get.
Thanks!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
More Sam Video
Oh my goodness, what do we have here? Could it be? I said I would post more video today, and I did. Two days in a row!
This first one is Sam with his birth mother ("G") on our last day in Majuro. It was only about an hour before we had to leave. There's not much to this in the way of audio- G. is humming softly, but you can't really hear her- so this may be boring to some of you. But not to me... Watching Sam being rocked to sleep by G. both breaks me and blesses me every time I see it. The way they're looking at each other is so sweet, I think. This is one I like showing Sammy often, and he seems to like watching.
And this one is of Sam with his foster mama, Mary, and her two adorable granddaughters, Mary Ruth, and Mary Something Else (that I couldn't pronounce or spell). Mary's daughter (the girls' mother) is named... Anyone, anyone? Mary Lenn. Go figure. I really loved Mary (all of them) and her husband, Lenn. They were so good to Sam and to us. Sam loves watching this one, too. I always wonder if he's remembering Mary as he watches? Is that possible? He's probably too young, but his little ears sure seem to perk up as soon as he hears Mary speaking Marshallese and little Mary Ruth saying, "Junior, Junior." Isn't she a doll, btw?
This first one is Sam with his birth mother ("G") on our last day in Majuro. It was only about an hour before we had to leave. There's not much to this in the way of audio- G. is humming softly, but you can't really hear her- so this may be boring to some of you. But not to me... Watching Sam being rocked to sleep by G. both breaks me and blesses me every time I see it. The way they're looking at each other is so sweet, I think. This is one I like showing Sammy often, and he seems to like watching.
And this one is of Sam with his foster mama, Mary, and her two adorable granddaughters, Mary Ruth, and Mary Something Else (that I couldn't pronounce or spell). Mary's daughter (the girls' mother) is named... Anyone, anyone? Mary Lenn. Go figure. I really loved Mary (all of them) and her husband, Lenn. They were so good to Sam and to us. Sam loves watching this one, too. I always wonder if he's remembering Mary as he watches? Is that possible? He's probably too young, but his little ears sure seem to perk up as soon as he hears Mary speaking Marshallese and little Mary Ruth saying, "Junior, Junior." Isn't she a doll, btw?
Sunday, August 23, 2009
A few videos I've been meaning to get up... Must keep the grandmas happy, you know.
The first shows why Sam is going to be the most spoiled baby on earth (and I don't care). This was taken several weeks ago, when he was just beginning to pull himself up to stand. Listen to the reaction he gets from the entire family. This kid is going to expect drumrolls and confetti for every little thing he does.
This one was taken just the other night. Mr. Sammy recently waved at me "on purpose" for the first time and we were all Just.So.Excited. Our claps and shouts made him so proud of himself, apparently, that he now gets really excited every time he waves. This shows what he does after a wave. So cute... To Mama, at least.
Tomorrow, I'll get a couple clips up from our time with birth and foster families in Majuro. Only three short months after returning home. That's not too bad, right?
Tomorrow is also the first day of school (at home). Wish us... something. I don't think luck could help me at this point, but I need to be wished something.
"But, Michelle! You said school would start on August 20th."
Oh, please... Since when does anyone remember what I say? School was supposed to start on the 20th. It did not. Let's move on, shall we?
Yeah... We're getting off to an excellent start.
The first shows why Sam is going to be the most spoiled baby on earth (and I don't care). This was taken several weeks ago, when he was just beginning to pull himself up to stand. Listen to the reaction he gets from the entire family. This kid is going to expect drumrolls and confetti for every little thing he does.
This one was taken just the other night. Mr. Sammy recently waved at me "on purpose" for the first time and we were all Just.So.Excited. Our claps and shouts made him so proud of himself, apparently, that he now gets really excited every time he waves. This shows what he does after a wave. So cute... To Mama, at least.
Tomorrow, I'll get a couple clips up from our time with birth and foster families in Majuro. Only three short months after returning home. That's not too bad, right?
Tomorrow is also the first day of school (at home). Wish us... something. I don't think luck could help me at this point, but I need to be wished something.
"But, Michelle! You said school would start on August 20th."
Oh, please... Since when does anyone remember what I say? School was supposed to start on the 20th. It did not. Let's move on, shall we?
Yeah... We're getting off to an excellent start.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
This is why you can't trust a muppet...
The quality of this photo is horrible- sorry (Mike took it with his phone while on vacation in CA)- but if you look closely you can see Elmo and Cookie Monster (with their heads off) talking to two police officers.
