Fine Motor Skills

The Maybe has developed the illustrious pincer grasp — she can pick small objects up with her thumb and pointer finger.

It’s funny though. Put some rice puffs or yogurt melts on her high chair tray, and she whole hands them, jamming her fist in her mouth. Only on occasion does she use her pincers to pick them up.

But if there’s a microscopic remnant of one of Lennie’s Busy Bones hiding on the floor some where, she develops the hands of a surgeon, delicately picking up crumbs and placing them directly into her mouth.

Sigh.

Snotty

I’m not talking about the guy who did a piss poor job of beaming up President Skroob.

I’m talking about that delicious descriptor of a congested and runny nose, or in this case, my daughter’s nose. We’re on cold #4 of Maybe’s short life.

Sometimes I think only MacGyver could effectively use the tools available to ease cold symptoms in infants. If someone told me I only had a binder (to go under the head of the mattress), humidifier, saline and a NoseFrida to treat my cold, I’d cry. Oh wait, somebody did tell me that during pregnancy. Except the binder was replaced with extra pillows to elevate my head, and the NoseFrida with a Neti pot. I think I did cry as I immediately went into DayQuil withdrawal.

The concept of the NoseFrida is disgusting yet I’m intrigued by it. I’ve even considered trying it out on myself. Up to baby’s nose goes a filtered tube, which is attached to a mouth piece via flexible tubing. Mommy or Daddy sucks the snot out of baby’s nose through the mouth piece. It is grossly effective.

The NoseFrida comes packaged in a box illustrated with a happy cartoon baby and mom. Or a nanny. Who knows? This is because no photo of a happy baby undergoing the ministrations of a NoseFrida could ever be captured.

I call utter and total bullshit on this clip from Rachel Ray.

Oh, your baby just lied there and giggled? Uh huh. Yeah right lady. It takes both Andy and me to wrestle Maybe down to administer the NoseFrida. She’s recently added a bloodcurdling shriek to her repertoire of sounds that is reserved solely for the NoseFrida. She cries. She wriggles. She does her best to slap the offending suctioning device away. All three of us feel a bit battered after a bout with the NoseFrida.

Too bad the damn thing works.

The Two-Year Itch

Meeting the Petersiks relit the fire in me to get some work done around here. Yes, that was in November. Stop judging. So what if the fire is at a slow burn that makes me glower at everything but not actually do anything?

Preventing me from moving forward on any new rooms are the mistakes I’ve made in rooms I thought were close to done, or at least somewhat presentable. If dwelling over mundane things was an Olympic event I’d be the Michael Phelps of the sport. Or Michelle Phelps since I’m a broad. Whatever.

Anywho, I had the living room/dining room color picked out almost immediately after closing on our house in May 2011: Benjamin Moore Wind Chime. Turns out Candice Olson likes it too. It’s one of her designer picks. How awesome am I? Awesome, totally awesome.

But did I spring for actual BM paint? Nope. I had it color matched to Olympic no-VOC paint. In a flat finish, figuring with the less than stellar walls flaws would be disguised, and I’d just touch up scuffs and what not. Guess what I learned?

Don’t use cheap paint. Use the most expensive, quality stuff you can afford. And do not put flat paint on your walls unless you’re a masochist.

This paint does not like the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. It becomes discolored or rubs off. It also rebels against touch ups, making them as obvious as a black bra under a white shirt. Also, I am lazy and hate trudging down to the basement, mixing up the paint for touch-ups and cleaning up afterward.

But I figured I’d just deal with the paint until I’d worked up the energy to tackle the room again. So I set my sights on the hall.

Unfortunately, our house is as close to open concept as you can get without actually being open concept. Due to a bulkhead, the doorway from the hall to the living/dining room is not and cannot be trimmed out without looking weird. But I thought as long the colors complemented each other, it wouldn’t be a big deal to use different colors in the hall and living room.

I couldn’t (and haven’t) been able to figure out how to paint the stairway without constructing some crazy scaffolding. And after painting the ceiling in the living room three times and still dealing with paint roller tracks, we were both in no mood to paint the rest of the ceilings in this place. So we hired a painter.