For those of you who read my blog solely for the Helpful Housewife Hints on how NOT to attract the attention of the police while engaging in criminal activity (and let's be honest, there are many of you), here's your tip: Do not smoke pot with your buddy out in public while both of you are dressed as Muppets...
That's right! Elmo and Cookie Monster are on the pot! You heard it here first, folks. We should have known. The signs were there all along- Elmo's cute little fits of giggles? He was stoned out of his melon. Cookie Monster's binges? It was the munchies that whole time. "C" is for cookie... and cannabis... and Colombian...
The sad thing, which you can't see in the photo but Michael witnessed firsthand, was that Elmo burst into tears while talking to the cops. Awwww... Poor little Elmo.
For those of you who read my blog solely for the Helpful Housewife Hints on how NOT to attract the attention of the police while engaging in criminal activity (and let's be honest, there are many of you), here's your tip: Do not smoke pot with your buddy out in public while both of you are dressed as Muppets...That's right! Elmo and Cookie Monster are on the pot! You heard it here first, folks. We should have known. The signs were there all along- Elmo's cute little fits of giggles? He was stoned out of his melon. Cookie Monster's binges? It was the munchies that whole time. "C" is for cookie... and cannabis... and Colombian...
The sad thing, which you can't see in the photo but Michael witnessed firsthand, was that Elmo burst into tears while talking to the cops. Awwww... Poor little Elmo.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Long Nights
Here's something I never imagined myself saying in my own bedroom: "Darrell, you are growling like a wild animal. It's scaring the baby. Can't you PUHLEEEEZE stop?"
To me, the statement is pretty much self-explanatory, but just in case your mind is on a different track... Darrell snores. The baby often either starts out or winds up in our bed, sleeping between us. Make sense?
Here is a run-down of a typical night, sharing the bed with my guys:
11:42 pm: Snoring is already beginning to reach The Obnoxiously Loud Level. Awwww. Just look at him laying (laying, or lying?) there with his mouth hanging open, lips vibrating with the sound... Isn't he cute? Reach over and lovingly, patiently rub Darrell's shoulder for a second, so as not to disturb his sleep. This almost always stops the snoring... for a minute.
12:30 am: Time for what I like to call "A Gentle Love Tap." This is the first of a series. I turn to my neighbor and... Kapow. Darrell clicks his tongue at me in disgust, but stops snoring... for a minute.
1:00 am: Dear God, please make it stop. Please. Reach down with your mighty hand and hold his lips shut. I'll be nice to him for the rest of my life. Just. Make. It. Stop.
1:02 am: Sam has been brought into our bed by this time, because in between waking up with Darrell, I've been waking up with the baby.
1:11 am: Sam is thrashing and jumping at the sounds of the snores. The poor little guy is scared, so I have to say something. Have to. It's not that I want to. It's not a selfish thing... I'm doing it for my child. "GETTIN' LOUD," I say, in my not-so-nice tone, which is reserved for occasions such as these. The snoring stops... Oh, wait... No, it doesn't.
1:15 am: The Snarling Lion arrives on the scene. "For Pete's sake," I think, "How does he not hear himself?" The baby jumps out of his skin and begins to cry. CRY. I make the aforementioned comment about a wild animal, and Darrell mumbles something like, "I'll turn over." I think to myself, "Why, yes, hon, that might help. That would be lovely. What an excellent idea. It's about %*&#!$+* time." The snoring stops... for a minute.
2:23 am: I'm deep into a fantasy about Mrs. Garrett, from "The Facts of Life," walking into my bedroom with the biggest, shiniest, most beautiful roll of duct-tape I've ever seen. She gently places one piece of tape over my husband's mouth... then goes on to wrap his entire head. "It should be over in just a minute, sweetie. You get some rest now," says Mrs. Garrett. I gush, "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Garrett!" The baby smiles at her and, for the first time ever in his life, reaches out for a hug.
3:00 am: I begin The Loud Mumbling. This is where I do my best passive-aggressive work. I say things like, "Must be nice to sleep so soundly." "How does that not wake you up?" "One of us needs to start doing some serious drinking before bed." "You look ridiculous with your lips flapping like that." None of this has any affect on the snoring, but it makes me feel better for a minute, and isn't that all that really counts?
4:00 am: Jo, from "The Facts of Life" enters my bedroom. I say, "Hey, Jo. I'd forgotten about you. Is Blair with you?" Jo doesn't answer. Antisocial, that one. She just holds up the biggest, shiniest, most beautiful pistol I've ever seen. "Pretty gun," I say. Then, "Gee, I really like that leather jacket, Jo." For some reason, the baby is flopping next to me, like a fish out of water. Does my baby not like Jo? I'm afraid for a moment, because I can't really tell who Jo is aiming her gun at. Jo opens her mouth to speak and, even though her lips seem to be forming words, the only sounds coming out of her mouth are loud animal-like growls. Hmm. That's odd. What's up with Jo? Suddenly, the gun goes off, but instead of a "BANG," it just makes an obnoxious SNARLING sound. I wake up to the sounds of my snoring hub and restless, flopping baby, amazed that I slept long enough through all this activity to dream.
4:31 am: I reach up, careful to be very quiet as I giggle out loud, and pinch Darrell's lips together. He snaps his head away from me and raises his hand. I can't tell if he's trying to defend himself, or planning to attack. "Bring it," I think. "I'm ready, pal. Let's go."
4:58 am: I have to get out of here. This is torture. It's time to get up before I do or say something out of anger that I shouldn't. I SMACK Darrell one last time, just for good measure, and make sure Sam is safe and secure before going into the kitchen. I crack open a nice cold Diet Pepsi, sit down in front of the computer, and realize how incredibly tired I really am. My eyes can barely stay open.
5:41 am: I go back into the bedroom, partly because I'm stupid enough to believe I will actually get to sleep a little bit- I am beyond exhausted, after all, and partly because I know the baby will wake up soon, and I want to be there with his morning bottle before he flops himself right out of the bed.
6:02 am: Sammy is up. He's in an incredibly happy, smiley mood- as if all is right in the world. How nice for him. How nice for me. Sam can turn almost any sour mood into a good one. It's amazing how I can feel such joy towards one bed partner and such contempt for another, at exactly the same time. We lay (lay or lie?) there cuddling together as he drinks his bottle, staring and smiling at each other, listening to thenerve-grating, never-ending peaceful stylings of his daddy's rhythmic snores. By this time, the wild animal is hibernating and Darrell finishes his nightly repertoire exactly as he started- with a repetitive series of "P" sounds, quietly escaping his flapping lips (Pppuh. Pppuh. Pppuh... over and over and over). "Dear God," I wonder, "doesn't this man ever shut-up?" I decide these thoughts should be shared with others. "It's daytime now," I say aloud, "Isn't it time for you to shut-up?" The snoring stops... for a minute.
8:07 am: Darrell asks, "Was my snoring bad last night?"
To me, the statement is pretty much self-explanatory, but just in case your mind is on a different track... Darrell snores. The baby often either starts out or winds up in our bed, sleeping between us. Make sense?
Here is a run-down of a typical night, sharing the bed with my guys:
11:42 pm: Snoring is already beginning to reach The Obnoxiously Loud Level. Awwww. Just look at him laying (laying, or lying?) there with his mouth hanging open, lips vibrating with the sound... Isn't he cute? Reach over and lovingly, patiently rub Darrell's shoulder for a second, so as not to disturb his sleep. This almost always stops the snoring... for a minute.
12:30 am: Time for what I like to call "A Gentle Love Tap." This is the first of a series. I turn to my neighbor and... Kapow. Darrell clicks his tongue at me in disgust, but stops snoring... for a minute.
1:00 am: Dear God, please make it stop. Please. Reach down with your mighty hand and hold his lips shut. I'll be nice to him for the rest of my life. Just. Make. It. Stop.
1:02 am: Sam has been brought into our bed by this time, because in between waking up with Darrell, I've been waking up with the baby.
1:11 am: Sam is thrashing and jumping at the sounds of the snores. The poor little guy is scared, so I have to say something. Have to. It's not that I want to. It's not a selfish thing... I'm doing it for my child. "GETTIN' LOUD," I say, in my not-so-nice tone, which is reserved for occasions such as these. The snoring stops... Oh, wait... No, it doesn't.
1:15 am: The Snarling Lion arrives on the scene. "For Pete's sake," I think, "How does he not hear himself?" The baby jumps out of his skin and begins to cry. CRY. I make the aforementioned comment about a wild animal, and Darrell mumbles something like, "I'll turn over." I think to myself, "Why, yes, hon, that might help. That would be lovely. What an excellent idea. It's about %*&#!$+* time." The snoring stops... for a minute.