He took care of the ceilings with not a streak in sight. And he painted the upstairs and downstairs hall, including the stairwell. After much deliberation, I chose Marilyn’s Dress by BM — A light, seemingly pure gray that seemed to go just fine with Wind Chime. I moved that tiny swatch around the house, looking at in different lights, and comparing it to the Wind Chime swatch.

Despite knowing better, my laziness had me relying on swatches to choose a paint color.

Don’t do this. Get a sample can and paint either the wall directly or a poster board to slap up on said wall, and study it throughout the day on both sunny and cloudy days.

The first inkling that my choice sucked was when it first went up and the painter asked if I liked it. I had thought it’d be darker and said as much, but figured I’d get used to it. The second bad sign was when a friend said he liked the blue. I tried not to hiss at him and wrote that off as a typical man’s grasp of colors. (An ex-boyfriend said there are only 5 colors in the average male mind, and pink and purple are the same.)

But after the errant thought that the wall looked purple at night from the living room crept for the billionth time into my pea brain and finally took root, I grudgingly acknowledged that denial ain’t just a river in Egypt and that Marilyn’s Dress might need a damn cover-up.

There are five stages in the grieving process, and it’s not uncommon to bounce around among them before getting to the acceptance stage. I’ve been floating around denial, anger, and acceptance for quite some time, and we all know I always seem to have depression covered. (Depression joke!)

I did NOT want to deal with painting the whole hall again after shelling out the bucks for a painter. So I tried working with Marilyn’s Dress, and had even decided to bring the color into the living room because it’s a lot easier to paint one room than two hallways and a stairwell. My laziness knows no bounds.

But there just wasn’t something right with the color, and I couldn’t quite place my finger on what exactly. When Andy offhandedly said it was the floor, I had a total “duh” moment. I took quite a few art classes in my school days  for Christ’s sake.

I had ignored the floor when deciding on paint colors, ruling it neutral without thinking. But the floor has such a warm stain, it’s basically orange. So while the yellow-undertoned Wind Chime luckily looked fine with the floor, the wood pulled out the complimentary blue and purple hidden in Marilyn’s Dress. Ugh.

So why not paint the place Wind Chime you ask? Because the paint and finish I used ruined it for me. The color is now just a reminder of my many blunders. And it also kind of reminds me of toothpaste.

After multiple trips to BM and multiple swatches and sample cans of paint, I narrowed it down to two – Glacial Till and Revere Pewter.

Based on the tiny swatches, I made up my mind on the warmer, tanner Glacial Till. But learning my lesson from last time I bought some paint boards to check out how larger swaths of color would look. And it’s a damn good thing I did.

Both looked ok in natural light. But under the boob lights in the hall, Revere Pewter looked better. Next to the new gray cabinet in the living room, it looked MUCH better. So Revere Pewter it will be once we figure out how to carve out the needed time and effort to paint.

I am kind of annoyed that I’ve settled on a neutral, wanting to be a brave color person. But resale is always in the back of my mind, and I do not want a realtor to tell me to repaint AGAIN if we ever decide to sell this place. But at least Revere Pewter sounds a whole lot better than Builder Beige.

First Richard Simmons…

Now Young House Love. I have added to the list of celebrities that I have met, although I imagine the Petersiks would snort at 1) being included in the company of the inventor of Sweatin’ to the Oldies and 2) being called celebrities. But this is my blog, and I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em.

I pre-ordered their book and long ago RSVP’d for their November 2012 book signing event at Flor in DC. Yes, it’s February 2013 now. Don’t judge me.

Fortunately my parents were willing to come visit the Maybe (May + baby = Maybe) for several days so we had a free babysitter. Woot.

Since our last visit to Georgetown occurred sometime during the George W. Bush administration, we decided to head down early to the historic neighborhood that I avoid like the plague. Yes, Georgetown is charming and has great shopping and food. It is also incredibly crowded, with people and cars overflowing the narrow sidewalks and streets. Rumor has it that the residents of that fine hamlet vetoed a Metro stop to keep out the riff raff. It didn’t work. Instead we all come by bus, taxi, or car. Bwahahaha.