2:23 am: I'm deep into a fantasy about Mrs. Garrett, from "The Facts of Life," walking into my bedroom with the biggest, shiniest, most beautiful roll of duct-tape I've ever seen. She gently places one piece of tape over my husband's mouth... then goes on to wrap his entire head. "It should be over in just a minute, sweetie. You get some rest now," says Mrs. Garrett. I gush, "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Garrett!" The baby smiles at her and, for the first time ever in his life, reaches out for a hug.
3:00 am: I begin The Loud Mumbling. This is where I do my best passive-aggressive work. I say things like, "Must be nice to sleep so soundly." "How does that not wake you up?" "One of us needs to start doing some serious drinking before bed." "You look ridiculous with your lips flapping like that." None of this has any affect on the snoring, but it makes me feel better for a minute, and isn't that all that really counts?
4:00 am: Jo, from "The Facts of Life" enters my bedroom. I say, "Hey, Jo. I'd forgotten about you. Is Blair with you?" Jo doesn't answer. Antisocial, that one. She just holds up the biggest, shiniest, most beautiful pistol I've ever seen. "Pretty gun," I say. Then, "Gee, I really like that leather jacket, Jo." For some reason, the baby is flopping next to me, like a fish out of water. Does my baby not like Jo? I'm afraid for a moment, because I can't really tell who Jo is aiming her gun at. Jo opens her mouth to speak and, even though her lips seem to be forming words, the only sounds coming out of her mouth are loud animal-like growls. Hmm. That's odd. What's up with Jo? Suddenly, the gun goes off, but instead of a "BANG," it just makes an obnoxious SNARLING sound. I wake up to the sounds of my snoring hub and restless, flopping baby, amazed that I slept long enough through all this activity to dream.
4:31 am: I reach up, careful to be very quiet as I giggle out loud, and pinch Darrell's lips together. He snaps his head away from me and raises his hand. I can't tell if he's trying to defend himself, or planning to attack. "Bring it," I think. "I'm ready, pal. Let's go."
4:58 am: I have to get out of here. This is torture. It's time to get up before I do or say something out of anger that I shouldn't. I SMACK Darrell one last time, just for good measure, and make sure Sam is safe and secure before going into the kitchen. I crack open a nice cold Diet Pepsi, sit down in front of the computer, and realize how incredibly tired I really am. My eyes can barely stay open.
5:41 am: I go back into the bedroom, partly because I'm stupid enough to believe I will actually get to sleep a little bit- I am beyond exhausted, after all, and partly because I know the baby will wake up soon, and I want to be there with his morning bottle before he flops himself right out of the bed.
6:02 am: Sammy is up. He's in an incredibly happy, smiley mood- as if all is right in the world. How nice for him. How nice for me. Sam can turn almost any sour mood into a good one. It's amazing how I can feel such joy towards one bed partner and such contempt for another, at exactly the same time. We lay (lay or lie?) there cuddling together as he drinks his bottle, staring and smiling at each other, listening to the
8:07 am: Darrell asks, "Was my snoring bad last night?"
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Random Kid Pics
My little water baby. He loves it!
Braden stayed last weekend with us and lost his first tooth while here. Can you see it? He was so proud. Thankfully, the tooth fairy knew where to find him. Two days later, Bri lost a tooth and the tooth fairy (a volunteer newbie) accidentally left her 5 bucks. That's setting the bar a little high, TF. Two days after that, Olivia lost a tooth, and the crazy TF skipped her altogether. I'm convinced our tooth fairy is an alcoholic. Why, it's almost as if she's actually a senile 51 year-old man, occasionally accompanied by his overly generous teenaged son, or something. 
At a rodeo with Daddy...
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Cow Says...
That's going to become the title of my blog, I think. And I shall sign all my posts "Heifer."
I'm fat, is what I'm indicating there.
You're shocked, I know.
Of course, I'm always fat, so this is not new news to any of us, and I'm really no fatter now than any other day, but some days the magnitude of the fatness seems... well... bigger. It hits me harder.
I've been feeling crappier about myself than I have in a long time. A long, long time. Maybe it's because "Forty-Three" is approaching soon and my goal in my late thirties was to have all my weight off by 40. Big, big FAIL. Then last year, I was supposed to lose all the weight for my son's wedding. Remember that? Yeah. Ummm... Huge FAIL.
Or maybe it's just because I look like crap. Yeah, that could be it. I may be onto something with that one.
I was at the mall today, buying school clothes for the kids and saw an adorable shirt I would have liked to get for myself. Loved, loved, LOVED it. The problem? I was in one of those ridiculous teenager-y kinds of stores, where there are huge pictures of really hot, half-naked young people, locked in passionate poses, hanging all over the place, and where everything is sized in miniature, you know? *Large* actually means maybe a size 8, or something. XL is like a size 8.3. Usually, I wouldn't even see anything in those kinds of stores that would catch my eye. My taste really isn't "Teen Ho-bag." So, I either keep myself busy helping the kid find something, or I'm trying to zone out and remain in my happy place, while I wait patiently for us to leave the store and its booming, crappy music behind (oh, man... that sounded so OLD). But this shirt was sooo cute- not at all the popular "I Aspire to Become a Prostitute When I Grow Up" style. So I pointed out the shirt to the girl behind the register (she was a fat girl, too) and asked if there was any chance in Hades that the shirt would fit me. She said probably not. Of course. She said she'd given up trying anything on in that store, because nothing fits.
I don't want to shop at flippin' fat chick stores. I don't like "fat chick" clothes. They're not cute. I want cute.
I'm not cute.
My skin looks like I'm 49. My hair is crap. And... is it falling out? Why, yes. I believe it is. Thank you for asking. My body is crap. I am crap. Is this a mid-life crisis I'm having here? Do I need to buy a sports car? Hope not. I can't afford one. I'm old and poor AND fat. Jeez. I can't catch a break.
Please don't mistake my remarks as a manipulative ploy to get you all to say, "Oh, no- you look great." That's not what I want. I don't want anything. I just want to sit here and blow up balloons for my pity party until I'm lightheaded and half sick, and complain and be a big baby. And of course, I mean "big" in the literal sense. Tomorrow I will probably feel better... Right?
Yeah... tomorrow will be better.
Um, not to treat you like a dufus, or anything, but that last part was dripping with sarcasm, in case you missed it.
I'm fat, is what I'm indicating there.
You're shocked, I know.
Of course, I'm always fat, so this is not new news to any of us, and I'm really no fatter now than any other day, but some days the magnitude of the fatness seems... well... bigger. It hits me harder.
I've been feeling crappier about myself than I have in a long time. A long, long time. Maybe it's because "Forty-Three" is approaching soon and my goal in my late thirties was to have all my weight off by 40. Big, big FAIL. Then last year, I was supposed to lose all the weight for my son's wedding. Remember that? Yeah. Ummm... Huge FAIL.
Or maybe it's just because I look like crap. Yeah, that could be it. I may be onto something with that one.
I was at the mall today, buying school clothes for the kids and saw an adorable shirt I would have liked to get for myself. Loved, loved, LOVED it. The problem? I was in one of those ridiculous teenager-y kinds of stores, where there are huge pictures of really hot, half-naked young people, locked in passionate poses, hanging all over the place, and where everything is sized in miniature, you know? *Large* actually means maybe a size 8, or something. XL is like a size 8.3. Usually, I wouldn't even see anything in those kinds of stores that would catch my eye. My taste really isn't "Teen Ho-bag." So, I either keep myself busy helping the kid find something, or I'm trying to zone out and remain in my happy place, while I wait patiently for us to leave the store and its booming, crappy music behind (oh, man... that sounded so OLD). But this shirt was sooo cute- not at all the popular "I Aspire to Become a Prostitute When I Grow Up" style. So I pointed out the shirt to the girl behind the register (she was a fat girl, too) and asked if there was any chance in Hades that the shirt would fit me. She said probably not. Of course. She said she'd given up trying anything on in that store, because nothing fits.
I don't want to shop at flippin' fat chick stores. I don't like "fat chick" clothes. They're not cute. I want cute.
I'm not cute.
My skin looks like I'm 49. My hair is crap. And... is it falling out? Why, yes. I believe it is. Thank you for asking. My body is crap. I am crap. Is this a mid-life crisis I'm having here? Do I need to buy a sports car? Hope not. I can't afford one. I'm old and poor AND fat. Jeez. I can't catch a break.
Please don't mistake my remarks as a manipulative ploy to get you all to say, "Oh, no- you look great." That's not what I want. I don't want anything. I just want to sit here and blow up balloons for my pity party until I'm lightheaded and half sick, and complain and be a big baby. And of course, I mean "big" in the literal sense. Tomorrow I will probably feel better... Right?
Yeah... tomorrow will be better.
Um, not to treat you like a dufus, or anything, but that last part was dripping with sarcasm, in case you missed it.
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