After a trip to Anthropologie to look at hardware, we ducked into Pizzeria Paradiso for some wood-fired pizza and good beer. Because it was 4 pm on a Thursday, we had the place to ourselves, which was incredibly weird and awesome.

We left Pizzeria Paradiso at about 5 pm and discovered a line was already beginning to form at Flor. I wasn’t incredibly shocked. YHL fans are rabid (yet polite) creatures. Standing however, is probably my least favorite activity. If I do it for too long, I swear I actually feel my lumbar vertebrae slowly smush together. It. Is. Awesome.

I’m ok if I’m walking though, so we perused CB2 for a bit and partook of Georgetown Cupcake. We then headed to Flor where the line now wrapped around the street. Andy was shocked. I was not. I explained that YHL is the Barack Obama of the blogosphere. They have a great ground game.

Yes, this is a crappy picture.

I feel like the net amount of time I spent standing in line was actually the same as what it would have been if we’d lined up earlier. Make sense? Probably not. But instead of just standing there for an hour, we stood and shuffled forward for an hour.

A  food truck provided free cookies, hot chocolate and cider to Sherry and John’s minions fans. Once I got inside, I had a glass plastic cup of wine as we slowly made our way upstairs to meet the Petersiks.

Andy asked if I was nervous. I wasn’t really. I kind of just accepted the fact that I’d be socially awkward and decided to embrace it. I did ask him if I had anything in my teeth at least three times. Am I only one who does this?

I shouted “Yay!” when I walked up to the Petersik’s table, and there was a brief moment of silence that of course felt like five minutes to me.

But Sherry quickly spied my dragon necklace, and said she liked it. And so I blurted that my daughter was born in the year of the dragon and that I’d DIYed some dragon art for the gallery wall in her nursery. John asked my daughter’s name.

After such deep conversation, I proclaim us BFFs forever. Yeah, that’s not creepy.

They were just so normal and nice. You’d have to be nice if you’re game when I request a photo in which we all posed like Dexter, i.e. don’t smile and look like a serial killer — like in your license photo. Seriously, they barely batted an eye.

Who’s an inappropriate weirdo? Why, me.

Say "Serial Killer" or "Cheese"

They pulled off the sinister look well. I think I just look surly and old. I blame the lighting. And my Cro-Magnon forehead. I’m debating bangs again. I keep forgetting that my hair is curly and naturally parts down the middle. Bangs would totally work even though they never have before.

Maybe baby

The other playgroup moms thought I called May “Maeby” because of Maeby Funke in Arrested Development. Sadly, I am not this cool.
It’s just a combination of May and baby, and I spell it “Maybe” in my head.
I do wonder if it’ll stick through the years. I could start lying about its origins to up our street cred.

Coffee Talk

The chick pea is neither a chick nor a pea. Discuss.

As Linda Richman would say, this post is no big whoop.

Andy has left me a couple more notes in the past few days, telling me the K-cup in the Keurig was ready to spew the caffeinated elixer known as Dunkin Donuts’ pumpkin flavored coffee. Or caw-fee as his Long Island brethren would say.

The first was designed to make fun of his spelling in a previous note and to get a song stuck in my head all day:

Andy wrote this, but You Can Call Him Al

The latter did not work because these days I can only remember something for approximately five seconds before it leaks out of my brain. I actually forgot to close the car door after I got out of it yesterday. True story.

Andy must have realized fewer words were better because the next day, this greeted me:

And Andy said "Let there be coffee," and it was good.

Drink Me

For the past two nights May has been waking up multiple times. We think she’s waking herself up trying to roll over. But she doesn’t know how to get herself back to sleep. More often than not, after the second waking she gets parked in her swing because it seems to be the only place she’ll stay asleep. It has been a delightful experience.

Apparently we shouldn’t be allowing her to fall asleep while eating, or being held, or being rocked, etc. because they become crutches. As in, she can’t fall asleep without them. So when she wakes up in the middle of the night, she needs one of those crutches to go to sleep again. Too bad she can’t get them on her own. We have to provide them. And by we, I mean Andy because he has done all the night time stuff for a while now because of my PPD.

I’d had trouble sleeping, and the first and foremost treatment for PPD is ensuring Mom gets at least 5 straight hours. So I’ve been sleeping through the night in a klonopin-induced haze for a while now. Andy was doing okay when May was only getting up once a night, but multiple wakings knock him directly on his buttocks. And one of these past nights I forgot to take my klonopin so ended up waking up every time May and Andy did.

And I say all this to get to this point: We’ve been drinking a lot of coffee lately. Sorry, I buried the lede.

Yesterday, Andy prepped the Keurig for me before work and left a note saying it was ready to go. It was a pretty rock star move of him. I made the coffee, but May woke up in her swing and when I went into the room I was greeted by a tell-tale odor. Suffice it to say, she had a bath and I threw a load of laundry in. By the time I got to the coffee, it was cold. A common occurrence.

So today, Andy prepped the Keurig for me again and left this note:

And after I stopped my journalistic judging of his spelling of coffee (I have no room to judge anymore since my brain fell out shortly after May’s birth), I immediately thought of this:

I would have killed for some shrinking potion in junior high. I’m a little over 5’8″ and stopped growing in the 7th grade. I felt gigantums next to everybody else, especially those delicate males, who, by some cruel joke have their growth spurts well after girls.

Now, I’d just kill for May to sleep through the night so I don’t have to feel guilty about Andy doing all the nighttime fun. I guess it’s about time to commence the sleep training. Blech.

13th Grade

Lennie graduated from his good manners class on Saturday.

This diploma smells strangely of rawhide.

Later that evening I was holding May on my lap and Lennie was looking at me. So I waved May’s arm at him and said “Hi Lennie.”

The recent graduate proceeded to bark and run jog over. When he got to the couch he suddenly stopped and licked her foot. It was reminiscent of when he came home from his board-and-train camp but with a far better outcome.

Lennie had been jumping on us, well mostly me, whenever I tried to feed May. He also would focus on her in a way that made me very, very nervous. He’d bark at her in her crib and would push the Pack n Play with her in it with his giant noggin. We hired a trainer for private in-home sessions because I was basically losing my shit every day and telling Andy that Lennie had to go. Me. The person who favors animals over humanity unless we’re talking about a monkey. Filthy creatures, monkeys.

No, we don't have a pet orca.

To be perfectly honest, I felt bat$h!t crazy. Having a baby freaked me out for reasons I’m only now beginning to understand and deal with. Lennie sent me over the edge.

And it sucked because I knew very well that if we had kept up with training Lennie like we did when we first got him and as we should have, we would have had far better command of him when May came home. We failed our dog, but he’d be the one to bear the consequences of our failure and my PPD.

Meeting Lennie at 5 weeks old at the breeders

So when the trainer offered an opportunity for a week of boarding and training, we took it. This did not mean he’d come home a perfectly behaved dog without any effort on our parts. The process just sort of jump starts training — he’d be primed and easier for us to train after the program.

We were not to act excited when he came home according to the trainer, and we complied. He showed off his new moves, including “down” and going to his bed and “settling.” But while we were speaking to the trainer and not giving Lennie the attention he felt he deserved, Lennie leapt on the couch attempting to charge May and Andy. Not bite them, just throw his big old head and body at them because he wanted. attention. now. after. you. sent. me. away. you. jerks.

Unfortunately he weighs 60 pounds so he could hurt May with such shenanigans. I’m writing this now in a calm manner, but I assure you at the time, I completely lost my shit.

We were advised to keep May and Lennie separated until we had better control of him. We did this. The trainer recommended a good manners class. We enrolled him. The trainer said day care might be a good idea for Lennie. We agreed.

While I’m working through the PPD, Lennie is in day care 5 days a week. I completed the 6 week good manners class with him on Saturdays. We work on his training when he isn’t passed out, completely exhausted from day care. He’s doing much better, although he has his pigheaded moments when he refuses to comply with commands and has a tendency to “settle” on May’s play mats or just lie down right on top of whatever he isn’t supposed to have when we tell him “leave it.”

Andy & Lennie

So he’ll be repeating the good manners class — mostly to ensure his guardians don’t backslide on the training and keep morale up as we work with the most stubborn, obstinate, slobbery, flatulent, loving lug of a dog I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.

Walking is beneath me. Just like this warm sidewalk.